painted as a symbol； a memento of their lives and a sign of their riches； power
and influence—so they might always be there； standing before us； announcing
their existence； nay； their individuality and distinction。”
His words were belittling； as if he were speaking out of jealousy； ambition
or greed。 Though； at times； as he talked about the portraits he’d seen in
Venice； his face would abruptly light up like a child’s； invigorated。
Portraiture had bee such a contagion among affluent men； princes and
great families who were patrons of art that even when they missioned
frescoes of biblical scenes and religious legends for church walls； these infidels
would insist that their own images appear somewhere in the work。 For
instance； in a painting of the burial of St。 Stephan； you’d suddenly see； ah yes；
present among the tearful graveside mourners； the very prince who was giving
you the tour—in a state of pure enthusiasm； exhilaration and conceit—of the
paintings hanging on his palazzo walls。 Next； in the corner of a fresco
depicting St。 Peter curing the sick with his shadow； you’d realize with an odd
sense of disillusionment that the unfortunate one writhing there in pain was；
in fact； the strong…as…an…ox brother of your polite host。 The following day； this
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time in a piece depicting the Resurrection of the Dead； you’d discover the
guest who’d stuffed himself beside you at lunch。
“Some have gone so far； just to be included in a painting；” said my Enishte；
fearfully as though he were talking about the temptations of Satan； “that
they’re willing to be portrayed as a servant filling goblets in the crowd； or a
merciless man stoning an adulteress； or a murderer； his hands drenched in
blood。”
Pretending not to understand； I said； “Exactly the way we see Shah Ismail
ascending the throne in those illustrated books that recount ancient Persian
legends。 Or when we e across a depiction of Tamerlane； who actually ruled
long afterward； in the story of Hüsrev and Shirin。”
Was there a noise somewhere in the house？
“It’s as if the Veian paintings were made to frighten us；” said my Enishte
later。 “And it isn’t enough that we be in awe of the authority and money of
these men who mission the works； they also want us to know that simply
existing in this world is a very special； very mysterious event。 They’re
attempting to terrify us with their unique faces； eyes； bearing and with their
clothing whose every fold is defined by shadow。 They’re attempting to terrify
us by being creatures of mystery。”
He explained how once he’d gotten lost in the exquisite portrait gallery of a
lunatic collector whose opulent estate was perched on the shores of Lake
o； the proprietor had collected the portraits of all the great personages in
Frankish history from kings to cardinals； and from soldiers to poets： “When
my hospitable host left me alone to roam as I wished throughout his palazzo；
which he’d proudly given me a tour of； I saw that these supposedly important
infidels—most of whom appeared to be real and some of whom looked me
straight in the eye—had attained their importance in this world solely on
account of having their portraits made。 Their likenesses had imbued them with
such magic； had so distinguished them； that for a moment among the
paintings I felt flawed and impotent。 Had I been depicted in this fashion； it
seemed； I’d better understand why I existed in this world。”
He was frightened because he suddenly understood—and perhaps
desired—that Islamic artistry； perfected and securely established by the old
masters of Herat； would meet its end on account of the appeal of portraiture。
“However； it was as if I too wanted to feel extraordinary； different and
unique；” he said。 As if prodded by the Devil； he felt himself strongly drawn to
what he feared。 “How should I say it？ It’s as if this were a sin of desire； like
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growing arrogant before God； like considering oneself of utmost importance；
like situating oneself at the center of the world。”
Thereafter； this idea dawned on him： These methods which the Frankish
artists made use of as if playing a prideful child’s game； could be more than
simply magic associated with Our Exalted Sultan—but could in fact bee a
force meant to serve our religion； bringing under its sway all who beheld it。
I learned that the idea of preparing an illuminated manuscript had arisen
then： my Enishte； who’d returned to Istanbul from Venice； suggested it would
be excellent indeed for Our Sultan to be the subject of a portrait in the
Frankish style。 But after His Excellency took exception； a book containing
pictures of Our Sultan and the objects that represented Him was agreed upon。
“It is the story that’s essential；” our wisest and most Glorious Sultan had
said。 “A beautiful illustration elegantly pletes the story。 An illustration that
does not plement a story； in the end； will bee but a false idol。 Since we
cannot possibly believe in an absent story； we will naturally begin believing in
the picture itself。 This would be no different than the worship of idols in the
Kaaba that went on before Our Prophet； peace and blessings be upon him； had
destroyed them。 If not as part of a story； how would you propose to depict this
