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the lot of poets； drunks； hashish addicts and dervishes and others who
cunningly charmed the proprietor into allowing them to join this mirthful
and witty group。 I explained how confusion reigned as soon as the raid began。
When the crowd of onlookers gathered by the proprietor for some bawdy
entertainment began to leave in a panic； no one thought to mount a defense
of the establishment or of the poor old storyteller dressed as a woman。 Did I
grieve over this calamity？ “Yes！ I； Mustafa the Painter； also known as ”Stork；“
who have truly devoted my entire life to illumination； find it necessary； each
night； to sit together with my artist brethren and converse； joke； ridicule； pay
pliments； recite poems and speak in innuendos；” I confessed； looking
directly into the eyes of dim…witted Butterfly； shrouded in the air of a plump；
moist…eyed boy plagued by envy。 Even as an apprentice； this Butterfly of ours；
whose eyes were still as lovely as a child’s； was a sensitive； fine…skinned beauty。
Again； upon their asking me； I described how on the second day that the
storyteller； may his soul find peace in Heaven； wandering the city and
neighborhoods began plying his trade in the coffeehouse； one of the
miniaturists； perhaps under the influence of coffee； hung a picture on the wall
to be amusing； the glib storyteller took notice and； as a joke of his own； began
a monologue as if he were the dog in the picture； which met with great
success； thenceforth； every night he continued to feature pictures drawn by the
master miniaturists and to tell witty tales they whispered into his ear。 Because
the jibes at the preacher from Erzurum at once exhilarated the artists； who
lived in terror of the preacher’s wrath； and drew more customers to the
coffeehouse； the proprietor from Edirne encouraged the performances。
They asked me my interpretation of the pictures the storyteller hung up
behind himself each night； the ones they found during their raid of brother
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Olive’s empty house。 I explained that there was no need for interpretation
because the proprietor； like Olive himself； was a begging； thieving； wild wretch
of a Kalenderi dervish。 The simple…minded Elegant Effendi； terrified of Hoja
Effendi’s exhortations； and especially of his fire…and…brimstone Friday
sermons； must’ve plained of them to the Erzurumis。 Or even more
probable； when Elegant warned them to stop in their mischief； the proprietor
and Olive； both of the same temperament； conspired to cruelly do away with
the ill…fated gilder。 The Erzurumis； incited by Elegant’s murder； and perhaps
because Elegant Effendi had described Enishte’s book to them； held Enishte
responsible for the murder and killed him； and； they must’ve raided the
coffeehouse to plete their revenge。
How much attention were chubby Butterfly and grave Black （he was like a
ghost） paying to what I said as they ransacked my possessions； gleefully lifting
every lid and leaving not a stone unturned？ When they came across my boots；
armor and bellished walnut trunk； a look of envy
blossomed on Butterfly’s childish face； and I once again declared what
everybody already knew quite well。 I was the first Muslim illustrator to set out
on campaign with the army and the first to carefully study and depict what I’d
witnessed in various victory Chronicles—the firing of cannon； the towers of
enemy castles； the colors of infidel soldiers’ uniforms； the sprawl of corpses；
the piles of severed heads along riverbanks and the order and charge of
armored cavalry！
When Butterfly asked me to show him how I donned my armor； I forthwith
and without embarrassment took off my overshirt； my black rabbit…fur…lined
undershirt； my trousers and my underwear。 Pleased with the way they
watched me by the light of the stove； I pulled on my clean long underwear； the
thick shirt of red broadcloth worn under armor in cold weather； woolen socks；
the boots of yellow leather； and over them； my gaiters。 Removing it from its
case； I was delighted to put on my breastplate； then I turned my back toward
Butterfly and as if ordering a pageboy； had him do up the laces of the armor
tightly and ordered him to attach my shoulder plates。 As I was putting on my
vambraces； gloves； the camel hair sword belt and finally the gold…worked
helmet that I wore for ceremonies； I proudly declared that henceforth battle
scenes would never again be depicted as they’d been in days of old。 “It is no
longer permissible to depict the cavalries of two opposing armies uniformly
using the same pattern as a guide and simply flipping it over to draw the
enemy’s forces；” I said。 “From now on； the battle scenes made in the
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workshops of the Ottomans will be drawn the way I’ve seen them and drawn
them： a tumult of armies； horses； armor…clad warriors and bloodied bodies！”
Seized by envy； Butterfly said； “The illuminator draws not what he sees； but
what Allah sees。”
“Yes；” I said； “however； exalted Allah certainly sees everything we see。”
“Of course； Allah sees what we see； but He doesn’t perceive it the way we
do；” said Butterfly as if chastising me。 “The confused battle scene that we
perceive in our bewilderment； He perceives in His omniscience as two
opposing armies in an orderly array。”
Naturally； I had a response。 I wanted to say； “It falls to us to believe in Allah
and to depict only what He reveals to us； not what He conceals；” but I held my
peace。 And I hadn’t kept quiet because Butterfly would otherwise accuse me of
imitating the Europeans or because he was relentlessly striking one end of his
dagger against my helmet and back； supposedly to test my armor； but because
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