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I work a lot and I enjoy my work。 I recently married the most beautiful
maiden in the neighborhood。 When I’m not illuminating； we make love like
mad。 Then I set to working again。 That’s not how I answered。 “It’s a serious
issue；” I said。 “If masterpieces issue from the brush of a miniaturist； when it
es to issuing it to his wife； he’ll be at a loss to bestir the same joy；” I said。
“The opposite holds true as well： If a man’s reed satisfies the wife； his reed of
artistry will pale in parison；” I added。 Like everyone who envies the talent
of the miniaturist； Black； too； believed these lies and was heartened。
He said he wanted to see the last pages I’d illustrated。 I seated him at my
worktable； among the paints； inkwells； burnishing stones； brushes； pens and
reed…cutting boards。 Black was examining the double…leaf painting I was in the
process of pleting for the Book of Festivities； which portrayed Our Prince’s
circumcision ceremony； and I sat beside him on the red cushion whose
warmth reminded me that my beautiful wife with her gorgeous thighs had
been sitting here recently； indeed； I had used my reed pen to draw the sorrow
of the unfortunate prisoners before Our Sultan； as my intelligent wife clung to
the reed of my manhood。
The two…page scene I was painting depicted the deliverance of condemned
and imprisoned debtors and their families by the grace of Our Sultan。 I’d
situated the Sultan on the corner of a carpet covered in bags full of silver
coins； as I’d personally witnessed during such ceremonies。 Behind Him； I’d
located the Head Treasurer holding and reading out of the debt ledger。 I’d
portrayed the condemned debtors； chained to each other by the iron shackles
around their necks； in their misery and pain with knit brows； long faces and
some with teary eyes。 I’d painted the lute players in shades of red with beatific
faces as they acpanied the joyous prayers and poems that followed the
Sultan’s presentation of His benevolent gift： sparing the condemned from
prison。 To emphasize deliverance from the pain and embarrassment of debt—
though I had no such plan at the outset—beside the last of the miserable
prisoners； I’d included his wife； wearing a purple dress in the wretchedness of
destitution； along with his longhaired daughter； sorrowful yet beautiful； clad
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in a crimson mantle。 So that this man Black； with his furrowed brows； might
understand how illustrating equaled love…of…life； I was going to explain why
the chained gang of debtors was extended across two pages； I was going to tell
him about the hidden logic of red within the picture； I was going to elucidate
the things my wife and I had laughingly discussed while admiring the piece；
such as how I’d lovingly colored—something the old masters never did—the
dog resting off to the side in precisely the same hue as the Sultan’s caftan of
atlas silk； but he asked me a very rude； discourteous question：
Would I； perchance； have any idea where unfortunate Elegant Effendi might
be？
What did he mean “unfortunate”！ I didn’t say that Elegant Effendi was a
worthless plagiarist； a fool who did his gilding for money alone with nary a
hint of inspiration。 “Nay；” I said； “I do not know。”
Had I ever considered that the aggressive and fanatical followers of the
preacher from Erzurum might’ve done Elegant Effendi harm？
I maintained my posure and refrained from responding that Elegant
Effendi himself was no doubt one of their lot。 “Nay；” I said。 “Why？”
The poverty； plague； immorality and scandal we are slave to in this city of
Istanbul can only be attributed to our having distanced ourselves from the
Islam of the time of Our Prophet； Apostle of God； to adopting new and vile
customs and to allowing Frankish； European sensibilities to flourish in our
midst。 This is all that the Preacher Erzurumi is saying； but his enemies attempt
to persuade the Sultan otherwise by claiming that the Erzurumis are attacking
dervish lodges where music is played； and that they’re defacing the tombs of
saints。 They know I don’t share their animosity toward His Excellency
Erzurumi； so they’re making polite insinuations： “Are you the one who has
taken care of our brother Elegant Effendi？”
It suddenly dawned on me that these rumors had long been spreading
among the miniaturists。 That group of uninspired； untalented inpetents
was gleefully alleging that I was nothing but a beastly murderer。 I felt like
lowering an inkpot onto the Circassian skull of this buffoon Black purely
because he took the slander of this jealous group of miniaturists seriously。
Black was examining my workshop； mitting everything he saw to
memory。 He was intently observing my long paper scissors； ceramic bowls
filled with yellow pigment； bowls of paint； the apple I occasionally nibbled as I
worked； the coffeepot resting on the edge of the stove in the back； my
diminutive coffee cups； the cushions； the light filtering through the half…
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opened window； the mirror I used to check the position of a page； my
shirts and； over there； my wife’s red sash caught like a sin in the corner where
she’d dropped it as she quickly quit the room upon hearing Black’s knock at
the front door。
Despite the fact that I’ve concealed my thoughts from him； I’ve surrendered
the paintings I’ve made and this room I live in to his bold and aggressive gaze。
I sense this hubris of mine will be a shock to you all； but I am the one who
earns the most money； and therefore； I am the best of all miniaturists！ Yes；
God must’ve wanted the art of illumination to be ecstasy so He could
demonstrate how the world itself is ecstasy to those who truly see。
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I AM CALLED “STORK”
At about the time of midday prayer I heard a knock at the door。 It was Black
from long ago； from our childhood。 We embraced。 He was chill and I invited
him inside。 I didn’t even ask how he’d found his way to the house。 His Enishte
must have sent him to question me about Elegant Effendi’s absence and his
whereabouts。 Not only that； he also brought word from Master Osman。
“Allow me to ask you a question；” he said。 “According to Master Osman；
”time‘ separates a true miniaturist from others： The time of the illustration。“
What were my thoughts？ Listen closely。
Painting and Time
Long ago； as is mon knowledge； the illustrators of our Islamic realm；
including； for example； the old Arab masters； perceiving the world the way
Frankish infidels do today； would regard everything and depict it from the
level of a vagabond； mutt or clerk at work in his shop。 Unaware of today’s
perspectival techniques； of which the Frankish m