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 shoulders； his head and his
neck—the incredibly annoying way that he walked； as though his every step
were a gift to the world—with a profound hatred that coiled cozily around my
heart。 Men like Black； free from pangs of conscience and with promising
futures before them； assume that the entire world is their home； they open
every door like a sultan entering his personal stable and immediately belittle
those of us crouched inside。 The urge to grab a stone and run up behind him
was almost too great to resist。
We were two men in love with the same woman； he was in front of me and
pletely unaware of my presence as we walked through the turning and
twisting streets of Istanbul； climbing and descending； we traveled like brethren
through deserted streets given over to battling packs of stray dogs； passed
burnt ruins where jinns loitered； mosque courtyards where angels reclined on
domes to sleep； beside cypress trees murmuring to the souls of the dead；
beyond the edges of snow…covered cemeteries crowded with ghosts； just out of
sight of brigands strangling their victims； passed endless shops； stables； dervish
houses； candle works； leather works and stone walls； and as we made ground； I
felt I wasn’t following him at all； but rather； that I was imitating him。
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I AM DEATH
I am Death； as you can plainly see； but you needn’t be afraid； I’m just an
illustration。 Be that as it may； I read terror in your eyes。 Though you know very
well that I’m not real—like children who give themselves over to a game—
you’re still seized by horror； as if you’d actually met Death himself。 This
pleases me。 As you look at me； you sense that you’ll soil yourselves out of fear
when that unavoidable last moment is upon you。 This is no joke。 When faced
with Death； people lose control of their bodily functions—particularly the
majority of those men who are known to be brave…hearted。 For this reason；
the corpse…strewn battlefields that you’ve depicted thousands of times reek
not of blood； gunpowder and heated armor as is assumed； but of shit and
rotting flesh。
I know this is the first time you’ve seen a depiction of Death。
One year ago； a tall； thin and mysterious old man invited to his house the
young master miniaturist who would soon enough illustrate me。 In the half…
dark workroom of the two…story house； the old man served an exquisite cup of
silky； amber…scented coffee to the young master； which cleared the youth’s
mind。 Next； in that shadowy room with the blue door； the old man excited the
master miniaturist by flaunting the best paper from Hindustan； brushes made
of squirrel hair； varieties of gold leaf； all manner of reed pens and coral…
handled penknives； indicating that he would be able to pay handsomely。
“Now then； draw Death for me；” the old man said。
“I cannot draw a picture of Death without ever； not once in my entire life；
having seen a picture of Death；” said the miraculously sure…handed
miniaturist； who would shortly； in fact； end up doing the drawing。
“You do not always need to have seen an illustration of something in order
to depict that thing；” objected the refined and enthusiastic old man。
“Yes； perhaps not；” said the master illustrator。 “Yet； if the picture is to be
perfect； the way the masters of old would’ve made it； it ought to be drawn at
least a thousand times before I attempt it。 No matter how masterful a
miniaturist might be； when he paints an object for the first time； he’ll render
it as an apprentice would； and I could never do that。 I cannot put my mastery
aside while illustrating Death； this yself。”
“Such a death might put you in touch with the subject matter；” quipped
the old man。
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“It’s not experience of subject matter that makes us masters； it’s never
having experienced it that makes us masters。”
“Such mastery ought to be acquainted with Death then。”
In this manner； they entered into an elevated conversation with double
entendre； allusions； puns； obscure references and innuendos； as befit
miniaturists who respected both the old masters as well as their own talent。
Since it was my existence that was being discussed； I listened intently to the
conversation； the entirety of which； I know； would bore the distinguished
miniaturists among us in this good coffeehouse。 Let me just say that there
came a point when the discussion touched upon the following：
“Is the measure of a miniaturist’s talent the ability to depict everything
with the same perfection as the great masters or the ability to introduce into
the picture subject matter which no one else can see？” said the sure…handed；
stunning…eyed； brilliant illustrator； and although he himself knew the answer
to this question； he remained quite reserved。
“The Veians measure a miniaturist’s prowess by his ability to discover
novel subject matter and techniques that have never before been used；”
insisted the old man arrogantly。
“Veians die like Veians；” said the illustrator who would soon draw
me。
“All our deaths resemble one another；” said the old man。
“Legends and paintings recount how men are distinct from one another；
