Chapter 30 I AM CALLED “OLIVE”

Was it more fitting for me to abandon my prayers, spring to my feet and open the door for them or to keep them waiting in the rain until I'd finished? When I realized they were watching me, I completed my prayers in a somewhat distracted state. I opened the door, and there they were—Butterfly, Stork and Black. I gave a cry of joy and embraced Butterfly. "Alas, what we've had to bear of late!" I lamented, burying my head into his shoulder. "What do they want from us? Why are they killing us?" Each of them displayed the panic of being separated from the herd, which I'd seen from time to time in every master painter over the span of my life. Even here in the lodge, they were loath to separate from one another.

“We can safely take refuge here for days.” “We worry,” Black said, “that the person we should fear is perhaps in our very midst.” “I, too, grow anxious,” I said. “For I have heard such rumors as well.” There were rumors, spreading from the officers of the Imperial Guard to the division of miniaturists, claiming that the mystery about the murderer of Elegant Effendi and late Enishte was solved: He was one of us who'd labored over that book. Black inquired as to how many pictures I'd drawn for Enishte's book. "The first one I made was Satan. It was of the variety of underground demon common to the old masters in the workshops of the Whitesheep. The storyteller and I were of the same Sufi path; that's why I made the two dervishes. I was the one who suggested to Enishte that he include them in his book, convincing him that there was a special place for these dervishes in the lands of the Ottomans."

"Is that all?" asked Black. When I told him, “Yes, that's all,” he went to the door with the superior air of a master who caught an apprentice stealing; he brought in a roll of paper untouched by the rain, and placed it before us three artists like a mother cat bringing a wounded bird to her kittens. I recognized the pages while they were still under his arm: They were the illustrations I'd rescued from the coffeehouse during the raid. I didn't deign to ask how these men had entered my house and located them. Nevertheless, Butterfly, Stork and I each placidly owned up to the pictures we made for the storyteller, may he rest in peace. Afterward, only the horse, an exquisite horse, remained unclaimed off to the side, its head lowered. Believe me, I didn't even realize that a horse had been drawn.

"You weren't the one who made this horse?" said Black like a teacher holding a switch. "I wasn't," I said. "What about the one in my Enishte's book?" "I didn't make that one either." "Based on the style of the horse, however, it's been determined that you're the one who drew it," he said. "Furthermore, it was Master Osman who came to this conclusion." “But I have no style whatever,” I said. “I'm not saying this out of pride to counter the latest tastes. Neither am I saying so to prove my innocence. For me, having a style would be worse than being a murderer."

“You have a distinct quality that distinguishes you from the old masters and the others,” said Black. I smiled at him. He started to relate things that I'm sure you all know by now. I listened intently to how Our Sultan, in consultation with the Head Treasurer, sought a solution to the murders, to the matter of Master Osman's three days, to the “courtesan method,” to the peculiarity in the noses of the horses and to Black's miraculous admission to the Royal Private Quarters for the sake of actually examining those superlative books. There are moments in all our lives when we realize, even as we experience them, that we are living through events we will never forget, even long afterwards. A melancholy rain was falling. As if upset by the rain, Butterfly mournfully gripped his dagger. Olive, the backside of whose armor was white with flour , was courageously forging into the heart of the dervish lodge, lamp in hand. These master artists, whose shadows roamed the walls like ghosts, were my brethren, and how I loved them! I was delighted to be a miniaturist.

“Could you appreciate your good fortune as you gazed at the great works of the old masters for days on end with Master Osman at your side?” I asked Black. “Did he kiss you? Did he caress your handsome face? Did he hold your hand? Were you awed by his talent and knowledge?” “There among the great works of the old masters he showed me how you had a style,” said Black. “He taught me how the hidden fault of “style” isn't something the artist selects of his own volition, but is determined by the artist's past and his forgotten memories. He also showed me how these secret faults, weaknesses and defects, at one time such a source of shame they were concealed so we wouldn't be estranged from the old masters, will henceforth emerge to be praised as ”personal characteristics’ or “style,” because the European masters have spread them over the world. Henceforth, thanks to fools who take pride in their own shortcomings, the world will be a more colorful and more stupid and, of course, a much more imperfect place.”The fact that Black confidently believed in what he said proved that he was one of the new breed of fools.

“Was Master Osman able to explain why, for years, I drew hundreds of horses with regular nostrils in Our Sultan's books?” I asked. “It was due to the love and beatings he gave all of you in your childhood. Because he was both father and beloved to you all, he doesn't see that he associates all of you with himself and each of you with the others. He didn't want you each to have a style of your own, he wanted the royal atelier as a whole to have a style. Because of the awesome shadow he cast over all of you, you forgot what came from within, the imperfections, the elements and differences that fell outside the confines of standard forms. Only when you painted for other books and other pages , which Master Osman's eyes would never see, did you draw the horse that had lain within you all those years."

“My mother, may she rest in peace, was more intelligent than my father,” I said. “One night I was at home, in tears, determined never again to return to the workshop because I was daunted not only by Master Osman's beatings , but by those of the other harsh and irritable masters and by those of the division head who always intimidated us with a ruler. In consolation, my dearly departed mother advised me that there were two types of people in the world: those who were cowed and crushed by their childhood beatings, forever downtrodden, she said, because the beatings had the desired effect of killing the inner devils; and those fortunate ones for whom the beatings frightened and tamed the devil within without killing him off. never forget these painful childhood memories—she'd warned me not to tell this to anybody—the beatings would in time enable them to develop cunning, to fathom the unknown, to make friends, to identify enemies, to sense plots being hatchedbehind their backs and, let me hasten to add, to paint better than anyone else. Because I wasn't able to draw the branches of a tree harmoniously, Master Osman would slap me so hard that, amid bitter tears, forests would burgeon before me. After angrily striking me in the head because I couldn't see the errors at the bottoms of pages, he lovingly took up a mirror and placed it before the page so I could see the work as if for the first time. his cheek to mine, he so lovingly identified the mistakes that magically appeared in the mirror image of the picture that I never forgot either the love or the ritual. The morning after a night spent weeping in my bed, my pride violated because he chastised me With a ruler before everyone, he came and kissed my arms so tenderly that I passionately knew I'd one day become a legendary miniaturist. Nay, it was not I who drew that horse."

