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master miniaturists； they’d destroy the entire workshop and Our Sultan
would be helpless to do anything but watch without a peep。
As I did every time I came here； I cleaned up with the broom and some rags
I kept hidden in a corner。 As I cleaned； I was heartened and felt like a dutiful
servant of Allah again。 So that He wouldn’t deprive me of this blessed feeling； I
prayed for a long time。 The cold； which was enough to make a fox shit copper；
drove into my bones。 I began to feel that sinister ache at the back of my throat。
I stepped outside。
Soon afterward； again in the same strange state of mind； I found myself in a
pletely different neighborhood。 I don’t know what had happened； what
I’d thought between the deserted neighborhood of the dervish house and
here。 I didn’t know how I’d arrived on these roads lined with cypress trees。
However much I walked； a pestering thought wouldn’t leave me be； and it
ate at me like a worm。 Maybe if I tell you it’ll ease the burden： Call him a “vile
slanderer” or “poor Elegant Effendi”—either way it’s the same thing—a short
time before the dearly departed gilder had left this world； he was making
vehement accusations against our Enishte； but when he saw that I wasn’t that
affected by his declaration that Enishte Effendi made use of the perspectival
techniques of the infidels； that beast divulged the following： “There’s one final
picture。 In that picture Enishte desecrates everything we believe in。 What he’s
doing is no longer an insult to religion； it’s pure blasphemy。” Furthermore；
three weeks after this accusation by that scoundrel； Enishte Effendi had
actually asked me to illustrate a number of unrelated things； such as a horse； a
coin and Death； in various random spots on a page and in shockingly
inconsistent scales； indeed； it was what one would expect of a Frankish
painting。 Enishte always took the trouble to cover large portions of the ruled
section of the page he wanted me to illustrate as well as the places ill…fated
Elegant Effendi had guilded； as though he wanted to conceal something from
me and the other miniaturists。
I want to ask Enishte what he’s illustrating in this large； final painting； but
there’s much holding me back。 If I ask him； he’ll of course suspect that I
murdered Elegant Effendi and make his suspicions known to all。 But there’s
something else that unsettles me as well。 If I ask him； Enishte might declare
that Elegant Effendi was in fact justified in his beliefs。 Occasionally； I tell
myself I should ask him； pretending as if this suspicion hadn’t passed to me
from Elegant Effendi； but had simply occurred to me。 In the end； it’s no
fort either way。
136
My legs； which have aly head； had taken me of
their own accord to Enishte Effendi’s street。 I crouched in a secluded spot； and
for a long time observed the house as best I could in the blackness。 I watched
for a long time： Nestled among trees was the large and odd…looking two…story
house of a rich man！ I couldn’t tell on which side Shekure’s room was located。
As is the case in some of the pictures made in Tabriz during the reign of Shah
Tahmasp； I imagined the house in cross…section—as if it were cut in half with a
knife—and I tried to illustrate in my mind’s eye where I would find my
Shekure； behind which shutter。
The door opened。 I saw Black leaving the house in the darkness。 Enishte
gazed at him with affection from behind the courtyard gate for a moment
before closing it。
Even my mind； which had given itself over to idiotic fantasies； quickly； and
painfully； drew three conclusions based on what I had seen：
One： Since Black was cheaper and less dangerous； Enishte Effendi would
have him plete our book。
Two： The beautiful Shekure would marry Black。
Three： What the unfortunate Elegant Effendi had said was true； and so； I’d
killed him for naught。
In situations such as this； as soon as our merciless intellects draw the bitter
conclusion that our hearts refuse； the entire body rebels against the mind。 At
first； half my mind violently opposed the third conclusion； which indicated
that I was nothing but the vilest of murderers。 My legs； once again； acting
quicker and more rationally than my head； had already put me in pursuit of
Black Effendi。
We’d passed down a few side streets when I thought how very easy it
would be to murder him； so contentedly and self…assuredly walking before me；
and how such a crime would save me from having to confront the first two
vexing conclusions established by my mind。 Furthermore； I wouldn’t have
cracked Elegant Effendi’s skull for no reason at all。 Now； if I run ahead eight or
ten paces； catch up to Black and land a blow onto his head with all my might；
everything will go on as usual。 Enishte Effendi will invite me to finish our
book。 But meanwhile my more honest （what was honesty if not fear？） and
prudent side continued to tell me that the monster I’d murdered and tossed
into a well was truly a slanderer。 And if this were the case； I hadn’t killed him
for naught； and Enishte； who no longer had anything to hide with respect to
the book he was making； would most certainly invite me back to his home。
137
As I watched Black walking before me； however； I knew with utmost
certainty that none of this would happen。 It was all illusion。 Black Effendi was
more real than I。 It happens to us all： In reaction to being overly logical we’ll
feed fantasies for weeks and years on end； and one day we’ll see something； a
face； an outfit； a happy person； and suddenly realize that our dreams will never
e true； thus； we e to understand that a particular maiden won’t be
