第 21 页

so offended, so hurt, that I wanted nothing more than to disappear.

If I didn’t exist, however, no one would be able to distinguish a good artist

from a bad one, and this would lead to chaos among the miniaturists; they’d

all be at each other’s throats. So I haven’t vanished. I’ve entered the purse of

the most talented and intelligent of miniaturists and made my way here.

If you think you’re better than Stork, then by all means, get hold of me.

118

I AM CALLED BLACK

I wondered whether Shekure’s father was aware of the letters we exchanged. If

I were to consider her tone, which bespoke a timid maiden quite afraid of her

father, I’d have to conclude that not a single word about me had passed

between them. Yet, I sensed that this was not the case. The slyness in Esther’s

looks, Shekure’s enchanting appearance at the window, the decisiveness with

which my Enishte sent me to his illustrators and his despair when he ordered

me to come this morning—all of it made me quite uneasy.

In the morning, as soon as my Enishte asked me to sit before him, he began

to describe the portraits he saw in Venice. As the ambassador of Our Sultan,

Refuge of the World, he’d visited quite a number of palazzos, churches and the

houses of prosperous men. Over a period of days, he stood before thousands

of portraits. He saw thousands of framed faces depicted on stretched canvas or

wood or painted directly onto walls. “Each one was different from the next.

They were distinctive, unique human faces!” he said. He was intoxicated by

their variety, their colors, the pleasantness—even severity—of the soft light

that seemed to fall on them and the meaning emanating from their eyes.

“As if a virulent plague had struck, everyone was having his portrait made,”

he said. “In all of Venice, rich and influential men wanted their portraits

painted as a symbol, a memento of their lives and a sign of their riches, power

and influence—so they might always be there, standing before us, announcing

their existence, nay, their individuality and distinction.”

His words were belittling, as if he were speaking out of jealousy, ambition

or greed. Though, at times, as he talked about the portraits he’d seen in

Venice, his face would abruptly light up like a child’s, invigorated.

Portraiture had become such a contagion among affluent men, princes and

great families who were patrons of art that even when they commissioned

frescoes of biblical scenes and religious legends for church walls, these infidels

would insist that their own images appear somewhere in the work. For

instance, in a painting of the burial of St. Stephan, you’d suddenly see, ah yes,

present among the tearful graveside mourners, the very prince who was giving

you the tour—in a state of pure enthusiasm, exhilaration and conceit—of the

paintings hanging on his palazzo walls. Next, in the corner of a fresco

depicting St. Peter curing the sick with his shadow, you’d realize with an odd

sense of disillusionment that the unfortunate one writhing there in pain was,

in fact, the strong-as-an-ox brother of your polite host. The following day, this

119

time in a piece depicting the Resurrection of the Dead, you’d discover the

guest who’d stuffed himself beside you at lunch.

“Some have gone so far, just to be included in a painting,” said my Enishte,

fearfully as though he were talking about the temptations of Satan, “that

they’re willing to be portrayed as a servant filling goblets in the crowd, or a

merciless man stoning an adulteress, or a murderer, his hands drenched in

blood.”

Pretending not to understand, I said, “Exactly the way we see Shah Ismail

ascending the throne in those illustrated books that recount ancient Persian

legends. Or when we come across a depiction of Tamerlane, who actually ruled

long afterward, in the story of Hüsrev and Shirin.”

Was there a noise somewhere in the house?

“It’s as if the Venetian paintings were made to frighten us,” said my Enishte

later. “And it isn’t enough that we be in awe of the authority and money of

these men who commission the works, they also want us to know that simply

existing in this world is a very special, very mysterious event. They’re

attempting to terrify us with their unique faces, eyes, bearing and with their

clothing whose every fold is defined by shadow. They’re attempting to terrify

us by being creatures of mystery.”

He explained how once he’d gotten lost in the exquisite portrait gallery of a

lunatic collector whose opulent estate was perched on the shores of Lake

Como; the proprietor had collected the portraits of all the great personages in

Frankish history from kings to cardinals, and from soldiers to poets: “When

my hospitable host left me alone to roam as I wished throughout his palazzo,

which he’d proudly given me a tour of, I saw that these supposedly important

infidels—most of whom appeared to be real and some of whom looked me

straight in the eye—had attained their importance in this world solely on

account of having their portraits made. Their likenesses had imbued them with

such magic, had so distinguished them, that for a moment among the

paintings I felt flawed and impotent. Had I been depicted in this fashion, it

seemed, I’d better understand why I existed in this world.”

He was frightened because he suddenly understood—and perhaps

desired—that Islamic artistry, perfected and securely established by the old

masters of Herat, would meet its end on account of the appeal of portraiture.

“However, it was as if I too wanted to feel extraordinary, different and

unique,” he said. As if prodded by the Devil, he felt himself strongly drawn to

what he feared. “How should I say it? It’s as if this were a sin of desire, like

120

growing arrogant before God, like considering oneself of utmost importance,

like situating oneself at the center of the world.”

Thereafter, this idea dawned on him: These methods which the Frankish

artists made use of as if playing a prideful child’s game, could be more than

simply magic associated with Our Exalted Sultan—but could in fact become a

force meant to serve our religion, bringing under its sway all who beheld it.

I learned that the idea of preparing an illuminated manuscript had arisen

then: my Enishte, who’d returned to Istanbul from Venice, suggested it would

be excellent indeed for Our Sultan to be the subject of a portrait in the

Frankish style. But after His Excellency took exception, a book containing

pictures of Our Sultan and the objects that represented Him was agreed upon.

