第 43 页

a man who’d entered Heaven, just trepidation and pious reverence; I felt

myself to be a simple servant of Our Sultan, who, as I now thoroughly

understood, was indeed the foundation of this worldly realm. I stared at the

peacocks roaming through the greenery, the gold cups chained to splashing

fountains and the Grand Vizier’s heralds robed in silk (who seemed to move

about without touching the ground), and I felt the thrill of serving my

Sovereign. There was no doubt that I would complete Our Sultan’s secret

book, whose unfinished illustrations I carried under my arm. Without

knowing exactly what I was doing, I trailed behind the tailor, my eyes fixed on

the Divan Tower, spellbound by fear more than awe now at its proximity.

Accompanied by a royal page who’d attached himself to us, we fearfully

and silently, as in a dream, passed the Divan building and the Treasury; I felt

that I’d seen this place before and knew it well.

We entered through a wide door into a room that was referred to as the

Old Divan Chamber. Beneath its huge dome, I saw master artisans holding

cloth, pieces of leather, silver scabbards and mother-of-pearl inlaid chests. I

inferred that these men were from Our Sultan’s craftsmen’s guilds: mace

makers, boot makers, silversmiths, master velvet makers, ivory engravers, and

luthiers. They were all waiting outside the Head Treasurer’s door with various

245

petitions concerning payments, the acquisition of materials and requests to

enter the Sultan’s forbidden private quarters to take measurements. I was

pleased to discover no illuminators among them.

We withdrew to one side and began to wait as well. Occasionally, we heard

the raised voice of the treasurer’s clerk, suspecting an error in accounts,

request clarification; this would be met by a polite response, from a locksmith,

for example. Voices rarely rose above a whisper; the flutter of the courtyard

pigeons echoing in the dome above us were louder than the petty requests of

the humble artisans.

When my turn came, I entered the Head Treasurer’s small domed chamber

to find it occupied by a single clerk. I quickly explained that there was an

important matter to be submitted to the Head Treasurer’s attention: A book

project that Our Sultan had commissioned and that was of utmost

importance to Him. Intrigued by what I was holding, the clerk raised his eyes. I

showed him the illustrations from my Enishte’s book. I noticed that the

peculiarity of the pictures, their striking eccentricity, boggled his mind. I

hastened to inform him of my Enishte’s name, his sobriquet and his vocation,

adding that he’d died on account of these pictures. I spoke quickly, well aware

that if I returned from the palace without reaching Our Sultan, I’d be accused

of having put Enishte into that dreadful state myself.

When the clerk left to apprise the Head Treasurer, I broke into a cold sweat.

Would the Head Treasurer, who, as my Enishte once informed me, never left

Our Sultan’s side, who on occasion even spread out His prayer rug for Him,

and who was frequently His confidant—would he ever leave the restricted

Enderun quarters of the palace to see me? The fact that a messenger had been

dispatched to the heart of the palace on my behalf was unbelievable enough. I

wondered where Our Excellency the Sultan Himself might be: Had He retired

to one of the kiosks near the shore? Was He in the harem? Was the Head

Treasurer in His company?

Much later, I was summoned. Let me put it this way: I was taken so

unawares I had no time to be afraid. Even so, I panicked when I saw the

respect and astonishment in the expression of the master velvet maker

standing at the door. I stepped inside and was at once terrified; I thought I’d

be unable to speak. He wore the gold embroidered headdress that only he and

the Grand Viziers wore; yes, I was in the presence of the Head Treasurer. He

was gazing upon the illustrations that rested on a reading table where the clerk

had placed them after taking them from me. I felt as if I were the one who’d

made the paintings. I kissed the hem of his robe.

246

“My dear child,” he said. “I haven’t misunderstood, have I, your Enishte has

passed away?”

I couldn’t answer out of excitement, or perhaps guilt, and simply nodded.

