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drawing my head back so I might breathe. By the glances of the deceased’s

relatives, I sensed I might have exaggerated my sobs and wailing; I pulled

myself together. Based upon my excessive sorrow the workshop gossips might

suppose that Elegant Effendi and I had been in love.

I hid behind a plane tree until the funeral ended to avoid drawing more

attention to myself. A relative of the oaf I’d sent to Hell—an even bigger idiot

than the deceased—discovered me behind the tree and stared deep into my

eyes with a look he assumed was meaningful. He held me in his embrace for a

while, then the ignoramus said the following: “Were you ”Saturday‘ or

“Wednesday’?”

“”Wednesday‘ was the workshop name of the dearly departed for a time,“ I

said. He fell silent.

The story behind these workshop names, which bound us to one another

like a secret pact, was simple: During our apprenticeships, when Osman the

miniaturist had newly graduated from assistant master to the level of master,

we all shared a great respect, admiration and love for him. He was a virtuoso

and he taught us everything, for God had blessed him with an enchanting

artistic gift and the intellect of a jinn. Early each morning, as was demanded of

apprentices, one of us would go to the master’s home, and following

respectfully behind him on the way to the workshop, carry his pen and brush

box, his bag and his portfolio full of papers. So desperate were we to be near

him that we’d argue and fight among ourselves to determine who would go

that day.

Master Osman had a favorite. But if he were always to go, it would fan the

flames of the never-ending gossip and tasteless jokes that inevitably filled the

workshop, and so the great master decided that each of us would be assured a

specified day of the week. The great master worked on Fridays and stayed at

home Saturdays. His son, whom he loved dearly—who later betrayed him and

us by quitting the trade—would accompany his father on Mondays like a

common apprentice. There was also a tall thin brother of ours known as

“Thursday,” a miniaturist more gifted than any of us, who passed away at a

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young age, succumbing to the fever brought on by a mysterious illness. Elegant

Effendi, may he rest in peace, would go on Wednesdays, and was therefore

known as “Wednesday.” Later, our great master meaningfully and lovingly

changed our names from “Tuesday” to “Olive,” from “Friday” to “Stork,” and

from “Sunday” to “Butterfly,” renaming the dearly departed as “Elegant” in

allusion to the finesse of his gilding work. The great master must have said,

“Welcome ”Wednesday,“ how are you this morning?” to the late Elegant just

as he used to greet all of us back then.

When I recalled how he would address me, I thought my eyes might fill

with tears: Master Osman admired us, and his own eyes would tear when he

beheld the beauty of our work; he’d kiss our hands and arms, and despite the

beatings, we felt as if we were in Heaven as apprentices; and so our talent

blossomed with his love. Even jealousy, which cast its shadow over those

happy years, had a different hue then.

Now I am completely divided, just like those figures whose head and hands

are drawn and painted by one master while their bodies and clothes are

depicted by another. When a God-fearing man like myself unexpectedly

becomes a murderer, it takes time to adjust. I’ve adopted a second voice, one

befitting a murderer, so that I might still carry on as though my old life

continued. I am speaking now in this derisive and devious second voice, which

I keep out of my regular life. From time to time, of course, you’ll hear my

familiar, regular voice, which would’ve remained my only voice had I not

become a murderer. But when I speak under my workshop name, I’ll never

admit to being “a murderer.” Let no one try to associate these two voices, I

have no individual style or flaws in artistry to betray my hidden persona.

Indeed, I believe that style, or for that matter, anything that serves to

distinguish one artist from another, is a flaw—not individual character, as

some arrogantly claim.

I do admit that in my own situation, this presents a problem. For though I

might speak through my workshop name, lovingly given to me by Master

Osman and used by Enishte Effendi, who also admired it, in no wise do I want

you to figure out whether I am Butterfly, Olive or Stork. For if you do you

won’t hesitate to turn me over to the torturers of the Sultan’s Commander of

the Imperial Guard.

And, I must mind what I think about and say. Actually, I know that you’re

listening to me even when I’m mulling over matters in private. I can’t afford

careless contemplation of my frustrations or the incriminating details of my

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life. Even when recounting the “Alif,” “Ba” and “Djim” stories. I was always

mindful of your gaze.

One side of the warriors, lovers, princes and legendary heroes that I’ve

illustrated tens of thousands of times faces whatever is depicted there, in that

mythical time—the enemies they’re battling, for example, or the dragons

they’re slaying, or the beautiful maidens over whom they weep. But another

aspect, and another side of their bodies, faces the book lover who happens to

be gazing at the magnificent painting. If I do have style and character, it’s not

only hidden in my artwork, but in my crime and in my words as well! Yes, try

to discover who I am from the color of my words!

I, too, know that if you catch me, it’ll bring consolation to unfortunate

Elegant Effendi’s miserable soul. They’re shoveling dirt on him as I stand here

beneath trees, amid chirping birds, watching the gilded waters of the Golden

Horn and the leaden domes of Istanbul, and discovering anew how wonderful

it is to be alive. Pathetic Elegant Effendi, soon after he joined the circle of that

fierce-browed preacher from Erzurum, he stopped liking me completely; yet, in

the twenty-five years that we illustrated books for Our Sultan, there were

times when we felt very close to each other. Twenty years ago, we became

friends while working on a royal history in verse for the late father of our

present sultan. But we were never closer than when working on the eight

illustrated plates that were to accompany a collection of Fuzuli poems. One

summer evening back then, as a concession to his understandable but illogical

desires—apparently a miniaturist ought to feel in his soul the text he’s

illustrating—I came here and patiently listened to him pretentiously recite

lines from Fuzuli’s collected works as flocks of swallows fluttered above us in a

frenzy. I still recall a line recited that evening: “I am not me but eternally thee.”

