with you this instant；” I whispered into his ear as if divulging a secret。
That he listened to me like an obedient child without making a peep
pleased me： “You’ll recognize this legend from the Book of Kings；” I whispered。
“Feridun Shah； in error； bequeaths the worst of his lands to his two older sons
and the best； Persia； to Iraj； the youngest。 Tur； bent on revenge； dupes his
younger brother； Iraj； of whom he is jealous； before he cuts Iraj’s throat； he
grabs his hair just as I am doing now and lies on top of him with all his
weight。 Do you feel the weight of my body？”
He gave no answer； but from his eyes； which stared blankly like those of a
sacrificial lamb； I could tell that he was listening； and I was struck with
inspiration： “I’m not only faithful to Persian styles and methods in painting；
but also in beheadings。 I’ve also seen another version of this much loved scene
that describes Shah Siyavush’s death。”
I explained to Black； who listened silently； how Siyavush made preparations
for avenging his brothers； how he burned down his entire palace； all his
belongings and property； how he forgivingly parted from his wife； mounted
his steed and went to war； how he lost the battle and was dragged by his hair
along the ground before being laid out facedown “just as you are now；” and
how a knife was pressed against his throat； how there erupted an argument
between his friends and enemies over whether they should kill him or let him
free and how the defeated king； his face in the dirt； listened to his captors。
Then I asked him； “Are you fond of that illustration？ Geruy es up behind
Siyavush； as I have to you； gets on top of him； rests his sword against his neck；
grabs a fistful of hair and cuts his throat。 Your red blood； soon to flow； makes
black dust rise from the dry earth； where later still； a flower will bloom。”
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I fell quiet and from distant streets we could hear the Erzurumis screaming
as they ran。 The terror outside at once brought the two of us； lying one on top
of the other； closer。
“But in all those pictures；” I added； pulling harder on Black’s hair； “one can
sense the difficulty of elegantly drawing two men who despise each other yet
whose bodies； like ours； have bee as one。 It’s as if the chaos of treachery；
envy and battle that es just before the magical and magnificent moment
of beheading has too fully permeated those pictures。 Even the greatest masters
of Kazvin would have difficulty drawing two men on top of each other； they’d
confuse everything。 Whereas you and I； see for yourself； we’re much more tidy
and elegant。”
“The blade is cutting；” he whimpered。
“I’m much obliged for your polite words； my dear man； but it’s doing no
such thing。 I’m being quite careful。 I wouldn’t do anything to ruin the beauty
of our pose。 In the scenes of love； death and war； wherein the great masters of
old rendered intertwined bodies as if they were one； they were able to elicit
only our tears。 See for yourself： My head rests upon the nape of your neck as if
it were a part of your body。 I can smell your hair and the scent of your neck。
My legs； on either side of yours； are stretched out in such harmony with yours；
that an onlooker might mistake us for an elegant four…legged beast。 Do you
feel the balance of my weight on your back and buttocks？” Another silence；
but I didn’t press the sword upward； because it would indeed have cut his
throat。 “If you’re not going to speak； I might be provoked to bite your ear；” I
said； whispering into that very ear。
When I noticed in his eyes that he was prepared to speak； I asked the same
question again： “Do you feel the balance of my weight upon your body？”
“Aye。”
“Do you like it？” I said。 “Are we beautiful？” I asked。 “Are we as beautiful as
the legendary heroes who slay each other with such elegance in the
masterpieces of the old masters？”
“I don’t know；” said Black； “I can’t see us in the mirror。”
When I imagined how my wife saw us from the other room in the light cast
by the coffeehouse’s oil lamp resting on the floor only a short distance away； I
thought I might actually bite Black’s ear out of excitement。
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“Black Effendi； you； who have forced your way into my home and have
disturbed my privacy； dagger in hand； in order to interrogate me；” I said； “do
you now feel my strength？”
“Yes； I also sense that you’re truly in the right。”
“Then proceed； once again； to ask me what you want to know。”
“Describe how Master Osman would caress you。”
“As an apprentice； I was much more lithe； delicate and beautiful than I am
now； and he would mount me then the way I have mounted you。 He would
caress my arms； at times he would even hurt me； but because I was in awe of
his knowledge； his talent and strength； what he did pleased me； and I never
