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pit into which he’d been cast by his jealous brothers。 I quite enjoy painting
this scene from the romance of Joseph and Zuleyha； for it reminds us that envy
is the prime emotion in life。
There was a sudden lull。 I sensed their eyes upon me。 Should I cry？ I caught
Black’s eye。 That vile scoundrel； he’s peering at us； like someone who’s been
sent here by Enishte Effendi to uncover the truth。
“Who could’ve perpetrated such a horrendous crime？” cried the oldest
brother。 “What kind of heartless beast could’ve slaughtered our brother； our
brother who wouldn’t dare harm an ant？”
He answered this question with his own tears； and I joined him； feigning
grief while I sought my own answer： Who were Elegant’s enemies？ If it hadn’t
been me； who else could’ve murdered him？ I recalled that some time ago—I
believe it was when the Book of Skills was being prepared—he would get
involved in arguments with certain artists inclined to dismiss the techniques
of the old masters and ruin the pages we illustrators had labored extensively
over； thus they would spoil the borders with the horrid colors used to
embellish more cheaply and quickly。 Who were they？ Later； however； rumors
began to spread that the enmity had arisen not for this reason； but out of
petition for the affections of a handsome binder’s apprentice who worked
on the ground floor； but this was an old story。 And there were those who were
annoyed by Elegant’s dignity； his refinement and his erudite feminine
demeanor； but this had to do with another matter entirely： Elegant was
slavishly bound to the old style； a fanatic about the coordination of color
between gilding and illustration； and in the presence of Master Osman； he
would； for instance； point out the nonexistent faults of other miniaturists—
mine in particular—with gentle conceit。 His last quarrel had to do with an
issue about which Master Osman had； in past years； grown quite sensitive：
royal miniaturists who moonlighted； secretly accepting trivial missions
outside the auspices of the palace。 In recent years； after Our Sultan’s interest
had begun to wane and； along with it； the money ing from the Head
Treasurer； all the miniaturists started paying visits to the two…story houses of
the crass young pashas—and the best of the artists would go late at night to
visit Enishte。
I wasn’t at all bothered by Enishte’s decision to stop working on his—on
our—book or his excuse that it was ill…omened。 He had； of course； guessed
that the murderer who did away with brainless Elegant Effendi was one of us
who were embellishing his book。 Put yourself in his shoes： Would you invite a
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murderer to your house each fortnight to work on illustrations after dark？
Wouldn’t you first determine the identities of the murderer and the best
illustrator？ I have no doubt that he’ll quickly deduce which of the miniaturists
was the most talented and the most skilled in color selection； gilding； page
ruling； illustration； face drawing and page position； and having done so；
he’ll continue working with me alone。 I can’t imagine he’ll be so petty as to
think of me as a mon murderer rather than a genuinely talented
miniaturist。
Out of the corner of my eye I am watching that fool Black Effendi whom
Enishte brought with him。 When these two broke away from the cemetery
crowd presently dispersing； and walked down to the Eyüp quay； I followed
them。 They boarded a four…oared longboat； and afterward； I got into a six…oar
along with a few young apprentices who’d forgotten about the deceased and
the funeral and were making merry。 Within sight of the Phanar Gate； our
boats momentarily came so near each other that they were about to lock oars；
and I could see clearly that Black was earnestly whispering to Enishte。 I
thereupon thought how easy it was to end a life。 My dear God； you’ve given
each of us this unbelievable power； but you’ve also made us afraid to exercise
it。
Still； if a man but once overes this fear and acts； he straightaway
bees an entirely different person。 There was a time when I was terrified
not only of the Devil； but of the slightest trace of evil within me。 Now；
however； I have the sense that evil can be endured； and moreover； that it’s
indispensable to an artist。 After I killed that miserable excuse of a man；
discounting the trembling in my hands which lasted only a few days； I drew
better； I made use of brighter and bolder colors； and most important； realized
that I could conjure up wonders in my imagination。 But； this begs the
question how many men in Istanbul can truly appreciate the magnificence of
my illustrations？
Off the waterfront near Jibali； from all the way in the middle of the Golden
Horn； I gazed spitefully at Istanbul。 The snow…capped domes shone bright in
the sunlight that broke abruptly through the clouds。 The larger and more
colorful a city is； the more places there are to hide one’s guilt and sin； the
more crowded it is； the more people there are to hide behind。 A city’s intellect
ought to be measured not by its scholars； libraries； miniaturists； calligraphers
and schools； but by the number of crimes insidiously mitted on its dark
streets over thousands of years。 By this logic； doubtless； Istanbul is the world’s
most intelligent city。
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At the Unkapan？ quay； I left my longboat a little after Black and his Enishte
had left theirs。 I was behind them as they leaned on one another and mounted
the hill。 At the site of a recent fire in the shadow of the Sultan Mehmet
Mosque； they stopped and exchanged parting words。 Enishte Effendi was