“It is the story that’s essential,” our wisest and most Glorious Sultan had

said. “A beautiful illustration elegantly completes the story. An illustration that

does not complement a story, in the end, will become but a false idol. Since we

cannot possibly believe in an absent story, we will naturally begin believing in

the picture itself. This would be no different than the worship of idols in the

Kaaba that went on before Our Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him, had

destroyed them. If not as part of a story, how would you propose to depict this

red carnation, for example, or that insolent dwarf over there?”

“By exposing the carnation’s beauty and uniqueness.”

“In the arrangement of your scene, then, would you situate the flower at

the precise center of the page?”

“I was afraid,” my Enishte said. “I panicked momentarily when I realized

where Our Sultan’s thoughts were taking me.”

What filled my Enishte with fear was the notion of situating at the center of

the page—and thereby, the world—something other than what God had

intended.

“Thereafter,” Our Sultan had said, “you’ll want to exhibit a picture in

whose center you’ve situated a dwarf.” It was as I had assumed. “But this

picture could never be displayed: after a while, we’d begin to worship a

picture we’ve hung on a wall, regardless of the original intentions. If I believed,

heaven forbid, the way these infidels do, that the Prophet Jesus was also the

Lord God himself, then I’d also hold that God could be observed in this world,

and even, that He could manifest in human form; only then might I accept the

depiction of mankind in full detail and exhibit such images. You do

121

understand that, eventually, we would unthinkingly begin worshiping any

picture that is hung on a wall, don’t you?”

My Enishte said: “I understood it quite well, and because I did, I was afraid

of what we both were thinking.”

“For this reason,” Our Sultan remarked, “I could never allow my portrait to

be displayed.”

“Though this is exactly what he wanted,” whispered my Enishte, with a

devilish titter.

It was my turn to be frightened now.

“Nonetheless, it is my desire that my portrait be made in the style of the

Frankish masters,” Our Sultan went on. “Such a portrait will, of course, have

to be concealed within the pages of a book. Whatever that book might be, you

shall be the one to tell me.”

“In an instant of surprise and awe, I considered his statement,” said my

Enishte, then grinning more devilishly than before, he seemed, suddenly, to

become someone else.

“His Excellency Our Sultan ordered me to start working on His book

posthaste. My head spun with joy. He added that it ought to be prepared as a

present for the Venetian Doge, whom I was to visit once again. Once the book

was completed, it would become a symbol of the vanquishing power of the

Islamic Caliph Our Exalted Sultan, in the thousandth year of the Hegira. He

requested that I prepare the illuminated manuscript in utmost secrecy,

primarily to conceal its purpose as an olive branch extended to the Venetians,

but also to avoid aggravating workshop jealousies. And in a state of great

elation and sworn to secrecy, I embarked upon this venture.”

122

I AM YOUR BELOVED UNCLE

And so it was on that Friday morning, I began to describe the book that would

contain Our Sultan’s portrait painted in the Venetian style. I broached the

topic to Black by recounting how I’d brought it up with Our Sultan and how

I’d persuaded him to fund the book. My hidden purpose was to have Black

write the stories—which I hadn’t even begun—that were meant to

accompany the illustrations.

I told him I’d completed most of the book’s illustrations and that the last

picture was nearly finished. “There’s a depiction of Death,” I said, “and I had

the most clever of miniaturists, Stork, illustrate the tree representing the

peacefulness of Our Sultan’s worldly realm. There’s a picture of Satan and a

horse meant to spirit us far far away. There’s a dog, always cunning and wily,

and also a gold coin…I had the master miniaturists depict these things with

such beauty,” I told Black, “that if you saw them but once, you’d know

straightaway what the corresponding text ought to be. Poetry and painting,

words and color, these things are brothers to each other, as you well know.”

For a while, I pondered whether I should tell him I might marry off my

daughter to him. Would he live together with us in this house? I told myself

not to be taken in by his rapt attention and his childlike expression. I knew he

was scheming to elope with my Shekure. Still, I could rely on nobody else to

finish my book.

Returning together from the Friday prayers, we discussed “shadow,” the

greatest of innovations manifest in the paintings of the Venetian masters. “If,”

I said, “we intend to make our paintings from the perspective of pedestrians

exchanging pleasantries and regarding their world; that is, if we intend to

illustrate from the street, we ought to learn how to account for—as the Franks

do—what is, in fact, most prevalent there: shadows.”

“How does one depict shadow?” asked Black.

From time to time, as my nephew listened, I perceived impatience in him.

He’d begin to fiddle with the Mongol inkpot he’d given me as a present. At

times, he’d take up the iron poker and stoke the fire in the stove. Now and

then I imagined that he wanted to lower that poker onto my head and kill me

because I dared to move the art of illustrating away from Allah’s perspective;

because I would betray the dreams of the masters of Herat and their entire

tradition of painting; because I’d duped Our Sultan into already doing so.

Occasionally, Black would sit dead still for long stretches and fix his eyes deeply

123

into mine. I could imagine what he was thinking: “I’ll be your slave until I can

have your daughter.” Once, as I would do when he was a child, I took him out

into the yard and tried to explain to him, as a father might, about the trees,

about the light falling onto the leaves, about the melting snow and why the

houses seemed to shrink as we moved away from them. But this was a

mistake: It proved only that our former filial relationship had long since

collapsed. Now patient sufferance of the rantings of a demented old man had

taken the place of Black’s childhood curiosity and passion for knowledge. I was

just an old man whose daughter was the object of Black’s love. The influence

and experience of the countries and cities that my nephew had traveled

through for a dozen years had been fully absorbed by his soul. He was tired of

me, and I pitied him. And he was angry, I assumed, not only because I hadn’t

allowed him to marry Shekure twelve years ago—after all, there was no other

choice then—but because I dreamed of paintings whose style transgressed the

precepts of the masters of Herat. Furthermore, because I raved about this