I AM CALLED BLACK
Wheurnedhomethatnight,ablyevadingmylandlady—whowasbeginningtoactlikemymother—Isequesteredmyselfinmyroomandlayonmymattress,givingmyselfovertovisionsofShekure.
AllowmetheamusementofdescribingthesoundsI’dheardinEnishte’shouse.Onmysedvisit
aftertwelveyears,shedidn’tshowherself.Shedidsucceed,however,insomagicallyendowihherpreseIwascertainofbeing,somehow,tinuallyunderherwatch,whileshesizedmeupasafuturehusband,amusingherselfallthewhileasifplayingagameoflogiowingthis,IalsoimaginedIwastinuallyabletoseeher.ThuswasIbetterabletouandIbnArabi’snotionthatloveistheabilitytomaketheinvisiblevisibleandthedesirealwaystofeeltheinvisibleinone’smidst.
IcouldihatShekurewastinuallywatgmebecauseI’dbeenlisteningtothesoundsingfromwithinthehouseandtothecreakingofitswoodboards.Atonepoint,Iwasabsolutelycertainshewaswithherchildreniroom,whichopeothewidehallway-cum-anteroom;Icouldhearthechildrenpushing,shovingandsparringwitheachotherwhiletheirmother,perhaps,triedtoquietthemwithgestures,threateningglandknitbrows.OnawhileIheardthemwhisperingquiteunnaturally,notasonewouldwhispertoavoiddisturbingsomeone’sritualprayers,butaffectedly,asonewouldbeforeeruptinginafitoflaughter.
Aime,astheirgrandfatherlainingtomethewondersoflightandshadow,ShevketandOrhaheroom,andwithcarefulgesturesobviouslyrehearsedbeforehand,profferedatrayandserveduscoffee.Thisceremony,whichshould’vebeenHayriye’s,wasarrangedbyShekuresotheycouldobservethemanwhomightsoonbeetheirfather.Andso,IpaidaplimenttoShevket:“Whatniceeyesyouhave.”Then,Iimmediatelyturohisyoungerbrother,Orhan—sensingthathemightgrowjealous—andadded,“Yoursareaswell.”,Iplacedafadedredatioal,whichI’dfastproducedfromthefoldsofmyrobe,ontothetrayandkissedeachboyonthecheeks.Laterstill,Iheardlaughterandgigglingfromwithin.
Frequently,Igrewcurioustoknowfromwhichholeinthewalls,thecloseddoors,orperhaps,theceiling,andfromwhigle,hereyeeeringatme.StaringatacraotorwhatItooktobeahole,I’dimagineShekuresituatedjustbehindit.Suddenly,suspeganotherblackspot,andtodetermiherIwasjustifiedinmysuspi—evenattheriskofbeingiowardmyEnishteashetinuedhisendlessrecital—I’dstandup.Affegallthewhilethedemeanorofaivedisciple,quiteenthralledandquitelostinthought,iodemonstratehowiIonmyEnishte’sstory,I’dbeginpagintheroomreoccupiedair,beforeapproagthatsuspiciousblackspotonthewall.
WhenIfailedtofindShekure’seyeinginwhatIhadtakentobeapeephole,I’dbeoverebydisappoi,andthenbyastrangefeelingofloneliness,bytheimpatienaaiotur.
Nowandthen,I’dexperiencesuabruptandintensefeelingthatShekurewaswatgme,I’dbesoabsolutelyvincedIwaswithinhergaze,thatI’dstartposinglikeamantryingtoshoiser,strongerandmorecapablethanhereallywassoastoimpressthewomanheloved.Later,I’dfantasizethatShekureandherboyswereparihherhusband—theboys’missingfather—beforemymindwouldfocusagainuponwhichevervarietyoffamousVeianillustratoraboutwhosepaintingteiquesmyEnishtewaswaxingphilosophicatthemoment.Iloobelikethesenewly
famedpainterssolelybecauseShekurehadheardsomuchaboutthemfromherfather;illustratorswhohadearheirrenown—nhsufferingmartyrdomincellslikesaints,hseveringtheheadsofenemysoldierswithamightyarmandasharpscimitar,asthatabsenthusbandhaddoonatofamanuscriptthey’dtranscribedethey’dillumiriedveryhardtoimagihemagnifitpicturescreatedbythesecelebratedillustrators,whowere,asmyEnishteexplained,inspiredbythepoweroftheworld’smysteryanditsvisibleblaess.Itriedsohardtovisualizethem—thosemasterpiecesmyEnishtehadseenandwasnowattemptingtodescribetoonewhohadneverlaideyesohat,finally,whenmyimaginationfailedme,Ifeltonlymoredejectedanddemeaned.
IlookeduptodiscoverthatShevketwasbeforemeagain.Heapproachedmedecisively,andIassumed—aswasaryfortheoldestmalechildamoainArabtribesinTransoxianaandamongCircassiantribesintheCaucasusmountains—thathewouldnotonlykissaguest’shandatthebeginningofavisit,butalsowhenthatguestleft.Caughtoffguard,Ipresentedmyhandforhimtokiss.Atthatmoment,fromsomewherenottoofaraway,Iheardherlaughter.Wasshelaughingatme?Ibecameflusteredandtoremedythesituation,IgrabbedShevketandkissedhimonbothcheeksasthoughthisasreallyexpee.ThenIsmiledatmyEnishteasthoughtoapologizeforinterruptinghimandtoassurehimthatImeantnodisrespect,whilecarefullydrawingthechildocheckwhetherheborehismother’sst.BythetimeIuoodthattheboyhadplacedacrumpledscrapofpaperintomyhand,he’dlongsiurnedhisbadwalkedsomedistaowardthedoor.
Iclutchedthescrapofpaperinmyfistlikeajewel.AndwhenIuoodthatthiswasanotefromShekure,outofelationIcouldscarcelykeepfromgrinningstupidlyatmyEnishte.Wasn’tthisproofenoughthatShekurepassionatelydesiredme?Suddenly,Iimaginedusengagedinamadfrenzyoflovemaking.SoprofoundlyvincedwasIthatthisincredibleeventI’djuredwasimmihatmymanhoodinappropriatelybegantorise—thereinthepresenyEnishte.HadShekurewithis?IfocusedilyonwhatmyEnishtelainingioredirectmytration.
Muchlater,whilemyEnishteeartoshowmeanotherillustratedplatefromhisbook,Idiscreetlyunfoldedthenote,whichsmelledofhoneysuckle,onlytodiscoverthatshe’dleftitpletelyblank.Icouldn’tbelievemyeyesandsenselesslyturhepaperoverandover,examiningit.
“Awindow,”saidmyEnishte.“Usingperspectivalteiquesislikeregardingtheworldfromawindow—whatisthatyouareholding?”
“It’snothing,EnishteEffendi,”Isaid.Whenhelookedaway,Ibroughtthecrumpledpapertomynoseanddeeplyisst.