permitted to marry us or that we’ll never reach such…and…such a station in life。
I was watching the rise and fall of Black’s shoulders； his head and his
neck—the incredibly annoying way that he walked； as though his every step
were a gift to the world—with a profound hatred that coiled cozily around my
heart。 Men like Black； free from pangs of conscience and with promising
futures before them； assume that the entire world is their home； they open
every door like a sultan entering his personal stable and immediately belittle
those of us crouched inside。 The urge to grab a stone and run up behind him
was almost too great to resist。
We were two men in love with the same woman； he was in front of me and
pletely unaware of my presence as we walked through the turning and
twisting streets of Istanbul； climbing and descending； we traveled like brethren
through deserted streets given over to battling packs of stray dogs； passed
burnt ruins where jinns loitered； mosque courtyards where angels reclined on
domes to sleep； beside cypress trees murmuring to the souls of the dead；
beyond the edges of snow…covered cemeteries crowded with ghosts； just out of
sight of brigands strangling their victims； passed endless shops； stables； dervish
houses； candle works； leather works and stone walls； and as we made ground； I
felt I wasn’t following him at all； but rather； that I was imitating him。
138
I AM DEATH
I am Death； as you can plainly see； but you needn’t be afraid； I’m just an
illustration。 Be that as it may； I read terror in your eyes。 Though you know very
well that I’m not real—like children who give themselves over to a game—
you’re still seized by horror； as if you’d actually met Death himself。 This
pleases me。 As you look at me； you sense that you’ll soil yourselves out of fear
when that unavoidable last moment is upon you。 This is no joke。 When faced
with Death； people lose control of their bodily functions—particularly the
majority of those men who are known to be brave…hearted。 For this reason；
the corpse…strewn battlefields that you’ve depicted thousands of times reek
not of blood； gunpowder and heated armor as is assumed； but of shit and
rotting flesh。
I know this is the first time you’ve seen a depiction of Death。
One year ago； a tall； thin and mysterious old man invited to his house the
young master miniaturist who would soon enough illustrate me。 In the half…
dark workroom of the two…story house； the old man served an exquisite cup of
silky； amber…scented coffee to the young master； which cleared the youth’s
mind。 Next； in that shadowy room with the blue door； the old man excited the
master miniaturist by flaunting the best paper from Hindustan； brushes made
of squirrel hair； varieties of gold leaf； all manner of reed pens and coral…
handled penknives； indicating that he would be able to pay handsomely。
“Now then； draw Death for me；” the old man said。
“I cannot draw a picture of Death without ever； not once in my entire life；
having seen a picture of Death；” said the miraculously sure…handed
miniaturist； who would shortly； in fact； end up doing the drawing。
“You do not always need to have seen an illustration of something in order
to depict that thing；” objected the refined and enthusiastic old man。
“Yes； perhaps not；” said the master illustrator。 “Yet； if the picture is to be
perfect； the way the masters of old would’ve made it； it ought to be drawn at
least a thousand times before I attempt it。 No matter how masterful a
miniaturist might be； when he paints an object for the first time； he’ll render
it as an apprentice would； and I could never do that。 I cannot put my mastery
aside while illustrating Death； this yself。”
“Such a death might put you in touch with the subject matter；” quipped
the old man。
139
“It’s not experience of subject matter that makes us masters； it’s never
having experienced it that makes us masters。”
“Such mastery ought to be acquainted with Death then。”
In this manner； they entered into an elevated conversation with double
entendre； allusions； puns； obscure references and innuendos； as befit
miniaturists who respected both the old masters as well as their own talent。
Since it was my existence that was being discussed； I listened intently to the
conversation； the entirety of which； I know； would bore the distinguished
miniaturists among us in this good coffeehouse。 Let me just say that there
came a point when the discussion touched upon the following：
“Is the measure of a miniaturist’s talent the ability to depict everything
with the same perfection as the great masters or the ability to introduce into
the picture subject matter which no one else can see？” said the sure…handed；
stunning…eyed； brilliant illustrator； and although he himself knew the answer
to this question； he remained quite reserved。
“The Veians measure a miniaturist’s prowess by his ability to discover
novel subject matter and techniques that have never before been used；”
insisted the old man arrogantly。
“Veians die like Veians；” said the illustrator who would soon draw
me。
“All our deaths resemble one another；” said the old man。
“Legends and paintings recount how men are distinct from one another；
not how everybody resembles one another；” said the wise illustrator。 “The
master miniaturist earns his mastery by depicting unique legends as if we
were already familiar with them。”
In this manner； the conversation turned to the differences between the
deaths of Veians and Ottomans； to the Angel of Death and the other angels
of Allah； and how they could never be appropriated by the artistry of the
infidels。 The young master who is presently staring at me with his