woman？ Only tinsmiths could be responsible for the slander that a pot licked
by a dog must be thrown away or retinned。 Or perhaps； yes； cats…
When people left their villages for the sedentary life of the city； shepherd
dogs remained in the provinces； that’s when rumors of the filthiness of dogs
like me began to spread。 Yet before the advent of Islam； two of the twelve
months of the year were “months of the dog。” Now； however； a dog is
considered a bad omen。 I don’t want to burden you with my own problems；
my dear friends who have e to hear a story and ponder its moral—to be
honest； my anger arises out of the esteemed cleric’s attacks upon our
coffeehouses。
15
What would you think if I said that this Husret of Erzurum was of dubious
birth？ But they’ve also said of me； “What kind of dog do you think you are？
You’re attacking the venerable cleric because your master is a picture…hanging
storyteller who tells tales at a coffeehouse and you want to protect him。 Go
on； scat！” God forbid； I’m not denigrating anyone。 But I’m a great admirer of
our coffeehouses。 You know； I have no problem with the fact that my portrait
was drawn on such cheap paper or that I’m a four…legged beast； but I do regret
that I can’t sit down like a man and have a cup of coffee with you。 We’d die
for our coffee and our coffeehouses—what’s this？ See； my master is pouring
coffee for me from a small coffeepot。 A picture can’t drink coffee； you say？
Please！ See for yourselves； this dog is happily lapping away。
Ah； yes； that hit the spot； it’s warmed me up； sharpened my sight and
quickened my thoughts。 Now listen to what I have to tell you： Besides bolts of
Chinese silks and Chinese pottery adorned with blue flowers； what did the
Veian Doge send to Nurhayat Sultan； the esteemed daughter of our
respected Sultan？ A soft and cuddly Veian she…dog with a coat of silk and
sable。 I heard that this bitch is so spoiled she has a red silk dress as well。 One of
our friends actually fucked her； that’s how I know； and she can’t even engage
in the act without her dress。 In that Frankish land of hers； all dogs wear outfits
like that anyway。 I’ve heard tell that over there a so…called elegant and well…
bred Veian woman saw a naked dog—or maybe she saw its thing； I’m not
sure—anyway； she screamed； “My dear God； the dog is naked！” and fainted
dead away。
In the lands of the infidel Franks； the so…called Europeans； every dog has an
owner。 These poor animals are paraded on the streets with chains around their
necks； they’re fettered like the most miserable of slaves and dragged around in
isolation。 These Franks force the poor beasts into their homes and even into
their beds。 Dogs aren’t permitted to walk with one another； let alone sniff and
frolic together。 In that despicable state； in chains； they can do nothing but gaze
forlornly at each other from a distance when they pass on the street。 Dogs who
roam the streets of Istanbul freely in packs and munities； the way we do；
dogs who threaten people if necessary； who can curl up in a warm corner or
stretch out in the shade and sleep peacefully； and who can shit wherever they
want and bite whomever they want； such dogs are beyond the infidels’
conception。 It’s not that I haven’t thought that this might be why the
followers of the Erzurumi oppose praying for dogs and feeding them meat on
the streets of Istanbul in exchange for divine favors and even why they oppose
the establishment of charities that perform such services。 If they intend both
16
to treat us as enemies and make infidels of us； let me remind them that being
an enemy to dogs and being an infidel are one and the same。 At the； I hope；
not too distant executions of these disgraceful men； I pray our executioner
friends invite us to take a bite； as they sometimes do to set a deterring
example。
Before I finish； let me say this： My previous master was a very just man。
When we set out at night to thieve； we’d cooperate： I’d begin to bark； and
he’d cut the throat of our victim whose screams would be drowned out by my
barking。 In return for my help； he’d cut up the guilty men that he’d punished；
boil them and feed them to me。 I don’t like raw meat。 God willing； the would…
be executioner of that cleric from Erzurum will take this into account so I
won’t upset my stomach with that scoundrel’s raw flesh。
17
I WILL BE CALLED A MURDERER
Nay； I wouldn’t have believed I could take anyone’s life； even if I’d been told
so moments before I murdered that fool； and thus； my offense at times recedes
from me like a foreign galleon disappearing on the horizon。 Now and again； I
even feel as if I haven’t mitted any crime at all。 Four days have passed
since I was forced to do away with hapless Elegant； who was a brother to me；
