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Muhammad attempted to find his own pictures and destroy them； he
discovered that young miniaturists had； with reverence； reproduced them in
countless books； had relied on them in illustrating other stories； had caused
them to be memorized by all and had spread them over the world。 Over long
years； as we gaze at book after book and illustration after illustration； we e
to learn the following： A great painter does not content himself by affecting us
with his masterpieces； ultimately； he succeeds in changing the landscape of
our minds。 Once a miniaturist’s artistry enters our souls this way； it bees
the criterion for the beauty of our world。 At the end of his life； as the Master
of Isfahan burned his own art； he not only witnessed the fact that his work；
instead of disappearing； actually proliferated and increased； he understood
that everybody now saw the world the way he had seen it。 Those things which
did not resemble the paintings he made in his youth were now considered
ugly。”
Unable to rein in the awe stirring within me and to control my desire to
please Enishte Effendi； I fell before his knees。 As I kissed his hand； my eyes
filled with tears and I felt I had relinquished to him the place in my soul that
had always been reserved for Master Osman。
“A miniaturist；” said Enishte Effendi in the tone of a self…satisfied man；
“creates his art by heeding his conscience and by obeying the principles in
which he believes； fearing nothing。 He pays no attention to what his enemies；
the zealots and those who envy him have to say。”
But it occurred to me that Enishte Effendi wasn’t even a miniaturist as I
kissed his aged and mottled hand through my tears。 I was embarrassed by my
thought。 It was as if another had forced this devilish； shameless notion into my
head。 Even so； you too know how true this statement is。
“I’m not afraid of them；” Enishte said； “because I’m not afraid of death。”
178
Who were “they”？ I nodded as if I understood。 Yet annoyance began to
mount within me。 I noticed that the old volume immediately beside Enishte
was El…Jevziyye’s Book of the Soul。 All dotards who seek death share a love for
this book that recounts the adventures that await the soul。 Since I’d been here
last； I saw only one new item among the objects collected in trays； resting on
the chest； among the pen cases； penknives； nib…cutting boards； inkwells and
brushes： a bronze inkpot。
“Let’s establish； once and for all； that we do not fear them；” I said boldly。
“Take out the last illustration。 Let’s show it to them。”
“But wouldn’t this prove that we minded their slander； at least enough to
take it seriously？ We’ve done nothing of which we ought to be afraid。 What
could justify your being so frightened？”
He stroked my hair like a father。 I was afraid that I might burst into tears
again； I embraced him。
“I know why that unfortunate gilder Elegant Effendi was killed；” I said
excitedly。 “By slandering you； your book and us； Elegant Effendi was planning
to set Nusret Hoja of Erzurum’s men upon us。 He was convinced that we’d
fallen sway to the Devil。 He’d begun spreading such rumors； trying to incite
the other miniaturists working on your book to rebel against you。 I don’t
know why he suddenly began to do this。 Perhaps out of jealousy； perhaps he’d
e under Satan’s influence。 And the other miniaturists also heard how
determined Elegant Effendi was to destroy us all。 You can imagine how each of
them grew frightened and succumbed to suspicions as I myself had。 Because
one of their lot was cornered； in the middle of the night； by Elegant Effendi—
who had incited him against you； us； our book； as well as against illustrating；
painting and all else we believe in—that artist fell into a panic； killing that
scoundrel and tossing his body into a well。”
“Scoundrel？”
“Elegant Effendi was an ill…natured； ill…bred traitor。 Villain！” I shouted as if
he were before me in the room。
Silence。 Did he fear me？ I was afraid of myself。 It was as if I’d succumbed to
somebody else’s will and thoughts； yet； this was not wholly unpleasant。
“Who was this miniaturist who fell into a panic like you and the illustrator
from Isfahan？ Who killed him？”
“I don’t know；” I said。
179
Yet I wanted him to infer from my expression that I was lying。 I realized that
I’d made a grave error in ing here； but I wasn’t going to succumb to
feelings of guilt and regret。 I could see that Enishte Effendi was growing
suspicious of me and this pleased and fortified me。 If he became convinced
that I was a murderer and this knowledge struck terror throughout his soul；
then he wouldn’t dare refuse to show me the final painting。 I was so curious
about that picture； not because of any sin I’d mitted on its account—I
genuinely wanted to see how it’d turned out。
“Is it important who killed that miscreant？” I said。 “Is it not possible that
whoever rid us of him has done a good deed？”
I was encouraged when I saw he could no longer look me directly in the eye。
Magnanimous men； who think themselves better and morally superior to
others； cannot look you in the eye when they are embarrassed on your behalf；
perhaps because they are contemplating reporting you and abandoning you to
a fate of torture and execution。
Outside； just in front of the courtyard gate； the dogs began a frenzied
howling。
“It’s begun to snow again；” I said。 “Where has everyone gone at this late
hour？ Why have they left you here all alone？ They haven’t even lit a candle for
you。”
“It’s quite strange； indeed；” he said。 “I don’t understand it myself。”
He was so sincere that I believed him pletely； and despite ridiculing him
just as the other miniaturists did； I once again knew that I actually loved him
profoundly。 But hoy sudden and great flood of
respect and affection； to which he responded by stroking my hair with
irresistible fatherly concern？ I began to see that Master Osman’s style of
painting； and the legacy of the old masters of Herat； had no future whatsoever。
And this abominable thought frightened me yet again。 After some tragedy； we
all feel the same way： In one last desperate hope； and without caring how
ic and foolish we might appear； we pray that everything might continue as
it always has。
“Let’s continue to illustrate our book；” I said。 “Let everything continue as it
always has。”
“There’s a murderer among the miniaturists。 I am continuing my work
with Black Effendi。”
Was he provoking me to kill him？
180
“Where is Black now？” I asked。 “Where is your daughter and her children？”
I sensed that some other power had placed these words into my mouth； yet
I couldn’t restrain myself。 There was no longer any way for me to be happy
and ho