decided once and for all to take Cyprus from the Veians。 Sheikhulislam
Ebussuut Effendi； recalling that this island was once designated a
missariat 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 Veians 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 Veian homes。 Nevertheless； in the midst of this
bewilderment； trusting in the hospitality displayed by the Veians； I
delivered the menacing correspondence； informing them in a haughty；
supercilious fashion that Our Sultan desired Cyprus。 The Veians 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 acpany 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 pleted； 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；
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 acpany his father on Mondays like a
mon 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；
“Wele ”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 pletely 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
bees 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
bee 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 mander 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 pletely； 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 acpany 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
peting 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 tha