“However, if you two defy his warning a third time. . . then, you’ll have earned the right to a beating,” I said. “Are we understood? Your new father, Black, has come here from the vilest, the worst of battles, from wars that were the very wrath of God and from which your late father did not return; yes, he’s a hardened man. Your grandfather has spoiled you and indulged you. Your grandfather is now very ill.”
“I want to go and be with him,” Shevket said.
“If you’re not going to listen, Black will teach you what it means to get a beating from Hell. Your grandfather won’t be able to save you from Black the way he used to protect you from me. If you don’t want to suffer your father’s wrath, you’re not to fight anymore, you’re to share everything, tell no lies, perform your prayers, not go to bed before memorizing your lessons and you’re not to speak roughly to Hayriye or tease her. . . Are we understood?”
In one movement, Black crouched down and took Orhan up in his arms. Shevket kept his distance. I had the fleeting urge to embrace him and weep. My poor forlorn and fatherless son, my poor solitary Shevket, you’re so alone in this immense world. I thought of myself as a small child, like Shevket, a child all alone in the world, and remembered how once I’d been held in my dear father’s arms the way Orhan was now being held by Black. But unlike Orhan, I wasn’t awkward in my father’s embrace, like a fruit unaccustomed to its tree. I was delighted; I recalled how my father and I would often embrace, sniffing each other’s skin. I was on the verge of tears, but restrained myself. Though I hadn’t planned to say anything of the sort, I said:
“Come now, let’s hear you call Black ‘Father.’ ”
The night was so cold and our courtyard was so very silent. In the distance dogs were barking and howling pitifully and sorrowfully. A few more minutes passed. The silence bloomed and spread secretly like a black flower.
“All right, children,” I said much later. “Let’s go inside so we all don’t catch cold out here.”
It wasn’t only Black and I who felt the timidity of a bride and groom left alone after the wedding, but Hayriye and the children, all of us, entered our home hesitantly as though it were the darkened house of a stranger. We were met with the smell of my father’s corpse, but nobody seemed to be aware of it. We silently climbed the stairs, and the shadows cast onto the ceiling by our oil lamps, as always, spun and merged, now expanding, now shrinking, yet seemed somehow to be doing so for the first time. Upstairs, as we were removing our shoes in the hall, Shevket said:
“Before I go to sleep can I kiss my grandfather’s hand?”
“I checked in on him just now,” Hayriye said. “Your grandfather is in such pain and discomfort it’s clear that evil spirits have taken hold of him. The fever of the illness has consumed him. Go to your room so I can prepare your bed.”
Hayriye herded them into the room. As she laid out the mattress and spread out the sheets and quilts, she was going on as if every object she held was a marvel unique to the world, and muttering about how sleeping here in a warm room between clean sheets and under warm down quilts would be like spending the night in a sultan’s palace.
“Hayriye, tell us a story,” said Orhan as he sat on his chamber pot.
“Once upon a time there was a blue man,” said Hayriye, “and his closest companion was a jinn.”
“Why was the man blue?” said Orhan.
“For goodness sake, Hayriye,” I said. “Tonight at least don’t tell a story about jinns and ghosts.”
“Why shouldn’t she?” said Shevket. “Mother, after we fall asleep do you leave the bed and go to be with Grandfather?”
“Your grandfather, Allah protect him, is gravely ill,” I said. “Of course I go to his bedside at night to look after him. Then, I return to our bed, don’t I?”
“Have Hayriye look after Grandfather,” said Shevket. “Doesn’t Hayriye look after my grandfather at night anyway?”
“Are you finished?” Hayriye asked of Orhan. As she wiped Orhan’s behind with a wet rag, his face was overcome with a sweet lethargy. She glanced into the pot and wrinkled up her face, not due to the smell, but as if what she saw wasn’t sufficient.
“Hayriye,” I said. “Empty the chamber pot and bring it back. I don’t want Shevket to leave the room in the middle of the night.”
“Why shouldn’t I leave the room?” asked Shevket. “Why shouldn’t Hayriye tell us a story about jinns and fairies?”
“Because there are jinns in the house, you idiot,” Orhan said, not so much out of fear, but with the dumb optimism I always noticed in his expression after he’d relieved himself.
“Mother, are there jinns here?”
“If you leave the room, if you attempt to see your grandfather, the jinn will catch you.”
“Where will Black lay out his bed?” said Shevket. “Where will he sleep tonight?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “Hayriye will be preparing his bed.”
“Mother, you’re still going to sleep with us, aren’t you?” said Shevket.
“How many times do I have to tell you? I’ll sleep together with you two as before.”
“Always?”
Hayriye left carrying the chamber pot. From the cabinet where I’d hidden them, I removed the remaining nine illustrations left behind by the unspeakable murderer and sat on the bed. By the light of a candle, I stared at them for a long time trying to fathom their secret. These illustrations were beautiful enough that you might mistake them for your own forgotten memories; and as with writing, as you looked at them, they spoke.
I’d lost myself in the pictures. I understood from the scent of Orhan’s beautiful head, upon which I’d rested my nose, that he, too, was looking at that odd and suspicious Red. As occasionally happened, I had the urge to take out my breast and nurse him. Later, when Orhan was frightened by the terrifying picture of Death, gently and sweetly breathing through his reddish lips, I suddenly wanted to eat him.
“I’ll eat you up, do you understand me?”
“Mama, tickle me,” he said and threw himself down.
“Get off there, get up you beast,” I screamed and slapped him. He’d lain across the pictures. I checked the illustrations; apparently no harm had come to them. The image of the horse in the topmost picture was faintly, yet unnoticeably, crumpled.
Hayriye entered with the empty chamber pot. I gathered the pictures and was about to leave the room when Shevket began to cry:
“Mother? Where are you going?”
“I’ll be right back.”
I crossed the freezing hallway. Black was seated across from my father’s empty cushion, in the same position that he’d spent four days discussing painting and perspective with him. I laid out the illustrations on the folding bookstand, the cushion and on the floor before him. Color abruptly suffused the candlelit room with a warmth and an astonishing liveliness, as if everything had been set in motion.
Utterly still, we looked at the pictures at length, silently and respectfully. When we made even the slightest movement, the still air, which bore the scent of death from the room across the wide hall, would make the candle flame flicker and my father’s mysterious illustrations seemed to move too. Had the paintings taken on such significance for me because they were the cause of my father’s death? Was I mesmerized by the peculiarity of the horse or the uniqueness of Red, by the misery of the tree or the sadness of the two wandering dervishes, or was it because I feared the murderer who’d killed my father and perhaps others on account of these illustrations? After a while, Black and I fully understood that the silence between us, as much as it might’ve been caused by the paintings, was also due to our being alone in the same room on our wedding night. Both of us wanted to speak.
“When we wake tomorrow morning, we should tell everybody that my hapless father has passed away in his sleep,” I said. Although what I’d said was correct, it appeared as if I were being insincere.
“Everything will be fine in the morning,” said Black in the same peculiar manner, unable to believe in the truth of what he’d spoken.
When he made a nearly imperceptible gesture to draw closer to me, I had the urge to embrace him and, as I did with the children, to take his head into my hands.
Just at that moment, I heard the door to my father’s room open and, springing up in terror, I ran over, opened our door and looked out: By the light that filtered into the hallway, I was shocked to see my father’s door half open.
I stepped into the icy hallway. My father’s room, heated by the still-lit brazier, reeked of decay. Had Shevket or somebody else come here? His body, dressed in his nightgown, rested peacefully, bathed in the faint light of the brazier. I thought about the way, on some nights, I’d say, “Have a good night, dear Father,” while he read the Book of the Soul by candlelight before going to sleep. Raising himself slightly, he’d take the glass I’d brought him out of my hand and say, “May the water bearer never want for anything,” before kissing me on the cheek and looking into my eyes as he used to do when I was a girl. I stared down at my father’s horrid face and, in short, I was afraid. I wanted to avoid looking at him, while at the same time, goaded by the Devil, I wanted to see how gruesome he’d become.
I timidly returned to the room with the blue door whereupon Black made an advance on me. I pushed him away, more unthinkingly than out of anger. We struggled in the flickering light of the candle, though it wasn’t really a struggle but rather the imitation of a struggle. We were enjoying bumping into each other, touching one another’s arms, legs and chests. The confusion I felt resembled the emotional state that Nizami had described with regard to Hüsrev and Shirin: Could Black, who’d read Nizami so thoroughly, sense that, like Shirin, I also meant “Continue” when I said, “Don’t bruise my lips by kissing them so hard”?