Afteranafternoonmeal,asIdidnotwanttousemyEnishte’schamberpot,Iexcusedmyselfaotheouthouseintheyard.Itwasbittercold.IhadquicklyseentomywithoutfreezingmybuttouchwhenIsawthatShevkethadslylyandsilentlyappearedbeforeme,blogmywaylikeabrigand.Inhishandsheheldhisgrandfather’sfullandsteamingchamberpot.Heehe
outhouseaftermeaiedthepot.Heexitedandfixedhisprettyeyesonmineashepuffedouthisplumpcheeks,stillholdiypot.
“Haveyoueverseenadeadcat?”heasked.Hisnosewasexactlylikehismother’s.Wasshewatgus?Ilookedaround.Theshutterswereclosedontheentedsed-floorwindowinwhichI’dfirstseenShekureaftersomanyyears.
“Nay.”
“ShallIshowyouthedeadthehouseoftheHangedJew?”
Hewentouttothestreetwithoutwaitingformyresponse.Ifollowedhim.Wewalkedfortyorfiftypacesalongthemuddyandicypathbeforeenteringagarden.Here,itsmelledofwetandrottingleaves,andfaintlyofmold.Withthefidenceofachildwhokheplacewell,takingfirm,rhythmicsteps,heehroughthedoorofayellowhouse,whichstoodbeforeusalmosthiddenbehindsandalmondtrees.
Thehousewaspletelyempty,butitwasdryandwarm,asifsomebodywerelivingthere.
“Whosehouseisthis?”Iasked.
“TheJews”.Whenthemandied,hiswifeandkidswenttotheJewishquarteroverbythefruit-sellers’quay.They’rehavihertheclothiersellthehouse.“Hewentintoaeroftheroomaurhecat’sgo’sdisappeared,“hesaid.
“Wherewouldadeadcatgo?”
“Mygrandfathersaysthedeadwander.”
“Notthedeadthemselves,”Isaid.“Theirspiritswander.”
“Howdoyouknow?”hesaid.Hewasholdingthechamberpottightlyagainsthislapinallseriousness.
“Ijustknow.Doyoualwaysehere?”
“MymotheresherewithEsther.Thelivingdead,risenfromthegrave,ehereatnight,butI’mnotafraidofthisplace.Haveyoueverkilledaman?”
“Yes.”
“Howmany?”
“Notmany.Two.”
“Withasword?”
“Withasword.”
“Dotheirsoulswander?”
“Idon’tknow.Acctowhat’swritteninbooks,theymustwander.”
“UncleHasanhasaredsword.It’ssosharpit’llcutyouifyoujusttouchit.Andhehasadaggerwitharuby-studdedhandle.Areyoutheonewhokilledmyfather?”
Inoddedindigher“yes”nor“no.”“Howdoyouknowthatyourfatherisdead?”
“Mymothersaidsoyesterday.Hewourning.Shesawhiminherdream.”
Ifpresehtheopportunity,wewouldchoosetodointhenameofagreatergoalwhateverawfulthingwe’vealreadypreparedtodoforthesakeofourownmiserablegains,forthelustthatburnswithinusorforthelovethatbreaksourhearts;andso,Iresolvedoncemoretobeethefatheroftheseforsakenchildren,and,wheurhehouse,IlistenedmoreilytoShevket’sgrandfatherashedescribedthebookwhosetextandillustrationsIhadtoplete.
LetmebeginwiththeillustrationsthatmyEnishtehadshowhehorseforexample.Onthispagetherewerenohumanfiguresandtheareaaroundthehorsety;evenso,Icouldn’tsayitwassimplyandexclusivelythepaintingofahorse.Yes,thehorsewasthere,yetitarentthattheriderhadsteppedofftotheside,orwhoknows,perhapshewasonthevergeofemergingfrombehindthebushdrawnintheKazvinstyle.Thiswasimmediatelyapparentfromthesaddleuponthehorse,whichborethemarksandembellishmentsofnobility:Maybe,amanwithhisswordatthereadywasabouttoappearbesidethesteed.
ItwasobviousthatEnishteissiohishorsefromamasterillustratorwhomhe’dsecretlysummonedfromtheworkshop.Becausetheillustrator,arrivingatnight,coulddrawahorse—ingrainedinhismindlikeastencil—onlyifitweretheextensionofastory,that’sexactlyhowhe’dbegin:byrote.Ashewasdrawingthehorse,whichhe’dseenthousandsoftimesinsesofloveandwar,myEnishte,inspiredbythemethodsoftheVeianmasters,hadprobablyinstructedtheillustrator;forexample,hemighthavesaid,“Fetabouttherider,drawatreethere.Butdrawitinthebackground,onasmallerscale.”
Theillustrator,whocameatnight,wouldsitbeforehisworkdesktogetherwithmyEnishte,eagerlydrawingbydlelightanodd,unventionalpicturethatdidn’tresembleanyoftheusualsesto
whichhewasacedandhadmemorized.Ofcourse,myEnishtepaidhimhandsomelyforeachdrawing,butfrankly,thispeculiarmethodofdrawingalsohaditscharms.However,aswithmyEnishte,afterawhile,theillustratorcouldnoloerminewhichstorytheillustrationwasinteoenhandplete.WhatmyEnishteexpeewasthatIexamiheseillustrationsmadeinhalf-Veian,half-Persianmodeandwriteastorysuitabletoapaheoppositepage.IfIhopedtogetShekure,Iabsolutelyhadtowritethesestories,butallthatcametomihestoriesthestorytellertoldatthecoffeehouse.
IWILLBECALLEDAMURDERERTigaway,mywindupcloeitwasevening.Theprayershadyettobecalled,butlongbefore,I’dlitthedlerestingbesidemyfoldingworktable.Iquicklypleteddraiumaddiory,havingdippedmyreedpenintoblackHasanPashainkandskateditoverwell-burnishedaifullysizedpaper,whehatvoicecalliothestreetasitdideverynight.Iresisted.Iwassodetermitogo,buttostayathomeandwork,Ieventriednailingmydoorshutforatime.
ThisbookIwashastilypletingwasissionedbyanArmenianwho’deallthewayfromGalata,knogonmydoorthismbeforeanyonehadrisen.Theman,aninterpreterandguide,thoughhestuttered,huntedmedownwheneveraFrankorVeiantravelerwanteda“bookofes”andengagedmeinaboutofviciousbargaining.Havingagreedthatmuponalesser-qualitybookofesforapriceoftwentysilverpieces,IproceededtoillustrateadozenIstanbulitesinasiingarouimeoftheeveningprayer,payingparticularattentiontothedetailoftheiroutfits.IdrewaSheikhulislam,apalaceporter,apreacher,aJanissary,adervish,acavalryman,ajudge,aliverseller,aioner—executionersioftorturesoldquitewell—abeggar,awomanboundforthehamam,andanopiumaddict.I’ddonesomanyofthesebooksjusttoearrasilverpiecesthatIbegantoigamesformyselftofightoffboredomwhileIdrew;forexample,Iforcedmyselftodrawthejudgewithoutliftingmypenoffthepageortodrawthebeggarwithmyeyesclosed.