“We,” Black was referring to Stork and himself, “will search the dervish house for the last picture which was stolen by the accused man who murdered my Enishte. Did you ever see that last picture?” “It is nothing that could be accepted by Our Sultan, illuminators like us bound to the old masters or by Muslims bound to their faith,” I said and fell silent. My statement made him more eager. He and Stork began their search of the premises, turning the whole place upside down. A few times, simply to make their work easier, I went to them. In one of the dervish cells with a leaky ceiling , I pointed out the hole in the floor so they wouldn't fall and could search it if they so desired. I gave them the large key to the small room in which the sheikh lived thirty years ago, before the adherents of this lodge joined up with the Bektashis and dispersed. They entered eagerly, but when they saw that an entire wall was missing and the room was open to the rain, they didn't even bother to search it.

It pleased me that Butterfly wasn't with them, but if evidence implicating me were found, he, too, would join their ranks. Stork was of the same mind as Black, who was afraid that Master Osman would turn us over to the torturers, and maintained that we must support one another and must be united in confronting the Head Treasurer. I sensed Black was not only motivated by the desire to give Shekure a genuine wedding present by finding his Enisthe's murderer, he also intended to set Ottoman miniaturists on the path of European masters by paying them with the Sultan's money in order to finish his Enishte's book in imitation of the Franks (which was not only sacrilegious, but ridiculous). I also understood, with some certainty, that at the root of this scheme was Stork's desire to be rid of us and even of Master Osman, for he dreamt of being Head Illuminator and (since everyone guessed that Master Osman preferred Butterfly) he was prepared to try anything to increase his chances. I was momentarily confused. Listening to the rain, I deliberated at length. Next, like a man who breaks away from t he crowd and struggles to give his competition to the sovereign and grand vizier as they pass on horseback, I had the sudden inspiration to endear myself to Stork and Black. Leading them through a dark hallway and large portal, I took them to a frightening room that was once the kitchen. I asked them if they were able to find anything here among the ruins. Of course, they hadn't. There was no trace of the kettles, the pots and pans and the bellows that were once used to prepare food for the forsaken and the poor. I never even attempted to clean up this ghastly room covered in cobwebs, dust, mud, debris and the excrement of dogs and cats. As always, a strong wind, rising up as if out of nowhere, dimmed the lamp—making our shadows now lighter, now darker.

"You searched and searched but you couldn't find my hidden treasure," I said. Out of habit, I used the back of my hand as a broom to sweep away the ashes in what used to be a hearth and when an old stove emerged, I lifted up its iron lid with a creak. I held the lamp to the small mouth of the stove. I shall never forget how Stork leapt forward and greedily grabbed the leather pouches within before Black could act. He was about to open the pouches right there in the mouth of the oven, but as I had returned to the large salon , followed by Black who was afraid of remaining here, Stork bounded after us on his long thin legs. When they saw that one pouch contained a pair of clean woolen socks, my drawstring trousers, my red underwear, the nicest of my undershirts, my silk shirt, my straight razor, my comb and other belongings, they were momentarily at a loss. Out of the other pouch, which Black opened, emerged fifty-three Venetian gold coins, pieces of gold leaf that I'd stolen from the workshop in recent years, my sketchbook of model forms which I concealed from everybody, more stolen gold leaf hidden between the pages, indecent pictures—some of which I'd drawn myself and some I'd collected—a keepsake agate ring from my dear mother along with a lock of her white hair, and my best pens and brushes. "If I were truly a murderer as you suspect," I said with stupid pride, "the final picture would've emerged from my secret treasury, not these things." "Why these things?" asked Stork. "When the Imperial Guard searched my house, as they did yours, they shamelessly pilfered two of these gold pieces that I've spent my entire life collecting. I thought about how we'd be searched again on account of this wretched murderer—and I was right. If that last picture were with me, it would be here." It was a mistake to utter this last sentence; however, I could sense that they were put at ease and no longer afraid that I'd strangle them in a dark corner of the lodge. Have I gained your trust as well? At this time, however, I was overwhelmed by a severe restlessness; no, it wasn't that my illuminator friends, whom I'd known since childhood, saw how I'd been greedily squirrelling money away for years, how I bought and saved gold, or even that they learned about my sketchbooks and obscene pictures. In truth, I regretted having shown them all of these things in a moment of panic. Only the mysteries of a man who lived quite aimlessly could be exposed so easily. “Nonetheless,” said Black much later, “we must come to a consensus about what we will say under torture if Master Osman happens to turn us over without any forecast.” A hollowness and depression descended upon us. In the pale light of the lamp, Stork and Butterfly were staring at the vulgar pictures in my sketchbook. They displayed an air of complete indifference; had a strong urge to look at the picture—I could very well sumise which one it was; I rose and circled around behind them, gazing silently at the obscene picture I'd painted, thrilled as though I were recalling a now distant yet blissful memory. Black joined us. For whatever reason, that the four of us were looking at that illustration relieved me. “Could the blind and the seeing ever be equal?” said Stork much later. Was he implying that even though what we saw was obscene, the pleasure of sight that Allah had bestowed upon us was glorious? Nay, what would Stork know of such matters? He never read the Koran. I knew that the old masters of Herat would frequently recite this verse. The great masters used this verse as a response to enemies of painting who warned that illustrating was forbidden by our faith and that painters would be sent to Hell on Judgment Day. Until that magical moment, however, I'd never even once heard from Butterfly those words that now emerged from his mouth as if on their own: "I'd like to depict how the blind and the seeing are not equal!" “Who are the blind and the seeing?” Black said naively. “The blind and the seeing are not equal, it's what ”ve ma yestevil'ama ve'l basiru'nun means,” Butterfly said and continued: “…nor are the darkness and the light. The shade and the heat are not equal, nor are the living and the dead.” I shuddered for an instant, thinking of the fates of Elegant Effendi, Enishte and our storyteller brother who was killed tonight. Were the others as frightened as I? Nobody moved for a time. Stork was still holding my book open, but seemed not to see the vulgarity I'd painted though we were all still staring at it! “I'd want to paint Judgment Day,” said Stork. “The resurrection of the dead, and the separation of the guilty from the innocent. Why is it that we cannot depict the Sacred Word of