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empty house； occasionally leaning toward the candlestick； in the flickering
light of the dim candle； I y beloved’s angry
letters； the somersaults they turned trying to deceive me and their hip…
swinging right…to…left progression。 Abruptly； those shutters would open before
my eyes； and my beloved’s face and her sorrowful smile would appear。 And
when I saw her real face； I forgot all of those other faces whose sour…cherry
mouths had increasingly matured and ripened in my imagination。
In the middle of the night I lost myself in dreams of marriage： I had no
doubts about my love or that it was reciprocated—we were married in a state
of great contentment—but； my imaginary happiness； set in a house with a
staircase； was dashed when I couldn’t find appropriate work and began
arguing with my wife； unable to make her heed my words。
I knew I’d appropriated these ominous images from the section on the ills
of marriage in Gazzali’s The Revival of Religious Science； which I’d read during
my nights as a bachelor in Arabia； at the same time； I recalled that there was
actually advice on the benefits of marriage in that same section； though now I
could remember only two of these benefits： first； having my household kept in
order （there was no such order in my imagined house）； second； being spared
the guilt of self…abuse and of dragging myself—an even deeper sense of guilt—
behind pimps leading me through dark alleyways to the lairs of prostitutes。
The thought of salvation at this late hour brought masturbation to mind。
With a simple…minded desire； and to rid my mind of this irrepressible urge； I
retired to a corner of the room； as was my wont； but after a while I realized I
couldn’t jack off—proof well enough that I’d fallen in love again after twelve
years！
This struck such excitement and fear into my heart that I walked around the
room nearly atremble like the flame of the candle。 If Shekure meant to present
herself at the window； then why this letter； which put the opposite belief into
play？ Why did her father call for me？ As I paced； I sensed that the door； wall
and squeaky floor； stuttering as I myself did； were trying to creak their
responses to my every question。
I looked at the picture I’d made years ago； which depicted Shirin stricken
with love upon gazing at Hüsrev’s image hanging from a branch。 It didn’t
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embarrass me as it would each time it came to mind in subsequent years； nor
did it bring back my happy childhood memories。 Toward morning； my mind
had mastered the situation： By returning the picture； Shekure had made a
move in an amatory chess game she was masterfully luring me into。 I sat in
the candlelight and wrote her a letter of response。
In the morning； after sleeping for a spell； I went out and walked a long way
through the streets； carrying the letter upon my breast and my light pen…and…
ink holder； as was my custom； in my sash。 The snow widened Istanbul’s
narrow streets and freed the city of its crowds。 All was quieter and slower； as
it’d been in my childhood。 Crows seemed to have beset Istanbul’s roofs；
domes and gardens just as they had on the snowy winter days of my youth。 I
walked swiftly； listening to my steps in the snow and watching the fog of my
breath。 I grew excited； expecting the palace workshop that my Enishte wanted
me to visit to be as silent as the streets。 Before I entered the Jewish quarter； I
sent word by way of a little street urchin to Esther； who’d be able to deliver my
letter to Shekure； telling her where to meet me before the noontime prayers。
I arrived early at the royal artisans’ workshop located behind the Hagia
Sophia。 Except for the icicles hanging from the eaves； there was no change in
the building where I’d often visited my Enishte and for a time worked as a
child apprentice。
Following a handsome young apprentice； I walked past elderly master
binders dazed from the smell of glue and bookbinder’s paste； master
miniaturists whose backs had hunched at an early age and youths who mixed
paints without even looking into the bowls perched on their knees； so
sorrowfully were they absorbed by the flames of the stove。 In a corner； I saw
an old man meticulously painting an ostrich egg on his lap； another elder
enthusiastically embellishing a drawer and a young apprentice graciously
watching them both。 Through an open door； I witnessed young students being
reprimanded as they leaned forward； their noses almost touching the pages
spread before their reddened faces； as they tried to understand the mistakes
they’d made。 In another room； a mournful and melancholy apprentice； having
forgotten momentarily about colors； papers and painting； stared into the
street I’d just now eagerly walked down。
We climbed the icy staircase。 We walked through the portico； which
wrapped around the inner second floor of the building。 Below； in the inner
courtyard covered with snow； two young students； obviously trembling from
the cold despite their thick capes of coarse wool； were waiting—perhaps for an
imminent beating。 I recalled my early youth and the beatings given to students
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who were lazy or who wasted expensive paints； and the blows of the
bastinado； which landed on the soles of their feet until they bled。
We entered a warm room。 I saw two novices who’d recently finished their
apprenticeships。 Since the great masters； whom Master Osman had given
workshop names； now worked at home； this room； which once aroused
excessive reverence and delight in me； no longer seemed like the workshop of a
great and wealthy sultan but merely a largish room in some secluded
caravansary in the remote mountains of the East。