not how everybody resembles one another；” said the wise illustrator。 “The
master miniaturist earns his mastery by depicting unique legends as if we
were already familiar with them。”
In this manner； the conversation turned to the differences between the
deaths of Veians and Ottomans； to the Angel of Death and the other angels
of Allah； and how they could never be appropriated by the artistry of the
infidels。 The young master who is presently staring at me with his beautiful
eyes in our dear coffeehouse was disturbed by these weighty words； his hands
grew impatient； he longed to depict me； yet he had no idea what kind of entity
I was。
The sly and calculating old man who wanted to beguile the young master
caught the scent of the young man’s eagerness。 In the shadowy room； the old
man bore his eyes； which glowed in the light of the idly burning oil lamp； into
the miracle…handed young master。
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“Death； whom the Veians depict in human form； is to us an angel like
Azrael；” he said。 “Yes； in the form of a man。 Just like Gabriel； who appeared as
a person when he delivered the Sacred Word to Our Prophet。 You do
understand； don’t you？”
I realized that the young master； whom Allah had endowed with
astonishing talent； was impatient and wanted to illustrate me； because the
devilish old man had succeeded in arousing him with this devilish idea： What
we essentially want is to draw something unknown to us in all its
shadowiness； not something we know in all its illumination。
“I am not； in the least； familiar with Death；” said the miniaturist。
“We all know Death；” said the old man。
“We fear it； but we don’t know it。”
“Then it falls to you to draw that fear；” said the old man。
He was about to create me just then。 The great master miniaturist’s nape
was tingling； his arm muscles were tensing up and his fingers yearned for a
reed pen。 Yet； because he was the most genuine of great masters； he restrained
himself； knowing that this tension would further deepen the love of painting
in his soul。
The wily old man understood what was happening； and aiming to inspire
the youth in his rendition of me； which he was certain would be pleted
before long； he began to read passages about me from the books before him：
El…Jevziyye’s Book of the Soul； Gazzali’s Book of the Apocalypse and Suyuti。
And so； as the master miniaturist with the miracle touch was making this
portrait； which you now so fearfully behold； he listened to how the Angel of
Death had thousands of wings which spanned Heaven and Earth； from the
farthest point in the East to the farthest point in the West。 He heard how
these wings would be a great fort to the truly faithful yet for sinners and
rebels as painful as a spike through the flesh。 Since a majority of you
miniaturists are bound for Hell； he depicted me laden with spikes。 He listened
to how the angel sent to you by Allah to take your lives would carry a ledger
wherein all your names appeared and how； some of your names would be
circled in black。 Only Allah has knowledge of the exact moment of death：
When this moment arrives； a leaf falls from the tree located beneath His
throne and whoever lays hold of this leaf can read for whom Death has e。
For all these reasons； the miniaturist depicted me as a terrifying being； but
thoughtful； too； like one who understands accounts。 The mad old man
continued to read： when the Angel of Death； who appeared in human form；
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extended his hand and took the soul of the person whose time on Earth had
ended； an all…enpassing light reminiscent of the light of the sun shone； and
thus； the wise miniaturist depicted me bathed in light； for he also knew that
this light wouldn’t be visible to those who had gathered beside the deceased。
The impassioned old man read from the Book of the Soul about ancient grave
robbers who had witnessed； in place of bodies riddled with spikes； only flames
and skulls filled with molten lead。 Hence； the wondrous illustrator； listening
intently to such accounts； depicted me in a manner that would terrify
whoever laid eyes on me。
Later； he regretted what he’d done。 Not due to the terror with which he’d
imbued his picture； but because he dared to make the illustration at all。 As for
me； I feel like someone whose father regards him with embarrassment and
regret。 Why did the miniaturist with the gifted hands regret having illustrated
me？
1。 Because I； the picture of Death； had not been drawn with enough
mastery。 As you can see； I am not as perfect as what the great Veian masters
or the old masters of Herat drew。 I； too； am embarrassed by my wretchedness。
The great master has not depicted me in a style befitting the dignity of Death。
2。 Upon being cunningly duped by the old man； the master illustrator who
drew me found himself； suddenly and unwittingly； imitating the methods and
perspectives of the Frankish virtuosos。 It disturbed his soul because he felt he
was being disrespectful and； he sensed for the first time； oddly dishonorable
toward the old masters。
3。 It must’ve even dawned on him； as it does now on some of the imbeciles
who have tired of me and are smiling： Death is no laughing matter。
The master min