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“You made your way back here alone？” asked my grandfather。 “Your older
brother ought to have acpanied you。” Then he said to Black： “There’s a
binder friend of mine with whom they work twice a week after their Koran
school。 They serve as his apprentices； learning the art of binding。”
“Do you like to make illustrations like your grandfather？” asked Black。
I gave him no answer。
“All right then；” said my grandfather。 “Leave us be； now。”
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The heat from the open brazier that warmed the room was so nice that I
didn’t want to leave。 Smelling the paint and glue； I stood still for a moment。 I
could also smell coffee。
“Yet does illustrating in a new way signify a new way of seeing？” my
grandfather began。 “This is the reason why they’ve murdered that poor gilder
despite the fact that he worked in the old style。 I’m not even certain he’s been
killed； only that he’s missing。 They’re illustrating a memorative story in
verse； a Book of Festivities； for Our Sultan by order of the Head Illuminator
Master Osman。 Each of the miniaturists works at his own home。 Master
Osman； however； occupies himself at the palace book…arts workshop。 To begin
with； I want you to go there and observe everything。 I worry that the others；
that is； the miniaturists； have ended up falling out with and slaying one
another。 They go by the workshop names that Head Illuminator Master
Osman gave them years ago： ”Butterfly；“ ”Olive；“ ”Stork‘…You’re also to go
and observe them as they work in their homes。“
Instead of heading downstairs； I spun around。 There was a noise ing
from the next room with the built…in closet where Hayriye slept。 I went in。
Inside there was no Hayriye； just my mother。 She was embarrassed to see me。
She stood half in the closet。
“Where have you been？” she asked。
But she knew where I’d been。 In the back of the closet there was a peephole
through which you could see my grandfather’s workshop； and if its door were
open； the wide hallway and my grandfather’s bedroom across the hall by the
staircase—if； of course； his bedroom door were open。
“I was with grandfather；” I said。 “Mother； what are you doing in here？”
“Didn’t I tell you that your grandfather had a guest and that you weren’t to
bother them？” She scolded me； but not very loud； because she didn’t want the
guest to hear。 “What were they doing？” she asked afterward； in a sweet voice。
“They were seated。 Not with the paints though。 Grandfather spoke； the
other listened。”
“In what manner was he seated？”
I dropped to the floor and imitated the guest： “I’m a very serious man
now； Mother； look。 I’m listening to my grandfather with knit eyebrows； as if I
were listening to the birth epic being recited。 I’m nodding my head in time
now； very seriously like that guest。”
“Go downstairs；” my mother said； “call for Hayriye at once。”
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She sat down and began writing on a small piece of paper on the writing
board she’d taken up。
“Mother； what are you writing？”
“Be quick； now。 Didn’t I tell you to go downstairs and call for Hayriye？”
I went down to the kitchen。 My brother； Shevket； was back。 Hayriye had put
before him a plate of the pilaf meant for the guest。
“Traitor；” my brother said。 “You just went off and left me with the Master。 I
did all the folding for the bindings myself。 My fingers are bruised purple。”
“Hayriye； my mother wants to see you。”
“When I’m done here； I’m going to give you such a beating；” my brother
said。 “You’ll pay for your laziness and treachery。”
When Hayriye left； my brother stood and came after me threateningly； even
before he’d finished his pilaf。 I couldn’t get away in time。 He grabbed my arm
at the wrist and began twisting it。
“Stop； Shevket； don’t； you’re hurting me。”
“Are you ever going to shirk your duties again and leave？”
“No； I won’t ever leave。”
“Swear to it。”
“I swear。”
“Swear on the Koran。”
“…on the Koran。”
He didn’t let go of my arm。 He dragged me to the large copper tray that we
used as a table for eating and forced me to my knees。 He was strong enough to
eat his pilaf as he continued to twist my arm。
“Quit torturing your brother； tyrant；” said Hayriye。 She covered herself and
was heading outside。 “Leave him be。”
“Mind your own affairs； slave girl；” my brother said。 He was still twisting
my arm。 “Where are you off to？”
“To buy lemons；” Hayriye said。
“You’re a liar；” my brother said。 “The cupboard is full of lemons。”
As he had eased up on my arm； I was suddenly able to free myself。 I kicked
him and grabbed a candleholder by its base； but he pounced on me；
33
smothering me。 He knocked the candleholder away； and the copper tray fell
over。
“You two scourges of God！” my mother said。 She kept her voice lowered so
the guest wouldn’t hear。 How had she passed before the open door of the
workshop； through the hallway； and e downstairs without being seen by
Black？
She separated us。 “You two just continue to disgrace me； don’t you？”
“Orhan lied to the master binder；” Shevket said。 “He left me there to do all
the work。”
“Hush！” my mother said； slapping him。
She’d hit him softly。 My brother didn’t cry。 “I want my father；” he said。
“When he returns he’s going to take up Uncle Hasan’s ruby…handled sword；
and we’re going to move back with Uncle Hasan。”
“Shut up！” said my mother。 She suddenly became so angry that she
grabbed Shevket by the arm and dragged him through the kitchen； passed the
stairs to the room that faced the far shady side of the courtyard。 I followed
them。 My mother opened the door。 When she saw me； she said； “Inside； the
both of you。”
“But I haven’t done anything；” I said。 I entered anyway。 Mother closed the
door behind us。 Though it wasn’t pitch…black inside—a faint light fell through
the space between the shutters facing the pomegranate tree in the courtyard—
I was scared。
“Open the door； Mother；” I said。 “I’m cold。”
“Quit whimpering； you coward；” Shevket said。 “She’ll open it soon
enough。”
Mother opened the door。 “Are you going to behave until the visitor leaves？”
she said。 “All right then； you’ll sit in the kitchen by the stove until Black takes
his leave； and you’re not to go upstairs； do you understand？”
“We’ll get bored in there；” Shevket said。 “Where has Hayriye gone？”
“Quit butting into everyone’s affairs；” my mother said。
We heard a soft whinnying from one of the horses in the stable。 The horse
whinnied again。 It wasn’t our grandfather’s horse； but Black’s。 We were
overe with mirth； as if it were a fair day。 Mother smiled； wanting us to
smile as well。 Taking two steps forward； she opened the stable door that faced
us off the stairwell outside the kitchen。
34
“Drrsss；” she said into the stable。
She