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everybody already knew quite well. I was the first Muslim illustrator to set out

on campaign with the army and the first to carefully study and depict what I’d

witnessed in various victory Chronicles—the firing of cannon, the towers of

enemy castles, the colors of infidel soldiers’ uniforms, the sprawl of corpses,

the piles of severed heads along riverbanks and the order and charge of

armored cavalry!

When Butterfly asked me to show him how I donned my armor, I forthwith

and without embarrassment took off my overshirt, my black rabbit-fur-lined

undershirt, my trousers and my underwear. Pleased with the way they

watched me by the light of the stove, I pulled on my clean long underwear, the

thick shirt of red broadcloth worn under armor in cold weather, woolen socks,

the boots of yellow leather, and over them, my gaiters. Removing it from its

case, I was delighted to put on my breastplate, then I turned my back toward

Butterfly and as if ordering a pageboy, had him do up the laces of the armor

tightly and ordered him to attach my shoulder plates. As I was putting on my

vambraces, gloves, the camel hair sword belt and finally the gold-worked

helmet that I wore for ceremonies, I proudly declared that henceforth battle

scenes would never again be depicted as they’d been in days of old. “It is no

longer permissible to depict the cavalries of two opposing armies uniformly

using the same pattern as a guide and simply flipping it over to draw the

enemy’s forces,” I said. “From now on, the battle scenes made in the

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workshops of the Ottomans will be drawn the way I’ve seen them and drawn

them: a tumult of armies, horses, armor-clad warriors and bloodied bodies!”

Seized by envy, Butterfly said, “The illuminator draws not what he sees, but

what Allah sees.”

“Yes,” I said, “however, exalted Allah certainly sees everything we see.”

“Of course, Allah sees what we see, but He doesn’t perceive it the way we

do,” said Butterfly as if chastising me. “The confused battle scene that we

perceive in our bewilderment, He perceives in His omniscience as two

opposing armies in an orderly array.”

Naturally, I had a response. I wanted to say, “It falls to us to believe in Allah

and to depict only what He reveals to us, not what He conceals,” but I held my

peace. And I hadn’t kept quiet because Butterfly would otherwise accuse me of

imitating the Europeans or because he was relentlessly striking one end of his

dagger against my helmet and back, supposedly to test my armor, but because

I calculated that only if I restrained myself and won over Black and this pretty-

eyed oaf could we deliver ourselves from Olive’s scheming.

Once they knew they wouldn’t find what they were looking for here, they

told me what they were after. There was a picture that the unspeakable

murderer had absconded with…I said that my house was already searched for

the same reason; as a result, the wise murderer most certainly would’ve hid

that picture where nobody could ever find it (I was thinking of Olive), but did

they heed my words? Black explained the horse drawn with clipped nostrils

and how the three-day period Our Sultan had granted Master Osman was well

nigh over. When I inquired further about the significance of the clipped

nostrils, Black told me, looking straight into my eyes, how Master Osman,

analyzing them as a clue, linked them to Olive, although he suspected me even

more, being no stranger to my ambitions.

At first, it appeared they’d come here prepared to believe that I was the

murderer and to find proof of it, but in my opinion, this wasn’t the sole

reason for their visit. They’d also come knocking at my door out of loneliness

and desperation. When I opened the door, the dagger that Butterfly pointed at

me shook in his hand. Not only were they terrified, thinking that the

despicable murderer, whose identity they were at such pains to uncover, might

corner them in the darkness, smiling like an old friend, and swiftly cut their

throats, they were also losing sleep for fear that Master Osman might conspire

with Our Sultan and the Head Treasurer to turn them over to the torturer—

not to mention the mob of Erzurumis roaming the streets, which demoralized

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them. In short, they desired my friendship. But Master Osman had instilled in

them the opposite notion. It was my present obligation to show them sincerely

how Master Osman was mistaken, which is what they’d hoped for deep down

anyway.

Simply declaring that the great master was mistaken and that he’d become

senile would surely arouse Butterfly’s enmity. For in the watery eyes of the

handsome illuminator, whose eyelashes fluttered like the insect he was named

for as he banged upon my armor with his dagger, I could still make out the

pale fire of love he felt for the great master, whose favorite he had been. In my

youth, the closeness of those two, master and apprentice, was enviously

ridiculed by the others; but they themselves paid no mind, they’d stare into

each other’s eyes at length and fondle each other in front of everybody; later

still, Master Osman would declare tactlessly that Butterfly was possessed of

the most agile pen and the most mature color brush. This declaration—often

quite true—became the source of endless puns among the jealous miniaturists

using pens, brushes, inkpots and pen boxes in vulgar allusions, devilish

comparisons and indecent metaphors. For this reason, I’m not the only one

who senses that Master Osman wants Butterfly to succeed him as head of the

workshop. I’ve long understood from the way he talks to others about my

belligerence, incompatibility and stubbornness that this is what the great

master has hidden in the back of his mind. He thinks, justifiably, that I tend

far more toward the European methods than Olive or Butterfly, and could

never resist Our Sultan’s new desires by saying, “The great masters of old

would never paint this way.”

I knew I’d be able to cooperate closely with Black because our eager new

groom must’ve wanted to complete his deceased Enishte’s book, not only to

conquer beautiful Shekure’s heart and show her that he could fill her father’s

shoes, but also, most probably, to ingratiate himself with Our Sultan by the

quickest means possible.