“I refuse to sleep in the same bed with you until that devil-of-a-man is found, until my father’s murderer is caught,” I said.
As I fled the room, I was seized by embarrassment. I’d spoken in such a shrill voice it must’ve seemed I wanted the children and Hayriye to hear what I’d said—perhaps even my poor father and my late husband, whose body had long decayed and turned to dust on who knows what barren patch of earth.
As soon as I was back with the children, Orhan said, “Mama, Shevket went out into the hallway.”
“Did you go out?” I said, and made as if to slap him.
“Hayriye,” said Shevket and hugged her.
“He didn’t go out,” said Hayriye. “He was in the room the entire time.”
I shuddered and couldn’t look her in the eyes. I realized that after my father’s death was announced, the children would thenceforth seek refuge in Hayriye, tell her all our secrets, and that this lowly servant, taking advantage of this opportunity, would try to control me. She wouldn’t stop there either, but would try to place the onus of my father’s murder onto me, then she’d have the guardianship of the children passed on to Hasan! Yes, indeed she would! All this shameless scheming because she’d slept with my father, may he rest in divine light. Why should I hide all this from you any longer? She was, in fact, doing this, of course. I smiled sweetly at her. Then, I lifted Shevket onto my lap and kissed him.
“I’m telling you, Shevket went out into the hallway,” Orhan said.
“Get into bed, you two. Let me get between you so I can tell you the story of the tailless jackal and the black jinn.”
“But you told Hayriye not to tell us a story about jinns,” said Shevket. “Why can’t Hayriye tell us the story tonight?”
“Will they visit the City of the Forsaken?” asked Orhan.
“Yes they will!” I said. “None of the children in that city have a mother or a father. Hayriye, go downstairs and check the doors again. We’ll probably be asleep by the middle of the story.”
“I won’t fall asleep,” said Orhan.
“Where is Black going to sleep tonight?” said Shevket.
“In the workshop,” I said. “Snuggle up tight to your mother so we can warm up nicely under the quilt. Whose icy little feet are these?”
“Mine,” said Shevket. “Where will Hayriye sleep?”
I’d begun telling the story, and as always, Orhan fell asleep first, after which I lowered my voice.
“After I fall asleep, you’re not going to leave the bed, right, Mama?” said Shevket.
“No, I won’t leave.”
I really didn’t intend to leave. After Shevket fell asleep, I was musing about how pleasurable it was to fall asleep cuddled up with my sons on the night of my second wedding—with my handsome, intelligent and desirous husband in the next room. I’d dozed off with such thoughts, but my sleep was fitful. Later, this is what I remembered about that strange restless realm between dreaming and wakefulness: First I settled accounts with my deceased father’s angry spirit, then I fled the specter of that disgraceful murderer who wanted to send me off to be with my father. As he pursued me, the unyielding murderer, even more terrifying than my father’s spirit, began making a clattering ruckus. In my dream, he tossed stones at our house. They struck the windows and landed on the roof. Later, he tossed a rock at the door, at one point even trying to force it open. Next, when this evil spirit began to wail like some ungodly animal, my heart began to pound.
I awoke covered in sweat. Had I heard those sounds in my dream or had I been awakened by sounds from somewhere in the house? I couldn’t decide, and so snuggled up with the children, and without moving, I waited. I’d nearly assured myself that the noises were only in my sleep when I heard the same wail. Just then, something large landed in the courtyard with a bang. Was this also a rock, perhaps?
I was paralyzed with terror. But the situation immediately got worse: I heard noises from within the house. Where was Hayriye? In which room had Black fallen asleep? In what state was my father’s pitiful corpse? My God, I prayed, protect us. The children were deep asleep.
Had this happened before I was married, I’d have risen from bed, and taking charge of the situation like the man of the house, I’d have suppressed my fears and scared away the jinns and spirits. In my present condition, however, I cowered and hugged the children. It was as if there were no one else in the world. Nobody was going to come to the aid of the children and me. Expecting something awful to happen, I prayed to Allah for deliverance. As in my dreams, I was alone. I heard the courtyard gate open. It was the courtyard gate, wasn’t it? Yes, absolutely.
I rose abruptly, grabbed my robe and quitted the room without even knowing myself what I was doing.
“Black!” I hissed from the top of the stairs.
After hastily donning shoes, I descended the stairs. The candle I’d lit at the brazier blew out as soon as I stepped out onto the courtyard’s stone walkway. A strong wind had begun to blow, though the sky was clear. As soon as my eyes adjusted, I saw that the half-moon was flooding the courtyard with moonlight. My dearest Allah! The courtyard gate was open. I stood stunned, atremble in the cold.
Why hadn’t I brought a knife with me? Neither did I have a candlestick or even a piece of wood. For a moment, in the blackness, I saw the gate move of its own accord. Later, after it appeared to have stilled, I heard it squeal. I remember thinking, This seems like a dream.
When I heard a noise from within the house, as if from just beneath the roof, I understood that my father’s soul was struggling to leave his body.
Knowing my father’s soul was in such torment both put me at ease and plunged me into agony. If Father is the cause of these noises, I thought, then no evil will befall me. On the other hand, his tormented soul, frantically fluttering about, trying to escape and ascend, so troubled me that I prayed to Allah to comfort him. But when it occurred to me that his soul would protect me and the children, a feeling of great relief washed over me. If there were truly some demon contemplating evil just beyond the gate, let him fear my father’s restless soul.
Just then, I worried that perhaps it was Black that was upsetting my father so much. Would my father bring evil upon Black? Where was he? Just then, outside the courtyard gate, on the street, I noticed him and froze. He was speaking with somebody.
A man was talking to Black from the trees in the empty yard on the far side of the street. I was able to infer that the howling I’d heard as I lay in bed had come from this man whom I straightaway knew to be Hasan. There was a plaintive strain, a weeping in his voice, but also a threatening overtone. I listened to them from a distance. Within the silent night they’d given themselves over to settling accounts.
I understood that I was all alone in the world with my children. I was thinking that I loved Black, but to tell the truth, what I wanted was to love only Black—for Hasan’s melancholy voice singed my heart.
“Tomorrow, I’ll return with the judge, Janissaries and witnesses who’ll swear that my older brother is alive and still fighting in the mountains of Persia,” he said. “Your marriage is illegitimate. You’re committing adultery in there.”
“Shekure wasn’t your wife, she was your late brother’s wife,” Black said.
“My older brother’s still alive,” Hasan said with conviction. “There are witnesses who have seen him.”
“This morning, based on the fact that he hasn’t returned after four years campaigning, the Üsküdar judge granted Shekure a divorce. If he is alive, have your witnesses tell him that he’s now a divorced man.”
“Shekure is restricted from remarrying for a month,” said Hasan. “Otherwise it’s a sacrilege contrary to the Koran. How could Shekure’s father consent to such disgraceful nonsense?”
“Enishte Effendi,” Black said, “is very sick. He’s on his death bed. . .and the judge sanctified our marriage.”
“Did you work together to poison your Enishte?” said Hasan. “Did you plan this out with Hayriye?”
“My father-in-law is deeply distressed by what you’ve done to Shekure. Your brother, if he’s really still alive, could also call you to account for your dishonor.”
“These are all lies, each one!” said Hasan. “These are only excuses cooked up by Shekure so she could leave us.”
There came a cry from within the house; it was Hayriye who’d screamed. Next, Shevket screamed. They shouted to each other. Unwitting and afraid, without being able to restrain myself, I shouted too and ran into the house without knowing what I was doing.
Shevket ran down the stairs and fled out into the courtyard.
“My grandfather is as cold as ice,” he cried. “My grandfather has died.”
We hugged each other. I lifted him up. Hayriye was still shouting. Black and Hasan heard the shouts and everything that was said.
“Mother, they’ve killed grandfather,” Shevket said this time.
Everyone heard this, too. Had Hasan heard? I squeezed Shevket tightly, and calmly walked with him back inside. At the top of the stairs, Hayriye was wondering how the child had awoken and sneaked out.
“You promised you wouldn’t leave us,” said Shevket, who began to cry.
My mind was preoccupied now with Black. Because he was busy with Hasan, he didn’t think to close the gate. I kissed Shevket on either cheek and hugged him even tighter, taking in the scent of his neck, consoling him and, finally handing him over to Hayriye, I whispered, “You two go upstairs.”
They went upstairs. I returned and stood a few steps behind the gate. I assumed Hasan couldn’t see me. Had he changed his position in the darkened garden across the way, perhaps moving behind the trees that lined the street?