harbored any ill will toward him； because I loved him。 Loving Master Osman
enabled me to love art； colors； paper； the beauty of painting and illumination
and everything that was painted； and thereby to love the world itself and God。
Master Osman is more than a father to me。”
“Would he beat you often？” he asked。
“In the role of a father； he beat me with an appropriate sense of justice； as a
master； he beat me painfully so that I might learn from the punishment。
Thanks to the pain and the fear of a ruler whacking my fingernails I learned
many things better and faster than I would’ve alone。 So he wouldn’t grab me
by my hair and bang my head against the wall when I was an apprentice； I’d
never spill paint； never waste his gold orize； for
example； the curve of a horse’s foreleg； cover up the mistakes of the master
limner； clean my brushes regularly and focus my attention and spirit on the
page before me。 Since I owe my talent and mastery to the beatings I received； I；
in turn； beat my own apprentices without a guilty conscience。 What’s more； I
know that even a beating given without just cause； if it doesn’t break the spirit
of the apprentice； will ultimately benefit him。”
“Even so； you understand that while drubbing a handsome…faced； sweet…
eyed； angelic apprentice； now and then； you get carried away by the sheer
pleasure of it； and you know that Master Osman probably experienced the
same sensation with you； don’t you？”
“Sometimes he’d take a marble burnishing stone and strike me with such
force behind the ear that my ear would ring for days； and I’d walk around half
stunned。 Sometimes he’d slap me so hard that for weeks my cheek would
ache； enough to bring continual tears to my eyes。 I shall never forget； yet I still
love my mentor。”
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“Nay；” said Black； “you were furious with him。 You took revenge for the
anger that silently accumulated deep within you by making illustrations for
my Enishte’s Frankish…imitation book。”
“The opposite is true。 The beatings that a young miniaturist receives from
his master bind him to his master with a profound respect until the day he
dies。”
“The cruel and treacherous cutting of the throats of Iraj and Siyavush from
behind； as you are doing to me； arose out of sibling rivalry； and sibling rivalry；
as in the Book of Kings； is always provoked by an unjust father。”
“True。”
“The unjust father of you master miniaturists； the one who set you at each
other’s throats； is now preparing to betray you；” he said brazenly。 “Ahh； I beg
of you； it is cutting；” he whimpered。 He cried in agony a bit longer。 Then he
went on； “True； cutting my throat and spilling my blood like a sacrificial lamb
would be but the work of an instant； but if you do this without listening to
what I’m about to explain—I don’t think you’ll do it anyway； ahh； please；
enough—you’ll forever wonder what I was going to say。 Please； move the blade
away slightly。” I did so。 “Master Osman； who followed your every step and
your every breath since childhood； who happily watched your God…given talent
bloom into artistry like a spring flower under his care； has now turned his
back on you in order to save his workshop and its style； to which he has
devoted his entire life。”
“I recounted three parables to you the day we buried Elegant Effendi so you
might know how disgusting this thing they call ”style‘ truly is。“
“Those stories pertained to a miniaturist’s individual style；” said Black
carefully； “whereas Master Osman is concerned with preserving the style of
the entire workshop。”
He explained how the Sultan attached great importance to finding the
murderer of Elegant Effendi and his Enishte； how He’d even let them inspect
the Royal Treasury to this end； and how Master Osman was using this
opportunity to sabotage his Enishte’s book and punish those who betrayed
him by imitating the Europeans。 Black added that based on style； Master
Osman suspected Olive was responsible for the horse with the clipped nostrils；
but as Head Illuminator； he was convinced of Stork’s guilt and would turn him
over to the executioners。 I could sense he was telling the truth under the
pressure of my sword； and I felt like kissing him because he gave himself over
to what he was saying like a child。 What I heard didn’t worry me； having Stork
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out of the way meant I’d bee Head Illuminator after Master Osman’s
death—may God grant him long life。
I wasn’t disturbed that what he said might happen； but by the possibility
that it might not。 Reading between the lines of Black’s account； I was able to
glean that Master Osman was willing not only to sacrifice Stork； but me as
well。 Considering this incredible possibility made my heart quicken and drew
me toward t