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passageway that led away from the back door。 During the raid much of the
crowd and the artists within probably escaped through this door； but the
knocked…over planters and bags of coffee strewn everywhere indicated that
there was a struggle here as well。
The fact that the coffeehouse was raided and the master storyteller
murdered； coupled with the terrifying blackness of night； brought Black and I
closer together。 This was also what caused the silence between us。 We passed
two more streets。 Black handed the lamp back to me； then he drew his dagger
and pressed it to my throat。
“We’re going to your house；” he said。 “I want to search it so I can put my
mind at ease。”
“It’s already been searched。”
Rather than be offended by him； I had the urge to tease him。 Didn’t Black’s
belief in the disgraceful rumors about me simply prove he was also jealous of
me？ He held the dagger without much confidence。
My house was opposite the direction we were heading along the road
leading away from the coffeehouse。 We tacked right and left down
neighborhood streets and passed through empty gardens that bore the
depressing scent of damp and lonely trees as we traced a wide arc back toward
my house。 We’d covered more than half the route； when Black stopped and
said：
“For two days； Master Osman and I examined the masterpieces of the
legendary masters in the Treasury。”
Much later； nearly screaming； I said； “After a certain age； even if a painter
shares a worktable with Bihzad； what he sees may please his eyes and bring
contentment and excitement to his soul； but it won’t enhance his talent；
because one paints with the hand； not the eyes； and the hand at my age； let
alone at Master Osman’s； does not easily learn new things。”
Assured my beautiful wife was waiting for me； I spoke at the top of my
voice to let her know I wasn’t alone so she might hide herself from Black—not
that I took this pathetic dagger…wielding fool seriously。
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We passed through the courtyard gate； and I thought I saw the light of a
lamp moving in the house； but thank God all was in darkness now。 It was such
a merciless rape of my privacy for this knife…wielding beast to force his way
into my heavenly home； where I spent my days； indeed all my time； seeking
out and painting Allah’s memories until my eyes tired—whereupon I’d make
love to my beloved； the most beautiful woman in the world—that I swore to
take revenge upon him。
Lowering the lamp； he examined my papers； a page I was in the midst of
pleting—condemned prisoners pleading to the Sultan to be relieved of
their chains of debt and receiving His benevolence—my paints； my worktables；
my knives； my reed…cutting boards； my brushes； everything around my writing
table； my papers again； my burnishing stones； my penknives and the spaces
between my pen and paper boxes； he looked in cabis； chests； beneath
cushions； at one of my paper scissors； and beneath a soft red cushion and a
carpet before going back； bringing the lamp closer and closer to each object
and examining the same places once again。 As he said when he first drew his
weapon； he wouldn’t search my entire house； only my atelier。 Indeed； couldn’t
I conceal my wife—the only thing I wanted to hide—in the room from which
she was now spying on us？
“There’s a final picture that belonged to the book my Enishte was having
made；” he said。 “Whoever killed him also stole that picture。”
“It was different from the others；” I said immediately。 “Your Enishte； may
he rest in peace； made me draw a tree in one corner of the page。 In the
background somewhere…and in the middle of the page； in the foreground；
was to be someone’s picture； probably a portrait of Our Sultan。 That space；
quite large if I might add； was awaiting its picture。 Because the objects in the
background were to be smaller； as in the European style； he wanted me to
make the tree smaller。 As the picture developed； it gave the impression of being
a view of this world from a window； nothing like an illustration at all。 It was
then I prehended that in a picture made with the perspectival methods of
the Franks； the borders and gilding took the place of a window frame。”
“Elegant Effendi was responsible for the borders and the gilding。”
“If that’s what you’re asking； I already told you I didn’t murder him。”
“A murderer never admits to his crime；” he said quickly； then asked me
what I was doing at the coffeehouse during the raid。
He placed the oil lamp just beside the cushion upon which I was seated； in
a way that would illuminate my face along with my papers and the pages I was
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illuminating。 He himself was scurrying about the room like a shadow in the
dark。
Besides telling him what I’ve told you； that I actually was an infrequent
visitor to the coffeehouse and just happened to be passing by； I also repeated
that I made two of the pictures which were hung on the wall there—although
I actually disapproved of the goings…on at the coffeehouse。 “Because；” I added；
“the art of painting only ends up condemning and punishing itself when it
derives its strength from the desire to condemn and punish the evils of life
rather than from the painter’s own skill； love of his art and desire to embrace
Allah…regardless of whether it’s the preacher from Erzurum or Satan himself
that’s denounced。 More importantly； if that coffeehouse crowd hadn’t
targeted the Erzurumis； it might not have been raided tonight。”
“Even so； you would go there；” said the wretch。
“Yes； because I enjoyed myself there。” Had he an inkling of how honest I
was being？ I added； “Despite knowing how ugly and wrong something is； we
descendants of Adam might still derive considerable pleasure from it。 And I’m
embarrassed to say I was also entertained by those cheap illustrations； the
mimicry and those stories about Satan； the gold coin and the dog； which the
storyteller told crudely without meter or rhyme。”
“Even so； why would you even step foot in that den of unbelievers？”
“Fine then；” I said resigning myself to an inner voice； “at times there’s also
a worm of doubt that gnaws at me： Ever since I was openly recognized as the
most talented and most proficient among the masters of the workshop； not
only by Master Osman； but by Our Sultan as well； I began to be so terrified of
the envy of the others that I tried； if only at times； to go where they went； to
befriend them and to resemble them so they wouldn’t turn on me in a
sudden fit of vengeance。 Do you understand？ And since they’ve begun labeling
me an ”Erzurumi；“ I’ve been going to that den of vile unbelievers so others
might discount this rumor。”
“Master Osman said you o