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I calculated that only if I restrained myself and won over Black and this pretty…
eyed oaf could we deliver ourselves from Olive’s scheming。
Once they knew they wouldn’t find what they were looking for here； they
told me what they were after。 There was a picture that the unspeakable
murderer had absconded with…I said that my house was already searched for
the same reason； as a result； the wise murderer most certainly would’ve hid
that picture where nobody could ever find it （I was thinking of Olive）； but did
they heed my words？ Black explained the horse drawn with clipped nostrils
and how the three…day period Our Sultan had granted Master Osman was well
nigh over。 When I inquired further about the significance of the clipped
nostrils； Black told me； looking straight into my eyes； how Master Osman；
analyzing them as a clue； linked them to Olive； although he suspected me even
more； being no stranger to my ambitions。
At first； it appeared they’d e here prepared to believe that I was the
murderer and to find proof of it； but in my opinion； this wasn’t the sole
reason for their visit。 They’d also e knocking at my door out of loneliness
and desperation。 When I opened the door； the dagger that Butterfly pointed at
me shook in his hand。 Not only were they terrified； thinking that the
despicable murderer； whose identity they were at such pains to uncover； might
corner them in the darkness； smiling like an old friend； and swiftly cut their
throats； they were also losing sleep for fear that Master Osman might conspire
with Our Sultan and the Head Treasurer to turn them over to the torturer—
not to mention the mob of Erzurumis roaming the streets； which demoralized
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them。 In short； they desired my friendship。 But Master Osman had instilled in
them the opposite notion。 It was my present obligation to show them sincerely
how Master Osman was mistaken； which is what they’d hoped for deep down
anyway。
Simply declaring that the great master was mistaken and that he’d bee
senile would surely arouse Butterfly’s enmity。 For in the watery eyes of the
handsome illuminator； whose eyelashes fluttered like the insect he was named
for as he banged upon my armor with his dagger； I could still make out the
pale fire of love he felt for the great master； whose favorite he had been。 In my
youth； the closeness of those two； master and apprentice； was enviously
ridiculed by the others； but they themselves paid no mind； they’d stare into
each other’s eyes at length and fondle each other in front of everybody； later
still； Master Osman would declare tactlessly that Butterfly was possessed of
the most agile pen and the most mature color brush。 This declaration—often
quite true—became the source of endless puns among the jealous miniaturists
using pens； brushes； inkpots and pen boxes in vulgar allusions； devilish
parisons and indecent metaphors。 For this reason； I’m not the only one
who senses that Master Osman wants Butterfly to succeed him as head of the
workshop。 I’ve long understood from the way he talks to others about my
belligerence； inpatibility and stubbornness that this is what the great
master has hidden in the back of his mind。 He thinks； justifiably； that I tend
far more toward the European methods than Olive or Butterfly； and could
never resist Our Sultan’s new desires by saying； “The great masters of old
would never paint this way。”
I knew I’d be able to cooperate closely with Black because our eager new
groom must’ve wanted to plete his deceased Enishte’s book； not only to
conquer beautiful Shekure’s heart and show her that he could fill her father’s
shoes； but also； most probably； to ingratiate himself with Our Sultan by the
quickest means possible。
Therefore； I introduced the matter quite unexpectedly by saying that
Enishte’s book was a blissful miracle without equal in the world。 When this
masterpiece was pleted； in keeping with Our Sultan’s decree and the late
Enishte Effendi’s desire； the whole world would marvel over the Ottoman
Sultan’s power and wealth as well as the talent； elegance and ability of us； His
master miniaturists。 Not only would they fear us； our power and our
relentlessness； they’d be bewildered； seeing how we laughed and cried； how we
stole from the Frankish masters； how we saw the most buoyant colors and the
minutest of details； and ultimately； they would acknowledge with terror what
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only the most intelligent sultans understood： that we were situated both
within the world of our paintings and far far away in the pany of the old
masters。
Butterfly had been striking me all along； first like a child eager to determine
whether or not my armor was genuine； next； like a friend who wanted to test
its strength； and finally； like an incorrigible and jealous foe who wanted to do
me harm。 In truth； he understood that I was more talented than he； even
worse； he probably sensed that Master Osman knew this too。 With his God…
given talent； Butterfly was a superb master； and his envy made me prouder：
Unlike him； I became a master through the strength of my own “reed；” not by
holding my master’s； and I sensed that I could force him to accept my
superiority。
Raising my voice； I explained how pitiful it was that there were men who
wanted to undermine Our Sultan and the late Enishte’s miraculous book。
Master Osman was like a father to us all； he was everyone’s superior； we
learned everything from him！ Yet； after tracing the clues in Our Sultan’s
Treasury； for some unknown reason； Master Osman tried to conceal his
realization that Olive was the despicable murderer。 I said I was certain that
Olive； who couldn’t be found at home； was hiding away in the deserted
