“You get back inside。 To the funeral。”
I passed through snow…covered streets； between poor rotting houses leaning
this way and that way； barely able to stand； and through fire…ravaged
neighborhoods。 I walked for a long time； taking the cautious steps of an aging
man trying not to slip and fall on the ice。 I passed through out…of…the…way
neighborhoods and gardens and fields。 I walked by shops that dealt in
carriages and wheels and passed iron smiths； saddlers； harness makers and
farriers on my way toward the walls of the city。
I’m not sure why they decided to start the funeral procession all the way at
the Mihrimah Mosque near the city’s Edirne Gate。 At the mosque； I embraced
the big…headed and bewildered brothers of the deceased； who looked angry
and obstinate。 We miniaturists and calligraphers embraced each other and
wept。 As I was performing my prayers within a leaden fog that had suddenly
descended and swallowed everything； my gaze fell on the coffin resting atop
the mosque’s stone funeral block； and I felt such anger toward the miscreant
who’d mitted this crime； believe me； even the Allahümme Barik prayer
became muddled in my mind。
After the prayers； while the congregation shouldered the coffin； I was still
among all the miniaturists and calligraphers。 Stork and I had forgotten that on
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some nights； when we sat in the dim light of oil lamps working until morning
on my book； he’d tried to convince me of the inferiority of Elegant Effendi’s
gilding work and of the lack of balance in his use of colors—he colored
everything navy blue so it would look richer！ We’d both forgotten that I’d
actually given him credence； by allowing “But no one else is qualified to do
this work；” and we embraced each other anyway； sobbing once more。 Later；
Olive gave me a friendly and respectful look before hugging me—a man who
knows how to embrace is a good man—and these gestures so pleased me that
I was reminded how of all the workshop artists； he was the one who most
believed in my book。
On the stairs of the courtyard gate I found myself beside Head Illuminator
Master Osman。 We were both at a loss for words； a strange and tense
moment。 One of the deceased’s brothers began to cry and sob； and someone
pompously shouted； “God is great。”
“To which cemetery？” Master Osman asked me for the sake of asking
something。
To respond “I don’t know” seemed hostile for some reason。 Flustered； and
without thinking； I asked the same question of the man standing next to me
on the stairs； “To which cemetery？ The one by the Edirne Gate？”
“Eyüp；” said an ill…tempered； bearded and young dolt。
“Eyüp；” I said turning to the master； but he’d heard what the ill…tempered
dolt had said anyway。 Then； he looked at me as if to say； “I understand” in a
way that let me know he didn’t want our encounter to last a moment longer
than it already had。
Without mentioning my influence on Our Sultan’s growing interest in
Frankish styles of painting； Master Osman was of course annoyed that Our
Sultan had ordered me to oversee the writing out； embellishment and
illustration of the illuminated manuscript； which I’ve described as “secret。” On
one occasion； the Sultan forced the great Master Osman to copy a portrait of
His Highness； which had been missioned from a Veian。 I know Master
Osman holds me responsible for having to imitate that painter； for having to
make that strange painting； which he did with disgust； referring to the
experience as “torture。” His wrath was justified。
Standing in the middle of the staircase for a while； I looked at the sky。
When I was convinced that I’d been left quite behind； I continued down the
icy stairs。 I’d barely descended—ever so slowly—two steps when a man took
me by the arm and embraced me： Black。
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“The air is freezing；” he said。 “You must be cold。”
I hadn’t the slightest doubt that this was the one who’d muddled
Shekure’s mind。 The self…confidence with which he took my arm was proof
enough。 There was something in his demeanor that announced； “I’ve worked
for twelve years and have truly grown up。” When we came to the bottom of
the stairs； I told him that I’d expect an account later of what he’d learned at
the workshop。
“You go ahead； my child；” I said。 “Go ahead and catch up to the
congregation。”
He was taken aback； but didn’t let on。 The way he let go of my arm with
reservation and walked ahead of me pleased me； even。 If I gave Shekure to him；
would he agree to live in the same house with us？
We’d left the city through the Edirne Gate。 I saw the coffin on the verge of
disappearing into the fog along with the crowd of illustrators； calligraphers
and apprentices shouldering it as they quickly descended the hill toward the
Golden Horn。 They were walking so fast； they’d already traveled half of the
muddy road that led down the snow…covered valley to Eyüp。 In the silent fog；
off to the left； the chimney of the Han？m Sultan Charity candleworks shop
happily piped up its smoke。 Under the shadow of the walls； there were
tanneries and the bustling slaughterhouses that served the Greek butchers of
Eyüp。 The smell of offal ing from these places had wafted over the valley；