At the same time the completely unexpected happened: There before the

sympathetic and surprised gaze of the Head Treasurer, a teardrop slid ever so

slowly down my cheek. I was at a loss; I was oddly affected by being in the

palace, by the Head Treasurer having taken leave of Our Sultan to speak to me

and by being so near to Him. Tears began to stream from my eyes, but I didn’t

feel the slightest tinge of embarrassment.

“Cry to your heart’s content, my dear son,” said the Head Treasurer.

I sobbed and whimpered. Though I’d assumed the past twelve years had

matured me, being this close to the Sultan, to the heart of the Empire, one fast

realizes he is but a child. I cared not whether the silversmiths and velvet

makers outside heard my sobbing. I knew I’d confess to the Head Treasurer.

Yes, I told him all, just as it came to me. As I once again saw my dead

Enishte, my marriage to Shekure, Hasan’s threats, the difficulties relating my

Enishte’s book and the secrets borne by the illustrations, I regained my

composure. I felt certain that the only way to extricate myself from the trap I’d

fallen into was to put myself at the mercy of the infinite justice and affection

of Our Sultan, Refuge of the World, and so I withheld nothing. Before

digesting all that I said and handing me over to the torturers and executioners,

would the Head Treasurer convey my story directly to Our Sultan?

“Let Enishte Effendi’s death be announced in the workshop without delay,”

said the Head Treasurer. “I want the entire artists’ guild to attend his funeral.”

He looked at me to ascertain whether I might have any objections.

Emboldened by his interest, I expressed my concerns about the culprit, and

the possible motive behind the deaths of my Enishte and the gilder Elegant

Effendi. I hinted that the followers of the preacher from Erzurum and those

who were targeting dervish houses where music was played and men danced

might be involved. When I saw the doubtful expression of the Head Treasurer, I

eagerly shared my other suspicions: I informed him that the monetary rewards

and honor involved in being invited to illustrate and illuminate Enishte

Effendi’s book had likely led to unavoidable competition and jealousy among

the masters. The secrecy of the project alone could very well have instigated

these hatreds, grudges and intrigues. As the words left my mouth, I sensed

nervously that the Head Treasurer had somehow grown suspicious of me—the

247

way you have as well. My dear Allah, let justice be done, that is all I ask,

nothing more.

Within the ensuing silence, the Head Treasurer cast his glance away from

me, as if embarrassed on my behalf for my words and my destiny, and fixed his

attention on the pictures resting on the folding table.

“There are nine plates here,” he said. “The arrangement had been for a book

with ten illustrations. Enishte Effendi took more gold leaf from us than has

been used here.”

“That murdering heretic must have stolen the last illustration, upon which

much of the gold was applied,” I said.

“You haven’t told us who the calligrapher-scribe might be.”

“My late Enishte hadn’t yet completed the book’s text. He was anticipating

my help in its completion.”

“My dear child, you’ve just explained how you’re newly arrived in

Istanbul.”

“It’s been one week. I arrived three days after Elegant Effendi was killed.”

“You mean to say that your Enishte Effendi has been illustrating an

unwritten—a nonexistent—manuscript for an entire year?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Had he, then, revealed to you what the book was to recount?”

“Precisely what Our Sultan stated He wanted: A book that depicted the

thousandth year of the Muslim calendar, which would strike terror into the

heart of the Venetian Doge by showing the military strength and pride of

Islam, together with the power and wealth of the Exalted House of Osman.

This was intended to be a book recounting and depicting the most valuable,

most vital aspects of our realm; and just as with the Treatises on Physiognomy, a

portrait of Our Sultan would be situated at the heart of the book.

Furthermore, since the illustrations were made in the Frankish style using

Frankish methods, they would arouse the awe of the Venetian Doge and his

desire for friendship.”

“I’m aware of all that, but are these dogs and trees the most valuable and

vital aspects of the Exalted House of Osman?” he said, gesturing wildly at the

illustrations.

248

“My Enishte, may he rest in peace, insisted that the book show not Our

Sultan’s wealth alone, but His spiritual and moral strength along with His

hidden sorrows.”

