its strength； and finally； like an incorrigible and jealous foe who wanted to do
me harm。 In truth； he understood that I was more talented than he； even
worse； he probably sensed that Master Osman knew this too。 With his God…
given talent； Butterfly was a superb master； and his envy made me prouder：
Unlike him； I became a master through the strength of my own “reed；” not by
holding my master’s； and I sensed that I could force him to accept my
superiority。
Raising my voice； I explained how pitiful it was that there were men who
wanted to undermine Our Sultan and the late Enishte’s miraculous book。
Master Osman was like a father to us all； he was everyone’s superior； we
learned everything from him！ Yet； after tracing the clues in Our Sultan’s
Treasury； for some unknown reason； Master Osman tried to conceal his
realization that Olive was the despicable murderer。 I said I was certain that
Olive； who couldn’t be found at home； was hiding away in the deserted
Kalenderi dervish house near the Phanar Gate。 This dervish lodge was closed
during the reign of Our Sultan’s grandfather； not because it was a den of
degradation and immorality； but rather； as a result of the endless wars with
the Persians； and； I added； there was even a time when Olive boasted that he
was keeping guard over the forbidden dervish lodge。 If they didn’t trust me；
suspecting some ruse behind my words； the dagger was in their hands； they
were free to mete out my punishment then and there。
Butterfly landed two more heavy blows of the dagger that most armor
could not have withstood。 He turned to Black； who believed what I told them；
and screamed at him childishly。 I came up from behind； put my armor…plated
arm around Butterfly’s neck and drew him toward me。 Bending his other arm
back with my free hand； I made him drop the dagger。 We weren’t quite
struggling； nor were we entirely playing。 I recounted a similar； little…known
scene in the Book of Kings。
“On the third day of a confrontation between Persian and Turanian armies
fully equipped in armor and weaponry and arrayed at the foot of Mount
Hamaran； the Turanians sent the wily Shengil into the field to learn the
identity of a mysterious Persian who’d killed a great Turanian warrior on each
of the previous two days；” I began。 “Shengil challenged the mysterious warrior；
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and he accepted。 The armies； their armor glimmering brightly in the afternoon
sun； watched with bated breath。 The armored horses of the two warriors
engaged each other with such speed that sparks flying from the clash of metal
singed the hides of the horses which gave off smoke。 The fight was a lengthy
one。 The Turanian shot arrows； the Persian maneuvered his sword and horse
skillfully； and finally； the mysterious Persian felled the Turanian after catching
him by the tail of his steed。 He then chased after Shengil who was trying to
escape； and grabbed him by his armor from behind before taking him by the
neck。 As he accepted his defeat； the Turanian； still curious about the identity of
the mysterious warrior； asked without hope what everybody had wondered for
days； ”Who are you？“ ”To you；“ replied the mysterious warrior； ”my name is
Death。“ Tell me then； my friends； who was he？”
“The legendary Rüstem；” said Butterfly with childlike glee。
I kissed him on the neck。 “We’ve all betrayed Master Osman；” I said。
“Before he metes out his punishment； we must find Olive； rid ourselves of this
venom in our midst and e to an agreement so we can stand strong against
the eternal enemies of art and those who long to send us directly to dungeons
of torture。 Perhaps； when we arrive at Olive’s abandoned dervish house； we’ll
learn that the cruel murderer isn’t even one of our lot。”
Poor Butterfly uttered not a sound。 Regardless of how talented； confident
or well supported he might be； just like all illuminators who sought one
another’s pany depite their mutual loathing and envy； he was deathly
afraid of being left alone in this world and of going to Hell。
On the route to the Phanar Gate； there was an eerie greenish…yellow light
above us； but it wasn’t the light of the moon。 In this light； the old； faithful
nighttime appearance of Istanbul prised of cypress trees； leaden domes；
stone walls； wooden houses and tracts ravaged by fire was overtaken by an
unfamiliarity such as might be caused by an enemy fortress。 As we ascended
the hill； in the distance we saw the fire that burned somewhere beyond the
Bayazid Mosque。
In the heavy darkness； we came across an oxcart half…loaded with sacks of
flour heading toward the city walls； and parting with two silver coins； we
procured a ride。 Black had the pictures with him； and he sat down carefully。 As
I lay back and watched the low clouds glow from the fire； two raindrops fell
upon my helmet。
After a long journey； as we searched for the deserted dervish lodge we
roused all the dogs in the neighborhood which； in the middle of the night；
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seemed to be abandoned。 Although we saw that lamps were now burning in a
few stone houses in response to our clamor； it was only the fourth door we
knocked upon that opened to us； and a man in skullcap； gaping at us by the
light of his lamp as if we were the living dead； gave us directions to the