Allbrigands,poetsandmenofstantsorrowknowthatwhentheeveningprayeriscalledthejinnsanddemonswithinthemwillgrowagitatedandrebellious,urginginunision:“Out!Outside!”Thisrestlessinnervoicedemands,“Seekthepanyofothers,seekblaess,miseryanddisgrace.”I’vespentmytimeappeasingthesejinnsanddemons.I’vepaintedpictures,whiyregardasmiraclesthathaveissuedfrommyhands,withthehelpoftheseevilspirits.Butforsevendaysnowafterdusk,sinceImurderedthatdisgrace,I’mnolongerabletotrolthejinnsanddemonswithiheyragewithsuchvioleItellmyselftheymightcalmdownifIgooutforawhile.
Aftersayingso,asalwayswithoutknowinghow,Ifoundmyselfroamingthroughthenight.Iwalkedbriskly,advangthroughsnowystreets,muddypassages,icyslopesaedsidewalksasifIwouldop.AsIwalked,desdingintothedarkofnight,intothemostremoteandabandonedpartsofthecity,I’deversograduallyleavemysoulbehind,andwalkingalongthenarrowstreets,my
footstepsegoffthewallsofstoneinns,schoolsandmosques,myfearswouldsubside.
Oftheirownayfeetbroughtmetotheabareetsofthisneighborhoodoskirtsofthecity,whereIcameeaightandwhereeveersandjinnswouldshuddertoroam.IheardtellthathalfthemeninthisneighborhoodhadperishedinthewarswithPersiaandthattheresthadfled,declaringitill-omened,butIdon’tbelievesuchsuperstition.TheonlytragedythathasbefallenthisgoodquarteronatoftheSafavidwarswastheclosingoftheKalenderidervishhousefortyyearsagobecauseitwassuspectedofharbtheenemy.
Imeanderedbehindthemulberrybushesandthebay-leaftrees,whichhadapleasantaromaeveninthecoldestweather,andwithmyusualfastidiousness,Istraightehewallboardsbetweenthecollapsedeyandthewindowwithitsdilapidatedshutters.Ienteredahelingeriofone-hundred-year-oldinseandmolddeepintomylungs.Itmademesoblissfultobehere,Ithoughttearswouldfallfrommyeyes.
IfIhaven’talreadysaidso,I’dliketosaythatIfearnothingbutAllahandthepunishmeedoutinthisworldhasnoimportwhatsoeverinmyopinion.WhatIfeararethevarioustormentsthatmurdererslikemyselfwillhavetoendureonJudgmentDay,asisclearlydescribedintheGloriousKoran,inthe“Criterion”chapter,forexample.Intheabooks,thatIquiterarelylayholdof,wheneverIseethispunishmentinallitscolorsandviolence,recallingthesimple,childish,yetterrifyingsesofHellillustratedoncalfskinbytheoldArabminiaturists,or,forwhateverreasoormentsofdemoedbyeseandMongolmasterartists,I’tkeepmyselffromdrawingthisanalogyandheedingitslogic:Whatdoes“TheNightJourney”chapterstateinitsthirty-thirdverse?Isitnotwrittenthatoneshouldnot,withoutjustification,takethelifeofanotherwhosemurderGodforbids?Allrightthen:ThemistI’vesenttoHellwasnotabeliever,whosemurderGodhadforbidden;andbesides,Ihadexcellentjustificationforshatteringhisskull.
Thismanhadslahoseofuswho’dworkedonthatbookOurSultanhadsecretlyissioned.IfIhadn’tsilencedhim,hewould’vedenouncedasunbelieversEnishteEffendi,alltheminiaturistsandevenMasterOsmaingtherabidfollowersoftheHojaofErzurumhavetheirwaywiththem.Ifsomeonesucceededinannoungthattheminiaturistswereittingblasphemy,thesefollowersofEzurumi—whoarelookingforanyexcusetoexercisetheirstrength—wouldn’tjustbesatisfiedwithdoingawaywiththemasterminiaturists,they’ddestroytheentireworkshopandOurSultanwouldbehelplesstodoanythingbutwatchwithoutapeep.
AsIdideverytimeIcamehere,IedupwiththebroomandssIkepthiddeninaer.AsIed,IwasheartenedalikeadutifulservantofAllahagain.SothatHewouldn’tdeprivemeofthisblessedfeeling,Iprayedforalongtime.Thecold,whichwasenoughtomakeafoxshitcopper,droveintomybones.Ibegahatsinisteracheatthebaythroat.Isteppedoutside.
Soonafterward,againinthesamestraeofmind,Ifoundmyselfinapletelydifferentneighborhood.Idon’tknowwhathadhappened,whatI’dthoughtbetweenthedesertedneighborhoodof
thedervishhouseandhere.Ididn’tknowhowI’darrivedontheseroadslihcypresstrees.
HowevermuchIwalked,apesteringthoughtwouldn’tleavemebe,anditateatmelikeaworm.MaybeifItellyouit’lleasetheburden:Callhima“vileslanderer”or“pantEffendi”—eitherwayit’sthesamething—ashorttimebeforethedearlydepartedgilderhadleftthisworld,hewasmakingvehementaccusationsagainstourEnishte,butwhehatIwasn’tthataffectedbyhisdeclarationthatEnishteEffendimadeuseoftheperspectivalteiquesoftheihatbeastdivulgedthefollowing:“There’sonefinalpicture.InthatpictureEnishtedesecrateseverythingwebelievein.Whathe’sdoingisnolongeraninsulttion,it’spureblasphemy.”Furthermore,threeweeksafterthisaccusationbythatsdrel,EnishteEffendihadactuallyaskedmetoillustrateanumberofuedthings,suchasahorse,aah,invariousrandomspotsonapageandinshoglyinsistentscales;iwaswhatonewouldexpectofaFrankishpainting.Enishtealwaystookthetroubletoceportionsoftheruledseofthepagehewaoillustrateaswellastheplacesill-fatedElegantEffendihadguilded,asthoughhewaocealsomethingfrommeaherminiaturists.
IwanttoaskEnishtewhathe’sillustratinginthislarge,finalpainting,butthere’smuchholdingmeback.IfIaskhim,he’llofcoursesuspectthatImurderedElegantEffendiandmakehissuspisknowntoall.Butthere’ssomethihatulesmeaswell.IfIaskhim,EnishtemightdeclarethatElegantEffendiwasinfactjustifiedinhisbeliefs.Occasionally,ItellmyselfIshouldaskhim,pretendingasifthissuspihadn’tpassedtomefromElegantEffendi,buthadsimplyoccurredtome.Intheend,it’snoforteitherway.
Mylegs,whichhavealwaysbeenquickerthanmyhead,hadtakeheirownaccordtoEnishteEffendi’sstreet.Icrouchedinasecludedspot,andforalongtimeobservedthehouseasbestIcouldintheblaess.Iwatchedforalongtime:ledamongtreeswasthelargeandodd-lookingtwo-storyhouseofari!Icouldn’ttellonwhichsideShekure’sroomwaslocated.AsisthecaseihepicturesmadeinTabrizduringthereignofShahTahmasp,Iimagihehouseincross-se—asifitwerehalfwithaknife—andItriedtoillustrateinmymind’seyewhereIwouldfindmyShekure,behindwhichshutter.
Thedooropened.IsawBlackleavingthehouseinthedarkness.Enishtegazedathimwithaffefrombehindthecourtyardgateforamomentbeforeclosingit.
