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bridges； rowboats； candlesticks； churches and stables； oxen and carriage
wheels； as if all of them were of the same importance to Allah。
“Was there ever a time when you visited him unannounced as you had with
the others？”
“Whosoever looks upon Butterfly’s work will quickly sense that he
understands the value of love as well as the meaning of heartfelt joy and
sorrow。 But as with all lovers of color； he gets carried away with his emotions
and is fickle。 Because I was so enamored of his God…given and miraculous
talent； of his sensitivity to color； I paid close attention to him in his youth and
know everything there is to know about him。 Of course； in such situations； the
other miniaturists quickly bee jealous and the master…disciple relationship
bees strained and damaged。 There were many moments of love during
which Butterfly did not fear what others might say。 Recently； since he married
the neighborhood fruit seller’s pretty daughter； I’ve neither felt the desire to
go see him； nor have I had the chance。”
“Rumor has it that he’s in league with the followers of the Hoja from
Erzurum；” Black said。 “They say he stands to gain a lot if the Hoja and his men
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declare certain works inpatible with religion； and thereby； outlaw our
books—which depict battles； weapons； bloody scenes and routine ceremonies；
not to mention parades including everyone from chefs to magicians； dervishes
to boy dancers； and kebab makers to locksmiths—and confine us to the
subjects and forms of the old Persian masters。”
“Even if we returned skillfully and victoriously to those wondrous paintings
of Tamerlane’s time； even if we returned to that life and vocation in all its
minutia—as bright Stork would best be able to do after me—in the final
analysis； all of it’ll be forgotten；” I said mercilessly； “because everybody will
want to paint like the Europeans。”
Did I actually believe these words of damnation？
“My Enishte believed the same；” Black confessed meekly； “yet it filled him
with hope。”
The Attributes of Stork
I’ve seen him sign his name as the Sinning Painter Mustafa Chelebi。 Without
paying any mind to whether he had or ought to have a style； whether it should
be identified with a signature or； like the old masters； remain anonymous； or
whether or not a humble bearing required one to do so； he’d just sign his
name with a smile and a victorious flourish。
He continued bravely down the path I’d set him on and mitted to
paper what none before him had been able to。 Like myself； he too would
watch master glassblowers turning their rods and blowing glass melted in
ovens to make blue pitchers and green bottles； he saw the leather； needles and
wooden molds of the shoemakers who bent with rapt attention over the shoes
and boots they made； a horse swing tracing a graceful arc during a holiday
festival； a press squeezing oil from seeds； the firing of our cannon at the
enemy； and the screws and the barrels of our guns。 He saw these things and
painted them without objecting that the old masters of Tamerlane’s time； or
the legendary illustrators of Tabriz and Kazvin； hadn’t lowered themselves to
do so。 He was the first Muslim miniaturist to go to war and return safe and
sound； in preparation for the Book of Victories that he would later illustrate。 He
was the first to eagerly study enemy fortresses； cannon； armies； horses with
bleeding wounds； injured soldiers struggling for their lives and corpses—all
with the intent to paint。
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I recognize his work from his subject matter more than his style and from
his attention to obscure details more than his subject matter。 I could entrust
him with plete peace of mind to execute all aspects of a painting； from the
arrangement of pages and their position to the coloring of the most trivial
details。 In this regard； he has the right to succeed me as Head Illuminator。 But
he’s so ambitious and conceited； and so condescending toward the other
illustrators that he could never manage so many men； and would end up
losing them all。 Actually； if it were left to him； with his incredible
industriousness； he’d simply make all the illustrations in the workshop
himself。 If he put his mind to such a task； he could in fact succeed。 He’s a great
master。 He knows his craft。 He admires himself。 How nice for him。
When I visited him unannounced once； I caught him at work。 Resting upon
folding worktables； desks and cushions were all the pages he was working on：
illustrations for Our Sultan’s books； for me； for miserable costume books that
he dashed off for foolish European travelers eager to belittle us； one page of a
triptych he was making for a pasha who thought highly of himself； images to
be pasted in albums； pages made for his own pleasure and even a vulgar
rendition of coitus。 Tall； thin Stork was flitting from one illustration to the
next like a bee among flowers； singing folk songs； tweaking the cheek of his
apprentice who was mixing paint and adding a ic twist to the painting he
was working on before showing it to me with a smug chuckle。 Unlike my other
miniaturists； he didn’t stop working in a ceremonial show of respect when I
arrived； on the contrary； he happily exhibited the swift exercise of his God…
given talent and the skill he’d acquired through hard work （he could do the
work of seven or eight miniaturists at the same time）。 Now； I catch myself
secretly thinking that if the vile murderer is one of my three master
miniaturists； I hope to God it’s Stork。 During his apprenticeship； the sight of
him at my door on Friday mornings didn’t excite me the way Butterfly did on
his day。
Since he paid equal attention to every odd detail； with no basis of
