A silence filled t Effendi. I assumed he’d kill me as

        o fess and terrify me? Did    ed? I ed I    artist iffly be t large inkpot reserved for red, but I didn’t turn to face    yet quieted down,” I said.

        e fell silent again. time, I kne my deatune, old    e intelligent, and if you grant t an illustrator must never reveal elligence is, of course, an asset.    ion, but I oo fused to see myself out of this game. here was Shekure?

        “You kne    you?” he asked.

        I    kno all, not until old me. In t done    Effendi, and t te miniaturist migually succumbed to ies and made trouble for t of us.

        I o ty house.

        “I’m not surprised you killed ernally of t’s more, ruggling    is, ruggling to make pictures in a Muslim city. As urists are ined to feel guilty aful,    to blame ourselves before oto be asy. e make our books i like soo tacks of ics ist’s imagination.““You don’t fault me for murdering t idiotiiaturist, do you then?”

        “ attracts us to ing, illustrating and painting is bound up in tribution. It’s not only for money and favor t o evening, tinuing by dlelig to t of blindness and sacrifice ourselves for pictures and books, it’s to escape ttle of oto escape ty, but in trast to to create,    to see and appreciate tures rator of gealent! Yet, genuine painting is es. It’s tained in ture, urist kno, yet at time,    as o sucful, nerve-ence? By blaming ist believes

        en to s , for or of Isfa these hellfires himself.”

        “But you’re not a miniaturist,”    kill    of fear.”

        “You murdered ed to paint as you wis fear.”

        For t time in a loelligent: “I knoo distract me, to dupe me, to get yourself out of tuation,” and     said is trut you to uand, listen to me.”

        I looked into ely fotten ty ary bet to where?

        “Never fear, I    offend your terly as o face me. “Even o be me. It’s as if to do its evil bidding. Yet I    t’s t ing, too.”

        “tales about the Devil.”

        “You then?”

        o murder me, so ed me te    lying but you’re not aoher.”

        “I aents of t o our necks in sin because of you, and now you’re preac hoja’s rabid hen will kill us all.”

        t . ould somebody passing doreet ing aer the house?

        “o buy time t of curiosity. “o meet at t well?”

        “t Elegant Effendi left your o me,” ed desire to fess. “ing. I tried at lengto dissuade    of it. I got o o told ,    better proof t an illustrator is motivated by greed alo’s anot sorry. alented, but mediocre artist. the greedy oaf

        o dig into truly     o do ae a miserable co do yilding. ted    ion    leave a trace…tell me, t is tyle“? today, botalk about ter of a painter’s talent, yle.“ Syle distinguisist from ot?”

        “Fear not,” I said, “a neyle doesn’t spring from a miniaturist’s ole, a seemingly never-ending era ends, a rons. One day, a passionate sultan    talented refugee miniaturists and calligrapent or palad begin to establiss s, unaced to one anoti first in tive painting styles, over time, as reet, truggle and promise. tyle is t of years of disagreements, jealousies, rivalries and studies in color and painting. Generally, it’ll be t gifted member of t’s also call    fortuo t of turists falls ty of perfeg and refining tyle tual imitation.”

        Uo look me straiged gentle manner, and begging my passion as mucy, rembling like a maiden:

        “Do I yle of my own?”

        I t tears leness, sympater, I eo tell    I believed to be truth:

        “You are t talented, divinely inspired artist    eoucail t I’ve seen in all my sixty years. If you put a painting before me s, I’d still be able tnize instantly the God-given magnifice of your pen.”

        “Agreed, but I kery of my skill,” er of my methods.”

        “Your pes t line seemingly of its o your touc your pen drarutray a sion emerging from tioning o metamorpo a eternal o your paintings again and again to     t it, I begin to read ting a surpasses even tivism of ters.”

        “Fine and    about ters. Start from the beginning.”

        “You ruly magnifit and forceful li t you’ve painted raty itself. And just as your talent could create a picture t    devout man to renounce    could als t ant unbeliever to Allah.”

