第 45 页

I noticed a dog, more meaningful than all the pictures of dogs I’d ever seen.

I saw a horse, a lesser creation than what my master miniaturists might make.

I spied a plane tree in the Hippodrome, the same tree whose leaves I’d just

now accented with tones of purple.

Strolling through the Hippodrome, whose parades I’d illustrated over the

last two years, was like stepping into my own painting. Let’s say we were to

turn down a street: In a Frankish painting, this would result in our stepping

outside both the frame and the painting; in a painting made following the

example of the great masters of Herat, it’d bring us to the place from which

Allah looks upon us; in a Chinese painting, we’d be trapped, because Chinese

illustrations are infinite.

The pageboy, I discovered, wasn’t taking me to the Divan Chamber where I

often met with the Head Treasurer to discuss one of the following: the

manuscripts and ornamented ostrich eggs or other gifts my miniaturists were

preparing for Our Sultan; the health of the illustrators or the Head Treasurer’s

own constitution and peace of mind; the acquisition of paint, gold leaf or

other materials; the usual complaints and requests; the desires, delights,

demands and disposition of the Refuge of the World, Our Sultan; my eyesight,

my looking glasses or my lumbago; or the Head Treasurer’s good-for-nothing

son-in-law or the health of his tabby cat. Silently, we entered the Sultan’s

Private Garden. As if committing a crime, but with great delicacy, we serenely

descended toward the sea through the trees. “We’re nearing the Sea-Side

Kiosk,” I thought, “this means I will see the Sultan. His Excellency must be

here.” But we turned off the path. We walked ahead a few steps through the

arched doorway of a stone building behind the rowboat and ca?que sheds. I

could smell the scent of baking bread wafting from the guard’s bakery before

catching sight of the Imperial Guard themselves in their red uniforms.

The Head Treasurer and the Commander of the Imperial Guard were

together in one room: Angel and Devil!

The Commander, who performed executions in the name of Our Sultan on

the palace grounds—who tortured, interrogated, beat, blinded and

administered the bastinado—smiled sweetly at me. It was as if some piddling

lodger, with whom I was forced to share a caravansary cell, were going to

recount a heart-warming story.

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The Head Treasurer diffidently said, “Our Sultan, one year prior, charged me

with having an illuminated manuscript prepared under conditions of the

utmost privacy, a manuscript that would be included among the gifts meant

for an ambassadorial delegation. In light of the secrecy of the book, His

Excellency did not deem it appropriate that Master Lokman the Royal

Historian be enlisted to write the manuscript. Similarly, He did not venture to

involve you, whose artistry He quite admires. Indeed, He supposed that you

were already fully engaged with the Book of Festivities.”

Upon entering this room I had abruptly assumed that some wretch had

slandered me, claiming that I was committing heresy in such-and-such an

illustration and that I’d lampooned the Sovereign in another; I imagined with

horror that this tattler had been able to convince the Sovereign of my guilt and

that I was about to be laid out for torture with no consideration for my age.

And so to hear that the Head Treasurer was simply trying to make amends for

Our Sultan’s having commissioned a manuscript from an outsider—these

words were sweeter than honey indeed. Without learning anything new, I

listened to an account of the manuscript, about which I was already well

aware. I was privy to the rumors about Nusret Hoja of Erzurum, and naturally,

to the intrigues within the workshop.

“Who is responsible for preparing the manuscript?” I asked.

“Enishte Effendi, as you know,” said the Head Treasurer. Fixing his gaze into

my eyes, he added, “You were aware that he died an untimely death, that is to

say, that he was murdered, weren’t you?”

“Nay,” I said simply, like a child, and fell quiet.

“Our Sultan is quite furious,” the Head Treasurer said.

That Enishte Effendi was a dunce. The master miniaturists always mocked

him for being more pretentious than knowledgeable, more ambitious than

intelligent. I knew something was rotten at the funeral anyway. How was he

killed, I wondered?

