wrecked wood benches； broken low tables and other debris。
Stacking long cushions atop one another； I reached up and grabbed hold of
the oil lamp。 Within its circle of light； I noticed bodies lying on the floor。
When I saw that one face was covered in blood； I turned away； and went to the
next。 The second body was moaning； and upon seeing my lamp； made a
childlike noise。
Someone else entered。 At first I was alarmed； though I could sense it was
Black。 The both of us leaned over the third body sprawled on the floor。 As I
lowered the lamp to his head； we saw what we’d suspected： They’d killed the
storyteller。
There was no trace of blood on his face； which was made up like a woman’s；
but his chin； brow and rouge…covered mouth were battered； and judging by his
neck； covered in bruises； he’d been throttled。 His hands were cast backward
over his head on either side。 It wasn’t difficult to figure out that one of them
held the old man’s arms behind his back while the others beat him in the face
before strangling him。 I wonder； had they said； “Cut out his tongue so he never
again slanders his Excellency the Preacher Hoja Effendi；” and then set about
doing so？
“Bring the lamp here；” said Black。 Near the stove； the light of the lamp
struck broken coffee grinders； sieves； scales and pieces of broken coffee cups
lying in the mud of spilled coffee。 In the corner where the storyteller hung his
pictures each night； Black was searching for the performer’s props； sash；
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magician’s handkerchief and popping stick。 Black said he was after the pictures
and held the lamp he’d taken from me to my face： Yes； of course I’d drawn
two of them out of a sense of fraternity。 We could find nothing but the Persian
skullcap that the deceased wore over his perfectly shaved head。
Seeing no one else； we exited into the blackness of night through a narrow
passageway that led away from the back door。 During the raid much of the
crowd and the artists within probably escaped through this door； but the
knocked…over planters and bags of coffee strewn everywhere indicated that
there was a struggle here as well。
The fact that the coffeehouse was raided and the master storyteller
murdered； coupled with the terrifying blackness of night； brought Black and I
closer together。 This was also what caused the silence between us。 We passed
two more streets。 Black handed the lamp back to me； then he drew his dagger
and pressed it to my throat。
“We’re going to your house；” he said。 “I want to search it so I can put my
mind at ease。”
“It’s already been searched。”
Rather than be offended by him； I had the urge to tease him。 Didn’t Black’s
belief in the disgraceful rumors about me simply prove he was also jealous of
me？ He held the dagger without much confidence。
My house was opposite the direction we were heading along the road
leading away from the coffeehouse。 We tacked right and left down
neighborhood streets and passed through empty gardens that bore the
depressing scent of damp and lonely trees as we traced a wide arc back toward
my house。 We’d covered more than half the route； when Black stopped and
said：
“For two days； Master Osman and I examined the masterpieces of the
legendary masters in the Treasury。”
Much later； nearly screaming； I said； “After a certain age； even if a painter
shares a worktable with Bihzad； what he sees may please his eyes and bring
contentment and excitement to his soul； but it won’t enhance his talent；
because one paints with the hand； not the eyes； and the hand at my age； let
alone at Master Osman’s； does not easily learn new things。”
Assured my beautiful wife was waiting for me； I spoke at the top of my
voice to let her know I wasn’t alone so she might hide herself from Black—not
that I took this pathetic dagger…wielding fool seriously。
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We passed through the courtyard gate； and I thought I saw the light of a
lamp moving in the house； but thank God all was in darkness now。 It was such
a merciless rape of my privacy for this knife…wielding beast to force his way
into my heavenly home； where I spent my days； indeed all my time； seeking
out and painting Allah’s memories until my eyes tired—whereupon I’d make
love to my beloved； the most beautiful woman in the world—that I swore to
take revenge upon him。
Lowering the lamp； he examined my papers； a page I was in the midst of
pleting—condemned prisoners pleading to the Sultan to be relieved of
their chains of debt and receiving His benevolence—my paints； my worktables；
my knives； my reed…cutting boards； my brushes； everything around my writing
table； my papers again； my burnishing stones； my penknives and the spaces
between my pen and paper boxes； he looked in cabis； chests； beneath
cushions； at one of my paper scissors； and beneath a soft red cushion and a
carpet before going back； bringing the lamp closer and closer to each object
and examining the same places once again。 As he said when he first drew his
weapon； he wouldn’t search my entire house； only my atelier。 Indeed； couldn’t
I conceal my wife—the only thing I wanted to hide—in the room from which
she was now spying on us？
“There’s a final picture that belonged to the book my Enishte was having