our faith?” In our youth, working together in the same room of our workshop, we would periodically lift our faces from our work boards and tables, just as the aging masters would do to rest their eyes, and begin talking about any topic that happened to enter our minds. Back then, just as we now did while looking at the book open before us, we didn't look at one another as we chatted. For our eyes would be turned toward some distant spot outside an open window. sure if it was the excitement of recalling something remarkably beautiful from my halcyon apprenticeship days, or the sincere regret I felt at that moment because I hadn't read the Koran for so long, or the horror of the crime I'd seen at the coffeehouse that night, but when my turn came to speak, I grew confused, my heart quickened as if I'd come under the threat of some danger, and as nothing else came to mind, I simply said the following: “You remember those verses at the end of "The Cow" chapter? I'd want most of all to depict the m: ”Oh God, judge us not by what we've forgotten and by our mistakes. Oh God, burden us not with a weight we cannot bear, as with those who have gone before us. Forgive and absorb us of our transgressions and sins! Treat us with mercy, my dear God."" My voice broke and I was embarrassed by the tears I shed unexpectedly—perhaps because I was wary of the sarcasm that we always kept at the ready during our apprenticeships to protect ourselves and to avoid exposing our sensitivities. I thought my tears would quickly abate, but unable to restrain myself, I began to cry in great sobs. As I wept, I could sense that each of the others was overcome by feelings of fraternity, devastation and sorrow. From now on, the European style would be preeminent in Our Sultan's workshop; the styles and books to which we'd devoted our entire lives would slowly be forgotten—yes, in fact, the whole venture would come to an end, and if the Erzurumis didn't throttle us and finish us off, the Sultan's torturers would leave us maided…But as I cried, sobbed and sighed—even though I continued to listen to the sad pattern of the rain—a part of my mind sensed that these were not the things I was actually crying about. To what extent were the others aware of this? I felt vaguely guilty for my tears, which were at once genuine and false. Butterfly came up beside me, placed his arm upon my shoulder, stroked my hair, kissed my cheek and comforted me with honeyed words. This show of friendship made me cry with even more sincerity and guilt. I couldn't see his face but, For some reason, I incorrectly thought he too was crying. We sat down. We recalled how we'd started our workshop apprenticeships in the same year, the strange sadness of being torn away from our mothers to suddenly begin a new life, the pain of beatings we received from the first day, the joy of the first gifts from the Head Treasurer, and the days we went back home, running the whole way. At first, only he talked while I listened sadly, but later, when Stork and, sometime afterward, Black—who came to the workshop for a time and left it, during our early apprenticeship years—joined our mournful conversation, I forgot that I'd just been crying and began to talk and laugh freely with them. We reminisced about winter mornings when we would wake early, light the stove in the largest room of the workshop and mop the floors with hot water. We recalled an old “master,” may he rest in peace, who was so uninspired and cautious that he could draw only a single leaf of a single tree during the span of a single day and who, when he saw that we were again looking at the lush green leaves of the springtime trees through the open window rather than at the leaf he drew, Without striking us, would chastise us for the hundredth time: “Not out there, in here!” We recalled the wailing, which could be heard throughout the entire atelier, of the scrawny apprentice who walked toward the door, satchel in hand, having been sent back home because the intensity of the work caused one of his eyes to wander. Next, we imagined how we watched (with pleasure because it wasn't our fault) the slow spread of a deadly red seeing from a bronze inkpot that had cracked over a page three illuminators had la bored on for three months (it depicted the Ottoman army on the banks of the K 1n 1k River en route to Shirvan, overcoming the threat of starvation by occupying Eresh and filling their stomachs). the three of us together made love to and together fell in love with a Circasian lady, the most beautiful of the wives of a seventy-year-old pasha who—in consideration of his conquests, strength and wealth—wanted ceiling ornamentation in his home made in imitation of the designs in Our Sultan's hunting lodge. Then, we longingly recalled how on winter mornings we would have our lentil soup on the threshold of the yawning door so its steam wouldn't soften the paper. We also lamented being separated from workshop friends and masters when the latter compelled us to travel to distant places to serve as journeymen. For a time, the sweetness of my dear Butterfly in his sixteenth year appeared before my eyes: He was burning paper to a high glos s by rubbing it quickly with a smooth seashell as the sunlight, coming through an open window on a summer's day, struck his naked honey-colored forearms. For a moment he stopped what he was so absentmindedly doing and carefully lowered his face to the page to examine a blemish. After making a few passes over the offending spot with the burning shell using different motions, he returned to his former pattern, moving his hand back and forth as he stared out of the window into the distance, losing himself in daydreams .I shall never forget how before looking outside again, he briefly gazed into my eyes—as I would later do to others. This dolorous look has only one meaning, which all apprentices know quite well: Time doesn't flow if you don' t dream. I WILL BE CALLED A MURDERER You'd forgotten about me, hadn't you? Why should I conceal my presence from you any longer? For speaking in this voice, which is gradually getting stronger and stronger, has become irresistible for me. At times , I restrain myself only with great effort, and I'm afraid that the strain in my voice will give me away. At times, I let myself go completely unchecked, and that's when those words, signs of my second character, which you might recognize, spill from my lips; my hands begin to tremble, beads of sweat collect on my forehead and I realize at once that these little whispers of my body, in turn, will furnish new clues. Yet I'm so very content here! As we console ourselves with twenty-five years of memories we're reminded not of the animosities, but of the beauties and the pleasures of painting. There's also something in our sitting here with a sense of the impending end of the world, caressing each other with tear-filled eyes as we remember the beauty of bygone days, that recalls harem women. I've taken this comparison from Abu Said of Kirman who included the stories of the old masters of Shiraz and Herat in his History of the sons of Tamerlane. Thirty years ago, Jihan Shah, ruler of the Blacksheep, came to the East where he routed the small armies and ravaged the lands of the Timurid khans and shahs who were fighting among themselves. With his victorious Turkmen hordes, he passed through the whole of Persia into the East; finally, at Astarabad, he defeated Ibrahim, the grandson of Shah Ruh who was Tamerlane's son; he then took Gorgan and sent his armies against the