discrimination except that it be visible； his aesthetic approach resembled that
of the Veian masters。 But unlike them； my ambitious Stork neither saw nor
depicted people’s faces as individual or distinct。 I assume； since he either
openly or secretly belittled everyone； that he didn’t consider faces important。
I’m certain deceased Enishte didn’t appoint him to draw Our Sultan’s face。
Even when depicting a subject of the utmost importance； he couldn’t keep
from situating a skeptical dog somewhere at some distance from the event； or
drawing a disgraceful beggar whose misery demeaned the wealth and
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extravagance of a ceremony。 He had enough self…confidence to mock whatever
illustration he made； its subject and himself。
“Elegant Effendi’s murder resembles the way Joseph’s brothers tossed him
into a well out of jealousy；” said Black。 “And my Enishte’s death resembles the
unforeseen murder of Hüsrev at the hands of his son who had his heart set on
Hüsrev’s wife； Shirin。 Everyone says that Stork loved to paint scenes of war and
gruesome depictions of death。”
“Anyone who thinks an illuminator resembles the subject of the picture he
paints doesn’t understand me or my master miniaturists。 What exposes us is
not the subject； which others have missioned from us—these are always
the same anyway—but the hidden sensibilities we include in the painting as
we render that subject： A light that seems to radiate from within the picture； a
palpable hesitancy or anger one notices in the position of figures； horses
and trees； the desire and sorrow emanating from a cypress as it reaches to the
heavens； the pious resignation and patience that we introduce into the
illustration when we ornament wall tiles with a fervor that tempts
blindness…Yes； these are our hidden traces； not those identical horses all in a
row。 When a painter renders the fury and speed of a horse； he doesn’t paint
his own fury and speed； by trying to make the perfect horse； he reveals his love
for the richness of this world and its creator； displaying the colors of a passion
for life—only that and nothing more。”
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I AM CALLED BLACK
Various manuscript pages lay before me and the great Master Osman—some
with calligraphed texts and ready to be bound； some not yet colored or
otherwise unfinished for whatever reason—as we spent an entire afternoon
evaluating the master miniaturists and the pages of my Enishte’s book；
keeping charts of our assessments。 We thought we’d seen the last of the
mander’s respectful but crude men； who’d brought us the pages collected
from the miniaturists and calligraphers whose homes they raided and searched
（some pieces had nothing whatsoever to do with either of our two books and
some pages confirmed that the calligraphers； as well； were secretly accepting
work from outside the palace for the sake of a few extra coins）； when the most
brash of them stepped over to the exalted master and removed a piece of
paper from his sash。
I paid no mind at first； thinking it was one of those petitions from a father
seeking an apprenticeship for his son by approaching as many division heads
and group captains as possible。 I could tell that the morning sun had vanished
by the pale light that filtered inside。 To rest my eyes； I was doing an exercise
the old masters of Shiraz remended miniaturists do to stave off premature
blindness； that is； I was trying to look emptily into the distance without
focusing。 That’s when I recognized with a thrill the sweet color and heart…
stopping folds of the paper which my master held and stared at with an
expression of disbelief。 This matched exactly the letters that Shekure had sent
me via Esther。 I was about to say； “What a coincidence” like an idiot； when I
noticed that； like Shekure’s first letter； it was acpanied by a painting on
coarse paper！
Master Osman kept the painting to himself。 He handed me the letter that I
just then embarrassingly realized was from Shekure。
My Dear Husband Black。 I sent Esther to sound out late Elegant Effendi’s
widow； Kalbiye。 While there； Kalbiye showed Esther this illustrated page； which
I’m sending to you。 Later； I went to Kalbiye’s house； doing everything within my
power to persuade her that it was in her best interest to give me the picture。 This
page was on poor Elegant Effendi’s body when he was removed from the well。
Kalbiye swears that nobody had missioned her husband； may he rest in divine
light； to draw horses。 So then； who made them？ The mander’s men searched
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the house。 I’m sending this note because this matter must have significance to the
investigation。 The children kiss your hands respectfully。 Your wife； Shekure。
I carefully read the last three words of this beautiful note thrice as if staring
at three wondrous red roses in a garden。 I leaned over the page that Master
Osman was scrutinizing； magnifying lens in hand。 I straightaway noticed that
the shapes whose ink had bled were horses sketched in a single motion as the
old masters would do to accustom the hand。
Master Osman； who read Shekure’s note without ment； voiced a
question： “Who drew this？” He then answered himself； “Of course； the same
miniaturist who drew the late Enishte’s horse。”
Could he be so certain？ Moreover； we weren’t at all sure who’d drawn the
horse for the book。 We removed the horse from among the nine pages and
began to examine it。
It was a handsome； simple； chestnut horse that you couldn’t take your eyes
off of。 Was I being truthful when I said this？ I had plenty of time to look at
this horse with my Enishte； and later； when I was left alone with these
illustrations； but I hadn’t given it much thought then。 It was a beautiful； but
ordinary horse： It was s