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。
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“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 bee 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。”
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“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。
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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 acpanied
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
monality； 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 Veian Doge。 He was considering it； but
then he was plagued with the thought； “What if this Veian is poor and his
daughter ugly？” To reassure himself； he ordered his best artist to paint the
Veian Doge’s daughter； possessions； property and belongings。 The Veians
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 Veian 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。
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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 mitting the sin of peting 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 bee 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。
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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； rat