As it happened, however, he could see me, and as he spoke he addressed me, too. It was unnerving to convene in the dark with somebody whose face I couldn’t see, but it was even worse, as Hasan accused me, accused us, to realize deep down that he was justified. With him, as with my father, I always felt guilty, always in the wrong. And now, moreover, I knew with great sadness that I was in love with the man who was incriminating me. My beloved Allah please help me. Love isn’t suffering for the sake of suffering, but a means to reach You, is it not?
Hasan claimed that I’d killed my father in league with Black. He said he’d heard what Shevket had said, adding that everything had been laid bare and that we’d committed an unpardonable sin deserving of the torments of Hell. Come morning he’d go to the judge to explain it all. If I were found to be innocent, if my hands weren’t red with my father’s blood, he swore to have me and the children returned to his house where he’d serve as father until his older brother came back. If, however, I were found guilty, a woman like me, who’d mercilessly abandoned her husband—a man willing to make the highest sort of sacrifice—for her no punishment was too severe. We patiently listened to his fury, then noticed that there was an abrupt silence amid the trees.
“If you return of your own free will to the home of your true husband, now,” said Hasan, assuming a completely different tone, “if you silently pitter-patter back with your children without being seen by anyone, I’ll forget the fake wedding ploy, the crimes you’ve committed, all of it, I’ll forgive it all. And, we’ll wait together, Shekure, year after year, patiently, for my brother’s return.”
Was he drunk? There was something so infantile in his voice and what he was now proposing to me in front of my husband that I feared it might cost him his life.
“Do you understand?” he called out from among the trees.
I couldn’t determine exactly where he was in the blackness. My dear God, come to our aid, to us, Your sinning servants.
“Because you won’t be able to live under the same roof with the man who killed your father, Shekure. This I know.”
I momentarily thought that he could’ve been the one who killed my father, and that he was now mocking us, perhaps. This Hasan was the Devil incarnate. But I couldn’t be certain of anything.
“Listen to me, Hasan Effendi,” Black called out to the darkness. “My father-in-law was murdered, this much is true. The most despicable of men killed him.”
“He’d been murdered before the wedding, isn’t that so?” said Hasan. “You two killed him because he opposed this marriage sham, this fake divorce, the false witnesses and all your deceits. If he’d considered Black to be appropriate, he’d have given his daughter to him years ago.”
Having lived for years with my late husband, with us, Hasan knew our past as well as we ourselves did. And with the passion of a spurned lover, he remembered every last detail of everything I’d discussed with my husband at home, but had subsequently forgotten, or now wanted to forget. Over the years, we’d shared so many memories—he, his brother and I—that I worried how strange, new and distant Black would seem to me if Hasan were to begin recounting the past.
“We suspect that you were the one who killed him,” Black said.
“On the contrary, you were the ones who killed him so you could marry. This is evident. As for me, I have no motive.”
“You killed him so we wouldn’t get married,” said Black. “When you learned that he’d permitted Shekure’s divorce and our marriage, you lost your mind. Besides, you were furious with Enishte Effendi because he’d encouraged Shekure to return home to live with him. You wanted revenge. As long as he remained alive, you knew you’d never get your hands on Shekure.”
“Be done with your stalling,” Hasan said decisively. “I refuse to listen to this prattle. It’s very cold here. I froze out here trying to get your attention with the rocks—didn’t you hear them?”
“Black had lost himself in my father’s illustrations,” I said.
Had I done wrong in saying this?
Hasan spoke in precisely the same false tone that I sometimes resorted to with Black: “Shekure, as you are my brother’s wife, your best course of action is to return now with your children to the house of the hero spahi cavalryman to whom you’re still wed according to the Koran.”
“I refuse,” I said, as if hissing into the heart of the night. “I refuse, Hasan. No.”
“Then, my responsibility and devotion to my brother forces me to alert the judge first thing tomorrow morning of what I’ve heard here. Otherwise, they’ll call me to account.”
“They’re going to call you to account anyway,” said Black. “The moment you go to the judge, I’ll reveal that you’re the one who murdered Our Sultan’s cherished servant, Enishte Effendi. This very morning.”
“Very well,” said Hasan calmly. “Make that revelation.”
I shrieked. “They’ll torture the both of you!” I shouted. “Don’t go to the judge. Wait. Everything will become clear.”
“I have no fear of torture,” Hasan said. “I’ve been tortured twice before, and both times I understood it was the only way the guilty could be culled from the innocent. Let the slanderers fear torture. I’m going to tell the judge, the captain of the Janissaries, the Sheikhulislam, everybody about poor Enishte Effendi’s book and its illustrations. Everybody is talking about those illustrations. What is it about them? What’s in those pictures?”
“There’s nothing in them,” Black said.
“Which means you examined them at the first opportunity.”
“Enishte Effendi wants me to finish the book.”
“Very well. I hope, God willing, that they’ll torture the both of us.”
The two of them fell silent. Next, Black and I heard footsteps in the empty yard. Were they leaving or approaching us? We could neither see Hasan nor tell what he was doing. It would’ve been senseless for him to push through the thorns, shrubs and brambles lining the far end of the garden in the pitch-blackness. He could’ve easily left without being seen, had he passed through the trees and wound his way before us, but we didn’t hear any footsteps nearing us. I boldly shouted, “Hasan!” There was no response.
“Hush,” said Black.
We were both trembling from the cold. Without hesitating too long, we closed the gate and the doors tightly behind us. Before entering my bed warmed by the children, I checked on my father again. Meanwhile, Black once again seated himself before the pictures.
I AM A HORSE
Ignore the fact that I’m standing here placid and still; if truth be told, I’ve been galloping for centuries; I’ve passed over plains, fought in battles, carried off the melancholy daughters of shahs to be wed; I’ve galloped tirelessly page by page from story to history, from history to legend and from book to book; I’ve appeared in countless stories, fables, books and battles; I’ve accompanied invincible heroes, legendary lovers and fantastic armies; I’ve galloped from campaign to campaign with our victorious sultans, and as a result, I’ve appeared in countless illustrations.
How does it feel, you ask, to be painted so often?
Of course, I’m proud of myself. Yet, I also question whether, indeed, it is I being depicted in all cases. It is evident from these pictures that I’m perceived differently by everyone. Still, I have the strong sense that there’s a commonality, a unity to the illustrations.
My miniaturist friends were recounting a story recently, and from it, I learned the following: The king of the Frankish infidels was considering marriage to the daughter of the Venetian Doge. He was considering it, but then he was plagued with the thought, “What if this Venetian is poor and his daughter ugly?” To reassure himself, he ordered his best artist to paint the Venetian Doge’s daughter, possessions, property and belongings. The Venetians could care less about gross indecency: They’ll expose not only their daughters to the prying eyes of the artist, but their horses and palazzos, as well. The gifted infidel artist could depict a maiden or a horse in such a way that you’d be able to pick either out of a crowd. Back in his courtyard, as the Frankish king examined the pictures from Venice, pondering whether he should take the maiden as his wife, his stallion, suddenly aroused, attempted to mount the attractive mare in the painting, and the horse grooms were hard pressed to bring the ferocious animal under control before he destroyed the picture and its frame with his huge member.
They say that it wasn’t the beauty of the Venetian mare that had aroused the Frankish stallion—though she was indeed striking—but the act of taking a particular mare and painting a picture in her exact likeness. Now, the question arises: Is it sinful to be depicted as that mare had been, that is, like a real mare? In my case, as you can see, there is very little difference between my image and other pictures of horses.
Actually, those of you who pay particular attention to the grace of my midsection, the length of my legs and the pride of my bearing will understand that I am indeed unique. But these excellent features point to the uniqueness of the miniaturist who illustrated me, not to my uniqueness as a horse. Everyone knows that there’s no horse exactly like me. I’m simply the rendering of a horse that exists in a miniaturist’s imagination.
Looking at me, observers frequently say, “Good God, what a gorgeous horse!” But they’re actually praising the artist, not me. All horses are in fact distinct, and the miniaturist, above all, ought to know this.
Take a close look, even a given stallion’s organ doesn’t resemble another’s. Don’t be afraid, you can examine it up close, and even take it in your hands: My God-given marvel has a shape and curve all its own.
Now then, all miniaturists illustrate all horses from memory in the same way, even though we’ve each been uniquely created by Allah, Greatest of all Creators. Why do they take pride in simply rendering thousands and tens of thousands of horses in the same way without ever truly looking at us? I’ll tell you why: Because they’re attempting to depict the world that God perceives, not the world that they see. Doesn’t that amount to challenging God’s unity, that is—Allah forbid—isn’t it saying that I could do the work of God? Artists who are discontent with what they see with their own eyes, artists who draw the same horse a thousand times asserting that what rests in their imagination is God’s horse, artists who claim that the best horse is what blind miniaturists draw from memory, aren’t they all committing the sin of competing with Allah?