which extended to the vaguely discernible domes of the Eyüp Mosque and its
cypress…lined cemetery。 After walking for a while longer； I heard from below
the shouts of children at play ing from the new Jewish quarter in Balat。
When we reached the plain where Eyüp was located； Butterfly approached
me； and in his usual fiery manner； abruptly broached his subject：
“Olive and Stork are the ones behind this vulgarity；” he said。 “Like everyone
else； they knew I had a bad relationship with the deceased。 They knew
everyone was aware of this。 There was jealousy between us； even open
animosity and antagonism； over who would assume leadership of the
workshop after Master Osman。 Now they expect the guilt to fall on my
shoulders； or at the least； that the Head Treasurer； and under his influence；
Our Sultan； will distance themselves from me； nay； from us。”
“Who is this ”us’ of which you speak？“
“Those of us who believe that the old morality ought to persist at the
workshop； that we should follow the path laid by the Persian masters； that an
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artist shouldn’t illustrate just any scene for money alone。 In place of weapons；
armies； slaves and conquests； we believe that the old myths； legends and
stories ought to be introduced anew into our books。 We shouldn’t forgo the
old models。 Genuine miniaturists shouldn’t loiter at the shops in the bazaar
and paint any old thing； depictions of indecency； for a few extra kurush from
anybody who happens by。 His Excellency Our Sultan would find us justified。”
“You’re incriminating yourself senselessly；” I said so he might be done with
his ranting。 “I’m convinced that the atelier could not harbor anybody capable
of mitting such a crime。 You’re all brethren。 There’s no great harm in
illustrating a few subjects that haven’t been depicted previously； at least no
harm so great as to be an occasion for enmity。”
As happened when I first heard the horrid news； I had an epiphany of sorts。
Elegant Effendi’s murderer was one of the premier masters in the palace
workshop and he was a member of the crowd before me； climbing the hill that
led to the cemetery。 I was also convinced that the murderer would continue
with his devilry and sedition； that he was an enemy of the book I was making；
and most probably； that he’d visited my house to pick up some work
illustrating and painting。 Had Butterfly； too； like most of the artists who
frequented my house； fallen in love with Shekure？ As he made his assertions；
had he forgotten the times when I’d requested that he paint pictures that were
contrary to his point of view； or was he just needling me with expert skill？
Nay； I thought a little while later； he couldn’t be needling me。 Butterfly； like
the other master illustrators； obviously owed me a debt of gratitude： With
money and gifts to miniaturists dwindling； due to the wars and lack of
interest on the part of Our Sultan； the sole significant source of extra ine
had for some time been what they earned working for me。 I knew they were
jealous of one another over my attentions； and for this reason—but not only
for this reason—I met with them individually at my house； hardly a basis for
hostility toward me。 All of my miniaturists were mature enough to behave
intelligently； to sincerely find a reason to admire a man to whom they were
obliged for their own profit。
To relieve the silence and ensure that the previous topic of conversation
wouldn’t be revisited； I said； “Oh； will His wonders never cease！ They’re able
to take the coffin up that hill as fast as they brought it down。”
Butterfly smiled sweetly showing all his teeth： “Due to the cold。”
Could this one actually kill a man； I wondered； for example； out of envy？
Might he kill me？ He had the following excuse： This man was debasing my
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religion。 Nay； but he’s a great master； a perfect embodiment of talent； why
should he resort to murder？ Age means not only straining oneself climbing
hills； but also； I gather； not being so afraid of death。 It means a lack of desire；
entering into a slave girl’s bedchamber； not in a fit of excitement； but out of
custom。 In a burst of intuition； I told him to his face the decision I’d made：
“I’m not continuing with the book any longer。”
“What？” said Butterfly as his expression changed。
“There’s some kind of ill…fortune in it。 Our Sultan has cut off the funding。
You’re to tell Olive and Stork； as well。”
Perhaps he would have inquired further； but we found ourselves on the
slopes of the graveyard amid tightly spaced towering cypresses； high ferns and
tombstones。 As the great crowd encircled the grave site； my only clue that the
body was at that very moment being lowered into the grave was the increasing
intensity of the weeping and sobbing and the exclamations of bismillahi and
ala milleti Resulullah。
“Uncover his face pletely；” someone said。
They were removing the white shroud； and they must’ve been eye to eye
with the corpse if indeed there was an eye remaining in that smashed head。 I
was in the back and I couldn’t see anything。 I’d once gazed into the eyes of
Death； not at a grave site； in an entirely different place…
A memory： Thirty years ago； Our Sultan’s grandfather； Denizen of Paradise；
decided once and for all to take