made；” he said。 “Whoever killed him also stole that picture。”
“It was different from the others；” I said immediately。 “Your Enishte； may
he rest in peace； made me draw a tree in one corner of the page。 In the
background somewhere…and in the middle of the page； in the foreground；
was to be someone’s picture； probably a portrait of Our Sultan。 That space；
quite large if I might add； was awaiting its picture。 Because the objects in the
background were to be smaller； as in the European style； he wanted me to
make the tree smaller。 As the picture developed； it gave the impression of being
a view of this world from a window； nothing like an illustration at all。 It was
then I prehended that in a picture made with the perspectival methods of
the Franks； the borders and gilding took the place of a window frame。”
“Elegant Effendi was responsible for the borders and the gilding。”
“If that’s what you’re asking； I already told you I didn’t murder him。”
“A murderer never admits to his crime；” he said quickly； then asked me
what I was doing at the coffeehouse during the raid。
He placed the oil lamp just beside the cushion upon which I was seated； in
a way that would illuminate my face along with my papers and the pages I was
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illuminating。 He himself was scurrying about the room like a shadow in the
dark。
Besides telling him what I’ve told you； that I actually was an infrequent
visitor to the coffeehouse and just happened to be passing by； I also repeated
that I made two of the pictures which were hung on the wall there—although
I actually disapproved of the goings…on at the coffeehouse。 “Because；” I added；
“the art of painting only ends up condemning and punishing itself when it
derives its strength from the desire to condemn and punish the evils of life
rather than from the painter’s own skill； love of his art and desire to embrace
Allah…regardless of whether it’s the preacher from Erzurum or Satan himself
that’s denounced。 More importantly； if that coffeehouse crowd hadn’t
targeted the Erzurumis； it might not have been raided tonight。”
“Even so； you would go there；” said the wretch。
“Yes； because I enjoyed myself there。” Had he an inkling of how honest I
was being？ I added； “Despite knowing how ugly and wrong something is； we
descendants of Adam might still derive considerable pleasure from it。 And I’m
embarrassed to say I was also entertained by those cheap illustrations； the
mimicry and those stories about Satan； the gold coin and the dog； which the
storyteller told crudely without meter or rhyme。”
“Even so； why would you even step foot in that den of unbelievers？”
“Fine then；” I said resigning myself to an inner voice； “at times there’s also
a worm of doubt that gnaws at me： Ever since I was openly recognized as the
most talented and most proficient among the masters of the workshop； not
only by Master Osman； but by Our Sultan as well； I began to be so terrified of
the envy of the others that I tried； if only at times； to go where they went； to
befriend them and to resemble them so they wouldn’t turn on me in a
sudden fit of vengeance。 Do you understand？ And since they’ve begun labeling
me an ”Erzurumi；“ I’ve been going to that den of vile unbelievers so others
might discount this rumor。”
“Master Osman said you often acted as if apologizing for your talent and
proficiency。”
“What else did he say about me？”
“That you’d paint absurd； minute pictures on grains of rice and fingernails
so that others would be convinced you’d forsaken life for art。 He said you were
always trying to please others because you were embarrassed by the great gifts
Allah had bestowed upon you。”
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“Master Osman is on Bihzad’s level；” I said with sincerity。 “What else？”
“He listed your faults without the slightest hesitation；” said the wretch。
“Let’s hear my faults then。”
“He said that despite your prodigious talent； you painted not for the love of
art but to ingratiate yourself。 Supposedly； what most motivated you while
painting was imagining the pleasure an observer would feel； whereas； you
should’ve painted for the pleasure of painting itself。”
It singed my heart that Master Osman so brazenly revealed what he
thought about me to a man of such diminished spirit； one who devoted his
life； not to art； but to being a clerk； writing letters and hollow flattery。 Black
continued：
“The great masters of old； Master Osman claimed； would never renounce
the styles and methods they cultivated through self…sacrifice to art just for the
sake of a new shah’s authority； the whims of a new prince or the tastes of a
new age； thus； to avoid being forced to alter their styles and methods； they’d
heroically blind themselves。 Meanwhile； you’ve enthusiastically and
dishonorably imitated the European masters for the pages of my Enishte’s
book； with the excuse that it’s the will of Our Sultan。”
“The great Head Illuminator Master Osman most certainly meant no evil by
this；” I said。 “Allow me to put some linden tea on the boil for you； my dear
guest。”
I passed into the adjoining room。 My beloved tossed over my head the
nightgown of Chinese silk she was wearing； which she’d purchased from
Esther the clothier； then