The new styles of the Frankish masters aren’t blasphemous, quite the opposite, they’re the most in keeping with our faith. I pray that my Erzurumi brethren don’t misunderstand me. It displeases me that Frankish infidels parade their women around half naked, indifferent to pious modesties, that they don’t understand the pleasures of coffee and handsome boys, and that they roam about with clean-shaven faces, yet with hair as long as women’s, claiming that Jesus is also the Lord God—Allah protect us. I become so aggravated by these Franks that if I ever came across one, I’d give him a good mule kick.
Still, I’m sick of being incorrectly depicted by miniaturists who sit around the house like ladies and never go off to war. They’ll depict me at a gallop with both of my forelegs extended at the same time. There isn’t a horse in this world that runs like a rabbit. If one of my forelegs is forward, the other is aft. Contrary to what’s depicted in battle illustrations, there isn’t a horse in this world that extends one foreleg like a curious dog, leaving the other firmly planted on the ground. There is no spahi cavalry division in existence whose horses saunter in unison, as if traced with an identical stencil twenty times back to back. We horses scrounge for and eat the green grass at our feet when nobody is looking. We never assume a statuesque stance and wait around elegantly, the way we’re shown in paintings. Why is everybody so embarrassed about our eating, drinking, shitting and sleeping? Why are they afraid to depict this wondrous God-given and unique implement of mine? On the sly, women and children, in particular, love to stare at it, and what’s the harm in this? Is the Hoja from Erzurum against this as well?
They say that once upon a time there was a feeble and nervous shah in Shiraz. He was in mortal fear that his enemies would have him deposed so his son could assume the throne; rather than sending the prince to Isfahan as provincial governor, he imprisoned him in the most out of the way room of his palace. The prince grew up and lived in this makeshift cell, which looked onto neither courtyard nor garden, for thirty-one years. After his father’s allotted time on Earth ran out, the prince, who’d lived alone with his books, ascended the throne and declared: “I command that you bring me a horse. I’ve always seen pictures of them in books, and am curious about them.” They brought him the most beautiful gray steed in the palace, but when the new king saw that the horse had nostrils like mine-shafts, a shameless ass, a coat duller than in the illustrations and a brutish rump, he was so disenchanted that he had all the horses in his kingdom massacred. After this brutal slaughter, which lasted forty days, all the kingdom’s rivers flowed a somber red. But Exalted Allah did not refrain from meting out His justice: The king now had no cavalry whatsoever, and when faced with the army of his archenemy, the Turkmen Bey of the Blacksheep clan, he was routed and, in the end, hacked apart. Let there be no doubt: As all the histories will reveal, the nation of horses had taken its revenge.
I AM CALLED BLACK
Shekure shut herself into the room with the children, and I listened at length to the sounds within the house and to its incessant creaking. Shekure and Shevket began whispering to each other and she anxiously quieted them with an abrupt “shush!” I heard a rattling coming from the stone-paved area near the well, but it didn’t last. Later, my attention was caught by a squawking seagull that had alighted on the roof. Then it, too, fell silent along with everything else. Afterward, I heard a low moan from the other side of the hallway: Hayriye was crying in her sleep. Her moans dissolved into coughing which ended as suddenly as it had begun, giving way once again to that deep, dreadful silence. A while later, I imagined that an intruder was roaming around the room where my dead Enishte lay, and I froze completely.
During each span of silence, I examined the pictures before me, contemplating how the passionate Olive, the beautiful Butterfly and the deceased gilder had dabbed paint onto the page. I had the urge to confront each of the images by shouting “Satan!” or “Death!” as my Enishte used to do some nights, but fear restrained me. Besides, these illustrations had vexed me plenty because I couldn’t write an appropriate story to accompany them despite my Enishte’s insistence. Since I was slowly growing certain that his death was linked to these images, I felt fretful and impatient. I’d already scrutinized the illustrations endlessly while listening to Enishte’s stories, all for a chance to be near Shekure. Now that she was my lawfully wedded wife, why should I preoccupy myself with them? A merciless inner voice answered: “Because even after her children have fallen asleep, Shekure refuses to leave her bed and join you.” I waited for a long while gazing at the pictures by candlelight, hoping that my black-eyed beauty would come to me.
In the morning, stirred from my sleep by Hayriye’s shrieks, I grabbed the candle-holder and rushed into the hallway. I thought Hasan had raided the house with his men, and I considered hiding the illustrations, but quickly realized that Hayriye had begun screaming upon Shekure’s command, as a way to announce Enishte Effendi’s death to the children and neighbors.
When I met Shekure in the hall, we embraced fondly. The children, who’d leapt out of bed when they’d heard Hayriye’s shouts, stood motionless.
“Your grandfather has died,” Shekure said to them. “I don’t want you to enter that room anymore under any circumstances.”
She freed herself from my arms and, going to her father’s side, began to weep.
I herded the children back into their room. “Change out of your bedclothes, you’ll catch cold,” I said and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Grandfather didn’t die this morning. He died last night,” Shevket said.
A long loose strand of Shekure’s gorgeous hair had coiled into an Arabic script “vav” on her pillow. Her warmth hadn’t yet dissipated from beneath the quilt. We could hear her sobbing and wailing along with Hayriye. Her ability to shriek as though her father had actually died unexpectedly was so shockingly disingenuous that I felt as if I didn’t know Shekure at all, like she’d been possessed by a strange jinn.
“I’m frightened,” said Orhan with a glance that was also a request for permission to cry.
“Don’t be afraid,” I said. “Your mother is crying so the neighbors will know of your grandfather’s death and pay their respects.”
“What difference does it make if they come?” Shevket asked.
“If they come, they’ll be sad and mourn with us over his death. That way we can share the burden of our pain.”
“Did you kill my grandfather?” shouted Shevket.
“If you’re going to upset your mother, don’t expect any affection from me!” I shouted back.
We didn’t shout at each other like stepfather and stepson, but like two men talking by the banks of a loud rushing river. Shekure stepped out into the hallway and was forcing the wooden slats of the window trying to throw open the shutters so her shouts could be better heard throughout the neighborhood.
I left the room to join her. We both tried to force the window. With a final combined effort, the shutters came loose and fell into the courtyard. Sunlight and cold struck our faces and we were stunned momentarily. Shekure screamed, crying her heart out.
Enishte Effendi’s death, once announced by her cries, turned into a much more tragic and agonizing pain. Whether sincere or feigned, my wife’s crying tormented me. Unexpectedly, I began to weep. I didn’t even know if I was crying sincerely out of grief or was merely pretending for fear of being held responsible for my Enishte’s death.
“He’s gone, gone, gone, my dear father’s gone!” cried Shekure.
My sobs and laments mimicked hers, though I didn’t exactly know what I was saying. I was worried about how I looked to the neighbors staring at us from their houses, from behind cracked doors and between shutter slats, and wondered how fitting my behavior was. As I cried, I felt purged of doubts about whether my agony was genuine, of apprehensions about being accused of murder and of the fear of Hasan and his men.
Shekure was mine and it was as if I were celebrating with shouts and tears. I drew my sobbing wife close to me, and without paying any heed to the tearful children approaching us, I lovingly kissed her cheek and inhaled the scent of the almond trees of our youth.
Together with the children, we walked back to where the body lay. I said, “La ilahe illallah, there is no God but Allah” as though addressing not a reeking two-day-old corpse but a dying man whom I wanted to reaffirm the words of witness; I wanted my Enishte to go to Heaven with these words on his lips. We pretended that he’d repeated them, and smiled for a moment as we gazed at his nearly destroyed face and battered head. I opened my palms to Heaven and recited from the “Ya Sin” chapter while the others listened quietly. With a clean piece of gauze that Shekure brought into the room, we carefully bound my Enishte’s mouth shut, tenderly closed his ravaged eyes and gently rolled him over onto his right side, arranging his head so it faced Mecca. Shekure spread a clean white sheet over her father.
I was pleased that the children were watching everything so intensely and by the quiet that followed the wailing. I felt like somebody with a real wife and children, with a hearth and home.
One by one, I collected the pictures into a portfolio, donned my heavy caftan and hastily fled the house. I headed directly for the neighborhood mosque, pretending not to see one of the neighbors—an elderly woman with a snot-nosed grandchild who was clearly jubilant about all the sudden activity: They’d heard our cries and had eagerly come to enjoy our pain.