alone； and he appeared for an instant like a helpless old man。 I was tempted to
run to him and tell him what that barbarian； from whose funeral we were
returning； had slanderously confided in me； I was going to confess what I’d
done to protect us； and to ask him： “Is it true what Elegant Effendi had
claimed？ Are we abusing Our Sultan’s trust through the illustrations we’ve
made？ Are our painting techniques traitorous and an affront to our religion？
And have you finished that last large painting？”
I stood in the middle of the snowy street as evening fell and gazed down the
dark road which had been abandoned along with me to jinns； fairies； brigands；
thieves； to the grief of fathers and children returning home and to the sorrow
of snow…covered trees。 At the end of the street； inside Enishte Effendi’s
grandiose two…story house； beneath the roof； which I can now see through the
bare branches of the chestnut trees； there lives the most beautiful woman in
the world。 But； no； why should I drive myself mad？
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I AM A GOLD COIN
Behold！ I am a twenty…two…carat Ottoman Sultani gold coin and I bear the
glorious insignia of His Excellency Our Sultan； Refuge of the World。 Here； in
the middle of the night in this fine coffeehouse overe with funereal
melancholy； Stork； one of Our Sultan’s great masters； has just finished
drawing my picture； though he hasn’t yet been able to embellish me with gold
wash—I’ll leave that to your imagination。 My image is here before you； yet I
myself can be found in the money purse of your dear brother； Stork； that
illustrious miniaturist。 He’s rising now； removing me from his purse and
showing me off to each of you。 Hello； hello； greetings to all the master artists
and assorted guests。 Your eyes widen as you behold my glimmer； you thrill as I
shimmer in the light of the oil lamp； and finally； you bristle with envy at my
owner； Master Stork。 You’re justified in behaving so； for there’s no better
measure of an illustrator’s talent than I。
In the past three months； Master Stork has earned exactly forty…seven gold
pieces like myself。 We’re all in this money…purse and Master Stork； see for
yourself； isn’t hiding us from anyone； he knows there’s none among the
miniaturists of Istanbul who earns more than he does。 I take pride in being
recognized as a measure of talent among artists and in putting an end to
unnecessary disagreements。 In the past； before we got used to coffee and our
minds sharpened； these dim…witted miniaturists weren’t satisfied with
spending their evenings arguing about who was the most talented or who had
the best sense of color； who could draw the best tree or who was most expert
in the depiction of clouds； no； they’d also e to blows over such issues；
knocking out each other’s teeth in the process。 Now that my judgment decides
everything； there’s a sweet harmony in the workshop； and what’s more； an air
that would suit the old masters of Herat。
In addition to noting the harmony and ambience brought about by my
judgment； let me list for you the various things I might be exchanged for： the
foot of a young and beautiful slave girl； which amounts to about one…fiftieth
of her person； a good…quality walnut…handled barber’s mirror； edges inlaid
with bone； a well…painted chest of drawers decorated with sunburst designs
and silver leaf worth niy silver pieces； 120 fresh loaves of bread； a grave site
and coffins for three； a silver armband； one…tenth of a horse； the legs of an old
and fat concubine； one buffalo calf； two high…quality pieces of china； the
monthly wage of Persian miniaturist Mehmet the Dervish of Tabriz and the
majority of those of his like who work in Our Sultan’s workshop； one good
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hunting falcon with cage； ten jugs of Panayot’s wine； a heavenly hour with
Mahmut； one of those young boys world…renowned for his beauty； and many
other opportunities too numerous to specify。
Before I arrived here； I spent ten days in the dirty sock of a poor
shoemaker’s apprentice。 Each night the unfortunate man would fall asleep in
his bed； naming the endless things he could buy with me。 The lines of this epic
poem； sweet as a lullaby； proved to me that there was no place on Earth a coin
couldn’t go。
Which reminds me。 If I recited all that happened to me before I came here；
it’d fill volumes。 There are no strangers among us； we’re all friends； as long as
you promise not to tell anyone； and as long as Stork Effendi won’t take
offense； I’ll tell you a secret。 Do you swear not to tell？
All right then； I confess。 I’m not a genuine twenty…two…carat Ottoman
Sultani gold coin minted at the Chemberlitash Mint。 I’m counterfeit。 They
made me in Venice using adulterated gold and brought me here； passing me
off as twenty…two…carat Ottoman gold。 Your sympathy and understanding are
much obliged。
Based on what I could gather from being in the mint in Venice； this
business has been going on for years。 Until recently； the debased gold pieces
that the Veian infidels brought to the East and spent were Veian ducats
which they minted in that same mint。 We Ottomans； forever respectful of
whatever is written； paid no heed to the amount of gold in each ducat—so
long as the inscription remained the same—and these fake Veian gold
pieces flooded Istanbul。 Later； noting that coins with less gold and more
copper were harder； we began to distinguish the coins by biting them。 For
example； you’re burning with love； you go running to Mahmut； that youth of
unsurpassed beauty； beloved by all； first； he takes into his soft mouth the
coin—not the other thing—and biting it； declares it counterfeit。 As a
consequence； he’ll