causing everyone around them to throw up their hands in frustration； they
don’t like anyone or anything。 I know； because I’m one of them。
The master of masters Nurullah Selim Chelebi； with whom I had the honor
of making illustrations knee to knee in the same workshop； was this way in his
eighties； when I was but a sixteen…year…old apprentice （though he wasn’t as
peevish as I am now）。 Blond Ali； the last of the great masters； laid to rest thirty
years ago； was also this way （though he wasn’t as thin and tall as I am）。 Since
the arrows of criticism aimed at these legendary masters； who directed the
workshops of their day noe in the back； I want you to
know that the hackneyed accusations leveled at us are entirely unfounded。
These are the facts：
1。 The reason we don’t like anything innovative is that there is truly nothing
new worth liking。
2。 We treat most men like morons because； indeed； most men are morons；
not because we’re poisoned by anger； unhappiness or some other flaw in
character。 （Granted； treating these people better would be more refined and
sensible。）
3。 The reason I forget and confuse so many names and faces—except those
of the miniaturists I’ve loved and trained since their apprenticeships—is not
senility； but because these names and faces are so lackluster and colorless as to
be hardly worth remembering。
During the funeral of Enishte； whose soul was prematurely taken by God
because of his own foolishness； I tried to forget that the deceased had at one
time caused me unmentionable agony by forcing me to imitate the European
masters。 On the way back； I had the following thoughts： blindness and death；
those gifts bestowed by God； are not so far from me now。 Of course； I will be
remembered only so long as my illustrations and manuscripts cause your eyes
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to prance and flowers of bliss to bloom in your hearts。 But after my death let
it be known that in my old age； at the very end of my life； there was still plenty
that made me smile。 For instance：
1。 Children—They represent what is vital in the world。
2。 Sweet memories of handsome boys； beautiful women； painting well and
friendships。
3。 Seeing the masterpieces of the old masters of Herat—this cannot be
explained to the uninitiated。
The simple meaning of all of this： In Our Sultan’s workshop； which I direct；
magnificent works of art can no longer be made as they once were—and the
situation will only get worse； everything will dwindle and disappear。 I am
painfully aware that we quite rarely reach the sublime level of the old masters
of Herat； despite having lovingly sacrificed our entire lives to this work。
Humbly accepting this truth makes life easier。 Indeed； it is precisely because it
makes life easier that modesty is such a highly prized virtue in our part of the
world。
With an air of such modesty I was touching up an illustration in the Book of
Festivities； which described the circumcision ceremonies of our prince； wherein
was depicted the Egyptian Governor…General’s presentation of the following
gifts： a gold…chased sword decorated with rubies； emeralds； and turquoise on a
swatch of red velvet and one of the Governor…General’s proud； lightning fast
and spirited Arabian horses with a white blaze on its nose and a silvery；
gleaming coat； fully appointed with a gold bit and reins； stirrups of pearl and
greenish…yellow chrysoberyl； and a red velvet saddle embellished with silver
thread and ruby rosettes。 With a flick of my brush； here and there； I was
touching up the illustration； whose position I had arranged while
delegating the rendering of the horse； the sword； the prince and the spectator…
ambassadors to various apprentices。 I applied purple to some of the leaves of
the plane tree in the Hippodrome。 I dabbed yellow upon the caftan…buttons of
the Tatar Khan’s ambassador。 As I was brushing a sparse amount of gold wash
onto the horse’s reins； somebody knocked at the door。 I quit what I was doing。
It was an imperial pageboy。 The Head Treasurer had summoned me to the
palace。 My eyes ached ever so mildly。 I placed my magnifying lens in my
pocket； and left with the boy。
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Oh； how nice it is to walk through the streets after having worked without
a break for so long！ At such times； the whole world strikes one as original and
stunning； as if Allah had created it all the day before。
I noticed a dog； more meaningful than all the pictures of dogs I’d ever seen。
I saw a horse； a lesser creation than what my master miniaturists might make。
I spied a plane tree in the Hippodrome； the same tree whose leaves I’d just
now accented with tones of purple。
Strolling through the Hippodrome； whose parades I’d illustrated over the
last two years； was like stepping into my own painting。 Let’s say we were to
