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Even here in the lodge； they were loath to separate from one another。
“We can safely take refuge here for days。”
“We worry；” Black said； “that the person we should fear is perhaps in our
very midst。”
“I； too； grow anxious；” I said。 “For I have heard such rumors as well。”
There were rumors； spreading from the officers of the Imperial Guard to
the division of miniaturists； claiming that the mystery about the murderer of
Elegant Effendi and late Enishte was solved： He was one of us who’d labored
over that book。
Black inquired as to how many pictures I’d drawn for Enishte’s book。
“The first one I made was Satan。 It was of the variety of underground
demon mon to the old masters in the workshops of the Whitesheep。 The
storyteller and I were of the same Sufi path； that’s why I made the two
dervishes。 I was the one who suggested to Enishte that he include them in his
book； convincing him that there was a special place for these dervishes in the
lands of the Ottomans。”
“Is that all？” asked Black。
When I told him； “Yes； that’s all；” he went to the door with the superior air
of a master who caught an apprentice stealing； he brought in a roll of paper
untouched by the rain； and placed it before us three artists like a mother cat
bringing a wounded bird to her kittens。
I recognized the pages while they were still under his arm： They were the
illustrations I’d rescued from the coffeehouse during the raid。 I didn’t deign to
ask how these men had entered my house and located them。 Nevertheless；
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Butterfly； Stork and I each placidly owned up to the pictures we made for the
storyteller； may he rest in peace。 Afterward； only the horse； an exquisite horse；
remained unclaimed off to the side； its head lowered。 Believe me； I didn’t even
realize that a horse had been drawn。
“You weren’t the one who made this horse？” said Black like a teacher
holding a switch。
“I wasn’t；” I said。
“What about the one in my Enishte’s book？”
“I didn’t make that one either。”
“Based on the style of the horse； however； it’s been determined that you’re
the one who drew it；” he said。 “Furthermore； it was Master Osman who came
to this conclusion。”
“But I have no style whatsoever；” I said。 “I’m not saying this out of pride to
counter the latest tastes。 Neither am I saying so to prove my innocence。 For
me； having a style would be worse than being a murderer。”
“You have a distinct quality that distinguishes you from the old masters and
the others；” said Black。
I smiled at him。 He started to relate things that I’m sure you all know by
now。 I listened intently to how Our Sultan； in consultation with the Head
Treasurer； sought a solution to the murders； to the matter of Master Osman’s
three days； to the “courtesan method；” to the peculiarity in the noses of the
horses and to Black’s miraculous admittance to the Royal Private Quarters for
the sake of actually examining those superlative books。 There are moments in
all our lives when we realize； even as we experience them； that we are living
through events we will never forget； even long afterward。 A melancholy rain
was falling。 As if upset by the rain； Butterfly mournfully gripped his dagger。
Olive； the backside of whose armor was white with flour； was courageously
forging into the heart of the dervish lodge； lamp in hand。 These master artists；
whose shadows roamed the walls like ghosts； were my brethren； and how I
loved them！ I was delighted to be a miniaturist。
“Could you appreciate your good fortune as you gazed at the great works of
the old masters for days on end with Master Osman at your side？” I asked
Black。 “Did he kiss you？ Did he caress your handsome face？ Did he hold your
hand？ Were you awed by his talent and knowledge？”
“There among the great works of the old masters he showed me how you
had a style；” said Black。 “He taught me how the hidden fault of ”style‘ isn’t
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something the artist selects of his own volition； but is determined by the
artist’s past and his forgotten memories。 He also showed me how these secret
faults； weaknesses and defects； at one time such a source of shame they were
concealed so we wouldn’t be estranged from the old masters； will henceforth
emerge to be praised as “personal characteristics’ or ”style；“ because the
European masters have spread them over the world。 Henceforth； thanks to
fools who take pride in their own shortings； the world will be a more
colorful and more stupid and； of course； a much more imperfect place。”
The fact that Black confidently believed in what he said proved that he was
one of the new breed of fools。
“Was Master Osman able to explain why； for years； I drew hundreds of
horses with regular nostrils in Our Sultan’s books？” I asked。
“It was due to the love and beatings he gave all of you in your childhood。
Because he was both father and beloved to you all； he doesn’t see that he
associates all of you with himself and each of you with the others。 He didn’t
want you each to have a style of your own； he wanted the royal atelier as a
whole to have a style。 Because of the awesome shadow he cast over all of you；
you forgot what came from within； the imperfections； the elements and
differences that fell outside the confines of standard forms。 Only when you
painted for other books and other pages； which Master Osman’s eyes would
never see； did you draw the horse that had lain within you all those years。”
“My mother； may she rest in peace； was more intelligent than my father；” I
said。 “One night I was at home； in tears； determined never again to return to
the workshop because I was daunted not only by Master Osman’s beatings；
but by those of the other harsh and irritable masters and by those of the
division head who always intimidated us with a ruler。 In consolation； my
dearly departed mother advised me that there were two types of people in the
world： those who were cowed and crushed by their childhood beatings； forever
downtrodden； she said； because the beatings had the desired effect of killing
the inner devils； and those fortunate ones for whom the beatings frightened
and tamed the devil within without killing him off。 Though the latter group
would never forget these painful childhood memories—she’d warned me not
to tell this to anybody—the beatings would in time enable them to develop
cunning； to fathom the unknown； to make friends； to identify enemies； to
sense plots being hatched behind their backs and； let me hasten to add； to
paint better than anyone else。 Because I wasn’t able to draw the branches of a
tree harmoniously； Master Osman would slap me so hard that； amid bitter
tears； forests would burgeon before me。 After angrily striking me in the head
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beca