第 18 页

but in the well.

When Shekure’s sobs died down, I put aside the book on death. I donned

an extra woolen undershirt, wound my thick wool sash tightly around my

waist so as to warm my midriff, pulled on my shalwar pants lined with rabbit

fur and, as I was leaving the house, turned to discover Shevket in the doorway.

“Where are you going, Grandfather?”

“You get back inside. To the funeral.”

I passed through snow-covered streets, between poor rotting houses leaning

this way and that way, barely able to stand, and through fire-ravaged

neighborhoods. I walked for a long time, taking the cautious steps of an aging

man trying not to slip and fall on the ice. I passed through out-of-the-way

neighborhoods and gardens and fields. I walked by shops that dealt in

carriages and wheels and passed iron smiths, saddlers, harness makers and

farriers on my way toward the walls of the city.

I’m not sure why they decided to start the funeral procession all the way at

the Mihrimah Mosque near the city’s Edirne Gate. At the mosque, I embraced

the big-headed and bewildered brothers of the deceased, who looked angry

and obstinate. We miniaturists and calligraphers embraced each other and

wept. As I was performing my prayers within a leaden fog that had suddenly

descended and swallowed everything, my gaze fell on the coffin resting atop

the mosque’s stone funeral block, and I felt such anger toward the miscreant

who’d committed this crime, believe me, even the Allahümme Barik prayer

became muddled in my mind.

After the prayers, while the congregation shouldered the coffin, I was still

among all the miniaturists and calligraphers. Stork and I had forgotten that on

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some nights, when we sat in the dim light of oil lamps working until morning

on my book, he’d tried to convince me of the inferiority of Elegant Effendi’s

gilding work and of the lack of balance in his use of colors—he colored

everything navy blue so it would look richer! We’d both forgotten that I’d

actually given him credence, by allowing “But no one else is qualified to do

this work,” and we embraced each other anyway, sobbing once more. Later,

Olive gave me a friendly and respectful look before hugging me—a man who

knows how to embrace is a good man—and these gestures so pleased me that

I was reminded how of all the workshop artists, he was the one who most

believed in my book.

On the stairs of the courtyard gate I found myself beside Head Illuminator

Master Osman. We were both at a loss for words, a strange and tense

moment. One of the deceased’s brothers began to cry and sob, and someone

pompously shouted, “God is great.”

“To which cemetery?” Master Osman asked me for the sake of asking

something.

To respond “I don’t know” seemed hostile for some reason. Flustered, and

without thinking, I asked the same question of the man standing next to me

on the stairs, “To which cemetery? The one by the Edirne Gate?”

“Eyüp,” said an ill-tempered, bearded and young dolt.

“Eyüp,” I said turning to the master, but he’d heard what the ill-tempered

dolt had said anyway. Then, he looked at me as if to say, “I understand” in a

way that let me know he didn’t want our encounter to last a moment longer

than it already had.

Without mentioning my influence on Our Sultan’s growing interest in

Frankish styles of painting, Master Osman was of course annoyed that Our

Sultan had ordered me to oversee the writing out, embellishment and

illustration of the illuminated manuscript, which I’ve described as “secret.” On

one occasion, the Sultan forced the great Master Osman to copy a portrait of

His Highness, which had been commissioned from a Venetian. I know Master

Osman holds me responsible for having to imitate that painter, for having to

make that strange painting, which he did with disgust, referring to the

experience as “torture.” His wrath was justified.

Standing in the middle of the staircase for a while, I looked at the sky.

When I was convinced that I’d been left quite behind, I continued down the

icy stairs. I’d barely descended—ever so slowly—two steps when a man took

me by the arm and embraced me: Black.

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“The air is freezing,” he said. “You must be cold.”

I hadn’t the slightest doubt that this was the one who’d muddled

Shekure’s mind. The self-confidence with which he took my arm was proof

enough. There was something in his demeanor that announced, “I’ve worked

for twelve years and have truly grown up.” When we came to the bottom of

the stairs, I told him that I’d expect an account later of what he’d learned at

the workshop.