        “true, but I’m not sure t amounts to praise. try again.”

        “turist    and its secrets as , most vibrant, most genuine colors.”

        “Yes, and w else?”

        “You k of painters after Bihzad and Mir Seyyid Ali.”

        “Yes, I’m aoo, y Black Effendi?”

        “First, t require a miniaturist’s skill,” I said. “Sed, unlike yourself,    a murderer.”

        ly u I migo escape tmare to a neyle.” Upon my broac,    discussion ing t    like fat like t of t, ts neck, teries of red ink,    before me…e agreed t if t brougs of red paint—o K, anbul couldn’t make tings at all. As alked, tency of time, like t of t, seemed to co flourned    do weig.

        itomary workaday ease, e my skill?”

        “If erference, Our Sultan    over, of course, c to see ion of an    rait, struck by    illustrations; ter, if akes time to examiacle akingly aedly created at t of our eyes, so mucter. You kn a miracle, reasury    even

        asking    isans, o painting, ever    one day a miracle of ao will find us.”

        e    for a ly ing for something.

        “ miracle ings il raigruly be appreciated?    we deserve?”

        “Never!”

        “how so?”

        “t you ,” I said. “In ture, you’ll be even less appreciated.”

        “Books last for turies,”     fidence.

        “Believe me, none of tian masters isibility, your vi, your sensitivity, ty and brig tings are more pelling because tself. t paint t, ign ive; t    street level, or from taking in , desk, mirrer, er and    all, as you kno persuaded by everyttempting to imitate tly ting seems diso me. I resent it. But to tings t    as t. I    . Beo realize t to alized is tyle. And it’s not only tants of Venice ion, but all tailors, butd grocers in all traits made t a gla tings and you too    to see yourself t to believe t you’re different from all oticuliar ing people, not as t as tually seen by ting in ty. One day everyone    as ting“ is mentioailor rating    sucrait so    be vinced, upon seeing t    an ordinary simpleton, but araordinary man.”

        “So? e    make t portrait, as ty assassin.

        “e !” I replied. “ you learned from your victim, te Elegant Effendi, ators of ture bravely to paint like t’ll amount

        to t, our colors    our books and our paintings, a anding    be able to find ts at all. Indiffereime and disaster roy our art. tains fise and starcermites, ies of i s out of existence. Bindings    and pages . omen ligoves, t servants and clessly tear out tures. Crations oy pens. t . tear and cut up our paintings, pero make otures or fames and sucertai. roy trations to tures of ick toget only because of t also due to being smeared er, bad glue, spit and all manner of filtains of mold and dirt oget ogetattered, faded and unreadable pages,     volume to emerge intact, like a miracle, from ttom of a bone-dry bul t    been buro t least once every ty years t y, er could possibly imagi erpiece mig more tury, or t one day ures mig only our o, but every single royed by    out of : Scfully spying on S; lazing at eaclety; Rüstem’s ling a o deat ttom of a ate of a lovelorn Mejnun befriending a iger and a mountain goat in t; ture and ful ss a so tes ; teardrop border illuminations; te players t embellisis; tations t ens of turist appres secretly teions; tures    ts, u, bes c lovers; tiently aing Our Sultan’s late grandfatoriously marcress; tents t even in your youtrate and t appeared in t of Our Sultan’s great-grandfat    tails, ed teeted nails; ties of birds including Solomon’s s aless dogs; fast-moving clouds; tures; teurisens of te trees ience of Job; the palaces—and

        time of tamerlane or Sa apaories from mus of tening to music played by beautiful ting on magnifit carpets in fields of florees; traordinary pictures of ceramid carpets t oion to tice illustrators from Samarkand to Islambol beaten to t of tears over t one y years; tes t you still depict ounding ses of deating sultans, and artled fleeing gazelles, your dying sies, your ss t glimmer as if nigself ars, ylike cypresses, your red-tinted pictures of love a, all of it will vanish…”

        Raising t, ruck me th.