Evenmymind,whichhadgivenitselfovertoidiotitasies,quickly,andpainfully,drewthreeclusionsbasedonwhatIhadseen:
One:SinceBlackwascheaperandlessdangerous,EnishteEffendiwouldhavehimpleteourbook.
Two:ThebeautifulShekurewouldmarryBlack.
Three:WhattheunfortunateElegantEffendihadsaidwastrue,andso,I’dkilledhimfht.
Insituationssuchasthis,assoonasourmercilessintellectsdrawthebitterclusionthatourheartsrefuse,theentirebodyrebelsagainstthemind.Atfirst,halfmymindviolentlyopposedthethirdclusion,whidicatedthatIwasnothingbutthevilestofmurderers.Mylegs,onceagain,agquickerandmorerationallythanmyhead,hadalreadyputmeinpursuitofBlackEffendi.
We’dpasseddownafewsidestreetswhenIthoughthowveryeasyitwouldbetomurderhim,sotentedlyandself-assuredlywalkingbeforeme,andhowsuchacrimewouldsavemefromhavingtofrontthefirsttwovexingclusioablishedbymymind.Furthermore,Iwouldn’thavecrackedElegantEffendi’sskullfornoreasonatall.Now,ifIrunaheadeightortenpaces,catchuptoBladlandablowontohisheadwithallmymight,everythingwillgoonasusual.EnishteEffendiwilliofinishourbook.Butmeanwhilemymoreho(whatwashoyifnotfear?)andprudentsidetiellmethatthemonsterI’dmurderedandtossedintoawellwastrulyaslanderer.Andifthiswerethecase,Ihadn’tkilledhimfht,andEnishte,whonolongerhadanythingtohidewithrespecttothebookhewasmaking,wouldmostcertainlyinvitemebacktohishome.
AsIwatchedBlackwalkingbeforeme,however,Ikhutmostcertaintythathiswouldhappen.Itwasallillusion.BlackEffendiwasmorerealthanI.Ithappenstousall:Iiontobeingoverlylogicalwe’llfeedfantasiesforweeksandyearsonend,andonedaywe’llseesomething,afaoutfit,ahappyperson,andsuddenlyrealizethatourdreamswillneveretrue;thus,weetouandthataparticularmaidenwon’tbepermittedtomarryusorthatwe’llneverreachsud-suchastationinlife.
IwaswatgtheriseandfallofBlack’sshoulders,hisheadandhisheincrediblyannoyingwaythathewalked,asthoughhiseverystepwereagifttotheworld—rofoundhatredthatcoiledcozilyaroundmyheart.MenlikeBlack,freefrompangsofsdwithpromisingfuturesbeforethem,assumethattheentireworldistheirhome;theyopeneverydoorlikeasultaeringhispersonalstableandimmediatelybelittlethoseofuscrouchediheurgetograbastoneandrunupbehindhimwasalmosttoogreattoresist.
Weweretwomenihthesamewoman;hewasinfrontofmeandpletelyunawareofmypresenceaswewalkedthroughtheturningandtwistingstreetsofIstanbul,climbinganddesdiraveledlikebrethrenthroughdesertedstreetsgiveobattlingpacksofstraydogs,passedburntruinswherejinnsloitered,mosquecourtyardswhereangelsreedoosleep,besidecypresstreesmurmuringtothesoulsofthedead,beyondtheedgesofsnow-coveredcemeteriescrowdedwithghosts,justoutofsightandsstranglingtheirvictims,passedendlessshops,stables,dervishhouses,dleworks,leatherworksandstonewalls;andaswemadeground,IfeltIwasn’tfollowinghimatall,butrather,thatIwasimitatinghim.
IAMDEATHIamDeath,asyouplainlysee,butyoubeafraid,I’mjustanillustratioasitmay,Ireadterrorinyoureyes.ThoughyouknowverywellthatI’mnotreal—likechildrenwhogive
themselvesame—you’restillseizedbyhorror,asifyou’dactuallymetDeathhimself.Thispleasesme.Asyoulookatme,youseyou’llsoilyourselvesoutoffearwhenthatunavoidablelastmomentisuponyou.Thisisnojoke.WhehDeath,peoplelosetroloftheirbodilyfuns—particularlythemajorityofthosemenwhoareknowntobebrave-hearted.Forthisreason,thecorpse-strewnbattlefieldsthatyou’vedepictedthousandsoftimesreeknotofblood,gunpowderaedarmorasisassumed,butofshitandrottingflesh.
Iknowthisisthefirsttimeyou’veseeioh.
Oneyearago,atall,thinandmysteriousoldmaniohishousetheyoungmasterminiaturistwhowouldsoonenoughillustrateme.Inthehalf-darkworkroomofthetwo-storyhouse,theoldmanservedanexquisitecupofsilky,amber-stedcoffeetotheyoungmaster,whichclearedtheyouth’smi,inthatshadowyroomwiththebluedoor,theoldmaedthemasterminiaturistbyflauntipaperfromHindustan,brushesmadeofsquirrelhair,varietiesofgoldleaf,allmannerofreedpensandcoral-handledpenknives,indigthathewouldbeabletopayhandsomely.
“Nowthen,drawDeathforme,”theoldmansaid.
“IotdraictureofDeathwithoutever,notonmyentirelife,havingseenapictureofDeath,”saidthemiraculouslysure-handedminiaturist,whowouldshortly,infadupdoingthedrawing.
“Youdonotalwaysohaveseenanillustrationofsomethingiodepictthatthing,”objectedtherefinedahusiastian.
“Yes,perhapsnot,”saidthemasterillustrator.“Yet,ifthepictureistobeperfect,thewaythemastersofoldwould’vemadeit,itoughttobedrawathousandtimesbeforeIattemptit.Nomatterhowmasterfulaminiaturistmightbe,whenhepaintsaforthefirsttime,he’llreasanapprenticewould,andIcouldhat.Iotputmymasteryasidewhileillustratih;thiswouldbeequivalenttodyingmyself.”
“Suchadeathmightputyouintouchwiththesubjectmatter,”quippedtheoldman.
“It’snotexperienceofsubjectmatterthatmakesusmasters,it’sneverhavingexperiehatmakesusmasters.”
“SuchmasteryoughttobeacquaihDeaththen.”
Inthismaheyeoaedversationwithdoubleentendre,allusions,puns,obscurereferendinnuendos,asbefitminiaturistswhorespectedboththeoldmastersaswellastheirow.Siwasmyexistewasbeingdiscussed,Ilisteentlytotheversatioiretyofwhich,Iknow,wouldborethedistinguishedminiaturistsamongusinthisgoodcoffeehouse.
Letmejustsaythattherecameapoihediscussiontoucheduponthefollowing:
“Isthemeasureofaminiaturist’stalenttheabilitytodepicteverythingwiththesameperfeasthegreatmastersortheabilitytointrodutothepicturesubjectmatterwhiooneelsesee?”saidthesure-haunning-eyed,brilliantillustrator,andalthoughhehimselfkheahisquestion,heremainedquitereserved.
“TheVeiansmeasureaminiaturist’sprowessbyhisabilitytodiscovernovelsubjectmatterandteiquesthathaveneverbeforebeenused,”insistedtheoldmanarrogantly.
