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everyone was aware of this。 There was jealousy between us； even open
animosity and antagonism； over who would assume leadership of the
workshop after Master Osman。 Now they expect the guilt to fall on my
shoulders； or at the least； that the Head Treasurer； and under his influence；
Our Sultan； will distance themselves from me； nay； from us。”
“Who is this ”us’ of which you speak？“
“Those of us who believe that the old morality ought to persist at the
workshop； that we should follow the path laid by the Persian masters； that an
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artist shouldn’t illustrate just any scene for money alone。 In place of weapons；
armies； slaves and conquests； we believe that the old myths； legends and
stories ought to be introduced anew into our books。 We shouldn’t forgo the
old models。 Genuine miniaturists shouldn’t loiter at the shops in the bazaar
and paint any old thing； depictions of indecency； for a few extra kurush from
anybody who happens by。 His Excellency Our Sultan would find us justified。”
“You’re incriminating yourself senselessly；” I said so he might be done with
his ranting。 “I’m convinced that the atelier could not harbor anybody capable
of mitting such a crime。 You’re all brethren。 There’s no great harm in
illustrating a few subjects that haven’t been depicted previously； at least no
harm so great as to be an occasion for enmity。”
As happened when I first heard the horrid news； I had an epiphany of sorts。
Elegant Effendi’s murderer was one of the premier masters in the palace
workshop and he was a member of the crowd before me； climbing the hill that
led to the cemetery。 I was also convinced that the murderer would continue
with his devilry and sedition； that he was an enemy of the book I was making；
and most probably； that he’d visited my house to pick up some work
illustrating and painting。 Had Butterfly； too； like most of the artists who
frequented my house； fallen in love with Shekure？ As he made his assertions；
had he forgotten the times when I’d requested that he paint pictures that were
contrary to his point of view； or was he just needling me with expert skill？
Nay； I thought a little while later； he couldn’t be needling me。 Butterfly； like
the other master illustrators； obviously owed me a debt of gratitude： With
money and gifts to miniaturists dwindling； due to the wars and lack of
interest on the part of Our Sultan； the sole significant source of extra ine
had for some time been what they earned working for me。 I knew they were
jealous of one another over my attentions； and for this reason—but not only
for this reason—I met with them individually at my house； hardly a basis for
hostility toward me。 All of my miniaturists were mature enough to behave
intelligently； to sincerely find a reason to admire a man to whom they were
obliged for their own profit。
To relieve the silence and ensure that the previous topic of conversation
wouldn’t be revisited； I said； “Oh； will His wonders never cease！ They’re able
to take the coffin up that hill as fast as they brought it down。”
Butterfly smiled sweetly showing all his teeth： “Due to the cold。”
Could this one actually kill a man； I wondered； for example； out of envy？
Might he kill me？ He had the following excuse： This man was debasing my
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religion。 Nay； but he’s a great master； a perfect embodiment of talent； why
should he resort to murder？ Age means not only straining oneself climbing
hills； but also； I gather； not being so afraid of death。 It means a lack of desire；
entering into a slave girl’s bedchamber； not in a fit of excitement； but out of
custom。 In a burst of intuition； I told him to his face the decision I’d made：
“I’m not continuing with the book any longer。”
“What？” said Butterfly as his expression changed。
“There’s some kind of ill…fortune in it。 Our Sultan has cut off the funding。
You’re to tell Olive and Stork； as well。”
Perhaps he would have inquired further； but we found ourselves on the
slopes of the graveyard amid tightly spaced towering cypresses； high ferns and
tombstones。 As the great crowd encircled the grave site； my only clue that the
body was at that very moment being lowered into the grave was the increasing
intensity of the weeping and sobbing and the exclamations of bismillahi and
ala milleti Resulullah。
“Uncover his face pletely；” someone said。
They were removing the white shroud； and they must’ve been eye to eye
with the corpse if indeed there was an eye remaining in that smashed head。 I
was in the back and I couldn’t see anything。 I’d once gazed into the eyes of
Death； not at a grave site； in an entirely different place…
A memory： Thirty years ago； Our Sultan’s grandfather； Denizen of Paradise；
decided once and for all to take Cyprus from the Veians。 Sheikhulislam
Ebussuut Effendi； recalling that this island was once designated a
missariat for Mecca and Medina； issued a fatwa which more or less stated
that it was inappropriate for an island which had helped sustain holy sites to
remain under Christian infidel control。 In turn； the difficult task of informing
the Veians of this unforeseen decision； that they must surrender their
island； fell to me。 As a result； I was able to tour the cathedrals of Venice。
Though I marveled at their bridges and palazzos； I was most enchanted by the
pictures hanging in Veian homes。 Nevertheless； in the midst of this
bewilderment； trusting in the hospitality displayed by the Veians； I
delivered the menacing correspondence； informing them in a haughty；
supercilious fashion that Our Sultan desired Cyprus。 The Veians were so
angry that in their congress； which had been hastily convened； it was decided
that even to discuss such a letter was unacceptable。 Furious mobs had forced
me to confine myself to the Doge’s palazzo。 And when some rogues managed
to get past the guards and doorkeepers and had set to strangling me； two of
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the Doge’s personal musketeers succeeded in escorting me out one of the
secret passageways to an exit that opened onto the canal。 There； in a fog not
unlike this one； I thought for an instant that the tall and pale gondolier
dressed in white； who’d taken me by the arm； was none other than Death。 I
caught sight of my reflection in his eyes。
Longingly； I dreamed of finishing my book in secret and returning to
Venice。 I approached the grave； which had been carefully covered with dirt： At
this moment； angels are interrogating him above； asking him whether he is
male or female； his religion and whom he recognizes as his prophet。 The
possibility of my own death came to mind。
A crow alighted beside me。 I gazed lovingly into Black’s eyes and asked him
to take my arm and acpany me on the way back。 I told him I expected him
at the house early the next morning to continue working on the book。 I had
indeed imagined my own death； and realized； once again； that the book must
be pleted； whatever the cost。
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I WILL BE CALLED A MURDERER
They threw cold； muddy earth onto the battered and disfigured corpse of ill…
fated Elegant Effendi and I wept more than any of them。 I shouted； “I want to
die with him！” and “Let me share his grave！” and they held me by the waist so
I wouldn’t fall in。 I gasped for air and they pressed their palms to my forehead；
drawing my head back so I might breathe。 By the glances of the deceased’s
relatives； I sensed I might have exaggerated my sobs and wailing； I pulled
myself together。 Based upon my excessive sorrow the workshop gossips might
suppose that Elegant Effendi and I had been in love。
I hid behind a plane tree until the funeral ended to avoid drawing more