turn down a street： In a Frankish painting； this would result in our stepping
outside both the frame and the painting； in a painting made following the
example of the great masters of Herat； it’d bring us to the place from which
Allah looks upon us； in a Chinese painting； we’d be trapped； because Chinese
illustrations are infinite。
The pageboy； I discovered； wasn’t taking me to the Divan Chamber where I
often met with the Head Treasurer to discuss one of the following： the
manuscripts and ornamented ostrich eggs or other gifts my miniaturists were
preparing for Our Sultan； the health of the illustrators or the Head Treasurer’s
own constitution and peace of mind； the acquisition of paint； gold leaf or
other materials； the usual plaints and requests； the desires； delights；
demands and disposition of the Refuge of the World； Our Sultan； my eyesight；
my looking glasses or my lumbago； or the Head Treasurer’s good…for…nothing
son…in…law or the health of his tabby cat。 Silently； we entered the Sultan’s
Private Garden。 As if mitting a crime； but with great delicacy； we serenely
descended toward the sea through the trees。 “We’re nearing the Sea…Side
Kiosk；” I thought； “this means I will see the Sultan。 His Excellency must be
here。” But we turned off the path。 We walked ahead a few steps through the
arched doorway of a stone building behind the rowboat and ca？que sheds。 I
could smell the scent of baking bread wafting from the guard’s bakery before
catching sight of the Imperial Guard themselves in their red uniforms。
The Head Treasurer and the mander of the Imperial Guard were
together in one room： Angel and Devil！
The mander； who performed executions in the name of Our Sultan on
the palace grounds—who tortured； interrogated； beat； blinded and
administered the bastinado—smiled sweetly at me。 It was as if some piddling
lodger； with whom I was forced to share a caravansary cell； were going to
recount a heart…warming story。
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The Head Treasurer diffidently said； “Our Sultan； one year prior； charged me
with having an illuminated manuscript prepared under conditions of the
utmost privacy； a manuscript that would be included among the gifts meant
for an ambassadorial delegation。 In light of the secrecy of the book； His
Excellency did not deem it appropriate that Master Lokman the Royal
Historian be enlisted to write the manuscript。 Similarly； He did not venture to
involve you； ires。 Indeed； He supposed that you
were already fully engaged with the Book of Festivities。”
Upon entering this room I had abruptly assumed that some wretch had
slandered me； claiming that I was mitting heresy in such…and…such an
illustration and that I’d lampooned the Sovereign in another； I imagined with
horror that this tattler had been able to convince the Sovereign of my guilt and
that I was about to be laid out for torture with no consideration for my age。
And so to hear that the Head Treasurer was simply trying to make amends for
Our Sultan’s having missioned a manuscript from an outsider—these
words were sweeter than honey indeed。 Without learning anything new； I
listened to an account of the manuscript； about which I was already well
aware。 I was privy to the rumors about Nusret Hoja of Erzurum； and naturally；
to the intrigues within the workshop。
“Who is responsible for preparing the manuscript？” I asked。
“Enishte Effendi； as you know；” said the Head Treasurer。 Fixing his gaze into
my eyes； he added； “You were aware that he died an untimely death； that is to
say； that he was murdered； weren’t you？”
“Nay；” I said simply； like a child； and fell quiet。
“Our Sultan is quite furious；” the Head Treasurer said。
That Enishte Effendi was a dunce。 The master miniaturists always mocked
him for being more pretentious than knowledgeable； more ambitious than
intelligent。 I knew something was rotten at the funeral anyway。 How was he
killed； I wondered？
The Head Treasurer explained exactly how。 Appalling。 Dear God protect us。
Yet who could be responsible？
“The Sultan has decreed；” said the Head Treasurer； “that the book in
question should be finished as soon as possible； as with the Book of Festivities
manuscript…”
“He has also made a second decree；” said the mander of the Imperial
Guard。 “If； indeed； this unspeakable murderer is one of the miniaturists； He
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wants the black…hearted devil found。 He intends to sentence him to a
punishment such as will stand as a deterrent to one and all。”
An expression of such excitement appeared on the face of the mander
as if to suggest he already knew the monstrous punishment Our Sultan had
decreed。
I knew that Our Sultan had only recently charged these two men with this
task； thereby forcing them to cooperate—on which account they couldn’t hide
their distaste even no