water bearers ran out to settle the dust raised in the Hippodrome； and a group
of men appeared shouldering leather sacks full of linseed oil to pour over a
mob ready to attack the ambassador； in hopes of pacifying it。 The raised feet of
the water bearers and of the men carrying sacks of linseed oil were made by
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the same artist who painted the raised feet of charging soldiers in the
depiction of Red： also the work of Butterfly。
I wasn’t the one who made this last discovery as I directed our search for
clues； moving the magnifying lens right and left； to that picture then this one；
rather it was Black； who opened his eyes wide and scarcely blinked gripped by
the fear of torture and the hope of returning to his wife who awaited him at
home。 Using the “courtesan method；” it took an entire afternoon to sort out
which of our miniaturists worked on each of the nine pictures left by the late
Enishte； and later； to interpret that information。
Black’s late Enishte didn’t limit any single page to the artistic talent of just
one miniaturist； all three of my master miniaturists worked on most of the
illustrations。 This meant that the pictures were moved from house to house
with great frequency。 In addition to the work I recognized； I noticed the
amateurish strokes of a fifth artist； but as I grew angry at the dearth of talent
shown by this disgraceful murderer； Black determined from the cautious brush
strokes that it was indeed the work of his Enishte—thereby saving us from
following a false lead。 If we discounted poor Elegant Effendi； who’d done
almost the same gilding for Enishte’s book and our Book of Festivities （yes； this
of course broke my heart） and who； I gathered； had occasionally lowered his
brush to execute a few walls； leaves and clouds； it was evident that only my
three most brilliant master miniaturists had contributed to these illustrations。
They were the darlings I’d lovingly trained since their apprenticeships； my
three beloved talents： Olive； Butterfly and Stork。
Discussing their talents； mastery and temperaments to the end of finding
the clue we were looking for inevitably led to a discussion of my own life as
well：
The Attributes of Olive
His given name was Velijan。 If he had a nickname besides the one I’d given
him； I don’t know it； because I never saw him sign any of his work。 When he
was an apprentice； he’d e get me from my home on Tuesday mornings。 He
was very proud； and so if he ever lowered himself to sign his work； he’d want
this signature to be plain and recognizable； he wouldn’t try to conceal it
anywhere。 Allah had quite generously endowed him with excess ability。 He
could readily and easily do anything from gilding to ruling and his work was
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superb。 He was the workshop’s most brilliant creator of trees； animals and the
human face。 Velijan’s father； who brought him to Istanbul when he was； I
believe； ten years old； was trained by Siyavush； the famous illustrator
specializing in faces in the Persian Shah’s Tabriz workshop。 He hails from a
long line of masters whose genealogy goes back to the Mongols； and just like
the elderly masters who bore a Mongol…Chinese influence and settled in
Samarkand； Bukhara and Herat 150 years ago； he rendered moon…faced young
lovers as if they were Chinese。 Neither during his apprenticeship nor during
his time as a master was I able to lead this stubborn artist to other styles。 How
I would’ve liked him to transcend the styles and models of the Mongol；
Chinese and Herat masters billeted deep in his soul； or even for him to forget
about them entirely。 When I told him this； he replied that like many
miniaturists who’d moved from workshop to workshop and country to
country； he’d forgotten these old styles； if he’d ever actually learned them。
Though the value of many miniaturists resides precisely in the splendid models
of form they’ve mitted to memory； had Velijan truly forgotten them； he’d
have bee an even greater illustrator。 Still； there were two benefits； of which
he wasn’t even aware； to harboring the teachings of his mentors in the depths
of his soul like a pair of unconfessed sins： 1。 For such a gifted miniaturist；
clinging to old forms inevitably stirred feelings of guilt and alienation that
would spur his talent to maturity。 2。 In a moment of difficulty； he could
always recall what he claimed to have forgotten； and thus； he could
successfully plete any new subject； history or scene by recourse to one of
the old Herat models。 With his keen eye； he knew how to harmonize what
he’d learned from the old forms and Shah Tahmasp’s old masters in new
pictures。 Herat painting and Istanbul ornamentation happily merged in Olive。
