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Elegant Effendi to this dervish lodge in the middle of the night！ I brought him
here with the excuse that we’d nearly frozen walking the streets so long。 In
actuality； it pleased me to show him I was a free…thinking Kalenderi throwback；
or worse yet； that I aspired to be a Kalenderi。 When Elegant understood I was
the last of the followers of a dervish order based on pederasty； hashish
consumption； vagrancy and all manner of aberrant behavior； I thought he’d
fear and respect me even more； and in turn； be intimidated into silence。 As
fate would have it； the exact opposite happened。 Our dim…witted boyhood
friend disliked it here； and he quickly decided the accusations of blasphemy
he’d learned from your Enishte ark。 So； our beloved
apprenticeship panion； who’d at first implored； ”Help me； convince me
that we won’t go to Hell so I might sleep in peace tonight；“ in a newfound；
threatening tone； began to insist that ”this will end in nothing but evil。“ He
was convinced the preacher hoja from Erzurum would hear the rumors that in
the final picture we’d veered from the orders of Our Sultan； who’d never
forgive this transgression。 Convincing him everything was clear skies and
sunshine was nearly impossible。 He’d tell all to the preacher’s dull
congregation； exaggerating Enishte’s absurdities； the anxieties about affronts
to the religion and rendering the Devil in a favorable light； and they’d
naturally believe every slanderous word。 I don’t have to tell you how； not only
the artisans； but the entire society of craftsmen have grown jealous of us since
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we’ve bee the intense focus of Our Sultan’s attention。 Now all of them
will gleefully declare in unison ”the miniaturists are mired in heresy。“
Furthermore； the cooperation between Enishte and Elegant Effendi would
prove this slander true。 I say ”slander‘ because I don’t believe in what my
brother Elegant said about the book and the last picture。 Even then； I would
hear nothing against your late Enishte。 I found it quite appropriate that Our
Sultan turn his favors from Master Osman to Enishte Effendi； and I even
believed； if not to the same degree； what Enishte described to me at length
about the Frankish masters and their artistry。 I used to believe quite sincerely
that we Ottoman artists could fortably take from this or that aspect of the
Frankish methods as much as our hearts desired or as much as could be seen
during a visit abroad—without bartering with the Devil or bringing any great
harm upon us。 Life was easy； your Enishte； may he rest in peace； had succeeded
Master Osman； and was a new father to me in this new life。“
“Let’s not discuss that point yet；” said Black。 “First describe how you
murdered Elegant。”
“This deed；” I said； recognizing that I couldn’t use the word “murder；” “I
mitted this deed not only for us； to save us； but for the salvation of the
entire workshop。 Elegant Effendi knew he posed a powerful threat。 I prayed to
Almighty God； begging him to give me a sign showing me how despicable this
scoundrel really was。 My prayers were answered when I offered Elegant money。
God had shown me how wretched he really was。 These gold pieces came to
mind； but by divine inspiration； I lied。 I said the gold pieces weren’t here in
the lodge； but I’d hidden them elsewhere。 We went out。 I walked him through
empty streets and out…of…the…way neighborhoods without any consideration
for where we were going。 I had no idea what I would do； and in short； I was
afraid。 At the end of our wandering； after we’d e to a street we’d passed
earlier； our brother Elegant Effendi the gilder； who devoted his entire life to
form and repetition； grew suspicious。 But God provided me with an empty lot
ravaged by fire； and nearby； a dry well。”
At this point I knew I couldn’t go on and I told them so。 “If you were in my
shoes； you would’ve considered the salvation of your artist brethren and done
the same thing；” I said confidently。
When I heard them agree with me； I felt like crying。 I was going to say it
was because their passion； which I hardly deserved； softened my heart； but
no。 I was going to say it was because I again heard the thud of his body hitting
the bottom of the well wherein I dropped him after killing him； but no。 I was
going to say it was because I remembered how happy I was before being a
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murderer； how I’d been like everybody else； but no。 The blind man who used
to pass through our neighborhood in my childhood appeared in my mind’s
eye： He’d take a dirty metal water dipper out of his even dirtier clothes； and
would call out to us neighborhood kids who watched him from a distance；
there by the local water fountain； “My children； which of you will fill this
blind old man’s drinking cup with water from the fountain？” When no one
went to his aid； he’d say； “It’d be a good turn； my children； a pious deed！” The
color of his irises had faded and they were nearly the same color as the whites
of his eyes。
Agitated by the thought of resembling that blind old man； I confessed how
I did away with Enishte Effendi hurriedly； without savoring any of it。 I was
neither too honest nor too insincere with them： I found a medium
consistency； such that the story wouldn’t trouble my heart too much； and
they’d be assured I hadn’t gone to Enishte’s house to murder him。 I wanted
to make clear that it wasn’t a premeditated murder； which intent they
gathered when I reminded them of the following while trying to absolve
myself： “Without harboring bad intentions； one never goes to Hell。”
“After surrendering Elegant Effendi to the Angels of Allah；” I said
thoughtfully； “what the dearly departed expressed to me in his last moments
started to gnaw at me like a worm。 Having caused me to bloody my hands； the
final painting loomed larger in my mind； and so； resolving to see it； I went to
your Enishte； who no longer summoned any of us to his house。 Not only did
he refuse to reveal the painting； he behaved as if nothing were the matter。
There was； he sniffled； neither a painting nor anything else so mysterious that
it called for murder！ To preempt further humiliation； and to get his attention； I
thereupon confessed that I was the one who killed Elegant Effendi and tossed
him into a well。 Yes； then he took me more seriously； but he continued to
humiliate me all the same。 How could a man who humiliates his son be a
father？ Great Master Osman would bee irate with us； he’d beat us； but he
never once humiliated us。 Oh my brothers； we’ve made a grave mistake by
betraying him。”
I smiled at my brethren whose attention was focused upon my eyes；
listening to me as though I lay on my deathbed。 Just as a dying man would； I
saw them growing increasingly blurry and moving away from me。
“I murdered your Enishte for two reasons。 First； because he shamelessly
forced the great Master Osman into aping the Veian artist； Sebastiano。
Second； because in a moment of weakness； I lowered myself to ask him
whether I had a style of my own。”
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“How did he respond？”
“It seems I am possessed of a style。 But ing from him； of course； this
was not an insult。 I remembered wondering； in my shame； if this were indeed
praise： I considered style to be a variety of rootlessness and dishonor； but
doubt was eating at me。 I wanted nothing to do with style； but the Devil was
tempting me and I was； furthermore； curious。”
“Everybody secretly desires to have a style；” said Black smartly。 “Everybody
also desires to have his portrait made； just as Our Sultan did。”
“Is this affliction impossible to resist？” I said。 “As this plague spreads； none
of us will be able to stand against the methods of the Europeans。”
No one was listening to me； however。 Black was recounting the story of a
sad Turkmen chieftain who was sent off on a twelve…year exile to China
because he’d prematurely expressed his love for the daughter of the shah。
Since he didn’t have a portrait of his beloved； of whom he dreamed for a
dozen years； he forgot her face amid the Chinese beauties； and his lovelorn
suffering was transformed into a profound trial willed by Allah。
“Thanks to your Enishte； we’ve all learned the meaning of ”portrait；“” I
said。 “God willing； one day； we’ll fearlessly tell the story of our own lives the
way we actually live them。”
“All fables are everybody’s fables；” said Black。
“All illumination is God’s illumination too；” I said； pleting the verse by
the poet Hatifi of Herat。 “But as the methods