rightly—yes； in good measure—whispered to him that in his work everything
was as joyous as a holiday； but devoid of depth。 Child princes and senile old
harem women on the verge of death enjoy his paintings； not men of the world
forced to struggle with evil。 Because Butterfly is well aware of these criticisms；
poor man； he at times grows jealous of average miniaturists who though much
less talented than he are possessed of demons and jinns。 What he mistakenly
believes to be devilry and the work of jinns is more often than not
straightforward evil and envy。
He aggravates me because when he paints； he doesn’t lose himself in that
wondrous world； surrendering to its ecstasy； but only reaches that height
when he imagines his work will please others。 He aggravates me because he
thinks about the money he’ll earn。 It’s another of life’s ironies： There are many
artists with much less talent yet more able than Butterfly to surrender
themselves to their art。
In his need to make up for his shortings； Butterfly is preoccupied with
proving that he has sacrificed himself to art。 Like those birdbrained
miniaturists who paint on fingernails and pieces of rice； pictures almost
invisible to the naked eye； he’s engrossed with minute and delicate
craftsmanship。 I’d once asked him whether he gave himself over to this
ambition； which has blinded many illustrators at an early age； because he was
ashamed of the excessive talent Allah had granted him。 Only inept miniaturists
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paint each leaf of a tree they’ve drawn on a grain of rice to make an easy name
for themselves and to gain importance in the eyes of dense patrons。
Butterfly’s inclination to design and illustrate for other people’s pleasure
rather than for his own； his uncontrollable need to please others； made him；
more than any of the others； a slave to praise。 And so it follows that an
uncertain Butterfly wants to ensure his standing by being Head
Illuminator。 It was Black who had raised this subject。
“Yes；” I said； “I know he’s been scheming to succeed me after I die。”
“Do you think this would drive him to murder his miniaturist brethren？”
“It might。 He’s a great master； but he’s not aware of this； and he can’t leave
the world behind when he paints。”
I said this； whereupon I grasped that in truth I； too； wanted Butterfly to
assume leadership of the workshop after me。 I couldn’t trust Olive； and in the
end Stork would unwittingly bee slave to the Veian style。 Butterfly’s
need to be admired—I was upset at the thought that he could take a life—
would be vital in handling both the workshop and the Sultan。 Only Butterfly’s
sensitivity and faith in his own palette could resist the Veian artistry that
duped the viewer by trying to depict reality itself rather than its
representation； in all its detail： pictures； shadows included； of cardinals；
bridges； rowboats； candlesticks； churches and stables； oxen and carriage
wheels； as if all of them were of the same importance to Allah。
“Was there ever a time when you visited him unannounced as you had with
the others？”
“Whosoever looks upon Butterfly’s work will quickly sense that he
understands the value of love as well as the meaning of heartfelt joy and
sorrow。 But as with all lovers of color； he gets carried away with his emotions
and is fickle。 Because I was so enamored of his God…given and miraculous
talent； of his sensitivity to color； I paid close attention to him in his youth and
know everything there is to know about him。 Of course； in such situations； the
other miniaturists quickly bee jealous and the master…disciple relationship
bees strained and damaged。 There were many moments of love during
which Butterfly did not fear what others might say。 Recently； since he married
the neighborhood fruit seller’s pretty daughter； I’ve neither felt the desire to
go see him； nor have I had the chance。”
“Rumor has it that he’s in league with the followers of the Hoja from
Erzurum；” Black said。 “They say he stands to gain a lot if the Hoja and his men
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declare certain works inpatible with religion； and thereby； outlaw our
books—which depict battles； weapons； bloody scenes and routine ceremonies；
not to mention parades including everyone from chefs to magicians； dervishes
to boy dancers； and kebab makers to locksmiths—and confine us to the
subjects and forms of the old Persian masters。”
“Even if we returned skillfully and victoriously to those wondrous paintings
of Tamerlane’s time； even if we returned to that life and vocation in all its
minutia—as bright Stork would best be able to do after me—in the final
analysis； all of it’ll be forgotten；” I said mercilessly； “because everybody will
want to paint like the Europeans。”
Did I actually believe these words of damnation？
“My Enishte believed the same；” Black confessed meekly； “yet it filled him
with hope。”
The Attributes of Stork
I’ve seen him sign his name as the Sinning Painter Mustafa Chelebi。 Without
paying any mind to whether he had or ought to have a style； whether it should
be identified with a signature or； like the old masters； remain anonymous； or
whether or not a humble bearing required one to do so； he’d just sign his
