it I migick trosity I o t in tiflis, Kipcs, poor brides sold at inns, turkmen and Persian itutes isiable boys, but it    go into    all sense of de and self-trol by sleeping ic riffraff—from Persia to Bag Arabian too tten t some ill took pains to maintain their honor. All my words of love, she charged, were insincere.

        I respectfully listeo my beloved’s outburst, uation and tion I hings

        pleased me: 1. t I refrained from loo mat ed viciously to otuations, and 2. t I discovered Sicular aravels, proof t s of me mu I’d assumed.

        Seeing    I’d bee at being uo carry out my desires, so pity me.

        “If you truly loved me, passionately and obsessively,” srying to excuse ry to trol yourself like a gentleman. You    try to offend toained serious iions. You’re not tions to marry me. Did anyone see you on your way here?”

        “Nay.”

        As if surned    face, o recall, toary clattering, ed in silence, but nobody entered. I recalled welve, Shan I did.

        “t of ts this place,” she said.

        “Do you ever e here?”

        “Jinns, poms, ts and make sounds out of silence. Everyt o e all them.”

        “S brougo s, but it was gone.”

        “I uand you told    you killed her.”

        “ly. Is t ted? Not t I killed    I’d like to bee her.”

        “ you’d killed her?”

        “ if I’d ever killed a man. I told rut I’d killed two men.”

        “In order to boast?”

        “to boast, and to impress a c ted ttle brigands by exaggerating time s of he house.”

        “Go on boasting t like you.”

        “S doesn’t like me, but Or my beloved’s error. “Yet, I so th.”

        e srembled in t as tent toget Siny sobs.

        “My ill-fated ed for my urn, I lived tely,    mig I mig    s to take me back to t since I’m not a o force me back t raid our    any time. My fat    me to be declared a    of ted a divorce, urning     er to live h us?”

        “how do you mean?”

        “If ogeth us?”

        “I don’t know.”

        “t t ime, believe me. My fat some evil is ing our . If estify t you’d in fact seen my ly e from Persia, they would believe you.”

        “I estify, but I    the one who killed him.”

        “All rigogetness, in order t I be declared a estify before t you salefield in Persia?”

        “I didn’t actually see it, my dear, but for your sake I estify so.”

        “Do you love my children?”

        “I do.”

        “tell me,    about t you love?”

        “I love S’s strengty, intelligend stubbornness,” I said. “And I love Orive and delicate demeanor and uteness. I love t t they’re your children.”

        My black-eyed beloved smiled sligears. ted fluster of a ime, s:

        “My fat to be pleted and preseo Our Sultan. t plagues us.”

        “ devilry    Effendi?”

        tion displeased tempt to be sincere, she said:

        “t    my fation and bears turists    tc!”

        “Your late ion urists, your fat o himself?”

        “ involved in any of t, but    keep to    all,” she said.

        A mysterious and strange quiet passed.

        “ t away from him?”

        “As mucwo-room house.”

        A fe too far aely to o, began barkiedly.

        I couldn’t bring myself to ask tles and or of a fief, sa to ogetly, I asked my : “ to marry him?”

        “I ain to be married off to someone,” srue, and it suctly and

        cleverly explained    avoided praising ting me. “You’d left, pero return. Disappearing in a sulk migom of love, yet a sulking lover is also tiresome and ure.” true as    it    cause enougo marry t rogue. It    too difficult to deduce from    a s time after I’d abandoned Istanbul, Sten about me, like everyone else old me tant lie to mend my broken , if only a little, and I sidered it a sign of entions, ude. I began to explain ravels I couldn’t get    of my ts,    niged me like a specter. t secret, most profound agony I’d suffered and I assumed I’d never be able to s e real, but as I realized    t instant, it    t bit sincere.

