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enter a deep sleep. Allah then seals their ears and causes them to doze off for

exactly three hundred and nine years. When they awake, they learn just how

many years have passed only after one of them enters the society of men and

tries to spend an outdated silver coin. All of them are stunned to learn what

has happened. This chapter subtly describes man’s attachment to Allah, His

miracles, the transitory nature of time and the pleasure of deep sleep, and

though it’s not my place, allow me to remind you of the eighteenth verse,

which makes mention of a dog resting at the mouth of this cave where the

seven youths have fallen asleep. Obviously, anyone would be proud to appear

in the Koran. As a dog, I take pride in this chapter, and through it I intend to

bring the Erzurumis, who refer to their enemies as dirty mongrels, to their

senses.

So then, what’s the actual reason for this animosity toward dogs? Why do

you persist in saying that dogs are impure, and cleaning and purifying your

homes from top to bottom if a dog happens to enter? Why do you believe that

those who touch us spoil their ablutions? If your caftan brushes against our

damp fur, why do you insist on washing that caftan seven times like a frenzied

woman? Only tinsmiths could be responsible for the slander that a pot licked

by a dog must be thrown away or retinned. Or perhaps, yes, cats…

When people left their villages for the sedentary life of the city, shepherd

dogs remained in the provinces; that’s when rumors of the filthiness of dogs

like me began to spread. Yet before the advent of Islam, two of the twelve

months of the year were “months of the dog.” Now, however, a dog is

considered a bad omen. I don’t want to burden you with my own problems,

my dear friends who have come to hear a story and ponder its moral—to be

honest, my anger arises out of the esteemed cleric’s attacks upon our

coffeehouses.

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What would you think if I said that this Husret of Erzurum was of dubious

birth? But they’ve also said of me, “What kind of dog do you think you are?

You’re attacking the venerable cleric because your master is a picture-hanging

storyteller who tells tales at a coffeehouse and you want to protect him. Go

on, scat!” God forbid, I’m not denigrating anyone. But I’m a great admirer of

our coffeehouses. You know, I have no problem with the fact that my portrait

was drawn on such cheap paper or that I’m a four-legged beast, but I do regret

that I can’t sit down like a man and have a cup of coffee with you. We’d die

for our coffee and our coffeehouses—what’s this? See, my master is pouring

coffee for me from a small coffeepot. A picture can’t drink coffee, you say?

Please! See for yourselves, this dog is happily lapping away.

Ah, yes, that hit the spot, it’s warmed me up, sharpened my sight and

quickened my thoughts. Now listen to what I have to tell you: Besides bolts of

Chinese silks and Chinese pottery adorned with blue flowers, what did the

Venetian Doge send to Nurhayat Sultan, the esteemed daughter of our

respected Sultan? A soft and cuddly Venetian she-dog with a coat of silk and

sable. I heard that this bitch is so spoiled she has a red silk dress as well. One of

our friends actually fucked her, that’s how I know, and she can’t even engage

in the act without her dress. In that Frankish land of hers, all dogs wear outfits

like that anyway. I’ve heard tell that over there a so-called elegant and well-

bred Venetian woman saw a naked dog—or maybe she saw its thing, I’m not

sure—anyway, she screamed, “My dear God, the dog is naked!” and fainted

dead away.

In the lands of the infidel Franks, the so-called Europeans, every dog has an

owner. These poor animals are paraded on the streets with chains around their

necks, they’re fettered like the most miserable of slaves and dragged around in

isolation. These Franks force the poor beasts into their homes and even into

their beds. Dogs aren’t permitted to walk with one another, let alone sniff and

frolic together. In that despicable state, in chains, they can do nothing but gaze

forlornly at each other from a distance when they pass on the street. Dogs who

roam the streets of Istanbul freely in packs and communities, the way we do,

dogs who threaten people if necessary, who can curl up in a warm corner or

stretch out in the shade and sleep peacefully, and who can shit wherever they

want and bite whomever they want, such dogs are beyond the infidels’