fortress of Herat. According to the historian from Kirman, this devastation, not only to Persia, but to the heretofore undefeated power of the House of Tamerlane, which had ruled over half the world from Hindustan to Byzantium for half a century, caused such a tempest of destruction that pandamonium reigned over the men and women in the besieged fortress of Herat. The historian Abu Said reminds the reader with p erverse pleasure how Jihan Shah of the Blacksheep mercilessly killed everyone who was a descendant of Tamerlane in the fortresses he conquered; how he selectively culled women from the harems of shahs and princes and added them to his own harem; miniaturist and cruelly forced most of them to serve as apprentices to his own master illuminators. At this point in his History, he turns his attentions from the shah and his warriors who tried to repel the enemy from the crenelated towers of the fortress, to the miniaturists among their pens and paints in the workshop awaiting the terrifying culmination of the siege whose outcome was long evident. He lists the names of the artists, declaring one after another how they were world-renowned and would never be forgotten, and these illuminators, all of whom, like the women of the shah's harem, have since been forgotten, embraced each other and wept, unable to do anything but recall their former day s of bliss. We too, like melancholy harem women, reminisced about the gifts of fur-lined caftans and purses full of money that the Sultan would present to us in reciprocation for the colorful decorated boxes, mirrors and plates, embellished ostrich eggs, cut-paper work, single-leaf pictures, amusing albums, playing cards and books we'd offer him on holidays. Where were the hardworking, long-suffering, elderly artists of that day who were satisfied with so little? They'd never sequester themselves at home and jealously hide their methods from others, dreading that their moonlighting would be found out, but would come to the workshop every day without fail. Where were the old miniaturists who humbly devoted their entire lives to drawing intricate designs on castle walls, cypress leaves whose was discernible only after close scrutiny and the seven-leaf steppe grasses used to fill empty spaces? Where were the uninspired masters who never grew jealous, having accepted the wisdom and justice inherent in God's bestowal of talent and ability upon some artists and patience and pious resignation upon others? We recalled these fatherly masters, some of whom were hunched and perpetually smiling, others dreamy and drunk and still and others intent upon fostering off a ter As we recollected, we attempted to resurrect the forgotten details of the workshop as it had been during our apprenticeship and early mastership years. Do you remember the limner who stuck his tongue into his cheek when he ruled pages—to the left side if the line he drew headed right, and to the right side if the line went left; the small, thin artist who laughed to himself, chortling and mumbling “patience, patience, patience” when he dribbled paint; the septuagenarian master gilder who spent hour upon hour talking to the binder's apprentices downstairs and claimed that red ink applied to the forehead stopped aging; relied on an unsuspecting apprentice or even randomly stopped anyone passing by to test the consistency of paint upon their fingernails after his own nails were completely filled; and the portly artist who made us laugh as he caressed his beard with the furry rabbit's to coot the excess flecks of gold dust used in gilding? Where were they all? Where were the burning boards which were used so much they became a part of the apprentices' bodies and then just tossed aside, and the long paper scissors that the apprentices dulled by playing “swordsman”? Where were the writing boards inscribed with the names of the great masters so they wouldn't get mixed up, the aroma of China ink and the faint rattle of coffeepots aboil in the silence? Where were the various brushes we made of hairs from the necks and inner ears of kittens born to our tabby cats each summer, and the great sheaves of Indian paper given to us so, in idle moments, we could practice our artistry the way calligraphers did? Where was the ugly steel-handled penknife whose use required permission from the Head Illuminator, thus providing a deterrent to the entire workshop when we had to scrape away large mistakes; and what happened to the rituals that surrounded these mistakes? We also agreed that it was wrong for the Sultan to allow the master miniaturists to work at home. We recalled the marvelous warm halva that came to us from the palace kitchen on early winter evenings after we'd worked with aching eyes by the light of oil lamps and candles. Laughing and with tears in our eyes, we remembered how the elderly and senile master gilder, who was stricken with chronic trembling and could take up neither pen nor paper, on his monthly workshop visits brought fried dough-balls in heavy syrup that his daughter had made for us apprentices. We talked about the exquisite pages rendered by the dearly departed Black Memi, Head Illuminator before Master Osman, discovered in his room, which remained empty for days after his funeral, within the portfolio found beneath the light mattress he'd spread out and use for catnaps in the afternoons. We talked about and named the pages we took pride in and would want to take out and look at now and again if we had copies of them, the way Master Black Memi had. They explained how the sky on the upper half of the palace picture made for the Book of Skills, illuminated with gold wash, foreshadowed the end of the world, not due to the gold itself, but due to its tone between towers, domes and cypresses—the way gold ought to be used in a polite rendition. They described a portrayal of Our Exalted Prophet's bewilderment and ticklishness, as angels seized him by his underarms during his ascension to Heaven from the top of a minaret; a picture of such grave colors that even children, upon seeing the blessed scene, would first t with pious awe and then laugh respectfully as if they themselves were being tickled. I explained how along one edge of a page I'd commemorated the previous Grand Vizier's suppression of rebels who'd taken to the mountains by delicately and respectfully arranging the heads he 'd severed, tastefully drawing each one, not as an ordinary corpse's head, but as an individual and unique face in the manner of a Frankish portraitist, furrowing their brows before death, dabbing red onto their necks, making their sorrowful lips inquire after the meaning of life, opening their nostrils to one final, desperate breath, and shutting their eyes to this world; and thus, I'd imbued the painting with a terrifying aura of mystery. As if they were our own unforgettable and unattainable memories, we wistfully discussed our favorite scenes of love and war, recalling their most magnificent wonders and tear-inducing subtleties. Isolated and mysterious gardens where lovers met on starry nights passed before our spring eyes: , fantastic birds, frozen time…We imagined bloody battles as immediate and alarming as our own nightmares, bodies torn in two, chargers with blood-spattered armor, beautiful men stabbing each other with daggers, the small-mouthed, small-handed, slanted -eye, bowed women watching events from barely open windows…We recalled pretty boys who were haughty and conceited, and handsome shahs and khans, their power and palaces long lost to history. Just like