The tiny hole in the wall that the preacher called his “house” was embarrassingly small next to the ostentatious structure with its enormous domes and expansive courtyard, typical of the mosques that were being constructed lately. The preacher, in what I’d observed as a custom of increasing frequency, was extending the boundaries of his cold, little rat hole of a “home,” and had usurped the entire mosque, without the least concern over the faded and dingy wash his wife had hung between two chestnut trees at the edge of the courtyard. We avoided the attacks of two brutish dogs that had claimed the courtyard, just like the Imam Effendi and his family, and after the preacher’s sons chased the beasts away with sticks and excused themselves, the preacher and I retired to a private corner.
After yesterday’s divorce proceedings, and in light of the fact that we hadn’t asked him to perform the wedding ceremony, which I was certain had upset him, I could read a ‘For goodness sake, what brings you here now?’ upon his face.
“Enishte Effendi passed away this morning.”
“May God have mercy upon him. May he find a home in Heaven!” he said benevolently. Why had I senselessly implicated myself by tacking the words ‘this morning’ onto my statement? I dropped another gold piece into his hand, identical to the ones I’d given him yesterday. I requested that he recite the death prayer before the azan and appoint his brother as crier to go around announcing the death to the entire neighborhood.
“My brother has a dear friend who is half blind; together, we are expert at carrying out the final ablutions of the deceased,” he said.
What could be more suitable than having a blind man and a half-wit wash Enishte Effendi’s body? I explained to him that the ritual funeral prayer would be performed in the afternoon and that notables and crowds from the palace, the guilds and theological schools would be attending. I didn’t attempt to explain the state of Enishte Effendi’s face and battered head, having long decided that the matter needed to be addressed at a higher level.
Since Our Sultan had entrusted the balance of the funds for the book that He’d commissioned from my Enishte to the Head Treasurer, I had to report the death to him before anyone else. To this end, I sought out an upholsterer, a relative on my late father’s side, who’d worked in the tailors’ work stalls opposite Coldfountain Gate ever since I was a child. When I found him, I kissed his mottled hand and explained imploringly that I needed to see the Head Treasurer. He had me wait among his balding apprentices who were sewing curtains, doubled over the multicolored silk spread over their laps; then, he had me follow a head tailor’s assistant who, I learned, was going to the palace to take measurements. When we climbed up to the Parade Square through Coldfountain Gate I knew I’d be able to avoid passing the workshop opposite the Hagia Sophia; and thus, I was spared from announcing the crime to the other miniaturists.
The Parade Square seemed abustle now, whereas it usually seemed empty to me. Though there wasn’t a single person at the Petitioner’s Gate, before which petitioners would line up on days when the Divan convened, nor anyone in the vicinity of the granaries, it was as if I could hear a continuous din emanating from the windows of the sick house, from the carpenters’ workshop, the bakery, the stables, the grooms with their horses before the Second Gate (whose spires I looked upon with awe) and from among the cypresses. I attributed my sense of alarm to the fear of passing through the Gate of Salutation, or Second Gate, which I would soon be doing for the first time in my life.
At the gate, I could neither focus my attention on the spot where the executioners were said to be ever at the ready, nor could I hide my agitation from the keepers of the gate who glanced inquiringly at the bolt of upholstery cloth I carried as a prop so onlookers would assume I was assisting my tailor-cum-guide.
As soon as we entered the Divan Square, a deep silence enveloped us. I felt my heart pounding even in the veins of my forehead and neck. This area, so often described by my Enishte and others who visited the palace, lay before me like a heavenly garden of unequaled beauty. Yet, I didn’t feel the elation of 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 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.
“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 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.
“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.
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 Hazım 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, 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. Each crossing took us thousands of years, though it seemed no more than the blink of an eye.
We ascended through the seven Heavens, passing varieties of gatherings, peculiar creatures, marshes and clouds swarming with an infinite variety of insects and birds. At each level of Heaven, the angel who led the way would knock on a portal, and when the question, “Who goes there?” came from beyond, the angel would describe me including all my names and attributes, summing up by saying, “An obedient servant of Exalted Allah!”—which would bring tears of joy to my eyes. I knew, however, that there were yet thousands of years before the Day of Judgment when those destined for Heaven would be separated from those destined for Hell.
My ascension, except for a few minor differences, happened just the way Gazzali, El Jevziyye and other legendary scholars described in their passages on death. Eternal puzzles and dark enigmas that only the dead might understand were now being revealed and illuminated, bursting forth brilliantly one by one in thousands of colors.
Oh, how might I adequately describe the hues I saw during this exquisite journey? The whole world was made up of color, everything was color. Just as I sensed that the force separating me from all other beings and objects consisted of color, I now knew that it was color itself that had affectionately embraced me and bound me to the world. I saw orange-hued skies, beautiful leaf-green bodies, brown eggs and legendary sky-blue horses. The world was faithful to the illustrations and legends that I’d avidly scrutinized over the years. I beheld Creation with awe and surprise as if for the first time, but also as if it’d somehow emerged from my memory. What I called ‘memory’ contained an entire world: With time spread out infinitely before me in both directions, I understood how the world as I first experienced it could persist afterward as memory. As I died surrounded by this festival of color, I also discovered why I felt so relaxed, as if I’d been liberated from a straitjacket: From now on, nothing was restricted, and I had unlimited time and space in which to experience all eras and all places.
As soon as I realized this freedom, with fear and ecstasy I knew I was close to Him; at the same time, I humbly felt the presence of an absolutely matchless red.
Within a short period, red imbued all. The beauty of this color suffused me and the whole universe. As I approached His Being in this manner, I had the urge to cry out in jubilation. I was suddenly ashamed to be taken into His presence, drenched in blood as I was. Another part of my mind recalled what I’d read in books on death, that He would enlist Azrael and His other angels to summon me to His presence.
Would I be able to see Him? I wasn’t able to breathe out of excitement.
The red approaching me—the omnipresent red within which all the images of the universe played—was so magnificent and beautiful that it quickened my tears to think I would become part of it and be so close to Him.
But I also knew He’d come no closer to me than He already had; He’d inquired about me from His angels and they’d praised me; He saw me as a loyal servant bound to His commandments and prohibitions; and He loved me.
My mounting joy and flowing tears were abruptly poisoned by a nagging doubt. Guilt-ridden and impatient in my uncertainty, I asked Him:
“Over the last twenty years of my life, I’ve been influenced by the infidel illustrations that I saw in Venice. There was even a time when I wanted my own portrait painted in that method and style, but I was afraid. Instead, I later had Your World, Your Subjects and Our Sultan, Your Shadow on Earth, depicted in the manner of the infidel Franks.”
I didn’t remember His voice, but I recalled the answer He gave me in my thoughts.
“East and West belong to me.”
I could barely contain my excitement.
“All right then, what is the meaning of it all, of this. . .of this world?”
“Mystery,” I heard in my thoughts, or perhaps, “mercy,” but I wasn’t certain of either.
By the way the angels had come near me, I knew some sort of decision had been made about me at this height of the heavens, but I’d have to wait in the divine balance of Berzah with the mass of other souls who’d died over the last tens of thousands of years until the Day of Judgment, when the final decision about us would be made. That everything transpired the way it was recorded in books pleased me. I recalled from my readings as I descended that I’d be reunited with my body during my burial.
But I quickly understood that the phenomenon of “reentering my lifeless body” was just a figure of speech, thank goodness. Despite their sorrow, the dignified funeral congregation that filled me with pride was astonishingly organized as it shouldered my coffin after the prayers and descended into the little Hillock Cemetery beside the mosque. From above, the procession appeared like a thin and delicate length of string.
Let me clarify my situation: As might be inferred from the well-known legend of Our Prophet—which states “The soul of the faithful is a bird that feeds from the trees of Heaven”—after death, the soul roams the firmament. As claimed by Abu Ömer bin Abdülber, the interpretation of this legend doesn’t mean that the soul will possess a bird or even become a bird itself, but as the learned El Jevziyye aptly clarifies, it means that the soul can be found where birds gather. The spot from which I was observing things, what the Venetian masters who love perspective would call my ‘point of view,’ confirmed El Jevziyye’s interpretation.
From where I was, for example, I could both see the threadlike funeral procession entering the cemetery, and with the pleasure of analyzing a painting, watch a sailboat gaining speed, its sails gorging on wind as it tacked toward Palace Point, where the Golden Horn met the Bosphorus. Looking down from the height of a minaret, the whole world resembled a magnificent book whose pages I was examining one by one.