Immediately off to the side； before a long counter； I saw the Head
Illuminator； Master Osman； for the first time in fifteen years； he seemed like
an apparition。 Whenever I contemplated illustrating and painting during my
travels； the great master would appear in my mind’s eye as if he were Bihzad
himself； now； in his white outfit and in the snow…white light falling through
the window facing the Hagia Sophia； he looked as though he’d long bee
one of the spirits of the Otherworld。 I kissed his hand； which I noticed was
mottled； and I introduced myself。 I explained how my Enishte had enrolled me
here as a youth； but that I’d preferred a bureaucratic post and left。 I recounted
my years on the road； my time spent in Eastern cities in the service of pashas
as a clerk or treasurer’s secretary。 I told him how； working with Serhat Pasha
and others； I’d met calligraphers and illuminators in Tabriz and produced
books； how I’d spent time in Baghdad and Aleppo； in Van and Tiflis； and how
I’d seen many battles。
“Ah； Tiflis！” the great master said； as he gazed at the light from the snow…
covered garden filtering through the oilskin covering the window。 “Is it
snowing there now？”
His demeanor befitted those old Persian masters who grew blind perfecting
their artistry； who； after a certain age； lived half…saintly； half…senile lives； and
about whom endless legends were told。 I straightaway saw in his jinnlike eyes
that he despised my Enishte vehemently and that he was furthermore
suspicious of me。 Even so； I explained how in the Arabian deserts snow didn’t
simply fall to the Earth； as it was now falling onto the Hagia Sophia； but onto
memories as well。 I spun a yarn： When it snowed on the fortress of Tiflis； the
washerwomen sang songs the color of flowers and children hid ice cream
under their pillows for summer。
“Do tell me what those illuminators and painters illustrate in the countries
you’ve visited；” he said。 “What do they depict？”
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A dreamy…eyed young painter who was ruling out pages in the corner； lost
in revery； raised his head from his folding work desk along with the others in
the room and gave me a look that said； “Let this be your most honest answer。”
Many of these craftsmen didn’t know the corner grocer in their own
neighborhood； or how much an oke’s worth of bread cost； but they were very
curious about the latest gossip East of Persia； where armies clashed； princes
strangled one another and plundered cities before burning them to the
ground； where war and peace were contested each day； where the best verses
were written and the best illustrations and paintings were made for centuries。
“Shah Tahmasp reigned for fifty…two years。 In the last years of his life； as you
know； he abandoned his love of books； illustrating and painting； turned his
back on poets； illustrators and calligraphers； and resigning himself to worship；
passed away； whereupon his son； Ismail； ascended to the throne；” I said。 “Shah
Tahmasp had been well aware of his son’s disagreeable and antagonistic
nature； so he kept him； the shah…to…be； behind locked doors for twenty years。
As soon as Ismail assumed the throne； in a mad frenzy； he had his younger
brothers strangled—some of whom he’d blinded beforehand。 In the end；
however； Ismail’s enemies succeeded in plying him with opium and poisoning
him； and after being liberated from his worldly presence； they placed his half…
witted older brother Muhammad Khodabandeh on the throne。 During his
reign； all the princes； brothers； provincial governors and Uzbeks； in short
everyone； started to revolt。 They went after each other and our Serhat Pasha
with such martial ferocity that all of Persia turned to smoke and dust and was
left in disarray。 Indeed； the present shah； bereft of money and intelligence and
half…blind； is not fit to sponsor the writing and illustration of illuminated
manuscripts。 Thus； these legendary illustrators of Kazvin and Herat； all these
elderly masters； along with their apprentices； these artisans who made
masterpieces in Shah Tahmasp’s workshops； painters and colorists whose
brushes made horses gallop at full speed and whose butterflies fluttered off
the page； all of these master binders and calligraphers； every last one was left
without work； penniless and destitute； homeless and bereft。 Some migrated to
the North among the Uzbeks； some West to India。 Others took up different
types of work； wasting themselves and their honor； and still others entered the
service of insignificant princes and provincial governors； all sworn enemies of
each other； to begin working on palm…size books containing at most a few
leaves of illustration。 Rapidly transcribed； hastily painted； cheap books
appeared everywhere； matching the tastes of mon soldiers； boorish pashas
and spoiled princes。”
“How much would they go for？” asked Master Osman。
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“I hear that the great Sadiki Bey illustrated a copy of Strange Creatures；
missioned by an Uzbek spahi cavalryman； for only forty gold pieces。 In the
tent of a vulgar pasha who was returning from his Eastern campaign to
Erzurum； I beheld an album consisting of lewd pictures including paintings by
the virtuoso Siyavush。 A few great masters who hadn’t abandoned illustrating
were making and selling individual pieces； which weren’t part of any story at
all。 By examining such single leaves； you couldn’t tell which scene or which
story it represented； rather； you would admire it for its own sake； for the
pleasure of beholding alone。 For example； you might ment； ”This is the
exact likeness of a horse； how beautiful；“ and you’d pay the artist on this basis。
Scenes of bat or fucking are quite mon。 The price for a bustling battle
has fallen to three hundred silver coins； and there are hardly any