the women who wept together in the harems of those shahs , we now knew we were passing from life into memory, but were we passing from history into legend as they had? To avoid being drawn further into a realm of horror by the lengthening shadows of the fear of being forgotten—even more terrifying than the fear of dying—we asked each other about our favorite scenes of death. The first thing to come to mind was the way Satan duped Dehhak into killing his father. At the time of that legend, which is described in the beginning of the Book of Kings, the world had been newly created, and everything was so basic that nothing needed explanation. If you wanted milk, you simply milked a goat and drank; you'd say “horse,” then mount it and ride away; you'd contemplate “evil” and Satan would appear and convince you of the beauty of murdering your own father. Dehhak's murder of Merdas, his father of Arab descent, was beautiful, both because it was unprovoked and because it occurred at night in a magnificent palace garden while golden stars gently illuminated cypresses and colorful spring flowers. Next, we recalled legendary Rustem, who unknowingly killed his son Suhrab, commander of the enemy army that Rustem had battled for three days. There was something that touched us all in the way Rustem beat his breast in tearful anguish when he saw the armband he had given the boy's mother years ago and recognized as his own son the enemy whose chest he'd ravished with thrusts of the sword. What was that something? The rain continued its patter on the roof of the dervish lodge and I paced back and forth. Suddenly I said the following:“Either our father, Master Osman, will betray and kill us, or we shall betray and kill him.” We were stricken with horror because what I said rang absolutely true; we fell silent. Still pacing, and panicked by the thought that everything would revert to its former state, I told myself the following: “Tell the story of Afrasiyab's murder of Siyavush to change the subject. But that's a betrayal such as fails to frighten me. Recount the death of Husrev.” All right then, but should it be the version told by Firdusi in the Book of Kings or the one told by Nizami in Husrev and Shirin? The pathos of the account in the Book of Kings rests in Husrev's tearful realization of the identity of the murderer intruding in his bedroom chamber! As a last resort, saying that he wants to perform his prayers, Husrev sends the servant boy attending him to fetch water, soap, clean clothes and his prayer rug; the naive boy, without understanding that his master has sent him for help, goes to gather the requested items. Once alone with Husrev, the murderer's first task is to lock the door from the inside. In this scene at the end of the Book of Kings, the man whom the conspirators found to enact the murder is described by Firdusi with disgust: He is foul smelling, hairy and pot-bellied. I paced to and fro, my head swarmed with words, but as in a dream, my voice would not take. Just then I sensed that the others were whispering among themselves, maligning me. They were so quick to take out my legs that the four of us collapsed to the floor. There was a struggle and fight on the ground, but it was brief. I lay faceup on the floor beneath the three of them. One of them sat on my knees. Another on my right arm. Black pressed a knee into each of my shoulders; he firmly situated his weight between my stomach and chest, and sat on me. I was completely immobilized. All of us were stunned and breathing hard. This is what I remembered:My late uncle had a rogue son two years older than me—I hope he's been caught in the act of raiding caravans and has long since been beheaded. This jealous beast, realizing I knew more than he and was also more intelligent and refined, would find any excuse to pick a fight, or else he'd insist that we wrestle, and after quickly pinning me, he'd hold me down with his knees on my shoulders in this same way; he'd stare into my eyes, the way Black was now doing, and let a string of saliva hang down, slowly directing it toward my eyes as it gained mass, and he'd be greatly entertained as I tried to avoid it by turning my head to the right and to the left. Black told me not to hide anything. Where was the last picture? Confess! I felt suffocating regret and anger for two reasons: First, I'd said everything I had for naught, unaware that they'd come to an agreement beforehand; secondly, I hadn't fled, unable to imagine that their envy would reach this level. Black threatened to cut my throat if I didn't produce the last picture. How very ridiculous. I firmly closed my lips, as if the truth would escape if I opened my mouth. Part of me also thought that there was nothing left for me to do. If they came to an agreement among themselves and turned me over to the Head Treasurer as the murderer, they'd end up saving their own hides. My only hope lay with Master Osman, who might point out another suspect or another clue; but then, could I be certain what Black said about him was correct? He could kill me here and now, and later place the onus on me, couldn't he? They rested the dagger against my throat, and I saw at once how this gave Black a pleasure that he could not conceal. They slapped me. Was the dagger cutting my skin? They slapped me again. I was able to work through the following logic: If I held my peace, nothing would happen! This gave me strength. They could no longer hide the fact that since the days of our apprenticeships they'd been jealous of me; I, who quite evidently applied paint in the best manner, drew the steadiest line and made the best illuminations. I loved them for their extreme envy. I smiled upon my beloved brethren. One of them, I don't want you to know which of them was responsible for this disgrace, passionately kissed me as if he were kissing the beloved he'd long desired. The others watched by the light of the oil lamp that they brought near to us. I could not but respond in kind to this kiss from my beloved brother. If we're nearing the end of everything, let it be known that I do the best illuminating. Find my pages and see for yourselves. He began to beat me angrily, as if I'd enraged him by answering his kiss with a kiss. But the others restrained him. They experienced a moment of indecision. Black was upset that there was a scuffle among them. It was as if they weren't angry with me, but with the direction in which their lives were headed, and as a result, they wanted to take their revenge against the entire world. Black removed an object from his sash: a needle with a sharpened point. In an instant, he brought it to my face and made a gesture as if to plunge it into my eyes. “Eighty years ago, the great Bihzad, master of masters, understood that everything was coming to an end with the fall of Herat, and honorably blinded himself so nobody would force him to paint in another way,” he said. “A short while after he deliberately inserted this plume needle into his own eye and removed it, God's exquisite darkness slowly descended over His beloved servant, this artist with the miraculous hand. This needle which came from Herat to Tabriz with the now drunk and blind Bihzad, was sent as a present by Shah Tahmasp to Our Sultan's father, along with that legendary Book of Kings. At first, Master Osman was unable to determine why this object was sent. But today, he was able to see the ill will and just logic behind this cruel present. After Master Osman understood that Our Sultan wanted to have His own portrait made in the