“VeiansdielikeVeia松语文学www.16sy.coM免费小说阅读
AllowmetheamusementofdescribingthesoundsI’dheardinEnishte’shouse.Onmysedvisit
aftertwelveyears,shedidn’tshowherself.Shedidsucceed,however,insomagicallyendowihherpreseIwascertainofbeing,somehow,tinuallyunderherwatch,whileshesizedmeupasafuturehusband,amusingherselfallthewhileasifplayingagameoflogiowingthis,IalsoimaginedIwastinuallyabletoseeher.ThuswasIbetterabletouandIbnArabi’snotionthatloveistheabilitytomaketheinvisiblevisibleandthedesirealwaystofeeltheinvisibleinone’smidst.
IcouldihatShekurewastinuallywatgmebecauseI’dbeenlisteningtothesoundsingfromwithinthehouseandtothecreakingofitswoodboards.Atonepoint,Iwasabsolutelycertainshewaswithherchildreniroom,whichopeothewidehallway-cum-anteroom;Icouldhearthechildrenpushing,shovingandsparringwitheachotherwhiletheirmother,perhaps,triedtoquietthemwithgestures,threateningglandknitbrows.OnawhileIheardthemwhisperingquiteunnaturally,notasonewouldwhispertoavoiddisturbingsomeone’sritualprayers,butaffectedly,asonewouldbeforeeruptinginafitoflaughter.
Aime,astheirgrandfatherlainingtomethewondersoflightandshadow,ShevketandOrhaheroom,andwithcarefulgesturesobviouslyrehearsedbeforehand,profferedatrayandserveduscoffee.Thisceremony,whichshould’vebeenHayriye’s,wasarrangedbyShekuresotheycouldobservethemanwhomightsoonbeetheirfather.Andso,IpaidaplimenttoShevket:“Whatniceeyesyouhave.”Then,Iimmediatelyturohisyoungerbrother,Orhan—sensingthathemightgrowjealous—andadded,“Yoursareaswell.”,Iplacedafadedredatioal,whichI’dfastproducedfromthefoldsofmyrobe,ontothetrayandkissedeachboyonthecheeks.Laterstill,Iheardlaughterandgigglingfromwithin.
Frequently,Igrewcurioustoknowfromwhichholeinthewalls,thecloseddoors,orperhaps,theceiling,andfromwhigle,hereyeeeringatme.StaringatacraotorwhatItooktobeahole,I’dimagineShekuresituatedjustbehindit.Suddenly,suspeganotherblackspot,andtodetermiherIwasjustifiedinmysuspi—evenattheriskofbeingiowardmyEnishteashetinuedhisendlessrecital—I’dstandup.Affegallthewhilethedemeanorofaivedisciple,quiteenthralledandquitelostinthought,iodemonstratehowiIonmyEnishte’sstory,I’dbeginpagintheroomreoccupiedair,beforeapproagthatsuspiciousblackspotonthewall.
WhenIfailedtofindShekure’seyeinginwhatIhadtakentobeapeephole,I’dbeoverebydisappoi,andthenbyastrangefeelingofloneliness,bytheimpatienaaiotur.
Nowandthen,I’dexperiencesuabruptandintensefeelingthatShekurewaswatgme,I’dbesoabsolutelyvincedIwaswithinhergaze,thatI’dstartposinglikeamantryingtoshoiser,strongerandmorecapablethanhereallywassoastoimpressthewomanheloved.Later,I’dfantasizethatShekureandherboyswereparihherhusband—theboys’missingfather—beforemymindwouldfocusagainuponwhichevervarietyoffamousVeianillustratoraboutwhosepaintingteiquesmyEnishtewaswaxingphilosophicatthemoment.Iloobelikethesenewly
famedpainterssolelybecauseShekurehadheardsomuchaboutthemfromherfather;illustratorswhohadearheirrenown—nhsufferingmartyrdomincellslikesaints,hseveringtheheadsofenemysoldierswithamightyarmandasharpscimitar,asthatabsenthusbandhaddoonatofamanuscriptthey’dtranscribedethey’dillumiriedveryhardtoimagihemagnifitpicturescreatedbythesecelebratedillustrators,whowere,asmyEnishteexplained,inspiredbythepoweroftheworld’smysteryanditsvisibleblaess.Itriedsohardtovisualizethem—thosemasterpiecesmyEnishtehadseenandwasnowattemptingtodescribetoonewhohadneverlaideyesohat,finally,whenmyimaginationfailedme,Ifeltonlymoredejectedanddemeaned.
IlookeduptodiscoverthatShevketwasbeforemeagain.Heapproachedmedecisively,andIassumed—aswasaryfortheoldestmalechildamoainArabtribesinTransoxianaandamongCircassiantribesintheCaucasusmountains—thathewouldnotonlykissaguest’shandatthebeginningofavisit,butalsowhenthatguestleft.Caughtoffguard,Ipresentedmyhandforhimtokiss.Atthatmoment,fromsomewherenottoofaraway,Iheardherlaughter.Wasshelaughingatme?Ibecameflusteredandtoremedythesituation,IgrabbedShevketandkissedhimonbothcheeksasthoughthisasreallyexpee.ThenIsmiledatmyEnishteasthoughtoapologizeforinterruptinghimandtoassurehimthatImeantnodisrespect,whilecarefullydrawingthechildocheckwhetherheborehismother’sst.BythetimeIuoodthattheboyhadplacedacrumpledscrapofpaperintomyhand,he’dlongsiurnedhisbadwalkedsomedistaowardthedoor.
Iclutchedthescrapofpaperinmyfistlikeajewel.AndwhenIuoodthatthiswasanotefromShekure,outofelationIcouldscarcelykeepfromgrinningstupidlyatmyEnishte.Wasn’tthisproofenoughthatShekurepassionatelydesiredme?Suddenly,Iimaginedusengagedinamadfrenzyoflovemaking.SoprofoundlyvincedwasIthatthisincredibleeventI’djuredwasimmihatmymanhoodinappropriatelybegantorise—thereinthepresenyEnishte.HadShekurewithis?IfocusedilyonwhatmyEnishtelainingioredirectmytration.
Muchlater,whilemyEnishteeartoshowmeanotherillustratedplatefromhisbook,Idiscreetlyunfoldedthenote,whichsmelledofhoneysuckle,onlytodiscoverthatshe’dleftitpletelyblank.Icouldn’tbelievemyeyesandsenselesslyturhepaperoverandover,examiningit.
“Awindow,”saidmyEnishte.“Usingperspectivalteiquesislikeregardingtheworldfromawindow—whatisthatyouareholding?”
“It’snothing,EnishteEffendi,”Isaid.Whenhelookedaway,Ibroughtthecrumpledpapertomynoseanddeeplyisst.
Afteranafternoonmeal,asIdidnotwanttousemyEnishte’schamberpot,Iexcusedmyselfaotheouthouseintheyard.Itwasbittercold.IhadquicklyseentomywithoutfreezingmybuttouchwhenIsawthatShevkethadslylyandsilentlyappearedbeforeme,blogmywaylikeabrigand.Inhishandsheheldhisgrandfather’sfullandsteamingchamberpot.Heehe
outhouseaftermeaiedthepot.Heexitedandfixedhisprettyeyesonmineashepuffedouthisplumpcheeks,stillholdiypot.
