in a futile attempt to attain a style and European character； we will still fail—
just as I failed in making this self…portrait despite all my proficiency and
knowledge。 This primitive picture I’ve made； without even achieving a fair
resemblance of myself； revealed to me what we’ve know all along without
admitting it： The proficiency of the Franks will take centuries to attain。 Had
Enishte Effendi’s book been pleted and sent to them； the Veian
masters would’ve smirked； and their ridicule would’ve reached the Veian
Doge—that is all。 They’d have quipped that the Ottomans have given up being
Ottoman and would no longer fear us。 How wonderful it would be if we could
persist on the path of the old masters！ But no one wants this； neither His
Excellency Our Sultan； nor Black Effendi—who is melancholy because he has
no portrait of his precious Shekure。 In that case； sit yourselves down and do
nothing but ape the Europeans century after century！ Proudly sign your
names to your imitation paintings。 The old masters of Herat tried to depict the
world the way God saw it； and to conceal their individuality they never signed
their names。 You； however； are condemned to signing your names to conceal
your lack of individuality。 But there is an alternative。 Each of you has perhaps
been summoned； and if so； you’re hiding it from me： Akbar； Sultan of
Hindustan； is strewing about money and blandishments； trying to gather in
his court the most talented artists in the world。 It’s quite apparent that the
book to be pleted for the thousandth year of Islam will not be prepared
here in Istanbul； but in the workshops of Agra。”
“Must an artist first bee a murderer to be as high and mighty as you？”
asked Stork。
“Nay； it’s enough to be the most gifted and the most talented；” I said
heedlessly。
A proud cockerel crowed twice in the distance。 I gathered my bundle and
my gold pieces； my notebook of forms； and put my illustrations into my
portfolio。 I considered how I might kill each of them one by one with the
dagger； whose point I held at Black’s throat； but I felt nothing but affection for
my boyhood friends—including Stork； who’d stuck the plume needle into my
eyes。
I screamed at Butterfly； who had stood up； and thus scared him into sitting
back down。 Now； confident I’d be able to escape the lodge safely； I hastened
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toward the door； and at the threshold； I impatiently uttered the momentous
words I’d been planning to say：
“My flight from Istanbul shall resemble Ibn Shakir’s flight from Baghdad
under Mongol occupation。”
“In that case； you must head West instead of East；” said jealous Stork。
“To God belongs the East and the West；” I said in Arabic like the late Enishte。
“But East is east and West is west；” said Black。
“An artist should never succumb to hubris of any kind；” said Butterfly； “he
should simply paint the way he sees fit rather than troubling over East or
West。”
“So very true；” I said to beloved Butterfly。 “Accept my kiss。”
I’d hardly taken two steps toward him when Black dutifully pounced upon
me。 In one hand I held my satchel containing my clothes and gold coins； and
under my other arm； the portfolio filled with pictures。 Taking care to protect
my belongings； I failed to protect myself。 I couldn’t prevent him from grabbing
the forearm of the hand that held the dagger。 But luck did not shine upon
him； either； he tripped slightly over a low worktable and momentarily lost his
balance。 Instead of taking control of my arm； he ended up hanging by it。
Kicking him with all my might and biting his fingers； I freed myself。 He
howled； fearing for his life。 Then； I stepped on the same hand； causing him
great pain。 Brandishing the dagger before the other two； I shouted：
“Halt！”
They stayed seated where they were。 I stuck the point of the dagger into one
of Black’s nostrils； the way Keykavus had done in the legend。 When it began to
bleed； bitter tears flowed from his imploring eyes。
“Now； tell me then；” I said； “shall I go blind？”
“According to legend； blood clots in the eyes of some and not in others。 If
Allah is pleased with your artistry； he’ll bestow His own magnificent blackness
upon you and take you under His care。 In that case； you shall behold not this
wretched world； but the exquisite vistas that He sees。 If He is displeased； you
shall continue to see the world the way you now do。”
“I shall practice genuine artistry in Hindustan；” I said。 “I’ve yet to make the
picture Allah will judge me by。”
“Don’t nourish the illusion over much that you’ll be able to escape
Frankish methods；” said Black。 “Did you know that Akbar Khan encourages all
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his artists to sign their work？ The Jesuit priests of Portugal long ago introduced
European painting and methods there。 They are everywhere now。”
“There’s always work for the artist who wants to remain pure； there’s
always a place to find shelter；” I said。
“Aye；” said Stork； “going blind and fleeing to nonexistent countries。”
“Why is it that you want to remain pure？” said Black。 “Stay here with us。”
“For the rest of your lives you’ll do nothing but emulate the Franks for the
sake of an individual style；” I said。 “But precisely because you emulate the
Franks you’ll never attain individual style。”
