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Shirin under the castle window； I’d leave the master’s side—without even a
glance at the nostrils of the horse Hüsrev rode—and try to warm myself at the
brazier or I’d walk respectfully and awestruck among the heaps of cloth； gold；
weapons； armor and plunder in the adjacent rooms of the Treasury。 At times；
prompted by an abrupt cry and hand gesture by Master Osman； I’d imagine
that a new masterpiece had been found or； yes； at last a horse with a curious
nose； and running to his side； I’d look at the picture the master was holding
with his hand slightly atremble as he sat curled up on an Ushak carpet dating
from the time of Sultan Mehmed the Conqueror； only to encounter an
illustration； the likes of which I’d never before seen； depicting； say； Satan slyly
boarding Noah’s ark。
We watched as hundreds of shahs； kings； sultans and khans—who’d ruled
from the thrones of various kingdoms and empires from the time of Tamerlane
to Sultan Süleyman the Magnificent—happily and excitedly hunted gazelles；
lions and rabbits。 We saw how even the Devil bit his finger and recoiled in
embarrassment at the shameless man who stood upon scraps of wood tied to
the back legs of a camel so he could violate the poor animal。 In an Arabic book
that had e by way of Baghdad； we watched the flight of the merchant who
clung to the feet of a mythical bird as he spanned the seas。 In the next volume；
which opened by itself to the first page； we saw the scene that Shekure and I
loved the most； in which Shirin beheld Hüsrev’s picture hanging from a branch
and fell in love with him。 Then； looking at an illustration that brought to life
the inner workings of a plicated clock made from bobbins and metal balls；
birds and Arabic statuettes seated on the back of an elephant； we remembered
time。
I don’t know how much more time we spent examining book after book
and illustration after illustration in this manner。 It was as if the unchanging；
frozen golden time revealed in the pictures and stories we viewed had
thoroughly mingled with the damp and moldy time we experienced in the
Treasury。 It seemed that these illuminated pages； created over the centuries by
the lavish expenditure of eyesight in the workshops of countless shahs； khans
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and sultans； would e to life； as would the objects that seemed to besiege
us： The helmets； scimitars； daggers with diamond…studded handles； armor；
porcelain cups from China； dusty and delicate lutes； and the pearl…embellished
cushions and kilims—the likes of which we’d seen in countless illustrations。
“I now understand that by furtively and gradually re…creating the same
pictures for hundreds and hundreds of years； thousands of artists had
cunningly depicted the gradual transformation of their world into another。”
I’ll be first to admit that I didn’t pletely understand what the great
master meant。 But the close attention my master had shown to the thousands
of pictures made over the last two hundred years from Bukhara to Herat； from
Tabriz to Baghdad and all the way to Istanbul； had far exceeded the search for a
clue in the depiction of some horse’s nostrils。 We’d participated in a kind of
melancholy elegy to the inspiration； talent and patience of all the masters
who’d painted and illuminated in these lands over the years。
For this reason； when the doors of the Treasury were opened at the time of
the evening prayer and Master Osman explained to me that he had no desire
whatsoever to leave； and that furthermore； only by remaining here until
morning examining pictures by the light of oil lamps and candles could he
execute properly Our Sultan’s charge； my first response； as I informed him；
was to remain here with him and the dwarf。
However； when the door was opened and my master conveyed our wish to
the waiting chiefs and asked permission of the Head Treasurer； immediately
regretted my decision。 I longed for Shekure and our house。 I grew increasingly
restless as I wondered how she would manage； spending the night alone with
the children and how she would batten down the now…repaired shutters of the
windows。
Through the opened half of the Treasury portal； I was beckoned to the
magnificence of life outside by the large damp plane trees in the courtyard of
the Enderun—now under a hint of fog—and by the gestures of two royal
pages； speaking to each other in a sign language so as not to disturb the peace
of Our Sultan； but I remained where I was； frozen by embarrassment and guilt。
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WE TWO DERVISHES
Yea； the rumor that our picture was among the pages from China； Samarkand
and Herat prising an album hidden away in the remotest corner of the
Treasury filled with the plunder of hundreds of countries over hundreds of
years by the ancestors of His Excellency； Our Sultan； was most probably spread
to the miniaturists’ division by the dwarf Jezmi Agha。 If we might now
recount our own story in our own fashion—the will of God be with us—we
hope that none of the crowd in this fine coffeehouse will take offense。
One hundred and ten years have passed since our deaths； forty since the
closing of our irredeemable； Persia…partisan dervish lodges； those dens of
heresy and nests of devilry； but see for yourselves； here we are before you。 How
could this be？ I’ll tell you how： We were rendered in the Veian style！ As this
illustration indicates； one day we two dervishes were tramping through Our
Sultan’s domains from one city to the next。
We were barefoot； our heads were shaven； and we were half naked； each of
us was wearing a vest and the hide of a deer； a belt around our waists and we
were holding our walking sticks； our begging bowls dangling from our necks
by a chain； one of us was carrying an axe for cutting wood； and the other a
spoon to eat whatever food God had blessed us with。
At that moment； standing before a caravansary beside a fountain； my dear
friend； nay； my beloved； nay； my brother and I had given ourselves over to the
usual argument： “You first please； no you first；” we were noisily deferring to
each other as to who’d be the first to take up the spoon and eat from the
bowl； when a Frank traveler； a strange man； stopped us； gave us each a silver
Veian coin and began to draw our picture。
He was a Frank； of course； he was weird。 He situated us right in the center
of the page as if we were the very tent of the Sultan； and was depicting us in
our half…naked state when I shared with my panion a thought that had
just then dawned upon me： To appear like a pair of truly impoverished
Kalenderi beggar dervishes； we should roll our eyes back so our pupils look
inward； the whites of our eyes facing the world like blind men—and that’s
exactly what we proceeded to do。 In this situation； it’s the nature of a dervish
to behold the world in his head rather than the world outside； since our heads
were full of hashish； the landscape of our minds was more pleasant than what
the Frank painter saw。
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Meanwhile； the scene outside had grown even worse； we heard the ranting
of a Hoja Effendi。
Pray； let us not give the wrong idea。 We’ve now made mention of the
respected “Hoja Effendi；” but last week in this fine coffeehouse there was a
great misunderstanding： This respected “Hoja Effendi” of whom we speak has
nothing whatsoever to do with His Excellency Nusret Hoja the cleric from
Erzurum； nor with the bastard Husret Hoja； nor with the hoja from Sivas who
made it with the Devil atop a tree。 Those who interpret everything negatively
have said that if His Excellency Hoja Effendi bees a target of reproach here
once again； they’ll cut out the storyteller’s tongue and lower this coffeehouse
about his head。
One hundred and twenty years ago； the