        So t my feelings and desires migfully uood, I must presently lay bare tin betruty t I’ve e to kno time: y in rut be, goads oo insiy. Per example migurists, o t. sider a perfect painting—tanatter    represents a real iculously ceived by Alla master miniaturists, it migill fail to matcy of talented miniaturist y of turist, or of us s of Alla emerge in moments of talent and perfe; on trary, it emerges tongue, mistakes, fatigue and frustration. I say t trong desire I felt for S t moment—as soo could tell—and, say, t I’d felt for a delicately featured, copper-plexioned, burgundy-mouty during my travels. ituition, Sood boto and torture for love’s sake as    tisfa of    time y of beauties, So an inkh pearls.

        less S to go no    t moment    t e dark, altill time before nigs oion, to    like a wounded sparrow, she quickly hopped away.

        “Am I still beautiful? Answer me quickly.”

        I told ifully seo me, believing and agreeing    I said.

        “And my clothes?”

        I told her.

        “Do I smell nice?”

        Of course, S o as “love sist of sucorical games, but of tional maneuvers between lovers.

        “ kind of living do you expect to earn?” so care for my fatherless children?”

        As I talked about my more tal aarial experie knotle and nessis, I embraced her.

        “ifully s primal mystery.”

        to prove iger    it for ting I’d made for    my ion t ime I didn’t find myself immobilized by a staggering yoke of lust; botunned by ttering—like a flock of sparro ered our s, d stomaaking t antidote to love?

        As I palmed s, Sermined and ser    I    a mature-enougo maintain a trust I’d sullied beforeet t t involved in any y deeds and too inexperieo kno suffering underlie o sigo treets, , and fetting t urbing t of t:

        “ are o do now?”

        “I don’t knoe footprints in tain to be erased by teness—and disappeared quietly.

        I ILL BE CALLED A MURDERERDoubtless, you too    I’m about to describe: At times, reets of Istanbul, able steo my mout a public kitg tention on tyle border illumination, I feel I’m living t as if it . t is,     I .

        traordinary events I e occurred at on t and in t. It    s we Effendi lived.

        U I ed. On otake me mindedly t about otold my mot t volumes al rosettes dating from time of tamerlane, about tinued s otill painted under my name or about my tomfoolery and transgressions. time,    and i.

        tyard gate—t I feared no one s oo knock, reassuri Allaone-paved portion of tyard t I s rations to Enis book y. to t beside ted t, and perc a sparroly oblivious to t fart toove,    even at te o t, table for visitors’    of ted it to be. I eable, and as an uninvited guest migo avoid e se, I stamped my feet and cougaircase to ters.

        My couged no response. Nor did tamping my muddy s o t trance of teroom. As om o be S green pair among t for naugy t no one was home crossed my mind.

        I o t into t cuddled tresses, and opened a    tall armoire    door.    te almond st in t be t of Suffed into t, fell onto my dim-ted o a copper pitc was cold.

        “e Effendi called from ?”

        I sly exited tered te Effendi on    er.

        “It’s me, Enishte Effendi,” I said. “Me.”

        “ you be?”

        At t instant, I uood t te Effendi ed o do le mockery of us. As a y scribe mige in t leaf of a magnifitly illustrated manuscript, I slo.”

        “ first, then added, “hah!”

        Just like ts Deate Effendi sank into a very brief sile lasted forever. If t noioned “Deat I’ve e o involve myself in sucely misuood te? take off    a knife?

        “So, you’ve e,”    tirely different tone: “ele, my cell me t is it t you ?”

        It e dark by ime, revealed a pomegranate and plaree—to distinguislines of objects    to please a rator. I could not fully see Enis, as usual, before a lo t fell to    side. I tried desperately to recapture timacy betures togetly and quietly discussing t by dleligones, reed pens, ink    of tion or out of embarrassment, but I    moment, I decided to explain myself tory.

        Perist Ser ing ing ry, and in tion of an are logic reserved feometry. After acatus of master pai a young age, tuoso ouc a full ty years in pursuit of t fearless innovation of subject matter, position and style.    in tyle—brougo us by t sense of symmetry, roduced terrifying demoicles, ers and giants into tle aive    style of painting;    to take an i in and be influenced by traiture t ern sugal and Flanders; roduced fotten teg bae of Gengo paint cock-raising ses like Alexander’s peeping at naked beauties s; ed lorious Prop asding on teed Burak, sg and sable to tire unity of book lovers. , at times secretly, at times openly, drinking large quantities of aking opium,    lasted for ty years. Later,

        in    time, cely. ing to t every painting y years ’s more, ed ty years of o going from palace to palace, from city to city, searcreasuries of sultans and kings, in order to find aroy ts ed. In    noto destroy it; gaining access by flattery or by ruse, and precisely ion, ear out tration appeared, or, seizing an opportunity, er on t. I reted tale as an example of urist could suffer great agony for untingly forsaking . tioned aining    trated; so many books t    cull    exaggeration, as if I’d experie myself, I told er, in profound sorro, o deat terrible flagration.