I’ve always wondered how one might illustrate this line.

I ran to his house as soon as I learned that his body had been found. There,

the diminutive garden where we once sat and recited poetry, now covered in

snow, seemed diminished, just like any garden revisited after a period of years.

His house was that way, too. From the next room, I could hear the wails of

women, and their exaggerated exclamations, mounting as if they were

competing with each other. When his eldest brother spoke, I listened intently:

The face of our forlorn brother Elegant was practically destroyed, and his head

was smashed. After he was removed from the bottom of the well where he’d

lain for four days, his brothers scarcely knew him, and his poor wife, Kalbiye,

whom they’d brought from the house, was forced to identify the

unrecognizable body in the dark of night by its torn and tattered clothing. I

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was reminded of a depiction of the Midian merchants pulling Joseph from the

pit into which he’d been cast by his jealous brothers. I quite enjoy painting

this scene from the romance of Joseph and Zuleyha, for it reminds us that envy

is the prime emotion in life.

There was a sudden lull. I sensed their eyes upon me. Should I cry? I caught

Black’s eye. That vile scoundrel, he’s peering at us, like someone who’s been

sent here by Enishte Effendi to uncover the truth.

“Who could’ve perpetrated such a horrendous crime?” cried the oldest

brother. “What kind of heartless beast could’ve slaughtered our brother, our

brother who wouldn’t dare harm an ant?”

He answered this question with his own tears, and I joined him, feigning

grief while I sought my own answer: Who were Elegant’s enemies? If it hadn’t

been me, who else could’ve murdered him? I recalled that some time ago—I

believe it was when the Book of Skills was being prepared—he would get

involved in arguments with certain artists inclined to dismiss the techniques

of the old masters and ruin the pages we illustrators had labored extensively

over; thus they would spoil the borders with the horrid colors used to

embellish more cheaply and quickly. Who were they? Later, however, rumors

began to spread that the enmity had arisen not for this reason, but out of

competition for the affections of a handsome binder’s apprentice who worked

on the ground floor; but this was an old story. And there were those who were

annoyed by Elegant’s dignity, his refinement and his erudite feminine

demeanor, but this had to do with another matter entirely: Elegant was

slavishly bound to the old style, a fanatic about the coordination of color

between gilding and illustration, and in the presence of Master Osman, he

would, for instance, point out the nonexistent faults of other miniaturists—

mine in particular—with gentle conceit. His last quarrel had to do with an

issue about which Master Osman had, in past years, grown quite sensitive:

royal miniaturists who moonlighted, secretly accepting trivial commissions

outside the auspices of the palace. In recent years, after Our Sultan’s interest

had begun to wane and, along with it, the money coming from the Head

Treasurer, all the miniaturists started paying visits to the two-story houses of

the crass young pashas—and the best of the artists would go late at night to

visit Enishte.

I wasn’t at all bothered by Enishte’s decision to stop working on his—on

our—book or his excuse that it was ill-omened. He had, of course, guessed

that the murderer who did away with brainless Elegant Effendi was one of us

who were embellishing his book. Put yourself in his shoes: Would you invite a

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murderer to your house each fortnight to work on illustrations after dark?

Wouldn’t you first determine the identities of the murderer and the best

illustrator? I have no doubt that he’ll quickly deduce which of the miniaturists

was the most talented and the most skilled in color selection, gilding, page

ruling, illustration, face drawing and page composition; and having done so,

he’ll continue working with me alone. I can’t imagine he’ll be so petty as to

think of me as a common murderer rather than a genuinely talented

miniaturist.

Out of the corner of my eye I am watching that fool Black Effendi whom

Enishte brought with him. When these two broke away from the cemetery

crowd presently dispersing, and walked down to the Eyüp quay, I followed

them. They boarded a four-oared longboat, and afterward, I got into a six-oar

along with a few young apprentices who’d forgotten about the deceased and

the funeral and were making merry. Within sight of the Phanar Gate, our

boats momentarily came so near each other that they were about to lock oars,

and I could see clearly that Black was earnestly whispering to Enishte. I

thereupon thought how easy it was to end a life. My dear God, you’ve given

each of us this unbelievable power, but you’ve also made us afraid to exercise

it.

Still, if a man but once overcomes this fear and acts, he straightaway

becomes an entirely different person. There was a time when I was terrified

not only of the Devil, but of the slightest trace of evil within me. Now,

however, I have the sense that evil can be endured, and moreover, that it’s

indispensable to an artist. After I killed that miserable excuse of a man,

discounting the trembling in my hands which lasted only a few days, I drew

better, I made use of brighter and bolder colors, and most important, realized

that I could conjure up wonders in my imagination. But, this begs the

question how many men in Istanbul can truly appreciate the magnificence of

my illustrations?

Off the waterfront near Jibali, from all the way in the middle of the Golden

Horn, I gazed spitefully at Istanbul. The snow-capped domes shone bright in

the sunlight that broke abruptly through the clouds. The larger and more

colorful a city is, the more places there are to hide one’s guilt and sin; the

more crowded it is, the more people there are to hide behind. A city’s intellect

ought to be measured not by its scholars, libraries, miniaturists, calligraphers

and schools, but by the number of crimes insidiously committed on its dark

streets over thousands of years. By this logic, doubtless, Istanbul is the world’s

most intelligent city.

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At the Unkapan? quay, I left my longboat a little after Black and his Enishte

had left theirs. I was behind them as they leaned on one another and mounted

the hill. At the site of a recent fire in the shadow of the Sultan Mehmet

Mosque, they stopped and exchanged parting words. Enishte Effendi was