“And Our Sultan’s portrait?”

“I haven’t seen it. It’s probably wherever that heretic murderer has hidden

it. Who knows, it’s probably in his house at this very moment.”

My late Enishte had been diminished to the status of a man who’d

commissioned a menagerie of odd pictures that the Head Treasurer deemed

worthless, rather than one who’d struggled to complete a book worthy of the

gold he’d been paid. Was the Head Treasurer thinking I’d murdered an inept

and untrustworthy man in order to marry Enishte’s daughter, or for some

other reason—perhaps to sell off the gold leaf? From his glances, I read that

my case was about to be closed, so speaking nervously and with the last of my

strength, I tried to clear my name: I told him that my Enishte had confided to

me that one of the master miniaturists he hired might’ve murdered poor

Elegant Effendi. Keeping my declaration brief, I told him how my Enishte

suspected Olive, Stork or Butterfly. I neither had much proof nor felt much

self-confidence. Afterward, I sensed that the Head Treasurer considered me

nothing but a base slanderer and a foolish gossip.

Finally, I was elated when the Head Treasurer said we must conceal the

details of Enishte’s mysterious death from the workshop; I took this as a sign

that he believed my story. The pictures remained with the Head Treasurer and I

passed through the Gate of Salutation—which had earlier felt like the Gate of

Heaven. After exiting under the scrutiny of the guards, I immediately relaxed,

like a soldier returned home after an absence of many years.

249

I AM YOUR BELOVED UNCLE

My funeral was splendid, exactly as I’d wanted. It made me proud that

everybody I’d wished would attend came. Of the viziers who were in Istanbul

at the time of my death, Haji Hüseyin Pasha of Cyprus and Baki Pasha the

Lame loyally remembered that I’d rendered extensive services to them at one

time or another. The presence of the Minister of Accounts, Red Melek Pasha,

who, at the time of my death was both in high favor and much criticized,

enlivened the humble courtyard of our neighborhood mosque. Had I lived and

continued an active political life, I would’ve been promoted to the same rank

as Mustafa Agha, the Sultan’s Chief Herald, whose presence especially

delighted me. The mourners constituted a large, dignified and impressive

group that included the Divan Secretary Kemalettin Effendi, Chief Secretary

Salim Effendi the Austere, the heralds of the Divan—each of whom was either

a dear friend or an archenemy—a group of former Divan councillors who’d

resigned early from active political life, my school friends, others who’d

somehow learned of my death—I cannot imagine how or where—and various

other relatives, in-laws and youths.

I also took pride in the congregation, its seriousness and its grief. The

presence of the Head Treasurer Haz?m Agha and the Commander of the

Imperial Guard made clear to all in attendance that His Excellency Our Sultan

was sincerely aggrieved by my untimely death. I was, indeed, very pleased by

this. I don’t know whether the sorrow of Our Glorious Sultan means great

efforts will be made to catch my rogue murderer, including the mobilization of

torturers, but I do know this: that accursed man is now in the courtyard,

among the other miniaturists and calligraphers, wearing a dignified and

exceedingly tormented expression as he gazes at my coffin.

Pray, don’t think that I’m infuriated by my murderer or that I’m set on a

path of revenge, or even that my soul is restless because I’ve been treacherously

and cruelly slain. I am, at present, on a completely different plane of being,

and my soul is quite at peace, having returned to its former glory after years of

suffering on Earth.

My soul temporarily quitted my body, which was writhing in pain as it lay

covered in blood from the blows of the inkpot, and quivered for a while within

an intense light; afterward, two beautiful and smiling angels with faces bright

as the sun—such as I’d read about countless times in the Book of the Soul—

slowly approached me within this ethereal brilliance, grabbed me by my arms,

250

as if I were still a body, and began their ascent. Ever so serenely and gently, ever

so quickly we ascended as if in a blissful dream! We passed through forests of

fire, forded rivers of light and forged dark seas and mountains of snow and ice.