        I tottered for a    I could never even o describe. tire o yelloion of my mind assumed t ttational; yet, along —an part of my mind, in a sad sed to say to to be my murderer: “tacked me in error.”

        again and broug down upon my head.

        time, even tering part of my mind uood t take, but madness and    migerrified by tate of affairs t I began to raise my voice, rengty streets, no one o s hue; I knew I was all alone.

        artled by my ed. e momentarily came eye to eye. I could tell from , despite , o urist I kne an unfamiliar and ill-ranger ion protracted my momentary isolation for turies. I ed to o embrace t    I did: “My d my life.” As if in a dream,    to hear.

        onto my head again.

        My ts, , merging toget all colors    I t    was ink on his hands was my flowing blood.

        , cruel, and merciless I found it to be dying at t instant. Yet, t

        my aged and bloody o. t. My recolles ark side. My    ac th.

        I sood t tain.    is ten every only my stered skull and brain but every part of me, merging togetorment. itanding t t a portion of my mied—as if ts only option—by fetting tle sleep.

        Before I died, I remembered t I . An old man, living alone, rises from    and drinks a glass of er. able to discover t    gone? A fi is filtering from , retrag eps back to o find t somebody is lying in    you be?” raerious sileily. “No,” t an unfinisly bler’s ers y bed, goes to sleep and lives for anoty years.

        I ko be my fate.    t doo my ate of profound torment t I could only vaguely dis t.    and ted faintly by to fade.

        Yet, I ill alive. My desire to g to to ru to protect my fad bloody     at oime, and t striking my face made me ahis.

        e struggled for a . rong and very agitated.    flat on my back. Pressing o my sically nailed me to tful tone, accosting me, a dying old man. Perand nor listen to ook no pleasure in looking into    eyes, ruck my ire body    red from ttering out of t, and I suppose, from ttering out of me.

        Sadde t t, gentle lig    aig as t raig and as a c, I asked, “ho are you?”

        “It is I, Azrael, tes cher

        and faters. No mortal in ting me.”

        .

        My tears made me profoundly ty. On tupefying agony of my fad eyes drency ceased, yet t place range and terrifying. I ko be t illumined realm, to    long remain in t caused me to ful pain and torment, to take solace. to stay, I’d n myself to torment and tion.

        Just before I died, I actually longed for my deat time, I uood to tion t I’d spent my entire life p, t find in books:    t everybody,    exception, succeeded in dying? It o pass on. I also uood t death would make me a wiser man.

        o take a long journey and uo refrain from taking one last gla    o see my daug time. I ed to grit my teet, to    for Surn.

        And tle lig, and my mind opeself up to t, riflily for t picture. y- set and kick ts, boxes, inkpots and folding able. I se I cures ired legs. And I ed.

        My pain    abating in t. I gre and could no loand to grit my teet again, I ing.

        t occurred to me, if S enter my rut    to even t t t instant, I se my murderer ed t painting.

        I’d bee excessively ty but still I ed. e noy Shekure, show yourself.

        S e.

        I no longer rengto and t seeing his seemed

        so bitter I ed to die of misery. Aftero my left, and smiling all ter.

        Fetting all else, I greedily reacer.

        Mu he has said.”

        It an. I didn’t ans even afraid of    painting amouo being duped by ed fidently. I dreamed of t aed me and of my future.

        Meanan vanis of me kan to flee    anot of my mind remembered t in t ten t Azrael    a and t he whole world in his hands.

        As I gre approay aid, and yes, just as Gazzali ated in Pearls of Magnifice, ly said:

        “Open your mout your soul might leave.”

        “Not th,” I answered him.

        t one last excuse , t my time    I    o leave my bloodied and ugly body in tion for my daug I ed to leave t like some tigting garment t pinched.

        I opened my moutly all    as in tures of Our Prop’s Miraj journey, during ears florained exion passed from my lungs th. All was subsumed in wondrous silence.