        “Are you afraid, my ce Effendi passionately, “of tings we’ve made?”

        t see for myself, but I se h a smile.

        “Our book is no longer a secret,” I ansant. But rumors are spreading. tted blasp,    as Our Sultan    o to eain our oers. t eves Satan as amiable. tted an unfivable sin by daring to draive of a mangy street dog, a    ttend prayers. I ot sleep for t sugs.”

        “e made trations togete Effendi. “Could ted su offense?”

        “Not at all,” I said expansively. “But t it someing in    we hold sacred.”

        “You yourself ing.”

        “Nay, I made pictures of ed in various places on a large s, ration,” I said ion and precision t I e Effendi. “But I never saed illustration. If I ire painting, I’d    denying all this foul slander.”

        “ t you feel guilty?” ’s gna your soul? o doubt yourself?”

        “…to    oacked er spending montrating a book…to suffer torments of    last painting in its ey.”

        “Is t troubles you?” his why you’ve e?”

        Suddenly panic seized me. Could ed Elegant Effendi?

        “t Our Sulta ly supports the book.”

        “?” io reliable o ensure one’s living.”

        Did o inform him of a rumor?

        “Poor old Elegant Effendi, God rest    painting and    it reviled our fait told me tices are, everyone gossips.”

        Maintaining t on for quite some time. I didn’t kno of fear after doing a o flattery, I icipating t Enisration and put me at ease.     overy fears about being mired in sin?

        Intending to startle ly asked, “Mig    being a?”

        In place of an ansely and elegantly o ely silent. “It    in a w’s lighe dle.”

        After ligick from t coals of ted ticed in o ly. Or    an expression of pity? ? as    I    of a base

        murderer or    of trol and I upidly listening to    as if somebody else    be iced it before?

        “tans feel for paintings, illustrations and fine books    be divided into te Effendi. “At first t paintings for t, to influeo satisfy tastes. Because to enjoy paintings, tige ime amassing books, ence of tumn of a sultan’s life, ence of ality. By ”ality“ I mean to be remembered by future geions, by randcures and books ality ts ted, and, at times, tories ten. Later, eaco t painting is an obstacle to seg a pla turally somet botimidates me t. Saer miniaturist and spent    atelier as ers from tabriz, destroyed terminable crises ret.    painting es of heaven?”

        “You knoe    on Judgment Day, Allaers most severely.”

        “Not painters,” corrected Enis from t from Bukhari.”

        “On Judgment Day, t ted to life,” I said cautiously. “Sio do so t o suffer torments of    it not be fotten t in tor“ is one of ttributes of Alla is Allaive, o existeo pete est of sins is itted by painters ive as he.”

        I made my statement firmly, as if I, too, were acg o my eyes.

        “Do you t we’ve been doing?”

        “Never,” I said    Elegant Effendi, may    in peace, began to assume ing.    your use of tive and tian masters    temptation of Satan. In t painting, you’ve supposedly real using teche

        impression not of a painting but of reality; to suc to entice men to bo, as o    only because t of perspective removes ting from God’s perspective and lo to treet dog, but because your relian tians as ablisraditions    of trip us of our purity and reduce us to being their slaves.”

        “Note Effendi. “In ts, er out of joy and causes a co run doain of tyles ofore never brougogetogeto create someting to ting of an Arabic illustrating sensibility and Mongol-g. Sa paintings marry Persian style urkmen subtleties. today, if men ot adequately praise ts ’s because urists to adopt tyles of ters. to God belongs t and t. May ect us from terated.”

        and brig ,    on tening. Despite finding    believe    ening at times for tyard gate belo he was hoping someone would deliver him from my presence.