Therefore, I introduced the matter quite unexpectedly by saying that

Enishte’s book was a blissful miracle without equal in the world. When this

masterpiece was completed, in keeping with Our Sultan’s decree and the late

Enishte Effendi’s desire, the whole world would marvel over the Ottoman

Sultan’s power and wealth as well as the talent, elegance and ability of us, His

master miniaturists. Not only would they fear us, our power and our

relentlessness, they’d be bewildered, seeing how we laughed and cried, how we

stole from the Frankish masters, how we saw the most buoyant colors and the

minutest of details; and ultimately, they would acknowledge with terror what

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only the most intelligent sultans understood: that we were situated both

within the world of our paintings and far far away in the company of the old

masters.

Butterfly had been striking me all along, first like a child eager to determine

whether or not my armor was genuine; next, like a friend who wanted to test

its strength; and finally, like an incorrigible and jealous foe who wanted to do

me harm. In truth, he understood that I was more talented than he; even

worse, he probably sensed that Master Osman knew this too. With his God-

given talent, Butterfly was a superb master, and his envy made me prouder:

Unlike him, I became a master through the strength of my own “reed,” not by

holding my master’s, and I sensed that I could force him to accept my

superiority.

Raising my voice, I explained how pitiful it was that there were men who

wanted to undermine Our Sultan and the late Enishte’s miraculous book.

Master Osman was like a father to us all; he was everyone’s superior; we

learned everything from him! Yet, after tracing the clues in Our Sultan’s

Treasury, for some unknown reason, Master Osman tried to conceal his

realization that Olive was the despicable murderer. I said I was certain that

Olive, who couldn’t be found at home, was hiding away in the deserted

Kalenderi dervish house near the Phanar Gate. This dervish lodge was closed

during the reign of Our Sultan’s grandfather, not because it was a den of

degradation and immorality, but rather, as a result of the endless wars with

the Persians, and, I added, there was even a time when Olive boasted that he

was keeping guard over the forbidden dervish lodge. If they didn’t trust me,

suspecting some ruse behind my words, the dagger was in their hands, they

were free to mete out my punishment then and there.

Butterfly landed two more heavy blows of the dagger that most armor

could not have withstood. He turned to Black, who believed what I told them,

and screamed at him childishly. I came up from behind, put my armor-plated

arm around Butterfly’s neck and drew him toward me. Bending his other arm

back with my free hand, I made him drop the dagger. We weren’t quite

struggling, nor were we entirely playing. I recounted a similar, little-known

scene in the Book of Kings.

“On the third day of a confrontation between Persian and Turanian armies

fully equipped in armor and weaponry and arrayed at the foot of Mount

Hamaran, the Turanians sent the wily Shengil into the field to learn the

identity of a mysterious Persian who’d killed a great Turanian warrior on each

of the previous two days,” I began. “Shengil challenged the mysterious warrior,

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and he accepted. The armies, their armor glimmering brightly in the afternoon

sun, watched with bated breath. The armored horses of the two warriors

engaged each other with such speed that sparks flying from the clash of metal

singed the hides of the horses which gave off smoke. The fight was a lengthy

one. The Turanian shot arrows; the Persian maneuvered his sword and horse

skillfully; and finally, the mysterious Persian felled the Turanian after catching

him by the tail of his steed. He then chased after Shengil who was trying to

escape, and grabbed him by his armor from behind before taking him by the

neck. As he accepted his defeat, the Turanian, still curious about the identity of

the mysterious warrior, asked without hope what everybody had wondered for

days, ”Who are you?“ ”To you,“ replied the mysterious warrior, ”my name is

Death.“ Tell me then, my friends, who was he?”

“The legendary Rüstem,” said Butterfly with childlike glee.

I kissed him on the neck. “We’ve all betrayed Master Osman,” I said.

“Before he metes out his punishment, we must find Olive, rid ourselves of this

venom in our midst and come to an agreement so we can stand strong against

the eternal enemies of art and those who long to send us directly to dungeons

of torture. Perhaps, when we arrive at Olive’s abandoned dervish house, we’ll

learn that the cruel murderer isn’t even one of our lot.”

Poor Butterfly uttered not a sound. Regardless of how talented, confident

or well supported he might be, just like all illuminators who sought one

another’s company depite their mutual loathing and envy, he was deathly

afraid of being left alone in this world and of going to Hell.

On the route to the Phanar Gate, there was an eerie greenish-yellow light

above us, but it wasn’t the light of the moon. In this light, the old, faithful

nighttime appearance of Istanbul comprised of cypress trees, leaden domes,

stone walls, wooden houses and tracts ravaged by fire was overtaken by an

unfamiliarity such as might be caused by an enemy fortress. As we ascended

the hill, in the distance we saw the fire that burned somewhere beyond the

Bayazid Mosque.

In the heavy darkness, we came across an oxcart half-loaded with sacks of

flour heading toward the city walls, and parting with two silver coins, we

procured a ride. Black had the pictures with him, and he sat down carefully. As

I lay back and watched the low clouds glow from the fire, two raindrops fell

upon my helmet.

After a long journey, as we searched for the deserted dervish lodge we

roused all the dogs in the neighborhood which, in the middle of the night,

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seemed to be abandoned. Although we saw that lamps were now burning in a

few stone houses in response to our clamor, it was only the fourth door we

knocked upon that opened to us, and a man in skullcap, gaping at us by the

light of his lamp as if we were the living dead, gave us directions to the

deserted dervish lodge without even sticking his nose out into the quickening

rain—merrily adding that once there, we’d have no peace from the evils of

jinns, demons and ghosts.

In the garden of the dervish lodge we were greeted by the calm of proud

cypresses, indifferent to the rain and the stench of rotting leaves. I brought my

eye up to one of the cracks between the wooden planks of the dervish-lodge

walls, and later, to the shutter of a small window, whereupon, by the light of

an oil lamp, I saw the menacing shadow of a man performing his prayers—or

perhaps, a man pretending, for our sake, to pray.

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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