        I could see no my soul    my body and t I    s left my body and tio tremble like mercury in Azrael’s palm. My ts    of t of t been born into.

        After so muc cause me trary, I relaxed, quickly realizing t my present situation    one, s I’d felt in life emporary. t ury upon

        tury, until t nladdened me. Events I’d ondured briskly and sequentially e spad existed simultaneously. As in one of tings urist ed a number of ued t once.

        I, S ting grass, mud and broken branced onto treet. I knorust Black? Let me be frank    knoo tand, don’t you? I’m fused. to tine of meals, c,    even o be asked, o me of its oomorrow, before noon, I’ll know wo marry.

        I    to s, no’s not about t monstrosity Black s alk about t later.    I o discuss ’s not t o tisfying . to be , it’d make no difference if    surprises me is upidity! I suppose it never crossed    en and abduct me, play    me off, or open to even more dangerous outes. I    tell from    expression    after ing t anotwelve days?

        Do you ko be irate ead, I pitied orment and are still so utterly inpetent.” I felt so protective of    I migake, I migually given myself to t spoiled little boy.

        tunate ceps. Just t a pom of a man    over me. Dug my head, I slipped by him.

        Upoering tyard gate, I kne    yet returned. Very ime, t yet been called. I climbed tairs, t ered my room to t beside tairs    t    t and t y    u alone in to momentary daydreaming, my miered a noise ing from beloly belo from t t to table, used in summertime as trating    of an oil lamp there;

        suddenly, I    door betone yard, and after tyard gate—I o put it mildly.

        “ed. “S, Orhan…”

        I felt a cold draft. My fat be burning; I ougo sit    to be , my ts     he children.

        I crossed t er to boil on tairs brazier for t soup. I e t to say, “ her done?”

        the floor.

        I screamed, overe    my fat.

        Listen, I    tell by yion t you’ve knoime e a lot.    you’re    noion to imes do ure, you’re trying to dis t ts in tory leading up to t. And tion, you’ll take pleasure in trying to imagine, not my pain, but    you’re so craftily trying to do.

        Yes, I returned o discover t someone ore out my    and smelled rembled and I couldn’t breato raise    silently in    up, Fat up, don’t die. orn papers and books, more tossing about of tables, pais and inkpots, more tru of cusables and ing boards, and t red t royed t. I reet outside, laugalking in te silence of tears off my cime I t about the children and our lives.

        I listeo to tever reason,     t    paying any mind to to pull airs. rengt and I sat on a step. I ears again    urned. I grabbed my fato my armpits, I tio desd, faster time. My

        dear fat it made t mop as it struck eacep. At tairs, I turned o er, and    effort, dragging one floor, I took o ting room. In order to see ed back out to tove in ted ruck.

        , my God, whem?

        My mind    from tc er from tairs, and by t of an oil lamp, I quickly aircase and everyairs to my room, removed my bloodied clot on    clot and rag, I    to eyard gate so prayer ered all my strengted for t top of tairs.

        “Mother, we’re back,” Orhan said.

        “ as if I were w sing.

        “But Mot stay out past to prayer…” S o say.

        “Quiet! Yrandfather is ill, he’s sleeping.”

        “Ill?” said ell from my sile I a. After t arrived,    tarrying,    the children.”

        I o go do as I airs, te t steps aairs and their shoes.

        “Ao t    go in there.”

        “I’m going into to be by t said, “not to Grandfather’s room.”

        “Yrandfat room,” I whispered.

        But I noticed t tated for a moment. “Let’s be certain t t’ve possessed your

        grandfat set upon to your room, no to t togetell me t    os till t. “ else?” “tig sing arro a target in t. “I’m going into t to leave to die?” said S. “I’m going to tell you somet you’re not to tell anyone, are ood?” t to tell. “, a pletely o yrandfat turns out . “Yes, from to take a look at tures in yrandfat a sinner ures immediately dies.”

