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since I was forced to do away with hapless Elegant; who was a brother to me;
and only now have I; to some extent; accepted my situation。
I would’ve preferred to resolve this unexpected and awful dilemma without
having to do away with anybody; but I knew there was no other choice。 I
handled the matter then and there; assuming the burden of responsibility。 I
couldn’t let the false accusations of one foolhardy man endanger the entire
society of miniaturists。
Nevertheless; being a murderer takes some getting used to。 I can’t stand
being at home; so I head out to the street。 I can’t stand my street; so I walk on
to another; and then another。 As I stare at people’s faces; I realize that many of
them believe they’re innocent because they haven’t yet had the opportunity to
snuff out a life。 It’s hard to believe that most men are more moral or better
than me simply on account of some minor twist of fate。 At most; they wear
somewhat stupider expressions because they haven’t yet killed; and like all
fools; they appear to have good intentions。 After I took care of that pathetic
man; wandering the streets of Istanbul for four days was enough to confirm
that everyone with a gleam of cleverness in his eye and the shadow of his soul
cast across his face was a hidden assassin。 Only imbeciles are innocent。
Tonight; for example; while warming up with a steaming coffee at the
coffeehouse located in the back streets of the slave market; gazing at the sketch
of a dog hanging on the back wall; I was gradually forgetting my plight and
laughing with the rest of them at everything the dog recounted。 Then; I had
the sensation that one of the men beside me was a mon murderer like
myself。 Though he was simply laughing at the storyteller as I was; my intuition
was sparked; either by the way his arm rested near mine or by the way he
restlessly rapped his fingers on his cup。 I’m not sure how I knew; but I
suddenly turned and looked him directly in the eye。 He gave a start and his
face contorted。 As the crowd dispersed; an acquaintance of his took him by the
arm and said; “Nusret Hoja’s men will surely raid this place。”
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Raising an eyebrow; he signaled the man quiet。 Their fear infected me。 No
one trusted anyone; everyone expected to be done in at any moment by the
man next to him。
It had bee even colder; and snow had accumulated on street corners
and at the bases of walls。 In the blindness of night; I could find my way along
the narrow streets only by groping with my hands。 At times; the dim light of
an oil lamp still burning somewhere inside a wooden house filtered out from
behind blackened windows and drawn shutters; reflecting on the snow; but
mostly; I could see nothing; and found my way by listening for the sounds of
watchmen banging their sticks on stones; for the howling of mad dogs; or the
sounds ing from houses。 At times the narrow and dreadful streets of the
city seemed to be lit up by a wondrous light ing from the snow itself; and
in the darkness; amid the ruins and trees; I thought I spotted one of those
ghosts that have made Istanbul such an ominous place for thousands of years。
From within houses; now and again; I heard the noises of miserable people
having coughing fits or snorting or wailing as they cried out in their dreams;
or I heard the shouts of husbands and wives as they tried to strangle each
other; their children sobbing at their feet。
For a couple of nights in a row; I came to this coffeehouse to relive the
happiness I’d felt before being a murderer; to raise my spirits and to listen
to the storyteller。 Most of my miniaturist friends; the brethren with whom I’d
spent my entire life; came here every night。 Since I’d silenced that lout with
whom I’d made illustrations since childhood I didn’t want to see any of them。
Much embarrasses me about the lives of my brethren; who can’t do without
gossiping; and about the disgraceful atmosphere of joviality in this place。 I
even sketched a few pictures for the storyteller so they wouldn’t accuse me of
conceit; but that failed to put an end to their envy。
They’re justified in being jealous。 Not one of them could surpass me in
mixing colors; in creating and embellishing borders; posing pages;
selecting subjects; drawing faces; arranging bustling war and hunting scenes
and depicting beasts; sultans; ships; horses; warriors and lovers。 Not one could
approach my mastery in imbuing illustrations with the poetry of the soul; not
even in gilding。 I’m not bragging; but explaining this to you so you might fully
understand me。 Over time; jealousy bees an element as indispensable as
paint in the life of the master artist。
During my walks; which grow increasingly longer due to my restlessness; I
e face…to…face occasionally with one of our most pure and innocent
religious countrymen; and a strange notion suddenly enters my head: If I think
19
about the fact that I’m a murderer; the man before me will read it on my face。
Therefore; I force myself to think of different things; just as I forced myself;
writhing in embarrassment; to banish thoughts of women when performing
prayers as an adolescent。 But unlike those days of youthful fits when I couldn’t
get the act of copulation out of my thoughts; now; I can indeed forget the
murder that I’ve mitted。
You realize; in fact; that I’m explaining all these things because they relate
to my predicament。 But if I were to divulge even one detail related to the
killing itself; you’d figure it all out and this would relieve me from being a
nameless; faceless murderer roaming among you like an apparition and
relegate me to the status of an ordinary; confessed criminal who has given
himself up; soon to pay for his crime with his head。 Give me the license not to
dwell on every single detail; allow me to keep some clues to myself: Try to
discover who I am from my choice of words and colors; as attentive people like
yourselves might examine footprints to catch a thief。 This; in turn; brings us to
the issue of “style;” which is now of widespread interest: Does a miniaturist;
ought a miniaturist; have his own personal style? A use of color; a voice all his
own?
Let’s consider a piece by Bihzad; the master of masters; patron saint of all
miniaturists。 I happened across this masterpiece; which also nicely pertains to
my situation because it’s a depiction of murder; among the pages of a flawless
niy…year…old book of the Herat school。 It emerged from the library of a
Persian prince killed in a merciless battle of succession and recounts the story
of Hüsrev and Shirin。 You; of course; know the fate of Hüsrev and Shirin; I refer
to Nizami’s version; not Firdusi’s:
The two lovers fina