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crumpled paper to my nose and deeply inhaled its scent.

After an afternoon meal, as I did not want to use my Enishte’s chamber

pot, I excused myself and went to the outhouse in the yard. It was bitter cold. I

had quickly seen to my concern without freezing my buttocks too much when

I saw that Shevket had slyly and silently appeared before me, blocking my way

like a brigand. In his hands he held his grandfather’s full and steaming

chamber pot. He entered the outhouse after me and emptied the pot. He

exited and fixed his pretty eyes on mine as he puffed out his plump cheeks,

still holding the empty pot.

“Have you ever seen a dead cat?” he asked. His nose was exactly like his

mother’s. Was she watching us? I looked around. The shutters were closed on

the enchanted second-floor window in which I’d first seen Shekure after so

many years.

“Nay.”

“Shall I show you the dead cat in the house of the Hanged Jew?”

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He went out to the street without waiting for my response. I followed him.

We walked forty or fifty paces along the muddy and icy path before entering

an unkempt garden. Here, it smelled of wet and rotting leaves, and faintly of

mold. With the confidence of a child who knew the place well, taking firm,

rhythmic steps, he entered through the door of a yellow house, which stood

before us almost hidden behind somber fig and almond trees.

The house was completely empty, but it was dry and warm, as if somebody

were living there.

“Whose house is this?” I asked.

“The Jews‘. When the man died, his wife and kids went to the Jewish

quarter over by the fruit-sellers’ quay. They’re having Esther the clothier sell

the house.” He went into a corner of the room and returned. “The cat’s gone,

it’s disappeared,” he said.

“Where would a dead cat go?”

“My grandfather says the dead wander.”

“Not the dead themselves,” I said. “Their spirits wander.”

“How do you know?” he said. He was holding the chamber pot tightly

against his lap in all seriousness.

“I just know. Do you always come here?”

“My mother comes here with Esther. The living dead, risen from the grave,

come here at night, but I’m not afraid of this place. Have you ever killed a

man?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Not many. Two.”

“With a sword?”

“With a sword.”

“Do their souls wander?”

“I don’t know. According to what’s written in books, they must wander.”

“Uncle Hasan has a red sword. It’s so sharp it’ll cut you if you just touch it.

And he has a dagger with a ruby-studded handle. Are you the one who killed

my father?”

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I nodded indicating neither “yes” nor “no.” “How do you know that your

father is dead?”

“My mother said so yesterday. He won’t be returning. She saw him in her

dream.”

If presented with the opportunity, we would choose to do in the name of a

greater goal whatever awful thing we’ve already prepared to do for the sake of

our own miserable gains, for the lust that burns within us or for the love that

breaks our hearts; and so, I resolved once more to become the father of these

forsaken children, and, when I returned to the house, I listened more intently

to Shevket’s grandfather as he described the book whose text and illustrations

I had to complete.

Let me begin with the illustrations that my Enishte had shown me, the

horse for example. On this page there were no human figures and the area

around the horse was empty; even so, I couldn’t say it was simply and

exclusively the painting of a horse. Yes, the horse was there, yet it was apparent

that the rider had stepped off to the side, or who knows, perhaps he was on

the verge of emerging from behind the bush drawn in the Kazvin style. This

was immediately apparent from the saddle upon the horse, which bore the

marks and embellishments of nobility: Maybe, a man with his sword at the

ready was about to appear beside the steed.

It was obvious that Enishte commissioned this horse from a master

illustrator whom he’d secretly summoned from the workshop. Because the

illustrator, arriving at night, could draw a horse—ingrained in his mind like a

stencil—only if it were the extension of a story, that’s exactly how he’d begin:

by rote. As he was drawing the horse, which he’d seen thousands of times in

scenes of love and war, my Enishte, inspired by the methods of the Venetian

masters, had probably instructed the illustrator; for example, he might have

said, “Forget about the rider, draw a tree there. But draw it in the background,

on a smaller scale.”

The illustrator, who came at night, would sit before his work desk together

with my Enishte, eagerly drawing by candlelight an odd, unconventional

picture that didn’t resemble any of the usual scenes to which he was

accustomed and had memorized. Of course, my Enishte paid him handsomely

for each drawing, but frankly, this peculiar method of drawing also had its

charms. However, as with my Enishte, after a while, the illustrator could no

longer determine which story the illustration was intended to enhance and

complete. What my Enishte expected of me was that I examine these

illustrations made in half-Venetian, half-Persian mode and write a story

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suitable to accompany them on the opposite page. If I hoped to get Shekure, I

absolutely had to write these stories, but all that came to mind were the

stories the storyteller told at the coffeehouse.

133

I WILL BE CALLED A MURDERER

Ticking away, my windup clock told me it was evening. The prayers had yet to

be called, but long before, I’d lit the candle resting beside my folding

worktable. I quickly completed drawing an opium addict from memory,

having dipped my reed pen into black Hasan Pasha ink and skated it over well-

burnished and beautifully sized paper, when I heard that voice calling me out

to the street as it did every night. I resisted. I was so determined not to go, but

to stay at home and work, I even tried nailing my door shut for a time.

This book I was hastily completing was commissioned by an Armenian

who’d come all the way from Galata, knocking on my door this morning

before anyone had risen. The man, an interpreter and guide, though he

stuttered, hunted me down whenever a Frank or Venetian traveler wanted a

“book of costumes” and engaged me in a bout of vicious bargaining. Having

agreed that morning upon a lesser-quality book of costumes for a price of

twenty silver pieces, I proceeded to illustrate a dozen Istanbulites in a single

sitting around the time of the evening prayer, paying particular attention to

the detail of their outfits. I drew a Sheikhulislam, a palace porter, a preacher, a

Janissary, a dervish, a cavalryman, a judge, a liver seller, an executioner—

executioners in the act of torture sold quite well—a beggar, a woman bound

for the hamam, and an opium addict. I’d done so many of these books just to

earn a few extra silver pieces that I began to invent games for myself to fight

off boredom while I drew; for example, I forced myself to draw the judge

without lifting my pen off the page or to draw the beggar with my eyes closed.