“You go ahead, my child,” I said. “Go ahead and catch up to the

congregation.”

He was taken aback, but didn’t let on. The way he let go of my arm with

reservation and walked ahead of me pleased me, even. If I gave Shekure to him,

would he agree to live in the same house with us?

We’d left the city through the Edirne Gate. I saw the coffin on the verge of

disappearing into the fog along with the crowd of illustrators, calligraphers

and apprentices shouldering it as they quickly descended the hill toward the

Golden Horn. They were walking so fast, they’d already traveled half of the

muddy road that led down the snow-covered valley to Eyüp. In the silent fog,

off to the left, the chimney of the Han?m Sultan Charity candleworks shop

happily piped up its smoke. Under the shadow of the walls, there were

tanneries and the bustling slaughterhouses that served the Greek butchers of

Eyüp. The smell of offal coming from these places had wafted over the valley,

which extended to the vaguely discernible domes of the Eyüp Mosque and its

cypress-lined cemetery. After walking for a while longer, I heard from below

the shouts of children at play coming from the new Jewish quarter in Balat.

When we reached the plain where Eyüp was located, Butterfly approached

me, and in his usual fiery manner, abruptly broached his subject:

“Olive and Stork are the ones behind this vulgarity,” he said. “Like everyone

else, they knew I had a bad relationship with the deceased. They knew

everyone was aware of this. There was jealousy between us, even open

animosity and antagonism, over who would assume leadership of the

workshop after Master Osman. Now they expect the guilt to fall on my

shoulders, or at the least, that the Head Treasurer, and under his influence,

Our Sultan, will distance themselves from me, nay, from us.”

“Who is this ”us’ of which you speak?“

“Those of us who believe that the old morality ought to persist at the

workshop, that we should follow the path laid by the Persian masters, that an

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artist shouldn’t illustrate just any scene for money alone. In place of weapons,

armies, slaves and conquests, we believe that the old myths, legends and

stories ought to be introduced anew into our books. We shouldn’t forgo the

old models. Genuine miniaturists shouldn’t loiter at the shops in the bazaar

and paint any old thing, depictions of indecency, for a few extra kurush from

anybody who happens by. His Excellency Our Sultan would find us justified.”

“You’re incriminating yourself senselessly,” I said so he might be done with

his ranting. “I’m convinced that the atelier could not harbor anybody capable

of committing such a crime. You’re all brethren. There’s no great harm in

illustrating a few subjects that haven’t been depicted previously, at least no

harm so great as to be an occasion for enmity.”

As happened when I first heard the horrid news, I had an epiphany of sorts.

Elegant Effendi’s murderer was one of the premier masters in the palace

workshop and he was a member of the crowd before me, climbing the hill that

led to the cemetery. I was also convinced that the murderer would continue

with his devilry and sedition, that he was an enemy of the book I was making,

and most probably, that he’d visited my house to pick up some work

illustrating and painting. Had Butterfly, too, like most of the artists who

frequented my house, fallen in love with Shekure? As he made his assertions,

had he forgotten the times when I’d requested that he paint pictures that were

contrary to his point of view, or was he just needling me with expert skill?

Nay, I thought a little while later, he couldn’t be needling me. Butterfly, like

the other master illustrators, obviously owed me a debt of gratitude: With

money and gifts to miniaturists dwindling, due to the wars and lack of

interest on the part of Our Sultan, the sole significant source of extra income

had for some time been what they earned working for me. I knew they were

jealous of one another over my attentions, and for this reason—but not only

for this reason—I met with them individually at my house, hardly a basis for

hostility toward me. All of my miniaturists were mature enough to behave

intelligently, to sincerely find a reason to admire a man to whom they were

obliged for their own profit.