“Haveyoueverseenadeadcat?”heasked.Hisnosewasexactlylikehismother’s.Wasshewatgus?Ilookedaround.Theshutterswereclosedontheentedsed-floorwindowinwhichI’dfirstseenShekureaftersomanyyears.
“Nay.”
“ShallIshowyouthedeadthehouseoftheHangedJew?”
Hewentouttothestreetwithoutwaitingformyresponse.Ifollowedhim.Wewalkedfortyorfiftypacesalongthemuddyandicypathbeforeenteringagarden.Here,itsmelledofwetandrottingleaves,andfaintlyofmold.Withthefidenceofachildwhokheplacewell,takingfirm,rhythmicsteps,heehroughthedoorofayellowhouse,whichstoodbeforeusalmosthiddenbehindsandalmondtrees.
Thehousewaspletelyempty,butitwasdryandwarm,asifsomebodywerelivingthere.
“Whosehouseisthis?”Iasked.
“TheJews”.Whenthemandied,hiswifeandkidswenttotheJewishquarteroverbythefruit-sellers’quay.They’rehavihertheclothiersellthehouse.“Hewentintoaeroftheroomaurhecat’sgo’sdisappeared,“hesaid.
“Wherewouldadeadcatgo?”
“Mygrandfathersaysthedeadwander.”
“Notthedeadthemselves,”Isaid.“Theirspiritswander.”
“Howdoyouknow?”hesaid.Hewasholdingthechamberpottightlyagainsthislapinallseriousness.
“Ijustknow.Doyoualwaysehere?”
“MymotheresherewithEsther.Thelivingdead,risenfromthegrave,ehereatnight,butI’mnotafraidofthisplace.Haveyoueverkilledaman?”
“Yes.”
“Howmany?”
“Notmany.Two.”
“Withasword?”
“Withasword.”
“Dotheirsoulswander?”
“Idon’tknow.Acctowhat’swritteninbooks,theymustwander.”
“UncleHasanhasaredsword.It’ssosharpit’llcutyouifyoujusttouchit.Andhehasadaggerwitharuby-studdedhandle.Areyoutheonewhokilledmyfather?”
Inoddedindigher“yes”nor“no.”“Howdoyouknowthatyourfatherisdead?”
“Mymothersaidsoyesterday.Hewourning.Shesawhiminherdream.”
Ifpresehtheopportunity,wewouldchoosetodointhenameofagreatergoalwhateverawfulthingwe’vealreadypreparedtodoforthesakeofourownmiserablegains,forthelustthatburnswithinusorforthelovethatbreaksourhearts;andso,Iresolvedoncemoretobeethefatheroftheseforsakenchildren,and,wheurhehouse,IlistenedmoreilytoShevket’sgrandfatherashedescribedthebookwhosetextandillustrationsIhadtoplete.
LetmebeginwiththeillustrationsthatmyEnishtehadshowhehorseforexample.Onthispagetherewerenohumanfiguresandtheareaaroundthehorsety;evenso,Icouldn’tsayitwassimplyandexclusivelythepaintingofahorse.Yes,thehorsewasthere,yetitarentthattheriderhadsteppedofftotheside,orwhoknows,perhapshewasonthevergeofemergingfrombehindthebushdrawnintheKazvinstyle.Thiswasimmediatelyapparentfromthesaddleuponthehorse,whichborethemarksandembellishmentsofnobility:Maybe,amanwithhisswordatthereadywasabouttoappearbesidethesteed.
ItwasobviousthatEnishteissiohishorsefromamasterillustratorwhomhe’dsecretlysummonedfromtheworkshop.Becausetheillustrator,arrivingatnight,coulddrawahorse—ingrainedinhismindlikeastencil—onlyifitweretheextensionofastory,that’sexactlyhowhe’dbegin:byrote.Ashewasdrawingthehorse,whichhe’dseenthousandsoftimesinsesofloveandwar,myEnishte,inspiredbythemethodsoftheVeianmasters,hadprobablyinstructedtheillustrator;forexample,hemighthavesaid,“Fetabouttherider,drawatreethere.Butdrawitinthebackground,onasmallerscale.”
Theillustrator,whocameatnight,wouldsitbeforehisworkdesktogetherwithmyEnishte,eagerlydrawingbydlelightanodd,unventionalpicturethatdidn’tresembleanyoftheusualsesto
whichhewasacedandhadmemorized.Ofcourse,myEnishtepaidhimhandsomelyforeachdrawing,butfrankly,thispeculiarmethodofdrawingalsohaditscharms.However,aswithmyEnishte,afterawhile,theillustratorcouldnoloerminewhichstorytheillustrationwasinteoenhandplete.WhatmyEnishteexpeewasthatIexamiheseillustrationsmadeinhalf-Veian,half-Persianmodeandwriteastorysuitabletoapaheoppositepage.IfIhopedtogetShekure,Iabsolutelyhadtowritethesestories,butallthatcametomihestoriesthestorytellertoldatthecoffeehouse.
IWILLBECALLEDAMURDERERTigaway,mywindupcloeitwasevening.Theprayershadyettobecalled,butlongbefore,I’dlitthedlerestingbesidemyfoldingworktable.Iquicklypleteddraiumaddiory,havingdippedmyreedpenintoblackHasanPashainkandskateditoverwell-burnishedaifullysizedpaper,whehatvoicecalliothestreetasitdideverynight.Iresisted.Iwassodetermitogo,buttostayathomeandwork,Ieventriednailingmydoorshutforatime.
ThisbookIwashastilypletingwasissionedbyanArmenianwho’deallthewayfromGalata,knogonmydoorthismbeforeanyonehadrisen.Theman,aninterpreterandguide,thoughhestuttered,huntedmedownwheneveraFrankorVeiantravelerwanteda“bookofes”andengagedmeinaboutofviciousbargaining.Havingagreedthatmuponalesser-qualitybookofesforapriceoftwentysilverpieces,IproceededtoillustrateadozenIstanbulitesinasiingarouimeoftheeveningprayer,payingparticularattentiontothedetailoftheiroutfits.IdrewaSheikhulislam,apalaceporter,apreacher,aJanissary,adervish,acavalryman,ajudge,aliverseller,aioner—executionersioftorturesoldquitewell—abeggar,awomanboundforthehamam,andanopiumaddict.I’ddonesomanyofthesebooksjusttoearrasilverpiecesthatIbegantoigamesformyselftofightoffboredomwhileIdrew;forexample,Iforcedmyselftodrawthejudgewithoutliftingmypenoffthepageortodrawthebeggarwithmyeyesclosed.
Allbrigands,poetsandmenofstantsorrowknowthatwhentheeveningprayeriscalledthejinnsanddemonswithinthemwillgrowagitatedandrebellious,urginginunision:“Out!Outside!”Thisrestlessinnervoicedemands,“Seekthepanyofothers,seekblaess,miseryanddisgrace.”I’vespentmytimeappeasingthesejinnsanddemons.I’vepaintedpictures,whiyregardasmiraclesthathaveissuedfrommyhands,withthehelpoftheseevilspirits.Butforsevendaysnowafterdusk,sinceImurderedthatdisgrace,I’mnolongerabletotrolthejinnsanddemonswithiheyragewithsuchvioleItellmyselftheymightcalmdownifIgooutforawhile.