and only now have I； to some extent； accepted my situation。
I would’ve preferred to resolve this unexpected and awful dilemma without
having to do away with anybody； but I knew there was no other choice。 I
handled the matter then and there； assuming the burden of responsibility。 I
couldn’t let the false accusations of one foolhardy man endanger the entire
society of miniaturists。
Nevertheless； being a murderer takes some getting used to。 I can’t stand
being at home； so I head out to the street。 I can’t stand my street； so I walk on
to another； and then another。 As I stare at people’s faces； I realize that many of
them believe they’re innocent because they haven’t yet had the opportunity to
snuff out a life。 It’s hard to believe that most men are more moral or better
than me simply on account of some minor twist of fate。 At most； they wear
somewhat stupider expressions because they haven’t yet killed； and like all
fools； they appear to have good intentions。 After I took care of that pathetic
man； wandering the streets of Istanbul for four days was enough to confirm
that everyone with a gleam of cleverness in his eye and the shadow of his soul
cast across his face was a hidden assassin。 Only imbeciles are innocent。
Tonight； for example； while warming up with a steaming coffee at the
coffeehouse located in the back streets of the slave market； gazing at the sketch
of a dog hanging on the back wall； I was gradually forgetting my plight and
laughing with the rest of them at everything the dog recounted。 Then； I had
the sensation that one of the men beside me was a mon murderer like
myself。 Though he was simply laughing at the storyteller as I was； my intuition
was sparked； either by the way his arm rested near mine or by the way he
restlessly rapped his fingers on his cup。 I’m not sure how I knew； but I
suddenly turned and looked him directly in the eye。 He gave a start and his
face contorted。 As the crowd dispersed； an acquaintance of his took him by the
arm and said； “Nusret Hoja’s men will surely raid this place。”
18
Raising an eyebrow； he signaled the man quiet。 Their fear infected me。 No
one trusted anyone； everyone expected to be done in at any moment by the
man next to him。
It had bee even colder； and snow had accumulated on street corners
and at the bases of walls。 In the blindness of night； I could find my way along
the narrow streets only by groping with my hands。 At times； the dim light of
an oil lamp still burning somewhere inside a wooden house filtered out from
behind blackened windows and drawn shutters； reflecting on the snow； but
mostly； I could see nothing； and found my way by listening for the sounds of
watchmen banging their sticks on stones； for the howling of mad dogs； or the
sounds ing from houses。 At times the narrow and dreadful streets of the
city seemed to be lit up by a wondrous light ing from the snow itself； and
in the darkness； amid the ruins and trees； I thought I spotted one of those
ghosts that have made Istanbul such an ominous place for thousands of years。
From within houses； now and again； I heard the noises of miserable people
having coughing fits or snorting or wailing as they cried out in their dreams；
or I heard the shouts of husbands and wives as they tried to strangle each
other； their children sobbing at their feet。
For a couple of nights in a row； I came to this coffeehouse to relive the
happiness I’d felt before being a murderer； to raise my spirits and to listen
to the storyteller。 Most of my miniaturist friends； the brethren with whom I’d
spent my entire life； came here every night。 Since I’d silenced that lout with
whom I’d made illustrations since childhood I didn’t want to see any of them。
Much embarrasses me about the lives of my brethren； who can’t do without
gossiping； and about the disgraceful atmosphere of joviality in this place。 I
even sketched a few pictures for the storyteller so they wouldn’t accuse me of
conceit； but that failed to put an end to their envy。
They’re justified in being jealous。 Not one of them could surpass me in
mixing colors； in creating and embellishing borders； posing pages；
selecting subjects； drawing faces； arranging bustling war and hunting scenes
and depicting beasts； sultans； ships； horses； warriors and lovers。 Not one could
approach my mastery in imbuing illustrations with the poetry of the soul； not
even in gilding。 I’m not bragging； but explaining this to you so you might fully
understand me。 Over time； jealousy bees an element as indispensable as
paint in the life of the master artist。
During my walks； which grow increasingly longer due to my restlessness； I
e face…to…face occasionally with one of our most pure and innocent
religious countrymen； and a strange notion sudd