The Head Treasurer explained exactly how. Appalling. Dear God protect us.

Yet who could be responsible?

“The Sultan has decreed,” said the Head Treasurer, “that the book in

question should be finished as soon as possible, as with the Book of Festivities

manuscript…”

“He has also made a second decree,” said the Commander of the Imperial

Guard. “If, indeed, this unspeakable murderer is one of the miniaturists, He

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wants the black-hearted devil found. He intends to sentence him to a

punishment such as will stand as a deterrent to one and all.”

An expression of such excitement appeared on the face of the Commander

as if to suggest he already knew the monstrous punishment Our Sultan had

decreed.

I knew that Our Sultan had only recently charged these two men with this

task, thereby forcing them to cooperate—on which account they couldn’t hide

their distaste even now. Seeing this inspired in me a love for the Sultan that

went beyond mere awe. A servant boy served coffee and we sat for a while.

I was told that Enishte Effendi had a nephew named Black Effendi whom

he’d cultivated, a man trained in illumination and book arts. Had I met him? I

remained silent. A short while ago, upon the invitation of his Enishte, Black

had returned from the Persian front, where he was under Serhat Pasha’s

command—the Commander shot me a look of suspicion. Here, in Istanbul, he

worked himself into his Enishte’s good graces and learned the story of the

book whose creation Enishte was overseeing. Black claimed that after Elegant

Effendi was killed, Enishte suspected one of the master miniaturists who

visited him at night to work on this manuscript. He’d seen the illustrations

these masters had made and said that Enishte’s murderer—the selfsame

painter who stole the Sultan’s illustration with the lion’s share of gold leaf—

was one of them. For two days, this young Black Effendi had concealed the

death of Enishte from the palace and the Head Treasurer. Within that very

two-day period, he’d rushed ahead with a marriage to Enishte’s daughter, an

ethically and religiously dubious affair, and settled into Enishte’s house; thus,

both the men before me considered Black a suspect.

“If their houses and workplaces are searched and the missing page turns up

with one of my master miniaturists, Black’s innocence will be established at

once,” I said. “Frankly, however, I can tell you that my dearest children, my

divinely inspired miniaturists, whom I’ve known since they were apprentices,

are incapable of taking the life of another man.”

“As for Olive, Stork and Butterfly,” said the Commander, mockingly using

the nicknames I’d affectionately given to them, “we intend to comb their

homes, haunts, places of work and, if applicable, shops, leaving no stone

unturned. And that includes Black…” His expression bespoke resignation:

“Given such troublesome circumstances, thank God, the judge has granted us

permission to resort to torture if necessary during the interrogation of Black

Effendi. Torture was deemed lawfully permissible because a second murder

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had been committed against someone with a link to the miniaturists guild,

making suspects of them all, from apprentice to master.”

I mulled this over silently: 1. The phrase “lawfully permissible” made clear

that Our Sultan wasn’t the one who’d granted the permission for torture. 2.

Because all the miniaturists were under suspicion of double murder in the eyes

of the judge, and because I, though Head Illuminator, had been unable to

identify the criminal in our midst, I, too, was suspect. 3. I understood that

they wanted my explicit or implicit approval to go ahead with the torture of

my beloved Butterfly, Olive, Stork and the others, all of whom, in recent years,

had betrayed me.

“Since Our Sultan desires both the satisfactory completion of the Book of

Festivities and this book—which is evidently only half finished,” said the Head

Treasurer, “we’re worried that torture might damage the masters’ hands and

eyes, destroying their agility.” He faced me. “Isn’t this so?”

