“I wasn’t；” I said。
“What about the one in my Enishte’s book？”
“I didn’t make that one either。”
“Based on the style of the horse； however； it’s been determined that you’re
the one who drew it；” he said。 “Furthermore； it was Master Osman who came
to this conclusion。”
“But I have no style whatsoever；” I said。 “I’m not saying this out of pride to
counter the latest tastes。 Neither am I saying so to prove my innocence。 For
me； having a style would be worse than being a murderer。”
“You have a distinct quality that distinguishes you from the old masters and
the others；” said Black。
I smiled at him。 He started to relate things that I’m sure you all know by
now。 I listened intently to how Our Sultan； in consultation with the Head
Treasurer； sought a solution to the murders； to the matter of Master Osman’s
three days； to the “courtesan method；” to the peculiarity in the noses of the
horses and to Black’s miraculous admittance to the Royal Private Quarters for
the sake of actually examining those superlative books。 There are moments in
all our lives when we realize； even as we experience them； that we are living
through events we will never forget； even long afterward。 A melancholy rain
was falling。 As if upset by the rain； Butterfly mournfully gripped his dagger。
Olive； the backside of whose armor was white with flour； was courageously
forging into the heart of the dervish lodge； lamp in hand。 These master artists；
whose shadows roamed the walls like ghosts； were my brethren； and how I
loved them！ I was delighted to be a miniaturist。
“Could you appreciate your good fortune as you gazed at the great works of
the old masters for days on end with Master Osman at your side？” I asked
Black。 “Did he kiss you？ Did he caress your handsome face？ Did he hold your
hand？ Were you awed by his talent and knowledge？”
“There among the great works of the old masters he showed me how you
had a style；” said Black。 “He taught me how the hidden fault of ”style‘ isn’t
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something the artist selects of his own volition； but is determined by the
artist’s past and his forgotten memories。 He also showed me how these secret
faults； weaknesses and defects； at one time such a source of shame they were
concealed so we wouldn’t be estranged from the old masters； will henceforth
emerge to be praised as “personal characteristics’ or ”style；“ because the
European masters have spread them over the world。 Henceforth； thanks to
fools who take pride in their own shortings； the world will be a more
colorful and more stupid and； of course； a much more imperfect place。”
The fact that Black confidently believed in what he said proved that he was
one of the new breed of fools。
“Was Master Osman able to explain why； for years； I drew hundreds of
horses with regular nostrils in Our Sultan’s books？” I asked。
“It was due to the love and beatings he gave all of you in your childhood。
Because he was both father and beloved to you all； he doesn’t see that he
associates all of you with himself and each of you with the others。 He didn’t
want you each to have a style of your own； he wanted the royal atelier as a
whole to have a style。 Because of the awesome shadow he cast over all of you；
you forgot what came from within； the imperfections； the elements and
differences that fell outside the confines of standard forms。 Only when you
painted for other books and other pages； which Master Osman’s eyes would
never see； did you draw the horse that had lain within you all those years。”
“My mother； may she rest in peace； was more intelligent than my father；” I
said。 “One night I was at home； in tears； determined never again to return to
the workshop because I was daunted not only by Master Osman’s beatings；
but by those of the other harsh and irritable masters and by those of the
division head who always intimidated us with a ruler。 In consolation； my
dearly departed mother advised me that there were two types of people in the
world： those who were cowed and crushed by their childhood beatings； forever
downtrodden； she said； because the beatings had the desired effect of killing
the inner devils； and those fortunate ones for whom the beatings frightened
and tamed the devil within without killing him off。 Though the latter group
would never forget these painful childhood memories—she’d warned me not
to tell this to anybody—the beatings would in time enable them to develop
cunning； to fathom the unknown； to make friends； to identify enemies； to
sense plots being hatched behind their backs and； let me hasten to add； to
paint better than anyone else。 Because I wasn’t able to draw the branches of a
tree harmoniously； Master Osman would slap me so hard that； amid bitter
tears； forests would burgeon before me。 After angrily striking me in the head