Still, I could see much more than a man who’d simply ascended to such heights without his soul having left his body, and furthermore, I could see it all at once: On the other side of the Bosphorus, beyond Üsküdar, among gravestones in an empty yard, children playing leapfrog; the graceful progression of the Vizier of Diplomatic Affair’s caïque propelled by seven pairs of oarsmen twelve years and seven months ago, when we accompanied the Venetian ambassador from his seaside mansion to be received by the Grand Vizier, Bald Ragip Pasha; a portly woman in the new Langa bazaar holding a huge head of cabbage like a child she was about to nurse; my elation when the Divan Herald Ramazan Effendi died, opening the way for my own advancement; how I stared as a child from my grandmother’s lap at red shirts while my mother hung the laundry to dry in the courtyard; how I ran to distant neighborhoods in search of the midwife when Shekure’s mother, may she rest in peace, had gone into labor; the location of the red belt I’d lost over forty years ago (I know now that Vasfi stole it); the splendid garden in the distance that I’d dreamed about once twenty-one years ago, which I pray Allah will one day confirm is Heaven; the severed heads, noses, and ears sent to Istanbul by Ali Bey, the Governor-General of Georgia, who suppressed the rebels in the fortress of Gori; and my beautiful, dear Shekure, who separated herself from the neighborhood women mourning over me in the house and stared into the flames of the brick stove in our courtyard.
As is recorded in books and confirmed by scholars, the soul dwells in four realms: 1. the womb; 2. the terrestrial world; 3. Berzah, or divine limbo, where I now await Judgment Day; and 4. Heaven or Hell, where I will arrive after the Judgment.
From the intermediate state of Berzah, past and present time appear at once, and as long as the soul remains within its memories, limitations of place do not obtain. Only when one escapes the dungeons of time and space does it becomes evident that life is a straitjacket. However blissful it is being a soul without a body in the realm of the dead, so too is being a body without a soul among the living; what a pity nobody realizes this before dying. Therefore, during my lovely funeral, as I grievously watched my dear Shekure wear herself out weeping in vain, I begged of Exalted Allah to grant us souls-without-bodies in Heaven and bodies-without-souls in life.
IT IS I, MASTER OSMAN
You know about those ornery old men who’ve charitably devoted their lives to art. They’ll attack anyone who gets in their way. They’re usually gaunt, bony and tall. They’ll want the dwindling number of days before them to be just like the long period they’ve left behind. They’re short-tempered, and they complain about everything. They’ll try to grab the reins in all situations, causing everyone around them to throw up their hands in frustration; they don’t like anyone or anything. I know, because I’m one of them.
The master of masters Nurullah Selim Chelebi, with whom I had the honor of making illustrations knee to knee in the same workshop, was this way in his eighties, when I was but a sixteen-year-old apprentice (though he wasn’t as peevish as I am now). Blond Ali, the last of the great masters, laid to rest thirty years ago, was also this way (though he wasn’t as thin and tall as I am). Since the arrows of criticism aimed at these legendary masters, who directed the workshops of their day now frequently strike me in the back, I want you to know that the hackneyed accusations leveled at us are entirely unfounded. These are the facts:
1. The reason we don’t like anything innovative is that there is truly nothing new worth liking.
2. We treat most men like morons because, indeed, most men are morons, not because we’re poisoned by anger, unhappiness or some other flaw in character. (Granted, treating these people better would be more refined and sensible.)
3. The reason I forget and confuse so many names and faces—except those of the miniaturists I’ve loved and trained since their apprenticeships—is not senility, but because these names and faces are so lackluster and colorless as to be hardly worth remembering.
During the funeral of Enishte, whose soul was prematurely taken by God because of his own foolishness, I tried to forget that the deceased had at one time caused me unmentionable agony by forcing me to imitate the European masters. On the way back, I had the following thoughts: blindness and death, those gifts bestowed by God, are not so far from me now. Of course, I will be remembered only so long as my illustrations and manuscripts cause your eyes to prance and flowers of bliss to bloom in your hearts. But after my death let it be known that in my old age, at the very end of my life, there was still plenty that made me smile. For instance:
1. Children—They represent what is vital in the world.
2. Sweet memories of handsome boys, beautiful women, painting well and friendships.
3. Seeing the masterpieces of the old masters of Herat—this cannot be explained to the uninitiated.
The simple meaning of all of this: In Our Sultan’s workshop, which I direct, magnificent works of art can no longer be made as they once were—and the situation will only get worse, everything will dwindle and disappear. I am painfully aware that we quite rarely reach the sublime level of the old masters of Herat, despite having lovingly sacrificed our entire lives to this work. Humbly accepting this truth makes life easier. Indeed, it is precisely because it makes life easier that modesty is such a highly prized virtue in our part of the world.
With an air of such modesty I was touching up an illustration in the Book of Festivities, which described the circumcision ceremonies of our prince, wherein was depicted the Egyptian Governor-General’s presentation of the following gifts: a gold-chased sword decorated with rubies, emeralds, and turquoise on a swatch of red velvet and one of the Governor-General’s proud, lightning fast and spirited Arabian horses with a white blaze on its nose and a silvery, gleaming coat, fully appointed with a gold bit and reins, stirrups of pearl and greenish-yellow chrysoberyl, and a red velvet saddle embellished with silver thread and ruby rosettes. With a flick of my brush, here and there, I was touching up the illustration, whose composition I had arranged while delegating the rendering of the horse, the sword, the prince and the spectator-ambassadors to various apprentices. I applied purple to some of the leaves of the plane tree in the Hippodrome. I dabbed yellow upon the caftan-buttons of the Tatar Khan’s ambassador. As I was brushing a sparse amount of gold wash onto the horse’s reins, somebody knocked at the door. I quit what I was doing.
It was an imperial pageboy. The Head Treasurer had summoned me to the palace. My eyes ached ever so mildly. I placed my magnifying lens in my pocket, and left with the boy.
Oh, how nice it is to walk through the streets after having worked without a break for so long! At such times, the whole world strikes one as original and stunning, as if Allah had created it all the day before.
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 caïque 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.
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 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 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 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 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 innocent.”
“During the interrogation, torture him,” I said. “That way we’ll learn what other secrets our late Enishte was harboring.”
“We’ve sent for him,” said the Commander of the Imperial Guard. “Afterward, we’ll thoroughly search the house of that newlywed.”
Both their faces were strangely illuminated, a flicker of fear and awe overcame them, and they snapped to their feet.
Without having to turn around I knew we were in the presence of His Excellency, Our Sultan, the Refuge of the World.
I AM ESTHER
Oh, how wonderful it is to cry along with the rest of them! While the men were at the funeral of my dear Shekure’s father, the women, kith and kin, spouses and friends, gathered in the house and shed their tears, and I, too, beat my chest in mourning and wept with them. Now wailing in unison with the pretty maiden beside me, leaning on her and swaying back and forth; now crying in a completely different frame of mind, I was deeply touched by my own woes and pitiful life. If I could cry like this just once a week, I thought, I might forget how I had to roam the streets all day just to make ends meet, forget being mocked for my weight and my Jewishness and be reborn an even more chattermouth Esther.
I like social gatherings because I can eat to my heart’s content, and, at the same time, forget that I’m the black sheep of the crowd. I love the baklava, mint candy, marzipan bread and fruit leather of holidays; the pilaf with meat and the tea-cup pastries of circumcision ceremonies; drinking sour-cherry sherbet at celebrations held by the Sultan in the Hippodrome; eating everything at weddings; and tossing down the sesame, honey or variously flavored condolence halvas sent by the neighbors at wakes.
I quietly slipped into the hallway, put on my shoes and went downstairs. Before I turned into the kitchen, I grew curious about an odd noise coming through the half-open door of the room next to the stable. I took a few steps in that direction and glanced inside to discover that Shevket and Orhan had tied up the son of one of the women mourners and were in the midst of painting his face with their late grandfather’s paints and brushes. “If you try to escape, we’ll hit you like this,” Shevket said and slapped the boy.
“My dear child, play nice and gentle now, don’t hurt each other, all right?” I said in a voice as velvety as I could muster.
“Mind your own affairs!” Shevket shouted.
I noticed the small, frightened, blond-haired sister of the boy they were tormenting standing beside them, and for whatever reason, I felt for her completely. Forget about it, now, Esther!
In the kitchen, Hayriye peered at me suspiciously.
“I’ve cried myself dry, Hayriye,” I said. “For God’s sake, pour me a glass of water.”