As with all of my miniaturists； I once paid an unannounced visit to his
home。 Unlike my work area and that of many other master miniaturists； his
was a filthy confusion of paints； brushes； burnishing shells； his folding
worktable and other objects。 It was a mystery to me； but he wasn’t even
embarrassed by it。 He took no outside jobs to earn a few extra silver coins。
After I related these facts； Black said it was Olive who showed the most
enthusiasm for and the most ease with the styles of the Frankish masters
admired by his late Enishte。 I understood this to be praise from the deceased
fool’s point of view； mistaken though it was。 I can’t say whether Olive was
more deeply and secretly bound to the Herat styles—which went back to his
father’s mentor Siyavush and Siyavush’s mentor Muzaffer； back to the era of
Bihzad and the old masters—than he appeared to be； but it always made me
wonder whether Olive harbored other hidden tendencies。 Of my miniaturists
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（I told myself spontaneously）； he was the most quiet and sensitive； but also
the most guilty and traitorous； and by far the most devious。 When I thought
about the mander’s torture chambers； he was the first to e to mind。
（I both wanted and didn’t want him to be tortured。） He had the eyes of a jinn；
he noticed and took account of everything； including my own shortings；
however； with the reserve of an exile able to acmodate himself to any
situation； he’d rarely open his mouth to point out mistakes。 He was wily； yes；
but not in my opinion a murderer。 （I didn’t tell Black this。） Olive didn’t
believe in anything。 He had no faith in money； but he’d nervously squirrel it
away。 Contrary to what is monly believed； all murderers are men of
extreme faith rather than unbelievers。 Manuscript illumination leads to
painting； and painting； in turn； leads to—God forbid—challenging Allah。
Everybody knows this。 Therefore； to judge by his lack of faith； Olive is a
genuine artist。 Nevertheless； I believe that his God…given gifts fall short of
Butterfly’s； or even Stork’s。 I would’ve wanted Olive to be my son。 As I said
this； I wanted to incur Black’s jealousy； but he only responded by opening his
dark eyes and staring with childlike curiosity。 Then I said Olive was
magnificent when he worked in black ink； when he rendered； for pasting in
albums； warriors； hunting scenes； Chinese…inspired landscapes full of storks
and cranes； pretty boys gathered beneath a tree reciting verse and playing lutes；
and when he depicted the sorrow of legendary lovers； the wrath of a sword…
bearing； enraged shah； and a hero’s expression of fear as he dodged the attack
of a dragon。
“Perhaps Enishte wanted Olive to do the last picture that would show in
great detail； in the style of the Europeans； Our Sultan’s face and manner of
sitting；” Black said。
Was he trying to confuse me？
“Supposing this were the case； after Olive killed Enishte； why would he
abscond with a picture he was already familiar with？” I said。 “Or； if you like；
why would he murder Enishte in order to see that picture？”
We both pondered these questions for a while。
“Because there’s something missing in that painting；” said Black。 “Or
because he regrets something he did and is scared by it。 Or even…” he
thought for a while。 “Or； having killed Enishte； he might’ve taken the painting
to do further harm； for the sake of having a memento； or even for no reason at
all。 Olive is； after all； a great illustrator who’d naturally have a lot of respect for
a beautiful painting。”
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“We’ve already discussed in what ways Olive is a great illustrator；” I said；
growing angry。 “But none of Enishte’s illustrations is beautiful。”
“We haven’t yet seen the last painting；” Black said boldly。
The Attributes of Butterfly
He is known as Hasan Chelebi from the Gunpowder Factory district； but to me
he’s always been “Butterfly。” This nickname always reminds me of the beauty
of his boyhood and youth： He was so handsome that those who saw him
didn’t believe their eyes and wanted a second look。 I’ve always been
astonished by the miracle of his being as talented as he is handsome。 He’s a
master of color and this is his greatest strength； he painted passionately；
reeling with the pleasure of applying color。 But I cautioned Black that Butterfly
was flighty； aimless and indecisive。 Anxious to be just； I added： He’s a genuine
miniaturist who paints from the heart。 If the arts of ornamentation are not
meant to cater to intelligence； to speak to the animal within us； or to bolster
the pride of the Sultan； that is； if this art is meant to be only a festival for the
eyes； then Butterfly is indeed a true miniaturist。 He makes w