deserted dervish lodge without even sticking his nose out into the quickening
rain—merrily adding that once there； we’d have no peace from the evils of
jinns； demons and ghosts。
In the garden of the dervish lodge we were greeted by the calm of proud
cypresses； indifferent to the rain and the stench of rotting leaves。 I brought my
eye up to one of the cracks between the wooden planks of the dervish…lodge
walls； and later； to the shutter of a small window； whereupon； by the light of
an oil lamp； I saw the menacing shadow of a man performing his prayers—or
perhaps； a man pretending； for our sake； to pray。
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I AM CALLED “OLIVE”
Was it more fitting for me to abandon my prayers； spring to my feet and open
the door for them or to keep them waiting in the rain until I’d finished？
When I realized they were watching me； I pleted my prayers in a
somewhat distracted state。 I opened the door； and there they were—Butterfly；
Stork and Black。 I gave a cry of joy and embraced Butterfly。
“Alas； what we’ve had to bear of late！” I lamented； burying my head into
his shoulder。 “What do they want from us？ Why are they killing us？”
Each of them displayed the panic of being separated from the herd； which
I’d seen from time to time in every master painter over the span of my life。
Even here in the lodge； they were loath to separate from one another。
“We can safely take refuge here for days。”
“We worry；” Black said； “that the person we should fear is perhaps in our
very midst。”
“I； too； grow anxious；” I said。 “For I have heard such rumors as well。”
There were rumors； spreading from the officers of the Imperial Guard to
the division of miniaturists； claiming that the mystery about the murderer of
Elegant Effendi and late Enishte was solved： He was one of us who’d labored
over that book。
Black inquired as to how many pictures I’d drawn for Enishte’s book。
“The first one I made was Satan。 It was of the variety of underground
demon mon to the old masters in the workshops of the Whitesheep。 The
storyteller and I were of the same Sufi path； that’s why I made the two
dervishes。 I was the one who suggested to Enishte that he include them in his
book； convincing him that there was a special place for these dervishes in the
lands of the Ottomans。”
“Is that all？” asked Black。
When I told him； “Yes； that’s all；” he went to the door with the superior air
of a master who caught an apprentice stealing； he brought in a roll of paper
untouched by the rain； and placed it before us three artists like a mother cat
bringing a wounded bird to her kittens。
I recognized the pages while they were still under his arm： They were the
illustrations I’d rescued from the coffeehouse during the raid。 I didn’t deign to
ask how these men had entered my house and located them。 Nevertheless；
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Butterfly； Stork and I each placidly owned up to the pictures we made for the
storyteller； may he rest in peace。 Afterward； only the horse； an exquisite horse；
remained unclaimed off to the side； its head lowered。 Believe me； I didn’t even
realize that a horse had been drawn。
“You weren’t the one who made this horse？” said Black like a teacher
holding a switch。
“I wasn’t；” I said。
“What about the one in my Enishte’s book？”
“I didn’t make that one either。”
“Based on the style of the horse； however； it’s been determined that you’re
the one who drew it；” he said。 “Furthermore； it was Master Osman who came
to this conclusion。”
“But I have no style whatsoever；” I said。 “I’m not saying this out of pride to
counter the latest tastes。 Neither am I saying so to prove my innocence。 For
me； having a style would be worse than being a murderer。”
“You have a distinct quality that distinguishes you from the old masters and
the others；” said Black。
I smiled at him。 He started to relate things that I’m sure you all know by
now。 I listened intently to how Our Sultan； in consultation with the Head
Treasurer； sought a solution to the murders； to the matter of Master Osman’s
three days； to the “courtesan method；” to the peculiarity in the noses of the
horses and to Black’s miraculous admittance to the Royal Private Quarters for
the sake of actually examining those superlative books。 There are moments in
all our lives when we realize； even as we experience them； that we are living
through events we will never forget； even long afterward。 A melancholy rain
was falling。 As if upset by the rain； Butterfly mournfully gripped his dagger。
Olive； the backside of whose armor was white with flour； was courageously
forging into the heart of the dervish lodge； lamp in hand。 These master artists；
whose shadows roamed the walls like ghosts； were my brethren； and how I
loved them！ I was delighted to be a miniaturist。
“Could you appreciate your good fortune as you gazed at the great works of
the old masters for days on end with Master Osman at your side？” I asked
Black。 “Did he kiss you？ Did he caress your handsome face？ Did he hold your
hand？ Were you awed by his talent and knowledge？”
“There among the great works of the old masters he showed me how you
had a style；” said Black。 “He taught me how the hidden fault of ”style‘ isn’t
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