        “You yourself told me er of Isfa library taining tings ed    of bad sce,”    me tell you anotory related to t legend t you don’t kno’s true,    t ty years of ing doions inspired by er years, o realize t tions of artists ed as models of form trations    tures in tely,    of ttempted to find ures aroy t young miniaturists less books, rating otories, o be memorized by all and    book after book and illustration after illustration, o learn t painter does not tent ing us erpieces; ultimately, urist’s artistry enters our souls t bees terion for ty of our    ter of Isfa,    only    t ead of disappearing, actually proliferated and increased; ood t everybody no. t resemble tings h were now sidered ugly.”

        Uo rein in tirring o trol my desire to please Enishte Effendi, I fell

        before ears and I felt I o    er Osman.

        “A miniaturist,” said Enisone of a self-satisfied man, “creates    by tention to o say.”

        But it occurred to me t Enis even a miniaturist as I kissed tled ears. I . It ion into my oo k is.

        “I’m not afraid of te said, “because I’m not afraid of death.”

        ood. Yet annoyance began to mount iced t tely beside Enisards s tures t a t, I saem among ts collected in trays, resting on t, among tting boards, inkwells and brus.

        “Let’s establis    fear take out t illustratio’s s to them.”

        “But    t    least enougo take it seriously? e’ve do to be afraid.    could justify your being shtened?”

        roked my    I mig into tears again; I embraced him.

        “I knounate gilder Elegant Effendi edly. “By slandering you, your book and us, Elegant Effendi o set        to iurists o rebel against you. I don’t kno of jealousy, peran’s influence. And turists also ermined Elegant Effendi o destroy us all. You    imagine ened and succumbed to suspis as I myself    , by Elegant Effendi— illustrating, painting and all else    artist fell into a panic, killing t sdrel and tossing o a well.”

        “Sdrel?”

        “Elegant Effendi ured, ill-bred traitor. Villain!” I sed as if he room.

        Silence. Did    o somebody else’s s; yet, t w.

        “urist rator from Isfahan? ho killed him?”

        “I don’t know,” I said.

        Yet I ed o infer from my expression t I    I’d made a grave error in ing    I    going to succumb to feelings of guilt a. I could see t Enisified me. If    I ruck terror t    dare refuse to sing. I    t picture, not because of any sin I’d itted on its at—I genuinely ed to see ’d turned out.

        “Is it important ?” I said. “Is it not possible t whoever rid us of him has done a good deed?”

        I ter and morally superior to ot look you in templatiing you and abandoning you to a fate of torture and execution.

        Outside, just in front of tyard gate, the dogs began a frenzied howling.

        “It’s begun to snoe    you    even lit a dle for you.”

        “It’s quite strange, indeed,”    uand it myself.”

        I believed ely, ae ridig    as turists did, I once again kne I actually loved     flood of resped affe, to o see t Master Osman’s style of painting, and ters of , ure    frig again. After some tragedy,    desperate    g    appear,    everyt tinue as it always has.

        “Let’s tio illustrate our book,” I said. “Let everytinue as it always has.”

        “turists. I am tinuing my h Black Effendi.”

        as o kill him?

        “er and her children?”

        I se some oto my mout I couldn’t restrain myself. to be    and sarcastic. Beertaining jinns—intelligend sarcasm—I serolled t t, te began to racked t of blood.

        moment long ago? In a distant city, at a time    see fell, by t of a dle, I tempting to explain tears t I irely io a crotcy old dotard, . Back t as noo ood from Enis g an evil old man, and from o fix mercilessly into mi eo crusattered memory from urist’s apprentice like a picture     inct but faded memory.

        So, as I arose and circled bee Effendi, lifting t neal o rested on able, turist    Master Osman illed in us all—rating inct yet faded colors, not as somet as if it side, ion,    small-mout, I said:

        “en-year-old apprentice, I sa suc.”

        “It’s a t,” said Enis it all tabriz. It’s for red.”

        At t very moment, it o drive t inkpot do onto ted old man’s faulty brain. But I didn’t give in to t is I, I’m t Effendi.”

        You uand rusted t Enisand, and in turn, five me—t he would fear and help me.
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