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the poet Hatifi of Herat。 “But as the methods of the Europeans spread;
everyone will consider it a special talent to tell other men’s stories as if they
were one’s own。”
“This is nothing but the will of Satan。”
“Unhand me now;” I shouted。 “Let me look upon the world one last time。”
They were terrified; and a new confidence rose within me。
“Will you take out the final picture?” Black said。
I gave Black such a look that he was quick to understand I’d do so and he
released me。 My heart began to beat rapidly。
I’m certain you’ve long ago discovered my identity; which I’ve been trying
to conceal。 Even so; don’t be surprised that I’m behaving like the old masters
of Herat; for they would conceal their signatures not to hide their identities;
but out of principle and respect for their masters。 Excitedly; I walked through
the pitch…black rooms of the lodge; oil lamp in hand; making way for my own
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pale shadow。 Had the curtain of blackness begun to fall over my eyes; or were
these rooms and hallways truly this dark? How many days and weeks; how
much time did I have before going blind? My shadow and I stopped among
the ghosts in the kitchen and lifted up the pages from the clean corner of a
dusty cabi before quickly heading back。 Black had followed me as a
precaution; but he’d neglected to bring his dagger。 Would I; perchance;
consider taking up that dagger and blinding him before I myself went blind?
“I’m pleased that I will see this once again before going blind;” I said with
pride。 “I want you all to see it as well。 Look here。”
Under the light of the oil lamp; I showed them the final picture; which I’d
taken from Enishte’s house the day I killed him。 At first; I watched their
curious and timid expressions as they looked at the double…leaf picture。 I
circled around and joined them; and I was ever so faintly trembling as I stared。
The lancing of my eyes; or perhaps a sudden rapture; made me feverish。
The pictures we made on various parts of the two pages over the past
year—tree; horse; Satan; Death; dog and woman—were arranged; large and
small; according to Enishte’s albeit inept new method of position; in such
a way that the dearly departed Elegant Effendi’s gilding and borders made us
feel we were no longer looking at a page from a book but at the world seen
through a window。 In the center of this world; where Our Sultan should’ve
been; was my own portrait; which I briefly observed with pride。 I was
somewhat unsatisfied with it because after laboring in vain for days; looking
into a mirror and erasing and reworking; I was unable to achieve a good
resemblance; still; I felt unbridled elation because the picture not only situated
me at the center of a vast world; but for some unaccountable and diabolic
reason; it made me appear more profound; plicated and mysterious than I
actually was。 I wanted only that my artist brethren recognize; understand and
share in my exuberance。 I was both the center of everything; like a sultan or a
king; and; at the same time; myself。 The situation fed my pride as it increased
my embarrassment。 Finally these two feelings balanced each other; and I was
able to relax and take dizzying pleasure in the picture。 But for this pleasure to
be plete; I knew every mark on my face and shirt; all of the wrinkles;
shadows; moles and boils; every detail from my whiskers to the weave of my
clothes and all their colors in all their shades had to be perfect; down to the
minutest details; as much as the skill of Frankish painters would allow。
I noted in the faces of my old panions fear; bewilderment and the
inescapable feeling devouring us all: jealousy。 Along with the angry revulsion
they felt toward a man hopelessly mired in sin; they were also envious。
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“During the nights I spent here staring at this picture by the light of an oil
lamp; I felt for the first time that God had forsaken me and only Satan would
befriend me in my isolation;” I said。 “I know that even if I were truly the
center of the world—and each time I looked at the picture this is precisely
what I wanted—despite the splendor of the red that ruled the painting;
despite being surrounded by all of these things I loved; including my dervish
panions and the woman who resembled beautiful Shekure; I’d still be
lonely。 I’m not afraid of possessing character and individuality; nor do I fear
others bowing down and worshiping me; on the contrary; this is what I
desire。”
“You mean to say that you feel no remorse?” said Stork like a man who’d
just left a Friday sermon。
“I feel like the Devil not because I’ve murdered two men; but because my
portrait has been made in this fashion。 I suspect that I did away with them so I
could make this picture。 But now the isolation I feel terrifies me。 Imitating the
Frankish masters without having attained their expertise makes a miniaturist
even more of a slave。 Now I’m desperate to escape this trap。 Of course; all of
you know: After all is said and done; I killed them both so the workshop might
persist as it always has; and Allah certainly knows this too。”
“Yet this will bring even greater trouble upon us;” said my beloved
Butterfly。
I abruptly grabbed the wrist of that fool Black; who was still looking at the
picture; and with all my strength; digging my nails into his flesh; I angrily
squeezed and twisted it。 The dagger that he rather timidly held dropped from
his hand。 I grabbed it from the ground。
“But now you won’t be able to resolve your troubles by handing me over to
the torturer;” I said。 As if to poke out his eye; I brought the point of the dagger
toward Black’s face。 “Give me the plume needle。”
He took it out and handed it to me with his good hand; and I stuck it into
my sash。 I focused my gaze into his lamblike eyes。
“I pity beautiful Shekure because she had no alternative but to marry you;”
I said。 “If I hadn’t been forced to kill Elegant Effendi to save you all from ruin;
she would’ve married me and been happy。 Indeed; I was the one who most
fully understood the tales and talents of the Europeans as her father recounted
them to us。 So; listen carefully to the last of what I will tell you: There is no
longer any place here in Istanbul for us master miniaturists who wish to live
by skill and honor alone。 Yes; this is what I’ve realized。 If we’re reduced to
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imitating the Frankish masters; as the late Enishte and Our Sultan desired; we
will be restrained; if not by the Ezurumis and those like Elegant Effendi; then
by the justified cowardice within us; and we won’t be able to continue。 If we
fall sway to the Devil and continue; betraying everything that has e before
in a futile attempt to attain a style and European character; we will still fail—
just as I failed in making this