red carnation； for example； or that insolent dwarf over there？”
“By exposing the carnation’s beauty and uniqueness。”
“In the arrangement of your scene； then； would you situate the flower at
the precise center of the page？”
“I was afraid；” my Enishte said。 “I panicked momentarily when I realized
where Our Sultan’s thoughts were taking me。”
What filled my Enishte with fear was the notion of situating at the center of
the page—and thereby； the world—something other than what God had
intended。
“Thereafter；” Our Sultan had said； “you’ll want to exhibit a picture in
whose center you’ve situated a dwarf。” It was as I had assumed。 “But this
picture could never be displayed： after a while； we’d begin to worship a
picture we’ve hung on a wall； regardless of the original intentions。 If I believed；
heaven forbid； the way these infidels do； that the Prophet Jesus was also the
Lord God himself； then I’d also hold that God could be observed in this world；
and even； that He could manifest in human form； only then might I accept the
depiction of mankind in full detail and exhibit such images。 You do
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understand that； eventually； we would unthinkingly begin worshiping any
picture that is hung on a wall； don’t you？”
My Enishte said： “I understood it quite well； and because I did； I was afraid
of what we both were thinking。”
“For this reason；” Our Sultan remarked； “I could never allow my portrait to
be displayed。”
“Though this is exactly what he wanted；” whispered my Enishte； with a
devilish titter。
It was my turn to be frightened now。
“Noheless； it is my desire that my portrait be made in the style of the
Frankish masters；” Our Sultan went on。 “Such a portrait will； of course； have
to be concealed within the pages of a book。 Whatever that book might be； you
shall be the one to tell me。”
“In an instant of surprise and awe； I considered his statement；” said my
Enishte； then grinning more devilishly than before； he seemed； suddenly； to
bee someone else。
“His Excellency Our Sultan ordered me to start working on His book
posthaste。 My head spun with joy。 He added that it ought to be prepared as a
present for the Veian Doge； whom I was to visit once again。 Once the book
was pleted； it would bee a symbol of the vanquishing power of the
Islamic Caliph Our Exalted Sultan； in the thousandth year of the Hegira。 He
requested that I prepare the illuminated manuscript in utmost secrecy；
primarily to conceal its purpose as an olive branch extended to the Veians；
but also to avoid aggravating workshop jealousies。 And in a state of great
elation and sworn to secrecy； I embarked upon this venture。”
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I AM YOUR BELOVED UNCLE
And so it was on that Friday morning； I began to describe the book that would
contain Our Sultan’s portrait painted in the Veian style。 I broached the
topic to Black by recounting how I’d brought it up with Our Sultan and how
I’d persuaded him to fund the book。 My hidden purpose was to have Black
write the stories—which I hadn’t even begun—that were meant to
acpany the illustrations。
I told him I’d pleted most of the book’s illustrations and that the last
picture was nearly finished。 “There’s a depiction of Death；” I said； “and I had
the most clever of miniaturists； Stork； illustrate the tree representing the
peacefulness of Our Sultan’s worldly realm。 There’s a picture of Satan and a
horse meant to spirit us far far away。 There’s a dog； always cunning and wily；
and also a gold coin…I had the master miniaturists depict these things with
such beauty；” I told Black； “that if you saw them but once； you’d know
straightaway what the corresponding text ought to be。 Poetry and painting；
words and color； these things are brothers to each other； as you well know。”
For a while； I pondered whether I should tell him I might marry off my
daughter to him。 Would he live together with us in this house？ I told myself
not to be taken in by his rapt attention and his childlike expression。 I knew he
was scheming to elope with my Shekure。 Still； I could rely on nobody else to
finish my book。
Returning together from the Friday prayers； we discussed “shadow；” the
greatest of innovations manifest in the paintings of the Veian masters。 “If；”
I said； “we intend to make our paintings from the perspective of pedestrians
exchanging pleasantries and regarding their world； that is； if we intend to
illustrate from the street； we ought to learn how to account for—as the Franks
do—what is； in fact； most prevalent there： shadows。”
“How does one depict shadow？” asked Black。
From time to time； as my nephew listened； I perceived impatience in him。
He’d begin to fiddle with the Mongol inkpot he’d given me as a present。 At
times； he’d take up the iron poker and stoke the fire in the stove。 Now and
then I imagined that he wanted to lower that poker onto my head and kill me
because I dared to move the art of illustrating away from Allah’s perspective；
because I would betray the dreams of the masters of Herat and their entire
tradition of painting； because I’d duped Our Sultan into already doing so。
Occasionally； Black would sit dead still for long stretches and fix his eyes deeply
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into mine。 I coul