To relieve the silence and ensure that the previous topic of conversation

wouldn’t be revisited, I said, “Oh, will His wonders never cease! They’re able

to take the coffin up that hill as fast as they brought it down.”

Butterfly smiled sweetly showing all his teeth: “Due to the cold.”

Could this one actually kill a man, I wondered, for example, out of envy?

Might he kill me? He had the following excuse: This man was debasing my

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religion. Nay, but he’s a great master, a perfect embodiment of talent, why

should he resort to murder? Age means not only straining oneself climbing

hills, but also, I gather, not being so afraid of death. It means a lack of desire,

entering into a slave girl’s bedchamber, not in a fit of excitement, but out of

custom. In a burst of intuition, I told him to his face the decision I’d made:

“I’m not continuing with the book any longer.”

“What?” said Butterfly as his expression changed.

“There’s some kind of ill-fortune in it. Our Sultan has cut off the funding.

You’re to tell Olive and Stork, as well.”

Perhaps he would have inquired further, but we found ourselves on the

slopes of the graveyard amid tightly spaced towering cypresses, high ferns and

tombstones. As the great crowd encircled the grave site, my only clue that the

body was at that very moment being lowered into the grave was the increasing

intensity of the weeping and sobbing and the exclamations of bismillahi and

ala milleti Resulullah.

“Uncover his face completely,” someone said.

They were removing the white shroud, and they must’ve been eye to eye

with the corpse if indeed there was an eye remaining in that smashed head. I

was in the back and I couldn’t see anything. I’d once gazed into the eyes of

Death, not at a grave site, in an entirely different place…

A memory: Thirty years ago, Our Sultan’s grandfather, Denizen of Paradise,

decided once and for all to take Cyprus from the Venetians. Sheikhulislam

Ebussuut Effendi, recalling that this island was once designated a

commissariat for Mecca and Medina, issued a fatwa which more or less stated

that it was inappropriate for an island which had helped sustain holy sites to

remain under Christian infidel control. In turn, the difficult task of informing

the Venetians of this unforeseen decision, that they must surrender their

island, fell to me. As a result, I was able to tour the cathedrals of Venice.

Though I marveled at their bridges and palazzos, I was most enchanted by the

pictures hanging in Venetian homes. Nevertheless, in the midst of this

bewilderment, trusting in the hospitality displayed by the Venetians, I

delivered the menacing correspondence, informing them in a haughty,

supercilious fashion that Our Sultan desired Cyprus. The Venetians were so

angry that in their congress, which had been hastily convened, it was decided

that even to discuss such a letter was unacceptable. Furious mobs had forced

me to confine myself to the Doge’s palazzo. And when some rogues managed

to get past the guards and doorkeepers and had set to strangling me, two of

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the Doge’s personal musketeers succeeded in escorting me out one of the

secret passageways to an exit that opened onto the canal. There, in a fog not

unlike this one, I thought for an instant that the tall and pale gondolier

dressed in white, who’d taken me by the arm, was none other than Death. I

caught sight of my reflection in his eyes.

Longingly, I dreamed of finishing my book in secret and returning to

Venice. I approached the grave, which had been carefully covered with dirt: At

this moment, angels are interrogating him above, asking him whether he is

male or female, his religion and whom he recognizes as his prophet. The

possibility of my own death came to mind.

A crow alighted beside me. I gazed lovingly into Black’s eyes and asked him

to take my arm and accompany me on the way back. I told him I expected him

at the house early the next morning to continue working on the book. I had

indeed imagined my own death, and realized, once again, that the book must

be completed, whatever the cost.

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I WILL BE CALLED A MURDERER

They threw cold, muddy earth onto the battered and disfigured corpse of ill-

fated Elegant Effendi and I wept more than any of them. I shouted, “I want to

die with him!” and “Let me share his grave!” and they held me by the waist so

I wouldn’t fall in. I gasped for air and they pressed their palms to my forehead,