style of the European masters and that you all, whom he loved more than his own children, had betrayed him, he stuck this needle into each of his eyes last night in the Treasury—in imitation of Bihzad. Now, if I were to blind you, the accursed man responsible for bringing to ruin the workshop Master Osman established at the expense of his entire life, what of it?” “Whether or not you blind me, in the end, we'll no longer be able to find a place for ourselves here,” I said. “If Master Osman truly goes blind, or passes away, and we paint the way we feel like painting, embracing our faults and individuality under the influence of the Franks so we might possess a style, we might resemble ourselves, but we won't be ourselves. No, even if we were to agree to paint like the old masters, reasoning that only in this way could we be ourselves, Our Sultan, who's turned His back even on Master Osman, will find others to replace us. No one will look at us anymore, we shall only incur pity. The raiding of the coffeehouse merely rubs salt into our wounds, because half the blame for this incident will fall to us miniaturists, who've slandered the respected preacher.” Although I tried at length to persuade them that it would work quite against us to quarrel, it was to no avail. They had no intention of listening to me. They were panicked. If they could only decide quickly, before morning, right or wrong, which of their lot was guilty, they were convinced they could save themselves, be delivered from torture and that everything having to do with the workshop would persist for years to come as it always had. Nevertheless, what Black threatened to do didn't please the other two. What if it became evident that somebody else was guilty and Our Sultan learned they blinded me for no reason whatsoever? They were terrified both of Black's closeness to Master Osman and his insolence toward him. They tried to pull back the needle which Black, in blind rage, persisted in holding before my eyes. Black fell into a panic, as if they were taking the plume needle from his hand, as if we'd taken sides against him. There was another scuffle. All I could do was tilt my head upward to escape the struggle over the needle, which was happening perilously close to my eyes. Everything occurred so fast that I couldn't make out what happened at first. I felt a sharp but limited pain in my right eye; a passing numbness seized my forehead. Then everything was as it had been, yet a horror had already taken root within me. The oil lamp had been withdrawn, but I could still clearly see the figure before me decisively thrust the needle, this time into my left eye. He'd taken the needle from Black only moments before, and was more careful and meticulous now. When I understood that the needle effortlessly penetrated my eye, I lay dead still, though I felt the same burning sensation. The numbness in my forehead seemed to spread over my entire head, but ceased when the needle was removed. They were looking at the needle and then at my eyes in turn. It was as if they weren't certain what had transpired. When everybody fully understood the misfortune that had befallen me, the commotion stopped and the weight upon my arms eased. I began to scream, nearly howling. Not from the pain, but from the terror of comprehending fully what had been done to me. At first, I sensed that my wailing put not only me at ease, but them as well. My voice brought us together. Even so, as my screaming persisted, their nervousness increased. I could no longer feel any pain. All I could think was that my eyes had been pierced with a needle. I was not yet blind. Thank goodness I could still see them watching me in terror and sorrow, I could still see their shadows moving aimlessly on the ceiling of the lodge. This at once pleased and alarmed me. “Unhand me,” I screamed. “Unhand me so I can see everything once more, I implore you.” “Quickly, tell us,” said Black. “How did you meet up with Elegant Effendi that night? Then we'll unhand you.” “I was returning home from the coffeehouse. Poor Elegant Effendi accosted me. He was frenzied and very agitated. I pitied him at first. But leave me be now and I shall later recount it all. My eyes are fading.” “They won't fade right away,” said Black with determination. “Believe me, Master Osman could still identify the horses with cut-open nostrils after his eyes had been pierced.” “Hapless Elegant Effendi said he wanted to talk to me and that I was the only person he could trust.” Yet it wasn't him I pitied, but myself now. “If you tell us before the blood clots in your eyes, in the morning you can look upon the world to your heart's content one last time,” said Black. “See, the rain has eased.” “”Let's go back to the coffeehouse,“ I said to Elegant, but sensed at once that he didn't like it there, and even that it frightened him. This was how I first knew Elegant Effendi had broken from us completely and had gone his separate way after painting with us for twenty-five years. In the last eight or ten years, after he married, I'd see him at the workshop, but I didn't even know what he was occupied with…He told me he saw the last picture, how it contained a sin so grave we'd never live it down. As a consequence, he maintained, we'd all burn in Hell. He was agitated and possessed by fear, overcome with the sense of devastation felt by a man who'd unwittingly committed heresy.” “What heresy?” “When I asked him this very question, he opened his eyes wide in surprise as if to say, You mean you don't know? It was then I thought how our friend had aged, as have we all. He said unfortunate Enishte had brazenly used the perspectival method in the last picture. In this picture, objects weren't depicted according to their importance in Allah's mind, but as they appeared to the naked eye—the way the Franks painted. This was the first transgression. The second was depicting Our Sultan, the Caliph of Islam, the same size as a dog. The third transgression also involved rendering Satan the same size, and in an endearing light. But what surpassed them all—a natural result of introducing this Frankish understanding into our painting—was drawing Our Sultan's picture as large as life and his face in all its detail! Just like the idolators do…Or just like the ”portraits' that Christians, who couldn't save themselves from their inherent idolatrous tendencies, painted upon their church walls and worshiped. Elegant Effendi, who learned of portraits from your Enishte, knew this quite well, and believed correctly that portraiture was the greatest of sins, and would be the downfall of Muslim painting. As we hadn't gone to the coffeehouse, where, he claimed, our exalted Preacher Effendi and our religion were being maligned, he explained all this to me while we walked down the street. Occasionally, he'd stop, as though seeking help, ask me whether all of this was indeed correct, whether there wasn't any recourse and whether we'd truly burn in Hell. He suffered fits of regret and beat his breast in remorse, but I was unpersuaded. He was an imposter who feigned regret.