“book of costumes” and engaged me in a bout of vicious bargaining。 Having
agreed that morning upon a lesser…quality book of costumes for a price of
twenty silver pieces； I proceeded to illustrate a dozen Istanbulites in a single
sitting around the time of the evening prayer； paying particular attention to
the detail of their outfits。 I drew a Sheikhulislam； a palace porter； a preacher； a
Janissary； a dervish； a cavalryman； a judge； a liver seller； an executioner—
executioners in the act of torture sold quite well—a beggar； a woman bound
for the hamam； and an opium addict。 I’d done so many of these books just to
earn a few extra silver pieces that I began to invent games for myself to fight
off boredom while I drew； for example； I forced myself to draw the judge
without lifting my pen off the page or to draw the beggar with my eyes closed。
All brigands； poets and men of constant sorrow know that when the
evening prayer is called the jinns and demons within them will grow agitated
and rebellious； urging in unision： “Out！ Outside！” This restless inner voice
demands； “Seek the pany of others； seek blackness； misery and disgrace。”
I’ve spent my time appeasing these jinns and demons。 I’ve painted pictures；
which many regard as miracles that have issued from my hands； with the help
of these evil spirits。 But for seven days now after dusk； since I murdered that
disgrace； I’m no longer able to control the jinns and demons within me。 They
rage with such violence that I tell myself they might calm down if I go out for
a while。
After saying so； as always without knowing how； I found myself roaming
through the night。 I walked briskly； advancing through snowy streets； muddy
passages； icy slopes and deserted sidewalks as if I would never stop。 As I
walked； descending into the dark of night； into the most remote and
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abandoned parts of the city； I’d ever so gradually leave my soul behind； and
walking along the narrow streets； my footsteps echoing off the walls of stone
inns； schools and mosques； my fears would subside。
Of their own accord； my feet brought me to the abandoned streets of this
neighborhood on the outskirts of the city； where I came each night and where
even specters and jinns would shudder to roam。 I heard tell that half the men
in this neighborhood had perished in the wars with Persia and that the rest
had fled； declaring it ill…omened； but I don’t believe such superstition。 The
only tragedy that has befallen this good quarter on account of the Safavid wars
was the closing of the Kalenderi dervish house forty years ago because it was
suspected of harboring the enemy。
I meandered behind the mulberry bushes and the bay…leaf trees； which had
a pleasant aroma even in the coldest weather； and with my usual
fastidiousness； I straightened up the wall boards between the collapsed
chimney and the window with its dilapidated shutters。 I entered and drew the
lingering scent of one…hundred…year…old incense and mold deep into my lungs。
It made me so blissful to be here； I thought tears would fall from my eyes。
If I haven’t already said so； I’d like to say that I fear nothing but Allah and
the punishment meted out in this world has no import whatsoever in my
opinion。 What I fear are the various torments that murderers like myself will
have to endure on Judgment Day； as is clearly described in the Glorious Koran；
in the “Criterion” chapter； for example。 In the ancient books； that I quite
rarely lay hold of； whenever I see this punishment in all its colors and violence；
recalling the simple； childish； yet terrifying scenes of Hell illustrated on calfskin
by the old Arab miniaturists； or； for whatever reason； the torments of demons
depicted by Chinese and Mongol master artists； I can’t keep myself from
drawing this analogy and heeding its logic： What does “The Night Journey”
chapter state in its thirty…third verse？ Is it not written that one should not；
without justification； take the life of another whose murder God forbids？ All
right then： The miscreant I’ve sent to Hell was not a believer； whose murder
God had forbidden； and besides； I had excellent justification for shattering his
skull。
This man had slandered those of us who’d worked on that book Our Sultan
had secretly missioned。 If I hadn’t silenced him； he would’ve denounced
as unbelievers Enishte Effendi； all the miniaturists and even Master Osman；
letting the rabid followers of the Hoja of Erzurum have their way with them。 If
someone succeeded in announcing that the miniaturists were mitting
blasphemy； these followers of Ezurumi—who are looking for any excuse to
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exercise their strength—wouldn’t just be satisfied with doing away with the
master miniaturists； they’d destroy the entire workshop and Our Sultan
would be helpless to do anything but watch without a peep。
As I did every time I came here； I cleaned up with the broom and some rags
I kept hidden in a corner。 As I cleaned； I was heartened and felt like a dutiful
servant of Allah again。 So that He wouldn’t deprive me of this blessed feeling； I
prayed for a long time。 The cold； which was enough to make a fox shit copper；
drove into my bones。 I began to feel that sinister ache at the back of my throat。
