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religious schools where he taught； was ill…tempered； angry and had a weakness
for drink。 Black was six years old at the time； he’d cry when his mother cried；
quiet down when his mother fell silent and regarded me； his Enishte； with
apprehension。
It pleases me to see him before me now； a determined； mature and
respectful nephew。 The respect he shows me； the care with which he kisses my
hand and presses it to his forehead； the way； for example； he said； “Purely for
red；” when he presented me with the Mongol inkpot as a gift； and his polite
and demure habit of sitting before me with his knees mindfully together； all of
this not only announces that he is the sensible grown man he aspires to be；
but it reminds me that I am indeed the venerable elder I aspire to be。
He shares a likeness with his father； whom I’ve seen once or twice： He’s tall
and thin； and makes slightly nervous yet being gestures with his arms and
hands。 His custom of placing his hands on his knees or of staring deeply and
intently into my eyes as if to say； “I understand； I’m listening to you with
reverence” when I tell him something of import； or the way he nods his head
with a subtle rhythm matching the measure of my words are all quite
appropriate。 Now that I’ve reached this age； I know that true respect arises not
from the heart； but from discrete rules and deference。
During the years Black’s mother brought him frequently to our house
under every pretense because she anticipated a future for him here； I
understood that books pleased him； and this brought us together。 As those in
the house used to put it； he would serve as my “apprentice。” I explained to
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him how miniaturists in Shiraz had created a new style by raising the horizon
line clear to the top of the border； and that while everyone depicted Mejnun
in a wretched state in the desert； crazed with love for his Leyla； the great
master Bihzad was better able to convey Mejnun’s loneliness by portraying
him walking among groups of women cooking； attempting to ignite logs by
blowing on them or walking between tents。 I remarked how absurd it was that
most of the illustrators who depicted the moment when Hüsrev spied the
naked Shirin bathing in a lake at midnight had whimsically colored the lovers’
horses and clothes without having read Nizami’s poem； my point being that a
miniaturist who took up a brush without the care and diligence to read the
text he was illustrating was motivated by nothing more than greed。
I’m delighted now to see that Black has acquired another essential virtue：
To avoid disappointment in art； one mustn’t treat it as a career。 Despite
whatever great artistic sense and talent a man might possess； he ought to seek
money and power elsewhere to avoid forsaking his art when he fails to receive
proper pensation for his gifts and efforts。
Black recounted how he’d met one by one all of the master illustrators and
calligraphers of Tabriz by making books for pashas； wealthy Istanbulites and
patrons in the provinces。 All these artists； I learned； were impoverished and
overe by the futility of their lot。 Not only in Tabriz； but in Mashhad and
Aleppo； many miniaturists had abandoned working on books and begun
making odd single…leaf pictures—curiosities that would please European
travelers—even obscene drawings。 Rumor has it that the illuminated
manuscript Shah Abbas presented to Our Sultan during the Tabriz peace treaty
has already been taken apart so its pages could be used for another book。
Supposedly； the Emperor of Hindustan； Akbar； was throwing so much money
around for a large new book that the most gifted illustrators of Tabriz and
Kazvin quit what they were doing and flocked to his palace。
As he told me all of this； he pleasantly interjected other stories as well； for
example； he described with a smile the entertaining story of a Mehdi forgery
or the frenzy that erupted among the Uzbeks when the idiot prince sent to
them by the Safavids as a hostage to peace fell feverishly ill and dropped dead
within three days。 Even so； I could tell from the shadow that fell across his face
that the dilemma to which neither of us referred； but which troubled us both；
had yet to be resolved。
Naturally； Black； like every young man who frequented our house or heard
what others had to say about us； or who knew about my beautiful daughter；
Shekure； from hearsay； had fallen in love with her。 Perhaps I didn’t consider it
26
dangerous enough to warrant my attention back then； but everyone—
including many who’d never laid eyes on her—fell in love with my daughter；
that belle of belles。 Black’s affliction was the overwhelming passion of an ill…
fated youth who had free access to our house； who was accepted and well liked
in our home and who had the opportunity actually to see Shekure。 He did not
bury his love； as I hoped he would； but made the mistake of revealing his
extreme passion to my daughter。
As a result； he pletely。
I assumed that Black now also knew how three years after he’d left
Istanbul； my daughter married a spahi cavalryman； at the height of her
loveliness； and that this soldier； having fathered two boys but still bereft of any
mon sense； had gone off on a campaign never to return again。 No one had
heard from the cavalryman in four years。 I gathered he was aware of this； not
only because such gossip spreads fast in Istanbul； but because during the
silences that passed between us； I felt he’d learned the whole story long ago；
judging by the way he looked into my eyes。 Even at this moment； as he casts
an eye at the Book of the Soul； which stands open on the folding X…shaped
reading stand； I know he’s listening for the sounds of her children running
through the house； I know he’s aware that my daughter has returned here to
her father’s house with her two sons。
I’ve neglected to mention the new house I had built in Black’s absence。
Most likely； Black； like any young fellow who’d set his mind to being a
man of wealth and prestige； considered it quite discourteous to broach such a
subject。 Still； when we entered； I told him on the staircase that the second
floor was always less humid； and that moving upstairs had served to ease the
pains in my joints。 When I said “the second floor；” I felt oddly embarrassed；
but let me tell you： Men with much less money than I； even simple spahi
cavalrymen with tiny military fiefs； will soon be able to build two…story
houses。
We were in the room with the blue door that I used as the painting
workshop in winter； and I sensed that Black was aware of Shekure’s presence
in the adjacent room。 I at once disclosed to him the matter that inspired the
letter I’d sent to Tabriz； inviting him to Istanbul。
“Just as you did in concert with the calligraphers and miniaturists of Tabriz；
I； too； have been preparing an illustrated manuscript；” I said。 “My client is； in
fact； His Excellency Our Sultan； the Foundation of the World。 Because this
book is a secret； Our Sultan has disbursed payment to me under cover of the
27
Head Treasurer。 And I have e to an understanding with each of the most
talented and acplished artists of Our Sultan’s atelier。 I have been in the
process of missioning one of them to illustrate a dog； another a tree； a
third I’ve charged with making border designs and clouds on the horizon； and
yet another is responsible for the horses。 I wanted the things I depicted to
represent Our Sultan’s entire world； just as in the paintings of the Veian
masters。 But unlike the Veians； my work would not merely depict material
objects； but naturally the inner riches； the joys and fears of the realm over
which Our Sultan rules。 If I ended up including the picture of a gold coin； it
was to belittle money； I included Death and Satan because we fear them。 I
don’t know what the rumors are about。 I wanted the immortality of a tree；
the weariness of a horse and the vulgarity of a dog to represent His Excellency
Our Sultan and His worldly realm。 I also wanted my cadre of illustrators；
nicknamed ”Stork；“ ”Olive；“ ”Elegant‘ and “Butterfly；” to select subjects of
their own choosing。 On even the coldest； most forbidding winter evenings；
one of my Sultan’s illustrators would secretly visit to show me what he’d
prepared for the book。
“What kind of pictures were we making？ Why were we illustrating them in
that way？ I can’t really answer you at present。 Not because I’m withholding a
secret from you； and not because I won’t eventually tell you。 It’s as though I
myself don’t quite know