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blossomed with his love。 Even jealousy； which cast its shadow over those
happy years； had a different hue then。
Now I am pletely divided； just like those figures whose head and hands
are drawn and painted by one master while their bodies and clothes are
depicted by another。 When a God…fearing man like myself unexpectedly
bees a murderer； it takes time to adjust。 I’ve adopted a second voice； one
befitting a murderer； so that I might still carry on as though my old life
continued。 I am speaking now in this derisive and devious second voice； which
I keep out of my regular life。 From time to time； of course； you’ll hear my
familiar； regular voice； which would’ve remained my only voice had I not
bee a murderer。 But when I speak under my workshop name； I’ll never
admit to being “a murderer。” Let no one try to associate these two voices； I
have no individual style or flaws in artistry to betray my hidden persona。
Indeed； I believe that style； or for that matter； anything that serves to
distinguish one artist from another； is a flaw—not individual character； as
some arrogantly claim。
I do admit that in my own situation； this presents a problem。 For though I
might speak through my workshop name； lovingly given to me by Master
Osman and used by Enishte Effendi； who also admired it； in no wise do I want
you to figure out whether I am Butterfly； Olive or Stork。 For if you do you
won’t hesitate to turn me over to the torturers of the Sultan’s mander of
the Imperial Guard。
And； I must mind what I think about and say。 Actually； I know that you’re
listening to me even when I’m mulling over matters in private。 I can’t afford
careless contemplation of my frustrations or the incriminating details of my
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life。 Even when recounting the “Alif；” “Ba” and “Djim” stories。 I was always
mindful of your gaze。
One side of the warriors； lovers； princes and legendary heroes that I’ve
illustrated tens of thousands of times faces whatever is depicted there； in that
mythical time—the enemies they’re battling； for example； or the dragons
they’re slaying； or the beautiful maidens over whom they weep。 But another
aspect； and another side of their bodies； faces the book lover who happens to
be gazing at the magnificent painting。 If I do have style and character； it’s not
only hidden in my artwork； but in my crime and in my words as well！ Yes； try
to discover who I am from the color of my words！
I； too； know that if you catch me； it’ll bring consolation to unfortunate
Elegant Effendi’s miserable soul。 They’re shoveling dirt on him as I stand here
beneath trees； amid chirping birds； watching the gilded waters of the Golden
Horn and the leaden domes of Istanbul； and discovering anew how wonderful
it is to be alive。 Pathetic Elegant Effendi； soon after he joined the circle of that
fierce…browed preacher from Erzurum； he stopped liking me pletely； yet； in
the twenty…five years that we illustrated books for Our Sultan； there were
times when we felt very close to each other。 Twenty years ago； we became
friends while working on a royal history in verse for the late father of our
present sultan。 But we were never closer than when working on the eight
illustrated plates that were to acpany a collection of Fuzuli poems。 One
summer evening back then； as a concession to his understandable but illogical
desires—apparently a miniaturist ought to feel in his soul the text he’s
illustrating—I came here and patiently listened to him pretentiously recite
lines from Fuzuli’s collected works as flocks of swallows fluttered above us in a
frenzy。 I still recall a line recited that evening： “I am not me but eternally thee。”
I’ve always wondered how one might illustrate this line。
I ran to his house as soon as I learned that his body had been found。 There；
the diminutive garden where we once sat and recited poetry； now covered in
snow； seemed diminished； just like any garden revisited after a period of years。
His house was that way； too。 From the next room； I could hear the wails of
women； and their exaggerated exclamations； mounting as if they were
peting with each other。 When his eldest brother spoke； I listened intently：
The face of our forlorn brother Elegant was practically destroyed； and his head
was smashed。 After he was removed from the bottom of the well where he’d
lain for four days； his brothers scarcely knew him； and his poor wife； Kalbiye；
whom they’d brought from the house； was forced to identify the
unrecognizable body in the dark of night by its torn and tattered clothing。 I
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was reminded of a depiction of the Midian merchants pulling Joseph from the
pit into which he’d been cast by his jealous brothers。 I quite enjoy painting
this scene from the romance of Joseph and Zuleyha； for it reminds us that envy
is the prime emotion in life。
There was a sudden lull。 I sensed their eyes upon me。 Should I cry？ I caught
Black’s eye。 That vile scoundrel； he’s peering at us； like someone who’s been
sent here by Enishte Effendi to uncover the truth。
“Who could’ve perpetrated such a horrendous crime？” cried the oldest
brother。 “What kind of heartless beast could’ve slaughtered our brother； our
brother who wouldn’t dare harm an ant？”
He answered this question with his own tears； and I joined him； feigning
grief while I sought my own answer： Who were Elegant’s enemies？ If it hadn’t
been me； who else could’ve murdered him？ I recalled that some time ago—I
believe it was when the Book of Skills was being prepared—he would get
involved in arguments with certain artists inclined to dismiss the techniques
of the old masters and ruin the pages we illustrators had labored extensively
over； thus they would spoil the borders with the horrid colors used to
embellish more cheaply and quickly。 Who were they？ Later； however； rumors
began to spread that the enmity had arisen not for this reason； but out of
petition for the affections of a handsome binder’s apprentice who worked
on the ground floor； but this was an old story。 And there were those who were
annoyed by Elegant’s dignity； his refinement and his erudite feminine
demeanor； but this had to do with another matter entirely： Elegant was
slavishly bound to the old style； a fanatic about the coordination of color
between gilding and illustration； and in the presence of Master Osman； he
would； for instance； point out the nonexistent faults of other miniaturists—
mine in particular—with gentle conceit。 His last quarrel had to do with an
issue about which Master Osman had； in past years； grown quite sensitive：
royal miniaturists who moonligh