I stepped outside。
Soon afterward； again in the same strange state of mind； I found myself in a
pletely different neighborhood。 I don’t know what had happened； what
I’d thought between the deserted neighborhood of the dervish house and
here。 I didn’t know how I’d arrived on these roads lined with cypress trees。
However much I walked； a pestering thought wouldn’t leave me be； and it
ate at me like a worm。 Maybe if I tell you it’ll ease the burden： Call him a “vile
slanderer” or “poor Elegant Effendi”—either way it’s the same thing—a short
time before the dearly departed gilder had left this world； he was making
vehement accusations against our Enishte； but when he saw that I wasn’t that
affected by his declaration that Enishte Effendi made use of the perspectival
techniques of the infidels； that beast divulged the following： “There’s one final
picture。 In that picture Enishte desecrates everything we believe in。 What he’s
doing is no longer an insult to religion； it’s pure blasphemy。” Furthermore；
three weeks after this accusation by that scoundrel； Enishte Effendi had
actually asked me to illustrate a number of unrelated things； such as a horse； a
coin and Death； in various random spots on a page and in shockingly
inconsistent scales； indeed； it was what one would expect of a Frankish
painting。 Enishte always took the trouble to cover large portions of the ruled
section of the page he wanted me to illustrate as well as the places ill…fated
Elegant Effendi had guilded； as though he wanted to conceal something from
me and the other miniaturists。
I want to ask Enishte what he’s illustrating in this large； final painting； but
there’s much holding me back。 If I ask him； he’ll of course suspect that I
murdered Elegant Effendi and make his suspicions known to all。 But there’s
something else that unsettles me as well。 If I ask him； Enishte might declare
that Elegant Effendi was in fact justified in his beliefs。 Occasionally； I tell
myself I should ask him； pretending as if this suspicion hadn’t passed to me
from Elegant Effendi； but had simply occurred to me。 In the end； it’s no
fort either way。
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My legs； which have aly head； had taken me of
their own accord to Enishte Effendi’s street。 I crouched in a secluded spot； and
for a long time observed the house as best I could in the blackness。 I watched
for a long time： Nestled among trees was the large and odd…looking two…story
house of a rich man！ I couldn’t tell on which side Shekure’s room was located。
As is the case in some of the pictures made in Tabriz during the reign of Shah
Tahmasp； I imagined the house in cross…section—as if it were cut in half with a
knife—and I tried to illustrate in my mind’s eye where I would find my
Shekure； behind which shutter。
The door opened。 I saw Black leaving the house in the darkness。 Enishte
gazed at him with affection from behind the courtyard gate for a moment
before closing it。
Even my mind； which had given itself over to idiotic fantasies； quickly； and
painfully； drew three conclusions based on what I had seen：
One： Since Black was cheaper and less dangerous； Enishte Effendi would
have him plete our book。
Two： The beautiful Shekure would marry Black。
Three： What the unfortunate Elegant Effendi had said was true； and so； I’d
killed him for naught。
In situations such as this； as soon as our merciless intellects draw the bitter
conclusion that our hearts refuse； the entire body rebels against the mind。 At
first； half my mind violently opposed the third conclusion； which indicated
that I was nothing but the vilest of murderers。 My legs； once again； acting
quicker and more rationally than my head； had already put me in pursuit of
Black Effendi。
We’d passed down a few side streets when I thought how very easy it
would be to murder him； so contentedly and self…assuredly walking before me；
and how such a crime would save me from having to confront the first two
vexing conclusions established by my mind。 Furthermore； I wouldn’t have
cracked Elegant Effendi’s skull for no reason at all。 Now； if I run ahead eight or
ten paces； catch up to Black and land a blow onto his head with all my might；
everything will go on as usual。 Enishte Effendi will invite me to finish our
book。 But meanwhile my more honest （what was honesty if not fear？） and
prudent side continued to tell me that the monster I’d murdered and tossed
into a well was truly a slanderer。 And if this were the case； I hadn’t killed him
for naught； and Enishte； who no longer had anything to hide with respect to
the book he was making； would most certainly invite me back to his home。
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As I watched Black walking before me； however； I knew with utmost
certainty that none of this would happen。 It was all illusion。 Black Effendi was
more real than I。 It happens to us all： In reaction to being overly logical we’ll
feed fantasies for weeks and years on end； and one day we’ll see something； a
face； an outfit； a happy person； and suddenly realize that our dreams will never
e true； thus； we e to understand that a particular maiden won’t be
permitted to marry us or that we’ll never reach such…and…such a station in life。
I was watching the rise and fall of Black’s s