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because I couldn’t see the errors at the bottoms of pages； he lovingly took up a
mirror and placed it before the page so I could see the work as if for the first
time。 Then pressing his cheek to mine； he so lovingly identified the mistakes
that magically appeared in the mirror image of the picture that I never forgot
either the love or the ritual。 The morning after a night spent weeping in my
bed； my pride violated because he chastised me with a ruler before everyone；
he came and kissed my arms so tenderly that I passionately knew I’d one day
bee a legendary miniaturist。 Nay； it was not I who drew that horse。”
“We；” Black was referring to Stork and himself； “will search the dervish
house for the last picture which was stolen by the accursed man who
murdered my Enishte。 Did you ever see that last picture？”
“It is nothing that could be accepted by Our Sultan； illuminators like us
bound to the old masters or by Muslims bound to their faith；” I said and fell
silent。
My statement made him more eager。 He and Stork began their search of the
premises； turning the whole place upside down。 A few times； simply to make
their work easier； I went to them。 In one of the dervish cells with a leaky
ceiling； I pointed out the hole in the floor so they wouldn’t fall and could
search it if they so desired。 I gave them the large key to the small room in
which the sheikh lived thirty years ago； before the adherents of this lodge
joined up with the Bektashis and dispersed。 They entered eagerly； but when
they saw that an entire wall was missing and the room was open to the rain；
they didn’t even bother to search it。
It pleased me that Butterfly wasn’t with them； but if evidence implicating
me were found； he； too； would join their ranks。 Stork was of the same mind as
Black； who was afraid that Master Osman would turn us over to the torturers；
and maintained that we must support one another and must be united in
confronting the Head Treasurer。 I sensed Black was not only motivated by the
desire to give Shekure a genuine wedding present by finding his Enisthe’s
murderer； he also intended to set Ottoman miniaturists on the path of
European masters by paying them with the Sultan’s money in order to finish
his Enishte’s book in imitation of the Franks （which was not only sacrilegious；
but ridiculous）。 I also understood； with some certainty； that at the root of this
scheme was Stork’s desire to be rid of us and even of Master Osman； for he
dreamt of being Head Illuminator and （since everyone guessed that Master
Osman preferred Butterfly） he was prepared to try anything to increase his
chances。 I was momentarily confused。 Listening to the rain； I deliberated at
length。 Next； like a man who breaks away from the crowd and struggles to give
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his petition to the sovereign and grand vizier as they pass on horseback； I had
the sudden inspiration to endear myself to Stork and Black。 Leading them
through a dark hallway and large portal； I took them to a frightening room
that was once the kitchen。 I asked them if they were able to find anything here
among the ruins。 Of course； they hadn’t。 There was no trace of the kettles； the
pots and pans and the bellows that were once used to prepare food for the
forsaken and the poor。 I never even attempted to clean up this ghastly room
covered in cobwebs； dust； mud； debris and the excrement of dogs and cats。 As
always； a strong wind； rising up as if out of nowhere； dimmed the lamp—
making our shadows now lighter； now darker。
“You searched and searched but you couldn’t find my hidden treasure；” I
said。
Out of habit； I used the back of my hand as a broom to sweep away the
ashes in what used to be a hearth and when an old stove emerged； I lifted up
its iron lid with a creak。 I held the lamp to the small mouth of the stove。 I shall
never forget how Stork leapt forward and greedily grabbed the leather pouches
within before Black could act。 He was about to open the pouches right there in
the mouth of the oven； but as I had returned to the large salon； followed by
Black who was afraid of remaining here； Stork bounded after us on his long
thin legs。
When they saw that one pouch contained a pair of clean woolen socks； my
drawstring trousers； my red underwear； the nicest of my undershirts； my silk
shirt； my straight razor； my b and other belongings； they were
momentarily at a loss。 Out of the other pouch； which Black opened； emerged
fifty…three Veian gold coins； pieces of gold leaf that I’d stolen from the
workshop in recent years； my sketchbook of model forms which I concealed
from everybody； more stolen gold leaf hidden between the pages； indecent
pictures—some of