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and they sold his belongings。 Thanks to the master storyteller who purchased
me； I’ve e all the way to Istanbul。 Now； I’m most happy； and honored to
be here tonight among you； the Ottoman Sultan’s miraculously inspired；
eagle…eyed； iron…willed； elegant…wristed； sensitive…spirited miniaturists and
calligraphers—and for Heaven’s sake； I beg of you not to believe those who
claim I’ve been hastily sketched onto coarse paper by some master miniaturist
as a wall prop。
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But hear yet what other lies； slander and brazen untruths are being spread！
You might remember how last night my master nailed the picture of a dog
here on the wall and recounted the adventures of this crass beast； and how at
the same time he told of the adventures of Husret Hoja of Erzurum！ Well now；
the admirers of His Excellency Nusret Hoja have pletely misunderstood
this story； they think he was the target of our account。 Could we have possibly
said that the great preacher； His Esteemed Excellency； was of uncertain birth？
God forbid！ Would it have even crossed our minds？ What mischief； what a
crude lie！ Clearly； Husret of Erzurum is being confused with Nusret of
Erzurum； so let me proceed to tell you the story of Cross…Eyed Nedret Hoja of
Sivas and the Tree。
Besides denouncing the wooing of pretty boys and the art of painting； this
Cross…Eyed Nedret Hoja of Sivas maintained that coffee was the Devil’s work
and that coffee drinkers would go to Hell。 Hey； you from Sivas； have you
forgotten how this enormous branch of mine was bent？ Let me tell you about
it； then； but swear you won’t tell anyone； and may Allah protect you from
baseless slander。 One morning； I awoke to find that a giant of a man—God
protect him； he was as tall as a minaret with hands like a lion’s claws—had
climbed up onto this branch of mine and hidden beneath my lush leaves
together with the aforementioned Hoja and； excuse the expression； they were
going at it like dogs in heat。 While the giant； whom I later realized was the
Devil； attended to his business with our hero； he was passionately kissing
his lovely ear and whispering into it； “Coffee is a sin； coffee is a vice…”
Accordingly； those who believe in the harmful effects of coffee； believe not in
the mandments of our good religion； but in the Devil himself。
And finally； I shall make mention of Frank painters； so if there are
degenerates among you who have pretensions to be like them； may you heed
my warning and be deterred。 Now； these Frank painters depict the faces of
kings； priests； noblemen and even women in such a manner that after gazing
upon the portrait； you’d be able to identify that person on the street。 Their
wives roam freely on the streets anyway—now； just imagine the rest。 As if this
weren’t enough； they’ve taken matters even further。 I don’t mean in regard to
pimping； but in regard to painting。
A great European master miniaturist and another great master artist are
walking through a Frank meadow discussing virtuosity and art。 As they stroll； a
forest es into view before them。 The more expert of the two says to the
other： “Painting in the new style demands such talent that if you depicted one
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of the trees in this forest； a man who looked upon that painting could e
here； and if he so desired； correctly select that tree from among the others。”
I thank Allah that I； the humble tree before you； have not been drawn with
such intent。 And not because I fear that if I’d been thus depicted all the dogs
in Istanbul would assume I was a real tree and piss on me： I don’t want to be a
tree； I want to be its meaning。
58
I AM CALLED BLACK
The snow began to fall at a late hour and continued till dawn。 I spent the night
reading Shekure’s letter again and again。 I paced in the empty room of the
empty house； occasionally leaning toward the candlestick； in the flickering
light of the dim candle； I y beloved’s angry
letters； the somersaults they turned trying to deceive me and their hip…
swinging right…to…left progression。 Abruptly； those shutters would open before
my eyes； and my beloved’s face and her sorrowful smile would appear。 And
when I saw her real face； I forgot all of those other faces whose sour…cherry
mouths had increasingly matured and ripened in my imagination。
In the middle of the night I lost myself in dreams of marriage： I had no
doubts about my love or that it was reciprocated—we were married in a state
of great contentment—but； my imaginary happiness； set in a house with a
staircase； was dashed when I couldn’t find appropriate work and began
arguing with my wife； unable to make her heed my words。
I knew I’d appropriated these ominous images from the section on the ills
of marriage in Gazzali’s The Revival of Religious Science； which I’d read during
my nights as a bachelor in Arabia； at the same time； I recalled that there was
actually advice on the benefits of marriage in that same section； though now I
could remember only two of these benefits： first； having my household kept in
order （there was no such order in my imagined house）； second； being spared
the guilt of self…abuse and of dragging myself—an even deeper sense of guilt—
behind pimps leading me through dark alleyways to the lairs of prostitutes。
The thought of salvation at this late hour brought masturbation to mind。
With a simple…minded desire； and to rid my mind of this irrepressible urge； I
retired to a corner of the room； as was my wont； but after a while I realized I
couldn’t jack off—proof well enough that I’d fallen in love again after twelve
years！
This struck such excitement and fear into my heart that I walked around the
room nearly atremble like the flame of the candle。 If Shekure meant to present
herself at the window； then why this letter； which put the opposite belief into
play？ Why did her father call for me？ As I paced； I sensed that the door； wall
and squeaky floor； stuttering as I myself did； were trying to creak their
responses to my every question。
I looked at the picture I’d made years ago； which depicted Shirin stricken
with love upon gazing at Hüsrev’s image hanging from a branch。 It didn’t
59
embarrass me as it would each time it came to mind in subsequent years； nor
did it bring back my happy childhood memories。 Toward morning； my mind
had mastered the situation： By returning the picture； Shekure had made a
move in an amatory chess game she was masterfully luring me into。 I sat in
the candlelight and wrote her a letter of response。
In the morning； after sleeping for a spell； I went out and walked a long way
through the streets； carrying the letter upon my breast and my light pen…and…
ink holder； as was my custom； in my sash。 The snow widened Istanbul’s
narrow streets and freed the city of its crowds。 All was quieter and slower； as
it’d been in my childhood。 Crows seemed to have beset Istanbul’s roofs；
domes and gardens just as they had on the snowy winter days of my youth。 I
walked swiftly； listening to my steps in the snow and watching the fog of my
breath。 I grew excited； expecting the palace workshop that my Enishte wanted
me to visit to be as silent as the streets。 Before I entered the Jewish quarter； I
sent word by way of a little street urchin to Esther； who’d be able to deliver my
letter to Shekure； telling her where to meet me before the noontime prayers。
I arrived early at the royal artisans’ workshop located behind the Hagia
Sophia。 Except for the icicles hanging from the eaves； there was no change in
the building where I’d often visited my Enishte and for a time worked as a
child apprentice。
Following a handsome young apprentice； I walked past elderly master
binders