conception. It’s not that I haven’t thought that this might be why the

followers of the Erzurumi oppose praying for dogs and feeding them meat on

the streets of Istanbul in exchange for divine favors and even why they oppose

the establishment of charities that perform such services. If they intend both

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to treat us as enemies and make infidels of us, let me remind them that being

an enemy to dogs and being an infidel are one and the same. At the, I hope,

not too distant executions of these disgraceful men, I pray our executioner

friends invite us to take a bite, as they sometimes do to set a deterring

example.

Before I finish, let me say this: My previous master was a very just man.

When we set out at night to thieve, we’d cooperate: I’d begin to bark, and

he’d cut the throat of our victim whose screams would be drowned out by my

barking. In return for my help, he’d cut up the guilty men that he’d punished,

boil them and feed them to me. I don’t like raw meat. God willing, the would-

be executioner of that cleric from Erzurum will take this into account so I

won’t upset my stomach with that scoundrel’s raw flesh.

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I WILL BE CALLED A MURDERER

Nay, I wouldn’t have believed I could take anyone’s life, even if I’d been told

so moments before I murdered that fool; and thus, my offense at times recedes

from me like a foreign galleon disappearing on the horizon. Now and again, I

even feel as if I haven’t committed any crime at all. Four days have passed

since I was forced to do away with hapless Elegant, who was a brother to me,

and only now have I, to some extent, accepted my situation.

I would’ve preferred to resolve this unexpected and awful dilemma without

having to do away with anybody, but I knew there was no other choice. I

handled the matter then and there, assuming the burden of responsibility. I

couldn’t let the false accusations of one foolhardy man endanger the entire

society of miniaturists.

Nevertheless, being a murderer takes some getting used to. I can’t stand

being at home, so I head out to the street. I can’t stand my street, so I walk on

to another, and then another. As I stare at people’s faces, I realize that many of

them believe they’re innocent because they haven’t yet had the opportunity to

snuff out a life. It’s hard to believe that most men are more moral or better

than me simply on account of some minor twist of fate. At most, they wear

somewhat stupider expressions because they haven’t yet killed, and like all

fools, they appear to have good intentions. After I took care of that pathetic

man, wandering the streets of Istanbul for four days was enough to confirm

that everyone with a gleam of cleverness in his eye and the shadow of his soul

cast across his face was a hidden assassin. Only imbeciles are innocent.

Tonight, for example, while warming up with a steaming coffee at the

coffeehouse located in the back streets of the slave market, gazing at the sketch

of a dog hanging on the back wall, I was gradually forgetting my plight and

laughing with the rest of them at everything the dog recounted. Then, I had

the sensation that one of the men beside me was a common murderer like

myself. Though he was simply laughing at the storyteller as I was, my intuition

was sparked, either by the way his arm rested near mine or by the way he

restlessly rapped his fingers on his cup. I’m not sure how I knew, but I

suddenly turned and looked him directly in the eye. He gave a start and his

face contorted. As the crowd dispersed, an acquaintance of his took him by the

arm and said, “Nusret Hoja’s men will surely raid this place.”

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Raising an eyebrow, he signaled the man quiet. Their fear infected me. No

one trusted anyone, everyone expected to be done in at any moment by the

man next to him.

It had become even colder, and snow had accumulated on street corners

and at the bases of walls. In the blindness of night, I could find my way along

the narrow streets only by groping with my hands. At times, the dim light of

an oil lamp still burning somewhere inside a wooden house filtered out from

behind blackened windows and drawn shutters, reflecting on the snow; but

mostly, I could see nothing, and found my way by listening for the sounds of

watchmen banging their sticks on stones, for the howling of mad dogs, or the

sounds coming from houses. At times the narrow and dreadful streets of the

city seemed to be lit up by a wondrous light coming from the snow itself; and

in the darkness, amid the ruins and trees, I thought I spotted one of those

ghosts that have made Istanbul such an ominous place for thousands of years.