Kalenderi dervish house near the Phanar Gate。 This dervish lodge was closed
during the reign of Our Sultan’s grandfather； not because it was a den of
degradation and immorality； but rather； as a result of the endless wars with
the Persians； and； I added； there was even a time when Olive boasted that he
was keeping guard over the forbidden dervish lodge。 If they didn’t trust me；
suspecting some ruse behind my words； the dagger was in their hands； they
were free to mete out my punishment then and there。
Butterfly landed two more heavy blows of the dagger that most armor
could not have withstood。 He turned to Black； who believed what I told them；
and screamed at him childishly。 I came up from behind； put my armor…plated
arm around Butterfly’s neck and drew him toward me。 Bending his other arm
back with my free hand； I made him drop the dagger。 We weren’t quite
struggling； nor were we entirely playing。 I recounted a similar； little…known
scene in the Book of Kings。
“On the third day of a confrontation between Persian and Turanian armies
fully equipped in armor and weaponry and arrayed at the foot of Mount
Hamaran； the Turanians sent the wily Shengil into the field to learn the
identity of a mysterious Persian who’d killed a great Turanian warrior on each
of the previous two days；” I began。 “Shengil challenged the mysterious warrior；
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and he accepted。 The armies； their armor glimmering brightly in the afternoon
sun； watched with bated breath。 The armored horses of the two warriors
engaged each other with such speed that sparks flying from the clash of metal
singed the hides of the horses which gave off smoke。 The fight was a lengthy
one。 The Turanian shot arrows； the Persian maneuvered his sword and horse
skillfully； and finally； the mysterious Persian felled the Turanian after catching
him by the tail of his steed。 He then chased after Shengil who was trying to
escape； and grabbed him by his armor from behind before taking him by the
neck。 As he accepted his defeat； the Turanian； still curious about the identity of
the mysterious warrior； asked without hope what everybody had wondered for
days； ”Who are you？“ ”To you；“ replied the mysterious warrior； ”my name is
Death。“ Tell me then； my friends； who was he？”
“The legendary Rüstem；” said Butterfly with childlike glee。
I kissed him on the neck。 “We’ve all betrayed Master Osman；” I said。
“Before he metes out his punishment； we must find Olive； rid ourselves of this
venom in our midst and e to an agreement so we can stand strong against
the eternal enemies of art and those who long to send us directly to dungeons
of torture。 Perhaps； when we arrive at Olive’s abandoned dervish house； we’ll
learn that the cruel murderer isn’t even one of our lot。”
Poor Butterfly uttered not a sound。 Regardless of how talented； confident
or well supported he might be； just like all illuminators who sought one
another’s pany depite their mutual loathing and envy； he was deathly
afraid of being left alone in this world and of going to Hell。
On the route to the Phanar Gate； there was an eerie greenish…yellow light
above us； but it wasn’t the light of the moon。 In this light； the old； faithful
nighttime appearance of Istanbul prised of cypress trees； leaden domes；
stone walls； wooden houses and tracts ravaged by fire was overtaken by an
unfamiliarity such as might be caused by an enemy fortress。 As we ascended
the hill； in the distance we saw the fire that burned somewhere beyond the
Bayazid Mosque。
In the heavy darkness； we came across an oxcart half…loaded with sacks of
flour heading toward the city walls； and parting with two silver coins； we
procured a ride。 Black had the pictures with him； and he sat down carefully。 As
I lay back and watched the low clouds glow from the fire； two raindrops fell
upon my helmet。
After a long journey； as we searched for the deserted dervish lodge we
roused all the dogs in the neighborhood which； in the middle of the night；
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seemed to be abandoned。 Although we saw that lamps were now burning in a
few stone houses in response to our clamor； it was only the fourth door we
knocked upon that opened to us； and a man in skullcap； gaping at us by the
light of his lamp as if we were the living dead； gave us directions to the
deserted dervish lodge without even sticking his nose out into the quickening
rain—merrily adding that once there； we’d have no peace from the evils of
jinns； demons and ghosts。
In the garden of the dervish lodge we were greeted by the calm of proud
cypresses； indifferent to the rain and the stench of rotting leaves。 I brought my
eye up to one of the cracks between the wooden planks of the dervish…lodge
walls； and later； to the shutter of a small window； whereupon； by the light of
an oil lamp； I saw the menacing shadow of a man performing his prayers—or
perhaps； a man pretending； for our sake； to pray。
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I AM CALLED “OLIVE”
Was it more fitting for me to abandon my prayers； spring to my feet and open
the door for them or to keep them waiting in the rain until I’d finished？
When I realized they were watching me； I pleted my prayers in a
somewhat distracted state。 I opened the door； and there they were—Butterfly；
Stork and Black。 I gave a cry of joy and embraced Butterfly。
“Alas； what we’ve had to bear of late！” I lamented； burying my head into
his shoulder。 “What do they want from us？ Why are they killing us？”
Each of them displayed the panic of being separated from the herd； which
I’d seen from time to time in every master painter over the span of my life。
Even here in the lodge； they were loath to separate from one another。
“We can safely take refug