name with a smile and a victorious flourish。
He continued bravely down the path I’d set him on and mitted to
paper what none before him had been able to。 Like myself； he too would
watch master glassblowers turning their rods and blowing glass melted in
ovens to make blue pitchers and green bottles； he saw the leather； needles and
wooden molds of the shoemakers who bent with rapt attention over the shoes
and boots they made； a horse swing tracing a graceful arc during a holiday
festival； a press squeezing oil from seeds； the firing of our cannon at the
enemy； and the screws and the barrels of our guns。 He saw these things and
painted them without objecting that the old masters of Tamerlane’s time； or
the legendary illustrators of Tabriz and Kazvin； hadn’t lowered themselves to
do so。 He was the first Muslim miniaturist to go to war and return safe and
sound； in preparation for the Book of Victories that he would later illustrate。 He
was the first to eagerly study enemy fortresses； cannon； armies； horses with
bleeding wounds； injured soldiers struggling for their lives and corpses—all
with the intent to paint。
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I recognize his work from his subject matter more than his style and from
his attention to obscure details more than his subject matter。 I could entrust
him with plete peace of mind to execute all aspects of a painting； from the
arrangement of pages and their position to the coloring of the most trivial
details。 In this regard； he has the right to succeed me as Head Illuminator。 But
he’s so ambitious and conceited； and so condescending toward the other
illustrators that he could never manage so many men； and would end up
losing them all。 Actually； if it were left to him； with his incredible
industriousness； he’d simply make all the illustrations in the workshop
himself。 If he put his mind to such a task； he could in fact succeed。 He’s a great
master。 He knows his craft。 He admires himself。 How nice for him。
When I visited him unannounced once； I caught him at work。 Resting upon
folding worktables； desks and cushions were all the pages he was working on：
illustrations for Our Sultan’s books； for me； for miserable costume books that
he dashed off for foolish European travelers eager to belittle us； one page of a
triptych he was making for a pasha who thought highly of himself； images to
be pasted in albums； pages made for his own pleasure and even a vulgar
rendition of coitus。 Tall； thin Stork was flitting from one illustration to the
next like a bee among flowers； singing folk songs； tweaking the cheek of his
apprentice who was mixing paint and adding a ic twist to the painting he
was working on before showing it to me with a smug chuckle。 Unlike my other
miniaturists； he didn’t stop working in a ceremonial show of respect when I
arrived； on the contrary； he happily exhibited the swift exercise of his God…
given talent and the skill he’d acquired through hard work （he could do the
work of seven or eight miniaturists at the same time）。 Now； I catch myself
secretly thinking that if the vile murderer is one of my three master
miniaturists； I hope to God it’s Stork。 During his apprenticeship； the sight of
him at my door on Friday mornings didn’t excite me the way Butterfly did on
his day。
Since he paid equal attention to every odd detail； with no basis of
discrimination except that it be visible； his aesthetic approach resembled that
of the Veian masters。 But unlike them； my ambitious Stork neither saw nor
depicted people’s faces as individual or distinct。 I assume； since he either
openly or secretly belittled everyone； that he didn’t consider faces important。
I’m certain deceased Enishte didn’t appoint him to draw Our Sultan’s face。
Even when depicting a subject of the utmost importance； he couldn’t keep
from situating a skeptical dog somewhere at some distance from the event； or
drawing a disgraceful beggar whose misery demeaned the wealth and
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extravagance of a ceremony。 He had enough self…confidence to mock whatever
illustration he made； its subject and himself。
“Elegant Effendi’s murder resembles the way Joseph’s brothers tossed him
into a well out of jealousy；” said Black。 “And my Enishte’s death resembles the
unforeseen murder of Hüsrev at the hands of his son who had his heart set on
Hüsrev’s wife； Shirin。 Everyone says that Stork loved to paint scenes of war and
gruesome depictions of death。”
“Anyone who thinks an illuminator resembles the subject of the picture he
paints doesn’t understand me or my master miniaturists。 What exposes us is
not the subject； which others have missioned from us—these are always
the same anyway—but the hidden sensibilities we include in the painting as
we render that subject： A light that seems to radiate from within the picture； a
palpable hesitancy or anger one notices in the position of figures； horses
and trees； the desire and sorrow emanating from a cypress as it reaches to the
heavens； the pious resignation and patience that we introduce into the
illustration when we ornament wall tiles with a fervor that tempts
blindness…Yes； these are our hidden traces； not those identical horses all in a
row。 When a painter renders the fury and speed of