All brigands, poets and men of constant sorrow know that when the

evening prayer is called the jinns and demons within them will grow agitated

and rebellious, urging in unision: “Out! Outside!” This restless inner voice

demands, “Seek the company of others, seek blackness, misery and disgrace.”

I’ve spent my time appeasing these jinns and demons. I’ve painted pictures,

which many regard as miracles that have issued from my hands, with the help

of these evil spirits. But for seven days now after dusk, since I murdered that

disgrace, I’m no longer able to control the jinns and demons within me. They

rage with such violence that I tell myself they might calm down if I go out for

a while.

After saying so, as always without knowing how, I found myself roaming

through the night. I walked briskly, advancing through snowy streets, muddy

passages, icy slopes and deserted sidewalks as if I would never stop. As I

walked, descending into the dark of night, into the most remote and

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abandoned parts of the city, I’d ever so gradually leave my soul behind, and

walking along the narrow streets, my footsteps echoing off the walls of stone

inns, schools and mosques, my fears would subside.

Of their own accord, my feet brought me to the abandoned streets of this

neighborhood on the outskirts of the city, where I came each night and where

even specters and jinns would shudder to roam. I heard tell that half the men

in this neighborhood had perished in the wars with Persia and that the rest

had fled, declaring it ill-omened, but I don’t believe such superstition. The

only tragedy that has befallen this good quarter on account of the Safavid wars

was the closing of the Kalenderi dervish house forty years ago because it was

suspected of harboring the enemy.

I meandered behind the mulberry bushes and the bay-leaf trees, which had

a pleasant aroma even in the coldest weather, and with my usual

fastidiousness, I straightened up the wall boards between the collapsed

chimney and the window with its dilapidated shutters. I entered and drew the

lingering scent of one-hundred-year-old incense and mold deep into my lungs.

It made me so blissful to be here, I thought tears would fall from my eyes.

If I haven’t already said so, I’d like to say that I fear nothing but Allah and

the punishment meted out in this world has no import whatsoever in my

opinion. What I fear are the various torments that murderers like myself will

have to endure on Judgment Day, as is clearly described in the Glorious Koran,

in the “Criterion” chapter, for example. In the ancient books, that I quite

rarely lay hold of, whenever I see this punishment in all its colors and violence,

recalling the simple, childish, yet terrifying scenes of Hell illustrated on calfskin

by the old Arab miniaturists, or, for whatever reason, the torments of demons

depicted by Chinese and Mongol master artists, I can’t keep myself from

drawing this analogy and heeding its logic: What does “The Night Journey”

chapter state in its thirty-third verse? Is it not written that one should not,

without justification, take the life of another whose murder God forbids? All

right then: The miscreant I’ve sent to Hell was not a believer, whose murder

God had forbidden; and besides, I had excellent justification for shattering his

skull.

This man had slandered those of us who’d worked on that book Our Sultan

had secretly commissioned. If I hadn’t silenced him, he would’ve denounced

as unbelievers Enishte Effendi, all the miniaturists and even Master Osman,

letting the rabid followers of the Hoja of Erzurum have their way with them. If

someone succeeded in announcing that the miniaturists were committing

blasphemy, these followers of Ezurumi—who are looking for any excuse to

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exercise their strength—wouldn’t just be satisfied with doing away with the

master miniaturists, they’d destroy the entire workshop and Our Sultan

would be helpless to do anything but watch without a peep.

As I did every time I came here, I cleaned up with the broom and some rags

I kept hidden in a corner. As I cleaned, I was heartened and felt like a dutiful

servant of Allah again. So that He wouldn’t deprive me of this blessed feeling, I

prayed for a long time. The cold, which was enough to make a fox shit copper,

drove into my bones. I began to feel that sinister ache at the back of my throat.

I stepped outside.

Soon afterward, again in the same strange state of mind, I found myself in a

completely different neighborhood. I don’t know what had happened, what

I’d thought between the deserted neighborhood of the dervish house and

here. I didn’t know how I’d arrived on these roads lined with cypress trees.

However much I walked, a pestering thought wouldn’t leave me be, and it

ate at me like a worm. Maybe if I tell you it’ll ease the burden: Call him a “vile

slanderer” or “poor Elegant Effendi”—either way it’s the same thing—a short

time before the dearly departed gilder had left this world, he was making

vehement accusations against our Enishte, but when he saw that I wasn’t that

affected by his declaration that Enishte Effendi made use of the perspectival

techniques of the infidels, that beast divulged the following: “There’s one final

picture. In that picture Enishte desecrates everything we believe in. What he’s

doing is no longer an insult to religion, it’s pure blasphemy.” Furthermore,

three weeks after this accusation by that scoundrel, Enishte Effendi had

actually asked me to illustrate a number of unrelated things, such as a horse, a

coin and Death, in various random spots on a page and in shockingly

inconsistent scales; indeed, it was what one would expect of a Frankish

painting. Enishte always took the trouble to cover large portions of the ruled

section of the page he wanted me to illustrate as well as the places ill-fated

Elegant Effendi had guilded, as though he wanted to conceal something from

me and the other miniaturists.

I want to ask Enishte what he’s illustrating in this large, final painting, but

there’s much holding me back. If I ask him, he’ll of course suspect that I

murdered Elegant Effendi and make his suspicions known to all. But there’s

something else that unsettles me as well. If I ask him, Enishte might declare