Aftersayingso,asalwayswithoutknowinghow,Ifoundmyselfroamingthroughthenight.Iwalkedbriskly,advangthroughsnowystreets,muddypassages,icyslopesaedsidewalksasifIwouldop.AsIwalked,desdingintothedarkofnight,intothemostremoteandabandonedpartsofthecity,I’deversograduallyleavemysoulbehind,andwalkingalongthenarrowstreets,my
footstepsegoffthewallsofstoneinns,schoolsandmosques,myfearswouldsubside.
Oftheirownayfeetbroughtmetotheabareetsofthisneighborhoodoskirtsofthecity,whereIcameeaightandwhereeveersandjinnswouldshuddertoroam.IheardtellthathalfthemeninthisneighborhoodhadperishedinthewarswithPersiaandthattheresthadfled,declaringitill-omened,butIdon’tbelievesuchsuperstition.TheonlytragedythathasbefallenthisgoodquarteronatoftheSafavidwarswastheclosingoftheKalenderidervishhousefortyyearsagobecauseitwassuspectedofharbtheenemy.
Imeanderedbehindthemulberrybushesandthebay-leaftrees,whichhadapleasantaromaeveninthecoldestweather,andwithmyusualfastidiousness,Istraightehewallboardsbetweenthecollapsedeyandthewindowwithitsdilapidatedshutters.Ienteredahelingeriofone-hundred-year-oldinseandmolddeepintomylungs.Itmademesoblissfultobehere,Ithoughttearswouldfallfrommyeyes.
IfIhaven’talreadysaidso,I’dliketosaythatIfearnothingbutAllahandthepunishmeedoutinthisworldhasnoimportwhatsoeverinmyopinion.WhatIfeararethevarioustormentsthatmurdererslikemyselfwillhavetoendureonJudgmentDay,asisclearlydescribedintheGloriousKoran,inthe“Criterion”chapter,forexample.Intheabooks,thatIquiterarelylayholdof,wheneverIseethispunishmentinallitscolorsandviolence,recallingthesimple,childish,yetterrifyingsesofHellillustratedoncalfskinbytheoldArabminiaturists,or,forwhateverreasoormentsofdemoedbyeseandMongolmasterartists,I’tkeepmyselffromdrawingthisanalogyandheedingitslogic:Whatdoes“TheNightJourney”chapterstateinitsthirty-thirdverse?Isitnotwrittenthatoneshouldnot,withoutjustification,takethelifeofanotherwhosemurderGodforbids?Allrightthen:ThemistI’vesenttoHellwasnotabeliever,whosemurderGodhadforbidden;andbesides,Ihadexcellentjustificationforshatteringhisskull.
Thismanhadslahoseofuswho’dworkedonthatbookOurSultanhadsecretlyissioned.IfIhadn’tsilencedhim,hewould’vedenouncedasunbelieversEnishteEffendi,alltheminiaturistsandevenMasterOsmaingtherabidfollowersoftheHojaofErzurumhavetheirwaywiththem.Ifsomeonesucceededinannoungthattheminiaturistswereittingblasphemy,thesefollowersofEzurumi—whoarelookingforanyexcusetoexercisetheirstrength—wouldn’tjustbesatisfiedwithdoingawaywiththemasterminiaturists,they’ddestroytheentireworkshopandOurSultanwouldbehelplesstodoanythingbutwatchwithoutapeep.
AsIdideverytimeIcamehere,IedupwiththebroomandssIkepthiddeninaer.AsIed,IwasheartenedalikeadutifulservantofAllahagain.SothatHewouldn’tdeprivemeofthisblessedfeeling,Iprayedforalongtime.Thecold,whichwasenoughtomakeafoxshitcopper,droveintomybones.Ibegahatsinisteracheatthebaythroat.Isteppedoutside.
Soonafterward,againinthesamestraeofmind,Ifoundmyselfinapletelydifferentneighborhood.Idon’tknowwhathadhappened,whatI’dthoughtbetweenthedesertedneighborhoodof
thedervishhouseandhere.Ididn’tknowhowI’darrivedontheseroadslihcypresstrees.
HowevermuchIwalked,apesteringthoughtwouldn’tleavemebe,anditateatmelikeaworm.MaybeifItellyouit’lleasetheburden:Callhima“vileslanderer”or“pantEffendi”—eitherwayit’sthesamething—ashorttimebeforethedearlydepartedgilderhadleftthisworld,hewasmakingvehementaccusationsagainstourEnishte,butwhehatIwasn’tthataffectedbyhisdeclarationthatEnishteEffendimadeuseoftheperspectivalteiquesoftheihatbeastdivulgedthefollowing:“There’sonefinalpicture.InthatpictureEnishtedesecrateseverythingwebelievein.Whathe’sdoingisnolongeraninsulttion,it’spureblasphemy.”Furthermore,threeweeksafterthisaccusationbythatsdrel,EnishteEffendihadactuallyaskedmetoillustrateanumberofuedthings,suchasahorse,aah,invariousrandomspotsonapageandinshoglyinsistentscales;iwaswhatonewouldexpectofaFrankishpainting.Enishtealwaystookthetroubletoceportionsoftheruledseofthepagehewaoillustrateaswellastheplacesill-fatedElegantEffendihadguilded,asthoughhewaocealsomethingfrommeaherminiaturists.
IwanttoaskEnishtewhathe’sillustratinginthislarge,finalpainting,butthere’smuchholdingmeback.IfIaskhim,he’llofcoursesuspectthatImurderedElegantEffendiandmakehissuspisknowntoall.Butthere’ssomethihatulesmeaswell.IfIaskhim,EnishtemightdeclarethatElegantEffendiwasinfactjustifiedinhisbeliefs.Occasionally,ItellmyselfIshouldaskhim,pretendingasifthissuspihadn’tpassedtomefromElegantEffendi,buthadsimplyoccurredtome.Intheend,it’snoforteitherway.
Mylegs,whichhavealwaysbeenquickerthanmyhead,hadtakeheirownaccordtoEnishteEffendi’sstreet.Icrouchedinasecludedspot,andforalongtimeobservedthehouseasbestIcouldintheblaess.Iwatchedforalongtime:ledamongtreeswasthelargeandodd-lookingtwo-storyhouseofari!Icouldn’ttellonwhichsideShekure’sroomwaslocated.AsisthecaseihepicturesmadeinTabrizduringthereignofShahTahmasp,Iimagihehouseincross-se—asifitwerehalfwithaknife—andItriedtoillustrateinmymind’seyewhereIwouldfindmyShekure,behindwhichshutter.
Thedooropened.IsawBlackleavingthehouseinthedarkness.Enishtegazedathimwithaffefrombehindthecourtyardgateforamomentbeforeclosingit.