“There’s nothing else left to do；” said Black dishonorably。
Of course； it wasn’t artistry but beautiful Shekure that was his sole source
of happiness。 I removed the bloodstained dagger from Black’s bleeding nose
and raised it over his head like the sword of an executioner preparing to
behead a condemned man。
“If I so desired； I could cut off your head this instant；” I said； announcing
what was already apparent。 “But I’m prepared to spare you for the sake of
Shekure’s children and her happiness。 Be good to her and don’t act crudely
and ignorantly toward her。 Promise me！”
“I give my word；” he said。
“I hereby grant you Shekure；” I said。
Yet my arm acted of its own accord； heedless of my words。 I drove the
dagger down upon Black with all my might。
At the last moment； both because Black moved and because I altered the
path of my blow； the dagger struck his shoulder； not his neck。 I watched in
terror； the deed enacted by my arm alone。 Once I removed the dagger； sunk to
its handle in Black’s flesh； the spot bloomed a pure red。 What I’d done both
frightened and shamed me。 But if I went blind on the ship； perhaps on the
Arabian seas； I knew that I could not then take revenge upon any of my
miniaturist brethren。
Stork； afraid that his turn had e； and justifiably so； fled into the
blackened rooms within。 Holding the lamp aloft； I went after him； but soon
grew frightened and turned back。 My last gesture was to kiss Butterfly； and
saying farewell； to take my leave of him。 Since the tang of blood had e
between us； I couldn’t kiss him to my heart’s content。 But he noticed that
tears flowed from my eyes。
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I left the lodge within a kind of deathly silence punctuated by Black’s
moaning。 Nearly running； I fled the wet and muddy garden； the dark
neighborhood。 The ship that was to take me to Akbar Khan’s workshop would
depart after the morning azan； at that hour the last rowboat would leave for
the ship from Galleon Harbor。 As I ran； tears poured from my eyes。
As I passed through Aksaray like a thief； I could faintly make out the first
light of day on the horizon。 Opposite the first neighborhood fountain I
encountered； among the side streets； narrow passages and walls； was the stone
house in which I’d spent the night of my first day in Istanbul twenty…five years
ago。 There； through the yawning courtyard gate； I saw once again the well into
which I wished to hurl myself in the middle of the night； tormented by guilt
for having at the age of eleven wet the mattress that a distant relative spread
out for me in a show of kind and generous hospitality。 By the time I reached
Bayazid； the watchmaker’s shop （where I often came to fix the mechanism of
my broken clock）； the bottle seller’s shop （where I purchased the empty crystal
lamps and sherbet cups I embellished and the little bottles I decorated with
floral designs and secretly sold to the gentry） and the public baths （where my
feet went out of habit for a time because it was both inexpensive and empty）
were all respectfully standing at attention before me and my tearful eyes。
There was nobody in the vicinity of the ravaged and burned coffeehouse；
nor anyone at the house of beautiful Shekure and her new husband； who was
perhaps in the throes of death at this very moment。 I heartily wished them
nothing but happiness。 While roaming the streets in the days after I’d tainted
my hands with blood； all of Istanbul’s dogs； its shadowy trees； shuttered
windows； black chimneys； ghosts and hardworking； unhappy early risers
hurrying to their morning prayers always stared at
me with animosity； yet； from the moment I confessed my crimes and resolved
to abandon the only city I’d ever known； they all regarded me with friendship。
After passing the Bayazid Mosque； I watched the Golden Horn from a
promontory： The horizon was brightening； yet the water was still black。 Ever
so slowly bobbing in invisible waves； two fishermen’s rowboats； freight ships
with their sails furled and an abandoned galleon repeatedly insisted that I not
leave。 Were the tears flowing from my eyes caused by the needle？ I told myself
to dream of the splendid life I would live in Hindustan off the splendid works
my talent would create！
I left the road； ran through two muddy gardens and took shelter beneath
an old stone house surrounded by greenery。 This was the house where I came
each Tuesday as an apprentice to get Master Osman and followed two paces
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behind him carrying his bag； portfolio； pen box and writing board on our way
to the workshop。 Nothing had changed here； except the plane trees in the yard
and along the street had grown so large that an aura of grandeur； power and
wealth hearkening back to the time of Sultan Süleyman had settled over the
house and street。
Since the road leading to the harbor was near； I succumbed to the Devil’s
temptation； and was overe by the excitement of seeing the arches of the
workshop building where I’d spent a quarter century。 This was how I ended
up tracing the path that I’d take as an apprentice following Master Osman：
down Archer’s Street which smelled dizzyingly of linden blossoms in the
spring； past the bakery where my master would buy