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Black； who was afraid that Master Osman would turn us over to the torturers；
and maintained that we must support one another and must be united in
confronting the Head Treasurer。 I sensed Black was not only motivated by the
desire to give Shekure a genuine wedding present by finding his Enisthe’s
murderer； he also intended to set Ottoman miniaturists on the path of
European masters by paying them with the Sultan’s money in order to finish
his Enishte’s book in imitation of the Franks （which was not only sacrilegious；
but ridiculous）。 I also understood； with some certainty； that at the root of this
scheme was Stork’s desire to be rid of us and even of Master Osman； for he
dreamt of being Head Illuminator and （since everyone guessed that Master
Osman preferred Butterfly） he was prepared to try anything to increase his
chances。 I was momentarily confused。 Listening to the rain； I deliberated at
length。 Next； like a man who breaks away from the crowd and struggles to give
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his petition to the sovereign and grand vizier as they pass on horseback； I had
the sudden inspiration to endear myself to Stork and Black。 Leading them
through a dark hallway and large portal； I took them to a frightening room
that was once the kitchen。 I asked them if they were able to find anything here
among the ruins。 Of course； they hadn’t。 There was no trace of the kettles； the
pots and pans and the bellows that were once used to prepare food for the
forsaken and the poor。 I never even attempted to clean up this ghastly room
covered in cobwebs； dust； mud； debris and the excrement of dogs and cats。 As
always； a strong wind； rising up as if out of nowhere； dimmed the lamp—
making our shadows now lighter； now darker。
“You searched and searched but you couldn’t find my hidden treasure；” I
said。
Out of habit； I used the back of my hand as a broom to sweep away the
ashes in what used to be a hearth and when an old stove emerged； I lifted up
its iron lid with a creak。 I held the lamp to the small mouth of the stove。 I shall
never forget how Stork leapt forward and greedily grabbed the leather pouches
within before Black could act。 He was about to open the pouches right there in
the mouth of the oven； but as I had returned to the large salon； followed by
Black who was afraid of remaining here； Stork bounded after us on his long
thin legs。
When they saw that one pouch contained a pair of clean woolen socks； my
drawstring trousers； my red underwear； the nicest of my undershirts； my silk
shirt； my straight razor； my b and other belongings； they were
momentarily at a loss。 Out of the other pouch； which Black opened； emerged
fifty…three Veian gold coins； pieces of gold leaf that I’d stolen from the
workshop in recent years； my sketchbook of model forms which I concealed
from everybody； more stolen gold leaf hidden between the pages； indecent
pictures—some of which I’d drawn myself and some I’d collected—a keepsake
agate ring from my dear mother along with a lock of her white hair； and my
best pens and brushes。
“If I were truly a murderer as you suspect；” I said with stupid pride； “the
final picture would’ve emerged from my secret treasury； not these things。”
“Why these things？” asked Stork。
“When the Imperial Guard searched my house； as they did yours； they
shamelessly pilfered two of these gold pieces that I’ve spent my entire life
collecting。 I thought about how we’d be searched again on account of this
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wretched murderer—and I was right。 If that last picture were with me； it
would be here。”
It was a mistake to utter this last sentence； nevertheless； I could sense that
they were put at ease and no longer afraid that I’d strangle them in a dark
corner of the lodge。 Have I gained your trust as well？
At this time； however； I was overwhelmed by a severe restlessness； no； it
wasn’t that my illuminator friends； whom I’d known since childhood； saw
how I’d been greedily squirreling money away for years； how I bought and
saved gold； or even that they learned about my sketchbooks and obscene
pictures。 In truth； I regretted having shown them all of these things in a
moment of panic。 Only the mysteries of a man lessly could
be exposed so easily。
“Noheless；” said Black much later； “we must e to a consensus about
what we will say under torture if Master Osman happens to turn us over
without any forewarning。”
A hollowness and depression descended upon us。 In the pale light of the
lamp； Stork and Butterfly were staring at the vulgar pictures in my sketchbook。
They displayed an air of plete indifference； in fact； they were even happy in
some horrid way。 I had a strong urge to look at the picture—I could very well
surmise which one it was； I rose and circled around behind them； gazing
silently at the obscene picture I’d painted； thrilled as though I were recalling a
now distant yet blissful memory。 Black joined us。 For whatever reason； that
the four of us were looking at that illustration relieved me。
“Could the blind and the seeing ever be equal？” said Stork much later。 Was
he implying that even though what we saw was obscene； the pleasure of sight
that Allah had bestowed upon us was glorious？ Nay； what would Stork know
of such matters？ He never read the Koran。 I knew that the old masters of Herat
would frequently recite this verse。 The great masters used this verse as a
response to enemies of painting who warned that illustrating was forbidden
by our faith and that painters would be sent to Hell on Judgment Day。 Until
that magical moment； however； I’d never even once heard from Butterfly those
words that now emerged from his mouth as if on their own：
“I’d like to depict how the blind and the seeing are not equal！”
“Who are the blind and the seeing？” Black said naively。
“The blind and the seeing are not equal； it’s what ‘ve ma yestevil’ama ve’l
basiru’nun means；” Butterfly said and continued：
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“…nor are the darkness and the light。
The shade and the heat are not equal；
nor are the living and the dead。“
I shuddered for an instant； thinking of the fates of Elegant Effendi； Enishte
and our storyteller brother who was killed tonight。 Were the others as
frightened as I？ Nobody moved for a time。 Stork was still holding my book
open； but seemed not to see the vulgarity I’d painted though we were all still
staring at it！
“I’d want to paint Judgment Day；” said Stork。 “The resurrection of the
dead； and the separation of the guilty from the innocent。 Why is it that we
cannot depict the Sacred Word of our faith？”
In our youth； working together in the same room of our workshop； we
would periodically lift our faces from our work boards and tables； just as the
aging masters would do to rest their eyes； and begin talking about any topic
that happened to enter our minds。 Back then； just as we now did while
looking at the book open before us； we didn’t look at one another as we
chatted。 For our eyes would be turned toward some distant spot outside an
open window。 I’m not sure if it was the excitement of recalling something
remarkably beautiful from my halcyon apprenticeship days； or the sincere
regret I felt at that moment because I hadn’t read the Koran for so long； or the
horror of the crime I’d seen at the coffeehouse that night； but when my turn
came to speak； I grew confused； my heart quickened as if I’d e under the
threat of some danger； and as nothing else came to mind； I simply said the
following：
“You remember those verses at the end of ”The Cow‘ chapter？ I’d want
most of all to depict them： “Oh God； judge us not by what we’ve forgotten
and by our mistakes。 Oh God； burden us not with a weight we cannot bear； as
with those who have gone before us。 Forgive and absolve us of our
transgressions and sins！ Treat us with mercy； my dear God。”“ My voice broke
and I was embarrassed by the tears I shed unexpectedly—perhaps because I
was wary of the sarcasm that we always kept at the ready during our
apprenticeships to protect ourselves and to avoid exposing our sensitivities。
I thought my tears would quickly abate； but unable to restrain myself； I
began to cry in great sobs。 As I wept； I could sense that each of the others was
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overe by feelings of fraternity； devastation and sorrow。 From now on； the
European style would be preeminent in Our Sultan’s workshop； the styles and
books to which we’d devoted our entire lives would slowly be forgotten—yes；
in fact； the w