“There was similar worry over another incident recently,” said the

Commander brusquely. “A goldsmith and a jeweler who did repairs fell sway

to the Devil. They were childishly enchanted with a ruby-handled coffee cup

belonging to Our Sultan’s younger sister Nejmiye Sultan, and ended up

stealing it. Since the theft of the cup, which overwhelmed Our Sultan’s sister

with grief—she was quite fond of the piece—occurred in the üsküdar Palace,

the Sovereign appointed me to investigate. It became apparent that both Our

Sultan and Nejmiye Sultan wanted no harm to come to the eyes and fingers of

the master gold- and jewelry smiths lest their skills be affected. So, I had all

the master jewelry smiths stripped naked and thrown into the freezing pool in

the yard among pieces of ice and frogs. Periodically, I’d have them taken out

and lashed forcefully, taking care that their faces and hands remained

unharmed. Within a short period, the jeweler who’d been duped by the Devil

confessed and accepted his punishment. Despite the ice-cold water, the frozen

air and all the lashings, no lasting injury came to the eyes and fingers of the

master jewelers because they were pure of heart. Even the Sultan mentioned

that His sister was quite pleased with my work and that the jewelers were

working with more zeal now that the bad apple was out of the barrel.”

I was certain that the Commander would treat my master illustrators more

severely than he had the jewelers. Though he had respect for Our Sultan’s

enthusiasm for illuminated manuscripts, like many others, he deemed

calligraphy the only respectable art form, belittling embellishment and

illustration as flirtations with heresy, fit for women and deserving of nothing

but rebuke. In order to provoke me, he said, “While you’ve been absorbed in

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your work, your beloved miniaturists have already begun scheming to see

who’ll become Head Miniaturist upon your death.”

Was this gossip I hadn’t already heard? Had he informed me of something

new? Restraining myself, I didn’t respond. The Head Treasurer was more than

aware of the fury I felt toward him for commissioning a manuscript from that

deceased half-wit behind my back, and toward my ingrate miniaturists, who’d

secretly prepared these illustrations to curry favor and earn a few extra silver

coins.

I caught myself pondering the methods of torture that might be inflicted.

They wouldn’t resort to flaying during the interrogation, because that

inevitably leads to death. They wouldn’t impale anyone, either, as they do with

rebels, because that’s used as a deterrent. Cracking and splintering the fingers,

arms or legs of these miniaturists was also out of the question. Of course, the

removal of an eye—which I gathered was a measure of increasing frequency

these days, to judge by the growing numbers of one-eyed people on the streets

of Istanbul—would be inappropriate for master artists. So, as I imagined my

dear miniaturists in a secluded corner of the Royal Private Garden, there in the

ice-cold pool among the water lilies, shivering violently and glaring hatefully at

one another, I had the passing urge to laugh. Nevertheless, it caused me agony

to imagine how Olive would shriek when his hindquarters were branded with

a hot iron and how dear Butterfly’s skin would pale when he was shackled. I

couldn’t bear to conjure the scene of dear Butterfly—whose skill and love for

illumination brought tears to my eyes—as he was given the bastinado like a

common thieving apprentice. I just stood there dumbfounded and hollow.

My elderly mind was mute under the spell of its own internal silence. There

was a time when we’d paint together with a passion that made us forget

everything.

“These men are the most expert miniaturists serving Our Sultan,” I said.

“Make certain no harm befalls them.”

Pleased, the Head Treasurer rose, grabbed a number of pages from the

worktable at the other end of the room and arranged them in front of me.

Next, as if the room were dark, he placed beside me two large candle holders

whose portly tapers burned with bobbing and twittering flames so I could

study the paintings in question.

How might I explain what I saw as I moved the magnifying lens over them?

I felt like laughing—and not because they were humorous. I was incensed—it

seemed that Enishte Effendi had instructed my masters as follows: “Don’t

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paint like yourselves, paint as if you were someone else.” He’d forced them to

recall nonexistent memories, to conjure and paint a future, which they’d never

want to live. What was even more incredible was that they were killing each

other over this nonsense.

“By looking at these illustrations, can you tell me which miniaturist worked

on which picture?” asked the Head Treasurer.

“Yes,” I said angrily. “Where did you find these paintings?”

“Black brought them of his own accord and left them with me,” said the

Head Treasurer. “He’s bent on proving that he and his late Enishte are