She did so, silently. Before I drank it, I stared into her eyes, swollen from weeping.
“Poor Enishte Effendi, they say he was already dead before Shekure’s wedding,” I commented. “People’s mouths aren’t like bags that can be cinched up, some even claim there was foul play involved.”
In an exaggerated gesture, she looked down at her toes. Then she lifted her head and without looking at me said, “May God protect us from baseless slander.”
Her first gesture confirmed what I’d said, and moreover the cadence of her words conveyed that they were spoken under duress—to hide the truth.
“What’s going on?” I asked abruptly, whispering as if I were her confidant.
Indecisive Hayriye had of course understood that there was no hope of claiming any authority over Shekure after Enishte Effendi’s death. And a short while ago, she was the one mourning with the most heartfelt tears.
“What’s to become of me, now?” she said.
“Shekure holds you in high regard,” I said in my habit of giving news. Lifting up the lids of the pots of halva lined up between the large clay jar of grape molasses and the pickle jar, sneaking a fingerful from one or simply leaning over to smell another, I asked who’d sent each of them.
Hayriye was rattling off who’d sent which pot: “This one’s from Kasım Effendi of Kayseri; this one, the assistant from the miniaturists division who lives two streets over; that’s from the locksmith, Left-Handed Hamdi; that one, the young bride from Edirne—” when Shekure interrupted her.
“Kalbiye, the late Elegant Effendi’s widow, didn’t come to offer her condolences, didn’t send word and didn’t send any halva either!”
She was heading from the kitchen door to the foot of the stairs. I followed her, knowing that she wanted to have a word with me in private.
“There was no ill-will between Elegant Effendi and my father. On the day of Elegant’s funeral, we prepared our halva and sent it to them. I want to know what’s going on,” Shekure said.
“I’ll go right away and find out,” I said, anticipating Shekure’s thoughts.
Since I kept our chat brief, she kissed me on the cheek. As the cold of the courtyard bit into us, we embraced and stood there without moving. Afterward, I stroked my beautiful Shekure’s hair.
“Esther, I’m afraid,” she said.
“My dear, don’t be afraid,” I said. “Every cloud has a silver lining. Look, you’re finally married.”
“But I’m not sure I did the right thing,” she said. “That’s why I haven’t let him get near me. I spent the night beside my unfortunate father.”
She opened her eyes wide and looked at me in a way that said, You understand what I mean.
“Hasan claims that your wedding is null in the eyes of the judge,” I said. “He sent this to you.”
Though she said, “No more,” she immediately opened the small note and read, but this time she didn’t tell me what it contained.
She was right to be discreet; we weren’t alone in the courtyard where we’d stood embracing: Above us, a smirking carpenter, reattaching the shutter of the hall window, which fell and broke for some unknown reason that morning, was also eyeing both us and the women mourning inside. Meanwhile, Hayriye came out of the house and rushed to open the door for the son of a loyal neighbor who’d called out, “the halva’s here,” as he knocked on the courtyard gate.
“It’s been quite some time since we buried him,” said Shekure. “I can now sense that my poor father’s soul is leaving his body for good and rising into the heavens.”
She removed herself from my arms, and gazing up at the bright sky, recited a long prayer.
I suddenly felt so distant and estranged from Shekure that it wouldn’t have surprised me if I were the cloud she was gazing at. As soon as she finished her prayer, pretty Shekure kissed me affectionately on both cheeks.
“Esther,” she said, “so long as my father’s murderer roams free, there’ll be no peace in this world for me or my children.”
It pleased me that she didn’t mention her new husband’s name.
“Go to Elegant Effendi’s house, talk casually to his widow and learn why they didn’t send us any halva. Let me know immediately what you find out.”
“Do you have any messages for Hasan?” I said.
I felt embarrassed, not because I’d asked this question, but because I couldn’t look her in the eye as I did so. To cover up my embarrassment, I stopped Hayriye and opened the lid of the pot she was holding. “Ohh,” I said, “semolina halva with pistachios,” as I had a taste. “And they’ve added oranges, too.”
It made me happy to see Shekure smile sweetly as if everything were happening as planned.
I grabbed my bundle and left. I’d taken no more than two steps when I saw Black at the end of the street. He’d just come from the burial of his father-in-law, and I could tell from his beaming face that this new husband was quite pleased with his life. In order not to dampen his spirits, I left the street, entered the vegetable rows and passed through the garden of the house where the brother of the lover of the famous Jewish doctor Moshe Hamon had lived before he was hanged. This garden, which recalled death, always brought such great sadness upon me when I walked through it that I invariably forgot I’d been charged to find a buyer for the property.
The air of death was also in Elegant Effendi’s house, though for me it provoked no sadness. I was Esther, a woman who went in and out of thousands of homes and was acquainted with hundreds of widows; I knew that women who lost their husbands early were spellbound either by defeat and misery or anger and rebellion (although Shekure had suffered all these afflictions). Kalbiye had partaken of the poison of anger and I fast realized that this would serve to hasten my work.
As with all conceited women to whom life has been cruel, Kalbiye quite rightly suspected that all her visitors came to pity her in her darkest hour, or even worse, to witness her agony and secretly rejoice in their own better situations; thus, she engaged in no pleasantries with her guests, but went straight to the heart of the matter forgoing any flowery small talk. Why had Esther come this afternoon, just as Kalbiye was about to take a consoling nap with her grief? Well aware she’d take no interest in the latest silks from China or handkerchiefs from Bursa, I didn’t even pretend to open my bundle, but came right to the point and described teary-eyed Shekure’s concern. “It has heightened Shekure’s misery to think that she has somehow hurt your feelings, with whom she shares the same sorrow,” I said.
Arrogantly, Kalbiye confirmed that she hadn’t asked after Shekure’s well-being, hadn’t visited to express her condolences or mourn with her, nor could she bring herself to prepare and send any halva. Behind her pride, there also lurked a glee that she couldn’t conceal: The delight that her resentment had been recognized. It was from this point of entry that your sharp-witted Esther attempted to discover the reasons for and circumstances of Kalbiye’s anger.
It didn’t take long for Kalbiye to admit that she’d been upset with the late Enishte Effendi due to the illustrated manuscript he was preparing. She said her husband, may he rest in peace, hadn’t agreed to work on the book for the sake of a handful of extra silver coins, but because Enishte Effendi convinced him the project was authorized by the Sultan. However, when her late husband became aware that the illuminations Enishte Effendi hired him to gild were slowly evolving from simple ornamented pages into full-blown illustrations, pictures moreover that bore the marks of Frankish blasphemy, atheism and even heresy, he grew uneasy and began to lose sight of right and wrong. Being a much more reasonable and prudent person than Elegant Effendi, she cautiously added that all these doubts arose gradually rather than at once, and since poor Elegant Effendi never found anything that would be considered blatant sacrilege, he was able to dismiss his worries as unfounded. Besides, he comforted himself by never missing a sermon given by Nusret Hoja of Erzurum, and if he skipped one of his five daily prayers it unsettled him. Just as he knew that certain scoundrels at the workshop ridiculed his complete devotion to the faith, so he understood very well that their brazen jokes arose out of envy of his talent and artistry.
A large, glimmering tear slid from Kalbiye’s gleaming eye down her cheek, and at the first opportunity, your good-hearted Esther decided to find Kalbiye a better husband than the one she’d recently lost.
“My late husband didn’t often share these concerns of his with me,” Kalbiye said cautiously. “Based on whatever I could remember and piece together I’ve concluded that everything happened on account of the illustrations that took him to Enishte Effendi’s house on his very last night.”
This was some manner of apology. In response, I reminded her how her fate and Shekure’s, not to mention their enemies, were the same if one considered that Enishte Effendi had perhaps been killed by the same “scoundrel.” The two large-headed fatherless waifs staring at me from the corner suggested another similarity between the two women. But my merciless matchmaker’s logic quickly reminded me that Shekure’s situation was much more beautiful, rich and mysterious. I let Kalbiye know exactly what I felt:
“Shekure told me to tell you that if she has wronged you, she’s sorry,” I said. “She wants to say that she loves you as a sister and as a woman who shares her fate. She wants you to think about this and help her. When the late Elegant Effendi left here on his last night, did he mention he’d be seeing anyone besides Enishte Effendi? Did you ever consider that he might’ve been going to meet somebody else?”
“This was found on his person,” she said.
She removed a folded piece of paper from a lidded wicker box, which contained embroidery needles, pieces of cloth and a large walnut.
When I took up the crumpled piece of rough paper and examined it, I saw a variety of shapes drawn in ink that had run and smudged in the well water. I’d just determined what the forms were when Kalbiye voiced my thoughts.