““How did you know this?” “We've known Elegant Effendi since childhood. He's very orderly, quiet, ordinary and colorless, like his gilding. It was as if the man standing before me then was dumber, more naive, more devout, yet more superficial than the Elegant we knew.” “I hear he'd also become quite close to the Erzurumis,” said Black. “No Muslim would ever feel such torment and regret for inadvertently committing a sin,” I said. “A good Muslim knows God is just and reasonable enough to consider the intent of His servants. Only pea-brained ignoramuses believe they'll go to Hell for eating pork unawares. Anyway, a genuine Muslim knows the fear of damnation serves to frighten others, not himself. This is what Elegant Effendi was doing, you see, he wanted to scare me. It was your Enishte who taught him that he might do such a thing; and it was then I knew that this was indeed the case. Now, tell me in complete honesty, my dear illuminator brethren, has the blood begun to clot in my eyes, have my eyes lost their color?” They brought the lamp toward my face and gazed at it, displaying the care and compassion of surgeons. “Nothing seems to have changed.” Were these three, staring into my eyes, the last sight I'd see in this world? I knew I'd never forget these moments until the end of my life, and I related what follows, because despite my regret, I also felt hope:“Your Enishte taught Elegant Effendi that he was involved in some forbidden project by covering up the final picture, by revealing only a specific spot to each of us and having us draw something there—by giving the picture an air of mystery and secrecy, it was Enishte himself who instilled the fear of heresy. He, not the Erzurumis who've never seen an illuminated manuscript in their lives, was the first to spread the frenzy and panic about sin that infected us. Meanwhile, what would an artist with a clear conscience have to fear?” “There's much that an artist with a clear conscience has to fear in our day,” said Black smugly. “Indeed, no one has anything to say against decoration, but pictures are forbidden by our faith. Because the illustrations of the Persian masters and even the masterpieces of the greatest masters of Herat are ultimately seen as an extension of border ornamentation, no one would take issue with them, reasoning that they enhanced the beauty of writing and the magnificence of calligraphy. And who sees our painting anyway? However, as we make use of the methods of the Franks, our painting is becoming less focused on ornamentation and intricate design and more on straightforward representation. This is what the Glorious Koran forbids and what displeased Our Prophet. Both Our Sultan and my Enishte knew this quite well. This was the reason for my Enishte's murder.” “Your Enishte was murdered because he was afraid,” I said. “Just like you, he'd begun to claim that illustration, which he was doing himself, wasn't contrary to the religion or the sacred book…This was exactly the pretext sought by the Erzurumis, who were desperate to find an aspect contrary to the religion. Elegant Effendi and your Enishte were a perfect match for each other.” “And you're the one who killed them both, isn't that so?” said Black. I thought for a moment that he would hit me, and in that instant, I also knew beautiful Shekure's new husband really had nothing to complain about in the murder of his Enishte. He wouldn't strike me, and even if he did, it made no difference to me any longer. “In actuality, as much as Our Sultan wanted to have a book prepared under the influence of the Frankish artists,” I continued stubbornly, “your Enishte wanted to prepare a provocative book whose taint of illicitness would feed his own pride. He felt a slavish awe toward the pictures of the Frankish masters he'd seen during his travels, and he'd fallen completely for the artistry that he regaled us about for days on end—you too must have heard that nonsense about perspective and portraiture. If you ask me, there was nothing damaging or sacrilegious in the book we were preparing…Since he was well aware of this, he pretended that he was preparing a forbidden book and this gave him great satisfaction…Being involved in such a dangerous venture with the Sultan's personal permission was as important to him as the pictures of the Frankish masters. True, if we'd made a painting with the intent of exhibiting it, that would've been sacrilege. Yet in none of those pieces could I sense anything contrary to religion, any faithlessness, impiety or even the vaguest illicitness. Did you sense anything of the sort?” My eyes had almost imperceptibly lost strength, but thank God, I could see enough to know that my question gave them pause. “You cannot be certain, can you?” I said, gloating. “Even if you secretly believe that the blemish of blasphemy or the shadow of sacrilege exists in the pictures we've made, you could never accept this belief and express it, because this would be equivalent to giving credence to the zealots and Erzurumis who oppose and accuse you. On the other hand, you cannot claim with any conviction that you're as innocent as freshly fallen snow, because this would mean giving up both the dizzying pride and refined self-congratulation of engaging in a secretive, mysterious and forbidden act. Do you know how I became aware that I was behaving pretentiously in this way? By bringing poor Elegant Effendi to this dervish lodge in the middle of the night! I brought him here with the excuse that we'd nearly frozen walking the streets so long. In actuality, it pleased me to show him I was a free-thinking Kalenderi throwback, or worse yet, that I aspired to be a Kalenderi. When Elegant understood I was the last of the followers of a dervish order based on pederasty, hashish consumption, vagrancy and all manner of aberrant behavior, I thought he'd fear and respect me even more, and in turn, be intimidated into silence. As fate would have it, the exact opposite happened. Our dim-witted boyhood friend disliked it here, and he quickly decided the accusations of blasphemy he'd learned from your Enishte were quite on the mark. So, our beloved apprenticeship companion, who'd at first implored, ”Help me, convince me that we won't go to Hell so I might sleep in peace tonight,“ in a newfound, threatening tone, began to insist that ”this will end in nothing but evil.“ He was convinced the preacher hoja from Erzurum would hear the rumors that in the final picture we'd veered from the orders of Our Sultan, who'd never forgive this transgression. Convincing him everything was clear skies and sunshine was nearly impossible. He'd tell all to the preacher's dull congregation, exaggerating Enishte's absurdities, the anxieties about affronts to the religion and rendering the Devil in a favorable light, and they'd naturally believe every slanderous word. I don't have to tell you how, not only the artisans, but the entire society of craftsmen have grown jealous of us since we've become the intense focus of Our Sultan's attention. Now all of them will gleefully declare in unison ”the miniaturists are mired in heresy.