From within houses, now and again, I heard the noises of miserable people

having coughing fits or snorting or wailing as they cried out in their dreams,

or I heard the shouts of husbands and wives as they tried to strangle each

other, their children sobbing at their feet.

For a couple of nights in a row, I came to this coffeehouse to relive the

happiness I’d felt before becoming a murderer, to raise my spirits and to listen

to the storyteller. Most of my miniaturist friends, the brethren with whom I’d

spent my entire life, came here every night. Since I’d silenced that lout with

whom I’d made illustrations since childhood I didn’t want to see any of them.

Much embarrasses me about the lives of my brethren, who can’t do without

gossiping, and about the disgraceful atmosphere of joviality in this place. I

even sketched a few pictures for the storyteller so they wouldn’t accuse me of

conceit, but that failed to put an end to their envy.

They’re justified in being jealous. Not one of them could surpass me in

mixing colors, in creating and embellishing borders, composing pages,

selecting subjects, drawing faces, arranging bustling war and hunting scenes

and depicting beasts, sultans, ships, horses, warriors and lovers. Not one could

approach my mastery in imbuing illustrations with the poetry of the soul, not

even in gilding. I’m not bragging, but explaining this to you so you might fully

understand me. Over time, jealousy becomes an element as indispensable as

paint in the life of the master artist.

During my walks, which grow increasingly longer due to my restlessness, I

come face-to-face occasionally with one of our most pure and innocent

religious countrymen, and a strange notion suddenly enters my head: If I think

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about the fact that I’m a murderer, the man before me will read it on my face.

Therefore, I force myself to think of different things, just as I forced myself,

writhing in embarrassment, to banish thoughts of women when performing

prayers as an adolescent. But unlike those days of youthful fits when I couldn’t

get the act of copulation out of my thoughts, now, I can indeed forget the

murder that I’ve committed.

You realize, in fact, that I’m explaining all these things because they relate

to my predicament. But if I were to divulge even one detail related to the

killing itself, you’d figure it all out and this would relieve me from being a

nameless, faceless murderer roaming among you like an apparition and

relegate me to the status of an ordinary, confessed criminal who has given

himself up, soon to pay for his crime with his head. Give me the license not to

dwell on every single detail, allow me to keep some clues to myself: Try to

discover who I am from my choice of words and colors, as attentive people like

yourselves might examine footprints to catch a thief. This, in turn, brings us to

the issue of “style,” which is now of widespread interest: Does a miniaturist,

ought a miniaturist, have his own personal style? A use of color, a voice all his

own?

Let’s consider a piece by Bihzad, the master of masters, patron saint of all

miniaturists. I happened across this masterpiece, which also nicely pertains to

my situation because it’s a depiction of murder, among the pages of a flawless

ninety-year-old book of the Herat school. It emerged from the library of a

Persian prince killed in a merciless battle of succession and recounts the story

of Hüsrev and Shirin. You, of course, know the fate of Hüsrev and Shirin, I refer

to Nizami’s version, not Firdusi’s:

The two lovers finally marry after a host of trials and tribulations; however,

the young and diabolical Shiruye, Hüsrev’s son by his previous wife, won’t give

them any peace. The prince has his eye on not only his father’s throne but also

his father’s young wife, Shirin. Shiruye, of whom Nizami writes, “His breath

had the stench of a lion’s mouth,” by hook or crook imprisons his father and

succeeds to the throne. One night, entering the bedchamber of his father and

Shirin, he feels his way in the dark, and on finding the pair in bed, stabs his

father in the chest with his dagger. Thus, the father’s blood flows till dawn and

he slowly dies in the bed that he shares with the beautiful Shirin, who remains

sleeping peacefully beside him.

This picture by the great master Bihzad, as much as the tale itself, addresses