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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 self…portrait despite all my proficiency and
knowledge。 This primitive picture I’ve made； without even achieving a fair
resemblance of myself； revealed to me what we’ve know all along without
admitting it： The proficiency of the Franks will take centuries to attain。 Had
Enishte Effendi’s book been pleted and sent to them； the Veian
masters would’ve smirked； and their ridicule would’ve reached the Veian
Doge—that is all。 They’d have quipped that the Ottomans have given up being
Ottoman and would no longer fear us。 How wonderful it would be if we could
persist on the path of the old masters！ But no one wants this； neither His
Excellency Our Sultan； nor Black Effendi—who is melancholy because he has
no portrait of his precious Shekure。 In that case； sit yourselves down and do
nothing but ape the Europeans century after century！ Proudly sign your
names to your imitation paintings。 The old masters of Herat tried to depict the
world the way God saw it； and to conceal their individuality they never signed
their names。 You； however； are condemned to signing your names to conceal
your lack of individuality。 But there is an alternative。 Each of you has perhaps
been summoned； and if so； you’re hiding it from me： Akbar； Sultan of
Hindustan； is strewing about money and blandishments； trying to gather in
his court the most talented artists in the world。 It’s quite apparent that the
book to be pleted for the thousandth year of Islam will not be prepared
here in Istanbul； but in the workshops of Agra。”
“Must an artist first bee a murderer to be as high and mighty as you？”
asked Stork。
“Nay； it’s enough to be the most gifted and the most talented；” I said
heedlessly。
A proud cockerel crowed twice in the distance。 I gathered my bundle and
my gold pieces； my notebook of forms； and