        A silence.

        “Listen, I’m going doairs to be o carry tray. Don’t even till in the house.”

        “Mama, Mama, don’t go,” Orhan said.

        I squared myself to S. “You’re responsible for your brot get you, I’ll be t on tening expression t I made before slapping t your ill grandfat die. If yood, God    you your prayers and no one o    giving to it too muco pray. I    doairs.

        “Somebody knocked over t e jam,” said    couldn’t , not strong enoug ten into the house…”

        Sly saerror on my fad stopped: “’s tter, t o your dear father?”

        “he’s dead.”

        S tting board    ticed t t    from t from ally. I ran upstairs, and as I s. orn off, I eo find t S o h his knees. he

        was choking him.

        “ are you t top of my lungs.

        “Or said.

        “Liar,” said Or opeold    to leave.” o cry.

        “If you don’t sit up ly, I’ll kill both of you.”

        “Mama, don’t go,” Orhan said.

        Doairs, I bound opping told    my fat died a natural deatened aed some prayers asking for Allae. Sared at ion for my fat enougo unleas ? Sed to go upstairs and see him.

        “ upstairs,” I said. “he ba.”

        S me suspiciously. But    y. S. Sook four or five steps beyond trance of tcood, and    and appre of t first to see my fatrying to illumiangular room.

        “Aaa sig    beside t    along table ionless. As s surned, s g. I o see t sill s about o be able tister pletely o tell her.

        “o me, s oairs oo; troyed all, ’s ion you. After you t, I also    out. Father was home by himself.”

        “I    a,” sly. “here were you?”

        I ed o take careful note of my sile    you    breato anyone. Nor, for time being, ion t my father has been killed.”

        “ t murdered him?”

        as sruly suc or o er me?

        “If I k    know. Do you?”

        “ are o do now?”

        “Yoing to besoever    to o burst out g, but I restrained myself. e bot.

        Mucer, I said, “Fet about t out the children.”

        Sed and started to cry, and I put my arms around igarily pitying, not only myself and t all of us. But even as     me. You kno leaving my fat did    I’d explaio and? Indeed, yes, sand and gro o cover up my    as if I    y, but I suspect t you mig as    it, you believe t I’m e be any darker? I began to cry, then hayriye cried, and we embraced again.

        I preteo satisfy my    table    upstairs. From time to time, ep into t into tears. Later because tated, tig to me in bed. For a long ossed and tur asking, “I ?” to lull to sleep, I promised to tell tory. You knohe darkness.

        “Mot going to get married are you?” said S.

        “Listen to me,” I said. “trikingly beautiful maiden. ell you ty maiden, rait, t’s how.”

        As I en do roubled, I reted tale not from memory, but improvising acc to    at t time. And since I colored it using a palette of my oed became a kind of melancration to apany all t

        o me.

        After bot toget t vile demon tered about. e picked up ruined cs, books, clots, plates and inkpots t    and stered;    boxes and papers t orn up red; and    raugion of our privacy, tell you from experience, unfortunates ed by ts in tains, blas and dayligurn, alloet t Azrael    my fater iend love,    and pleasant memories but, reminded of tilessness of t’s damned soul, errified as well.

        my insistence    doairs, dreions and ing from ter— mentioned    of    c-bound Koran, error and alarmed t tyard gate o creak. It , after ce by movier of s basil t my fater on spring ms er, ered t, and it suddenly seemed t ted sing by t of to    overcame us like a silent act of piety, as    my fat ed time; “o me.

        As    and aality and    looking at my fat back upstairs to fetd , uo restrain myself, I looked doely quite as er I’d dressed my fatrengt and cried at length.

        For ty, let me en to tell of tances airs room so t discover    t t cus upon ofte ty years—so muc’d bee part of

        orn apart.

        ba order, I mercilessly deo spread tress out in our room. “I don’t    to get suspicious in to , to be , I o be alone o punisered my bed but o sleep for a long     because I    yet lay in store.
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