“Horses,” she said. “But late Elegant Effendi only did gilding work. He never drew horses. And no one would’ve ever asked him to render a horse.”
Your elderly Esther was looking at the horses which had been quickly sketched, but she couldn’t quite make anything of them.
“If I were to take this piece of paper to Shekure, she’d be quite pleased,” I said.
“If Shekure desires to see these sketches, let her come get them herself,” said Kalbiye with no small hint of conceit.
I AM CALLED BLACK
Maybe you’ve understood by now that for men like myself, that is, melancholy men for whom love, agony, happiness and misery are just excuses for maintaining eternal loneliness, life offers neither great joy nor great sadness. I’m not saying we can’t relate to other souls overwhelmed by these feelings, on the contrary, we sympathize with them. What we cannot fathom is the odd disquiet our souls sink into at such times. This silent turmoil dims our intellects and dampens our hearts, usurping the place reserved for the true joy and sadness we ought to experience.
I had buried her father, thank God, hurried home from the funeral, and in a gesture of condolence, embraced my wife, Shekure; then suddenly, in a fit of tears she collapsed onto a large cushion with her children, who were glaring at me with spite, and I didn’t know what to do. Her misery coincided with my victory. In one fell swoop, I had wed the dream of my youth, freed myself from her father who belittled me, and become master of the house. Who would ever believe the sincerity of my tears? But believe me, it wasn’t like that. I truly wanted to grieve, but couldn’t: Enishte had always been more of a father to me than my real father. But since the meddlesome preacher who’d performed Enishte’s final ablution never stopped babbling, the rumor that my Enishte died under mysterious circumstances spread among the neighbors during the funeral—as I could sense standing in the courtyard of the mosque. I didn’t want my inability to cry to be interpreted negatively; I don’t have to tell you how real the fear of being branded ‘stonehearted’ is.
You know how some sympathetic aunt will always attest that “he’s crying on the inside” to prevent someone like me from being banished from the group. I did in fact cry on the inside as I tried to hide in a corner from the busybody neighbors and distant relatives with their astonishing abilities to summon a downpour of tears; I thought about being the master of the house and whether I should somehow take charge of the situation, but just then there came a knock at the door. A moment of panic. Was it Hasan? Regardless, I wanted to save myself from this hell of whimpering at whatever cost.
It was a royal page, summoning me to the palace. I was stunned.
As I exited the courtyard, I found a mud-covered silver coin on the ground. Was I afraid to go to the palace? Yes, but I was also happy to be outside in the cold among the horses, dogs, trees and people. I thought I’d befriend the pageboy like those hopeless daydreamers who, believing they might sweeten the world’s cruelty before facing the executioner, attempt a lighthearted conversation with the dungeon guard about this and that, the beauties of life, the ducks afloat on the pond, or the strangeness of a cloud in the sky; but alas he disappointed me, proving a rather morose, pimply, tight-lipped youth. As I passed the Hagia Sophia, noticing with awe the slender cypresses delicately stretching into the hazy sky, it wasn’t the horror of dying right after marrying Shekure after all these years that made my hair stand on end. It was the injustice of dying at the hands of the palace torturers without having shared one good session of lovemaking with her.
We didn’t walk toward the terrifying spires of the Middle Gate, beyond which the torturers and the quick-handed executioners saw to their work, but toward the carpentry shops. As we headed between the granaries, a cat cleaning itself in the mud between the legs of a chestnut horse with steaming nostrils turned but didn’t look at us: The cat was preoccupied with its own filth, much as we were.
Behind the granaries, two figures, whose rank and affiliation I couldn’t determine from their green and purple uniforms, relieved the pageboy, and locked me into the dark room of a small house, which I could tell was new by the smell of fresh lumber. I knew locking a man up in a dark room was meant to arouse fear before torture; hoping they’d begin with the bastinado, I thought about the lies I could tell to save my hide. A crowd in the adjoining room seemed to be raising quite a ruckus.
There are most certainly those of you who can’t attribute my mocking and mirthful tone to that of a man on the verge of torture. But haven’t I mentioned I consider myself one of God’s luckier servants? And if the birds of fortune that alighted upon my head these last two days after years of deprivation aren’t proof enough, surely the silver coin I found outside the courtyard gate must be some indication.
Awaiting my torture, I was comforted by the silver coin and had complete faith it would protect me; I palmed it, rubbed it and repeatedly kissed this token of good fortune that Allah had sent me. But at whatever time they removed me from the darkness and brought me into the next room where I saw the Commander of the Imperial Guard and his bald-headed Croatian torturers, I knew the silver coin was worthless. The pitiless voice within me was absolutely correct: The coin in my pocket hadn’t come from God, but was one of those that I’d showered Shekure with two days ago—that the children overlooked. Hence, in the hands of my torturers, I had nothing in which to take refuge.
I didn’t even notice that tears began to fall from my eyes. I wanted to beg, but as in a dream, no sound issued from my mouth. I knew from wars, deaths and political assassination and torture (which I’d witnessed from afar) that life could be extinguished instantaneously, but I’d never experienced it this closely. They were going to strip me from this world just as they’d stripped off my garments.
They took off my vest and shirt. One of the executioners sat on me, driving his knees into my shoulders. Another placed a cage over my head with all the practiced elegance of a woman preparing food and began slowly turning the screw at its front. Nay, it wasn’t a cage, but rather a vise that gradually squeezed my head.
I screamed at the top of my lungs. I begged, but incoherently. I cried, mostly because my nerves had given out.
They stopped momentarily and asked: “Were you the one who killed Enishte Effendi?”
I took a deep breath: “Nay.”
They began to tighten the vise again. It was excruciating.
They asked again.
“Nay.”
“Who then?”
“I don’t know!”
I wondered if I should just tell them I’d killed him. The world spun pleasantly about my head. I was overcome with reluctance. I asked myself if I were growing accustomed to the pain. My executioners and I stayed still for a moment. I felt no pain, I was simply terrified.
Just as I decided from the silver coin in my pocket that they weren’t going to kill me, they suddenly released me. They removed the viselike contraption that had actually done little damage to my head. The executioner who’d pinned me down stood up without even a hint of apology. I donned my shirt and vest.
There passed a very long silence.
At the other end of the room, I saw Head Illuminator Osman Effendi. I went to him and kissed his hand.
“Don’t be concerned, my child,” he said to me. “They were just testing you.”
I knew at once that I’d found a new father to replace Enishte, may he rest in peace.
“Our Sultan has ordered that you not be tortured at this time,” said the Commander. “He deemed it appropriate for you to help Head Illuminator Master Osman find the rogue who’s been killing His miniaturists and the loyal servants preparing His manuscripts. You have three days in which to interrogate the miniaturists, scrutinize the illuminated pages they’ve made and find the sly culprit. The Sovereign is quite appalled by the rumors being spread by mischief makers about His miniaturists and illuminated manuscripts. Both the Head Treasurer Hazım Agha and I will help you find this scoundrel, as the Sultan has decreed. One of you has been very close to Enishte Effendi, and has thus heard his recitations and knows about the miniaturists who visited him at night and the story behind the book. The other is a great master who takes pride in knowing all the miniaturists of the workshop like the back of his hand. Within three days, if you fail to produce that swine along with the missing page he stole—about which much gossip is flying—it is Our Just Sultan’s express desire that you, my child Black Effendi, be the first to undergo torture and interrogation. Afterward, let there be no doubt, each of the other master miniaturists will have his turn.”
I could detect no secret gestures or signs between these two old friends, who’d worked together for years: Head Treasurer Hazım Agha, who commissioned the work, and Head Illuminator Master Osman Effendi, who received the funds and materials through him from the treasury.
“Everyone knows, whenever a crime is committed within Our Sultan’s wards, regiments and divisions, that the entire group is considered guilty until one among them is identified and turned in. A section that fails to name the murderer in its midst goes down in the judicial records as a ‘division of murderers,’ including its officer or master, and is punished accordingly,” said the Commander. “Therefore, our Head Illuminator Master Osman will keep a sharp watch, scrutinize each of the illustrations with his penetrating gaze, uncover the devilry, ruse, mischief and instigation that has set the innocent miniaturists at each other’s throats, and remand the guilty party to the unwavering justice of the Refuge of the World, Our Sultan, thereby clearing the good name of his guild. To this end, we’ve ordered that whatsoever Master Osman may require be granted to him. My men are at this moment confiscating each of the manuscript pages that the master miniaturists have been illuminating in the privacy of their homes.”
