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with Black： “Shekure； as you are my brother’s wife； your best course of action
is to return now with your children to the house of the hero spahi cavalryman
to whom you’re still wed according to the Koran。”
“I refuse；” I said； as if hissing into the heart of the night。 “I refuse； Hasan。
No。”
“Then； my responsibility and devotion to my brother forces me to alert the
judge first thing tomorrow morning of what I’ve heard here。 Otherwise；
they’ll call me to account。”
“They’re going to call you to account anyway；” said Black。 “The moment
you go to the judge； I’ll reveal that you’re the one who murdered Our Sultan’s
cherished servant； Enishte Effendi。 This very morning。”
“Very well；” said Hasan calmly。 “Make that revelation。”
I shrieked。 “They’ll torture the both of you！” I shouted。 “Don’t go to the
judge。 Wait。 Everything will bee clear。”
“I have no fear of torture；” Hasan said。 “I’ve been tortured twice before；
and both times I understood it was the only way the guilty could be culled
from the innocent。 Let the slanderers fear torture。 I’m going to tell the judge；
the captain of the Janissaries； the Sheikhulislam； everybody about poor Enishte
Effendi’s book and its illustrations。 Everybody is talking about those
illustrations。 What is it about them？ What’s in those pictures？”
“There’s nothing in them；” Black said。
“Which means you examined them at the first opportunity。”
236
“Enishte Effendi wants me to finish the book。”
“Very well。 I hope； God willing； that they’ll torture the both of us。”
The two of them fell silent。 Next； Black and I heard footsteps in the empty
yard。 Were they leaving or approaching us？ We could neither see Hasan nor
tell what he was doing。 It would’ve been senseless for him to push through the
thorns； shrubs and brambles lining the far end of the garden in the pitch…
blackness。 He could’ve easily left without being seen； had he passed through
the trees and wound his way before us； but we didn’t hear any footsteps
nearing us。 I boldly shouted； “Hasan！” There was no response。
“Hush；” said Black。
We were both trembling from the cold。 Without hesitating too long； we
closed the gate and the doors tightly behind us。 Before entering my bed
warmed by the children； I checked on my father again。 Meanwhile； Black once
again seated himself before the pictures。
237
I AM A HORSE
Ignore the fact that I’m standing here placid and still； if truth be told； I’ve
been galloping for centuries； I’ve passed over plains； fought in battles； carried
off the melancholy daughters of shahs to be wed； I’ve galloped tirelessly page
by page from story to history； from history to legend and from book to book；
I’ve appeared in countless stories； fables； books and battles； I’ve acpanied
invincible heroes； legendary lovers and fantastic armies； I’ve galloped from
campaign to campaign with our victorious sultans； and as a result； I’ve
appeared in countless illustrations。
How does it feel； you ask； to be painted so often？
Of course； I’m proud of myself。 Yet； I also question whether； indeed； it is I
being depicted in all cases。 It is evident from these pictures that I’m perceived
differently by everyone。 Still； I have the strong sense that there’s a
monality； a unity to the illustrations。
My miniaturist friends were recounting a story recently； and from it； I
learned the following： The king of the Frankish infidels was considering
marriage to the daughter of the Veian Doge。 He was considering it； but
then he was plagued with the thought； “What if this Veian is poor and his
daughter ugly？” To reassure himself； he ordered his best artist to paint the
Veian Doge’s daughter； possessions； property and belongings。 The Veians
could care less about gross indecency： They’ll expose not only their daughters
to the prying eyes of the artist； but their horses and palazzos； as well。 The
gifted infidel artist could depict a maiden or a horse in such a way that you’d
be able to pick either out of a crowd。 Back in his courtyard； as the Frankish
king examined the pictures from Venice； pondering whether he should take
the maiden as his wife； his stallion； suddenly aroused； attempted to mount the
attractive mare in the painting； and the horse grooms were hard pressed to
bring the ferocious animal under control before he destroyed the picture and
its frame with his huge member。
They say that it wasn’t the beauty of the Veian mare that had aroused
the Frankish stallion—though she was indeed striking—but the act of taking a
particular mare and painting a picture in her exact likeness。 Now； the question
arises： Is it sinful to be depicted as that mare had been； that is； like a real
mare？ In my case； as you can see； there is very little difference between my
image and other pictures of horses。
238
Actually； those of you who pay particular attention to the grace of my
midsection； the length of my legs and the pride of my bearing will understand
that I am indeed unique。 But these excellent features point to the uniqueness
of the miniaturist who illustrated me； not to my uniqueness as a horse。
Everyone knows that there’s no horse exactly like me。 I’m simply the
rendering of a horse that exists in a miniaturist’s imagination。
Looking at me； observers frequently say； “Good God； what a gorgeous
horse！” But they’re actually praising the artist； not me。 All horses are in fact
distinct； and the miniaturist； above all； ought to know this。
Take a close look； even a given stallion’s organ doesn’t resemble another’s。
Don’t be afraid； you can examine it up close； and even take it in your hands：
My God…given marvel has a shape and curve all its own。
Now then； all miniaturists illustrate all horses from memory in the same
way； even though we’ve each been uniquely created by Allah； Greatest of all
Creators。 Why do they take pride in simply rendering thousands and tens of
thousands of horses in the same way without ever truly looking at us？ I’ll tell
you why： Because they’re attempting to depict the world that God perceives；
not the world that they see。 Doesn’t that amount to challenging God’s unity；
that is—Allah forbid—isn’t it saying that I could do the work of God？ Artists
who are discontent with what they see with their own eyes； artists who draw
the same horse a thousand times asserting that what rests in their imagination
is God’s horse； artists who claim that the best horse is what blind miniaturists
draw from memory； aren’t they all mitting the sin of peting with
Allah？
The new styles of the Frankish masters aren’t blasphemous； quite the
opposite； they’re the most in keepi