Evenmymind,whichhadgivenitselfovertoidiotitasies,quickly,andpainfully,drewthreeclusionsbasedonwhatIhadseen:
One:SinceBlackwascheaperandlessdangerous,EnishteEffendiwouldhavehimpleteourbook.
Two:ThebeautifulShekurewouldmarryBlack.
Three:WhattheunfortunateElegantEffendihadsaidwastrue,andso,I’dkilledhimfht.
Insituationssuchasthis,assoonasourmercilessintellectsdrawthebitterclusionthatourheartsrefuse,theentirebodyrebelsagainstthemind.Atfirst,halfmymindviolentlyopposedthethirdclusion,whidicatedthatIwasnothingbutthevilestofmurderers.Mylegs,onceagain,agquickerandmorerationallythanmyhead,hadalreadyputmeinpursuitofBlackEffendi.
We’dpasseddownafewsidestreetswhenIthoughthowveryeasyitwouldbetomurderhim,sotentedlyandself-assuredlywalkingbeforeme,andhowsuchacrimewouldsavemefromhavingtofrontthefirsttwovexingclusioablishedbymymind.Furthermore,Iwouldn’thavecrackedElegantEffendi’sskullfornoreasonatall.Now,ifIrunaheadeightortenpaces,catchuptoBladlandablowontohisheadwithallmymight,everythingwillgoonasusual.EnishteEffendiwilliofinishourbook.Butmeanwhilemymoreho(whatwashoyifnotfear?)andprudentsidetiellmethatthemonsterI’dmurderedandtossedintoawellwastrulyaslanderer.Andifthiswerethecase,Ihadn’tkilledhimfht,andEnishte,whonolongerhadanythingtohidewithrespecttothebookhewasmaking,wouldmostcertainlyinvitemebacktohishome.
AsIwatchedBlackwalkingbeforeme,however,Ikhutmostcertaintythathiswouldhappen.Itwasallillusion.BlackEffendiwasmorerealthanI.Ithappenstousall:Iiontobeingoverlylogicalwe’llfeedfantasiesforweeksandyearsonend,andonedaywe’llseesomething,afaoutfit,ahappyperson,andsuddenlyrealizethatourdreamswillneveretrue;thus,weetouandthataparticularmaidenwon’tbepermittedtomarryusorthatwe’llneverreachsud-suchastationinlife.
IwaswatgtheriseandfallofBlack’sshoulders,hisheadandhisheincrediblyannoyingwaythathewalked,asthoughhiseverystepwereagifttotheworld—rofoundhatredthatcoiledcozilyaroundmyheart.MenlikeBlack,freefrompangsofsdwithpromisingfuturesbeforethem,assumethattheentireworldistheirhome;theyopeneverydoorlikeasultaeringhispersonalstableandimmediatelybelittlethoseofuscrouchediheurgetograbastoneandrunupbehindhimwasalmosttoogreattoresist.
Weweretwomenihthesamewoman;hewasinfrontofmeandpletelyunawareofmypresenceaswewalkedthroughtheturningandtwistingstreetsofIstanbul,climbinganddesdiraveledlikebrethrenthroughdesertedstreetsgiveobattlingpacksofstraydogs,passedburntruinswherejinnsloitered,mosquecourtyardswhereangelsreedoosleep,besidecypresstreesmurmuringtothesoulsofthedead,beyondtheedgesofsnow-coveredcemeteriescrowdedwithghosts,justoutofsightandsstranglingtheirvictims,passedendlessshops,stables,dervishhouses,dleworks,leatherworksandstonewalls;andaswemadeground,IfeltIwasn’tfollowinghimatall,butrather,thatIwasimitatinghim.
IAMDEATHIamDeath,asyouplainlysee,butyoubeafraid,I’mjustanillustratioasitmay,Ireadterrorinyoureyes.ThoughyouknowverywellthatI’mnotreal—likechildrenwhogive
themselvesame—you’restillseizedbyhorror,asifyou’dactuallymetDeathhimself.Thispleasesme.Asyoulookatme,youseyou’llsoilyourselvesoutoffearwhenthatunavoidablelastmomentisuponyou.Thisisnojoke.WhehDeath,peoplelosetroloftheirbodilyfuns—particularlythemajorityofthosemenwhoareknowntobebrave-hearted.Forthisreason,thecorpse-strewnbattlefieldsthatyou’vedepictedthousandsoftimesreeknotofblood,gunpowderaedarmorasisassumed,butofshitandrottingflesh.
Iknowthisisthefirsttimeyou’veseeioh.
Oneyearago,atall,thinandmysteriousoldmaniohishousetheyoungmasterminiaturistwhowouldsoonenoughillustrateme.Inthehalf-darkworkroomofthetwo-storyhouse,theoldmanservedanexquisitecupofsilky,amber-stedcoffeetotheyoungmaster,whichclearedtheyouth’smi,inthatshadowyroomwiththebluedoor,theoldmaedthemasterminiaturistbyflauntipaperfromHindustan,brushesmadeofsquirrelhair,varietiesofgoldleaf,allmannerofreedpensandcoral-handledpenknives,indigthathewouldbeabletopayhandsomely.
“Nowthen,drawDeathforme,”theoldmansaid.
“IotdraictureofDeathwithoutever,notonmyentirelife,havingseenapictureofDeath,”saidthemiraculouslysure-handedminiaturist,whowouldshortly,infadupdoingthedrawing.
“Youdonotalwaysohaveseenanillustrationofsomethingiodepictthatthing,”objectedtherefinedahusiastian.
“Yes,perhapsnot,”saidthemasterillustrator.“Yet,ifthepictureistobeperfect,thewaythemastersofoldwould’vemadeit,itoughttobedrawathousandtimesbeforeIattemptit.Nomatterhowmasterfulaminiaturistmightbe,whenhepaintsaforthefirsttime,he’llreasanapprenticewould,andIcouldhat.Iotputmymasteryasidewhileillustratih;thiswouldbeequivalenttodyingmyself.”
“Suchadeathmightputyouintouchwiththesubjectmatter,”quippedtheoldman.
“It’snotexperienceofsubjectmatterthatmakesusmasters,it’sneverhavingexperiehatmakesusmasters.”
“SuchmasteryoughttobeacquaihDeaththen.”
Inthismaheyeoaedversationwithdoubleentendre,allusions,puns,obscurereferendinnuendos,asbefitminiaturistswhorespectedboththeoldmastersaswellastheirow.Siwasmyexistewasbeingdiscussed,Ilisteentlytotheversatioiretyofwhich,Iknow,wouldborethedistinguishedminiaturistsamongusinthisgoodcoffeehouse.
Letmejustsaythattherecameapoihediscussiontoucheduponthefollowing:
“Isthemeasureofaminiaturist’stalenttheabilitytodepicteverythingwiththesameperfeasthegreatmastersortheabilitytointrodutothepicturesubjectmatterwhiooneelsesee?”saidthesure-haunning-eyed,brilliantillustrator,andalthoughhehimselfkheahisquestion,heremainedquitereserved.
“TheVeiansmeasureaminiaturist’sprowessbyhisabilitytodiscovernovelsubjectmatterandteiquesthathaveneverbeforebeenused,”insistedtheoldmanarrogantly.
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