“ Furthermore, the cooperation between Enishte and Elegant Effendi would prove this slander true. I say ”slander“ because I don't believe in what my brother Elegant said about the book and the last picture. Even then, I would hear nothing against your late Enishte. I found it quite appropriate that Our Sultan turn his favors from Master Osman to Enishte Effendi, and I even believed, if not to the same degree, what Enishte described to me at length about the Frankish masters and their artistry. I used to believe quite sincerely that we Ottoman artists could comfortably take from this or that aspect of the Frankish methods as much as our hearts desired or as much as could be seen during a visit abroad—without bartering with the Devil or bringing any great harm upon us. Life was easy; your Enishte, may he rest in peace, had succeeded Master Osman, and was a new father to me in this new life.” “Let's not discuss that point yet,” said Black. “First describe how you murdered Elegant.” “This deed,” I said, recognizing that I couldn't use the word “murder,” “I committed this deed not only for us, to save us, but for the salvation of the entire workshop. Elegant Effendi knew he posed a powerful threat. I prayed to Almighty God, begging him to give me a sign showing me how despicable this scoundrel really was. My prayers were answered when I offered Elegant money. God had shown me how wretched he really was. These gold pieces came to mind, but by divine inspiration, I lied. I said the gold pieces weren't here in the lodge, but I'd hidden them elsewhere. We went out. I walked him through empty streets and out-of-the-way neighborhoods without any consideration for where we were going. I had no idea what I would do, and in short, I was afraid. At the end of our wandering, after we'd come to a street we'd passed earlier, our brother Elegant Effendi the gilder, who devoted his entire life to form and repetition, grew suspicious. But God provided me with an empty lot ravaged by fire, and nearby, a dry well.” At this point I knew I couldn't go on and I told them so. “If you were in my shoes, you would've considered the salvation of your artist brethren and done the same thing,” I said confidently. When I heard them agree with me, I felt like crying. I was going to say it was because their compassion, which I hardly deserved, softened my heart, but no. I was going to say it was because I again heard the thud of his body hitting the bottom of the well wherein I dropped him after killing him, but no. I was going to say it was because I remembered how happy I was before becoming a murderer, how I'd been like everybody else, but no. The blind man who used to pass through our neighborhood in my childhood appeared in my mind's eye: He'd take a dirty metal water dipper out of his even dirtier clothes, and would call out to us neighborhood kids who watched him from a distance, there by the local water fountain, “My children, which of you will fill this blind old man's drinking cup with water from the fountain?” When no one went to his aid, he'd say, “It'd be a good turn, my children, a pious deed!” The color of his irises had faded and they were nearly the same color as the whites of his eyes. Agitated by the thought of resembling that blind old man, I confessed how I did away with Enishte Effendi hurriedly, without savoring any of it. I was neither too honest nor too insincere with them: I found a medium consistency, such that the story wouldn't trouble my heart too much, and they'd be assured I hadn't gone to Enishte's house to murder him. I wanted to make clear that it wasn't a premeditated murder, which intent they gathered when I reminded them of the following while trying to absolve myself: “Without harboring bad intentions, one never goes to Hell.” “After surrendering Elegant Effendi to the Angels of Allah,” I said thoughtfully, “what the dearly departed expressed to me in his last moments started to gnaw at me like a worm. Having caused me to bloody my hands, the final painting loomed larger in my mind, and so, resolving to see it, I went to your Enishte, who no longer summoned any of us to his house. Not only did he refuse to reveal the painting, he behaved as if nothing were the matter. There was, he sniffled, neither a painting nor anything else so mysterious that it called for murder! To preempt further humiliation, and to get his attention, I thereupon confessed that I was the one who killed Elegant Effendi and tossed him into a well. Yes, then he took me more seriously, but he continued to humiliate me all the same. How could a man who humiliates his son be a father? Great Master Osman would become irate with us, he'd beat us, but he never once humiliated us. Oh my brothers, we've made a grave mistake by betraying him.” I smiled at my brethren whose attention was focused upon my eyes, listening to me as though I lay on my deathbed. Just as a dying man would, I saw them growing increasingly blurry and moving away from me. “I murdered your Enishte for two reasons. First, because he shamelessly forced the great Master Osman into aping the Venetian artist, Sebastiano. Second, because in a moment of weakness, I lowered myself to ask him whether I had a style of my own.” “How did he respond?” “It seems I am possessed of a style. But coming from him, of course, this was not an insult. I remembered wondering, in my shame, if this were indeed praise: I considered style to be a variety of rootlessness and dishonor, but doubt was eating at me. I wanted nothing to do with style, but the Devil was tempting me and I was, furthermore, curious.” “Everybody secretly desires to have a style,” said Black smartly. “Everybody also desires to have his portrait made, just as Our Sultan did.” “Is this affliction impossible to resist?” I said. “As this plague spreads, none of us will be able to stand against the methods of the Europeans.” No one was listening to me, however. Black was recounting the story of a sad Turkmen chieftain who was sent off on a twelve-year exile to China because he'd prematurely expressed his love for the daughter of the shah. Since he didn't have a portrait of his beloved, of whom he dreamed for a dozen years, he forgot her face amid the Chinese beauties, and his lovelorn suffering was transformed into a profound trial willed by Allah. “Thanks to your Enishte, we've all learned the meaning of ”portrait,“” I said. “God willing, one day, we'll fearlessly tell the story of our own lives the way we actually live them.” “All fables are everybody's fables,” said Black. “All illumination is God's illumination too,” I said, completing the verse by the poet Hatifi of Herat. “But as the methods of the Europeans spread, everyone will consider it a special talent to tell other men's stories as if they were one's own.” “This is nothing but the will of Satan.” “Unhand me now,” I shouted. “Let me look upon the world one last time.” They were terrified, and a new confidence rose within me. “Will you take out the final picture?” Black said. I gave Black such a look that he was quick to understand I'd do so and he released me. My heart began to beat rapidly. I'm certain you've long ago discovered my identity, which I've been trying to conceal. Even so, don't be surprised that I'm behaving like the old masters of Herat, for they would conceal their signatures not to hide their identities, but out of principle and respect for their masters. Excitedly, I walked through the pitch-black rooms of the lodge, oil lamp in hand, making way for my own pale shadow. Had the curtain of blackness begun to fall over my eyes, or were these rooms and hallways truly this dark? How many days and weeks, how much time did I have before going blind? My shadow and I stopped among the ghosts in the kitchen and lifted up the pages from the clean corner of a dusty cabinet before quickly heading back. Black had followed me as a precaution, but he'd neglected to bring his dagger. Would I, perchance, consider taking up that dagger and blinding him before I myself went blind? “I'm pleased that I will see this once again before going blind,” I said with pride. “I want you all to see it as well. Look here.” Under the light of the oil lamp, I showed them the final picture, which I'd taken from Enishte's house the day I killed him. At first, I watched their curious and timid expressions as they looked at the double-leaf picture. I circled around and joined them, and I was ever so fai