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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 hopeful。 I could only be smart and sarcastic。 Behind these two always
entertaining jinns—intelligence and sarcasm—I sensed the presence of the
Devil； who controlled them； overing me。 At the same moment； the
accursed dogs beyond the gate began to howl madly as if they’d tracked the
scent of blood。
Had I lived this exact moment long ago？ In a distant city； at a time which
now seemed far from me； as a snow that I couldn’t see fell； by the light of a
candle； I was attempting to explain through tears that I was entirely innocent
to a crotchety old dotard； who’d accused me of stealing paint。 Back then； just
as now； dogs began to howl as if they’d smelled blood。 And I understood from
Enishte Effendi’s great chin； befitting an evil old man； and from his eyes；
which he was finally able to fix mercilessly into mine； that he intended to
crush me。 I recalled this tattered memory from when I was a ten…year…old
miniaturist’s apprentice like a picture whose outlines are clear but whose
colors have faded。 Thus was I living the present as though it were a distinct but
faded memory。
So； as I arose and circled behind Enishte Effendi； lifting that new； huge and
heavy bronze inkpot from among the familiar glass； porcelain and crystal ones
that rested on his worktable； the hardworking miniaturist within me—that
Master Osman had instilled in us all—was illustrating what I did and what I
saw in distinct yet faded colors； not as something I was experiencing now but
as if it were a memory from long ago。 You know how in dreams we shudder to
see ourselves as if from the outside； with the same sensation； holding the large
yet small…mouthed bronze inkpot； I said：
“When I was a ten…year…old apprentice； I saw just such an inkpot。”
“It’s a three…hundred…year…old Mongol inkpot；” said Enishte Effendi。 “Black
brought it all the way from Tabriz。 It’s for red。”
At that very moment； it was of course the Devil prodding me to drive that
inkpot down with all my might onto this conceited old man’s faulty brain。 But
I didn’t give in to the Devil； and with false hope； I said； “It is I； I’m the one
who murdered Elegant Effendi。”
You understand why I said this hopefully； don’t you？ I trusted that Enishte
would understand； and in turn； forgive me—that he would fear and help me。
181
I AM YOUR BELOVED UNCLE
A silence filled the room when he confessed he’d murdered Elegant Effendi。 I
assumed he’d kill me as e here to end
my life or to confess and terrify me？ Did he himself know what he wanted？ I
was afraid； realizing how absolutely unacquainted I was with the inner world
of this magnificent artist whose splendid lines and magical use of color had
been familiar to me for years。 I could sense him standing stiffly behind me；
there at the nape of my neck； holding that large inkpot reserved for red； but I
didn’t turn to face him。 I knew my silence would make him uneasy。 “The dogs
haven’t yet quieted down；” I said。
We fell silent again。 This time； I knew that my death； or my somehow
avoiding this misfortune； would depend on what I told him。 All I knew aside
from his work was that he was quite intelligent； and if you grant that an
illustrator must never reveal his soul in his work； intelligence is； of course； an
asset。 How had he cornered me at home when no one else was here？ My aged
mind was furiously preoccupied with this question； but I was too confused to
see myself out of this game。 Where was Shekure？
“You knew it was me； didn’t you？” he asked。
I hadn’t known at all； not until he told me。 In the back of my mind； I was
even wondering whether he hadn’t done well by killing Elegant Effendi； and
that the late miniaturist might’ve actually succumbed to his anxieties and
made trouble for the rest of us。
I was ever so slightly grateful to this murderer； with whom I was alone in
the empty house。
“I’m not surprised you killed him；” I said。 Men like us who live with books
and dream eternally of their pages fear only one thing in this world。 What’s
more； we’re struggling with something more forbidden and dangerous； that is；
we’re struggling to make pictures in a Muslim city。 As with Sheikh
Muhammad of Isfahan； we miniaturists are inclined to feel guilty and
regretful； we’re the first to blame ourselves before others do； to be ashamed
and beg pardon of God and the munity。 We make our books in secret like
shameful sinners。 I know too well how submission to the endless attacks of
hojas； preachers； judges and mystics who accuse us of blasphemy； how the
endless guilt both deadens and nourishes the artist’s imagination。“
“You don’t fault me for murdering that idiotic miniaturist； do you then？”
182
“What attracts us to writing； illustrating and painting is bound up in this
fear of retribution。 It’s not only for money and favor that we kneel before our
work from morning to evening； continuing by candlelight through the night to
the point of blindness and sacrifice ourselves for pictures and books； it’s to
escape the prattle of others； to escape the munity； but in contrast to this
passion to create； we also want those we’ve forsaken to see and appreciate the
inspired pictures we’ve made—and if they should call us sinners？ Oh； the
suffering this brings upon the illustrator of genuine talent！ Yet； genuine
painting is hidden in the agony no one sees and no one creates。 It’s contained
in the picture； which on first sight； they’ll say is bad； inplete； blasphemous
or heretical。 A genuine miniaturist knows he must reach that point； yet at the
same time； he fears the loneliness that awaits him there。 Who would accede to
such a frightful； nerve…wracking existence？ By blaming himself before anyone
els