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greatest of innovations manifest in the paintings of the Veian masters。 “If；”
I said； “we intend to make our paintings from the perspective of pedestrians
exchanging pleasantries and regarding their world； that is； if we intend to
illustrate from the street； we ought to learn how to account for—as the Franks
do—what is； in fact； most prevalent there： shadows。”
“How does one depict shadow？” asked Black。
From time to time； as my nephew listened； I perceived impatience in him。
He’d begin to fiddle with the Mongol inkpot he’d given me as a present。 At
times； he’d take up the iron poker and stoke the fire in the stove。 Now and
then I imagined that he wanted to lower that poker onto my head and kill me
because I dared to move the art of illustrating away from Allah’s perspective；
because I would betray the dreams of the masters of Herat and their entire
tradition of painting； because I’d duped Our Sultan into already doing so。
Occasionally； Black would sit dead still for long stretches and fix his eyes deeply
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into mine。 I could imagine what he was thinking： “I’ll be your slave until I can
have your daughter。” Once； as I would do when he was a child； I took him out
into the yard and tried to explain to him； as a father might； about the trees；
about the light falling onto the leaves； about the melting snow and why the
houses seemed to shrink as we moved away from them。 But this was a
mistake： It proved only that our former filial relationship had long since
collapsed。 Now patient sufferance of the rantings of a demented old man had
taken the place of Black’s childhood curiosity and passion for knowledge。 I was
just an old man whose daughter was the object of Black’s love。 The influence
and experience of the countries and cities that my nephew had traveled
through for a dozen years had been fully absorbed by his soul。 He was tired of
me； and I pitied him。 And he was angry； I assumed； not only because I hadn’t
allowed him to marry Shekure twelve years ago—after all； there was no other
choice then—but because I dreamed of paintings whose style transgressed the
precepts of the masters of Herat。 Furthermore； because I raved about this
nonsense with such conviction； I imagined my death at his hands。
I was not； however； afraid of him； on the contrary； I tried to frighten him。
For I believed that fear was appropriate to the 。
“As in those pictures；” I said； “one ought to be able to situate oneself at the
center of the world。 One of my illustrators brilliantly depicted Death for me。
Behold。”
Thus I began to show him the paintings I’d secretly missioned from the
master miniaturists over the last year。 At first； he was a tad shy； even
frightened。 When he understood that the depiction of Death was inspired by
familiar scenes that could be found in many Book of Kings volumes—from the
scene of Afrasiyab’s decapitation of Siyavush； for example； or Rüstem’s murder
of Suhrab without realizing this e interested in
the subject。 Among the pictures that depicted the funeral of the late Sultan
Süleyman was one I’d made with bold but sad colors； bining a
positional sensibility inspired by the Franks with my own attempt at
shading—which I’d added later。 I pointed out the diabolic depth evoked by
the interplay of cloud and horizon。 I reminded him that Death was unique；
just like the portraits of infidels I had seen hanging in Veian palazzos； all of
them desperately yearned to be rendered distinctly。 “They want to be so
distinct and different； and they want this with such passion that；” I said；
“look； look into the eyes of Death。 See how men do not fear Death； but rather
the violence implicit in the desire to be one…of…a…kind； unique and exceptional。
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Look at this illustration and write an account of it。 Give voice to Death。 Here’s
paper and pen。 I shall give what you write to the calligrapher straightaway。”
He stared at the picture in silence。 “Who painted this？” he asked later。
“Butterfly。 He’s the most talented of the lot。 Master Osman had been in
love with and awed by him for years。”
“I’ve seen rougher versions of this depiction of a dog at the coffeehouse
where the storyteller performs；” Black said。
“My illustrators； most of whom are spiritually bound to Master Osman
and the workshop； take a dim view of the labors performed for my book。
When they leave here at night I imagine they have their vulgar fun over these
illustrations which they draw for money and ridicule me at the coffeehouse。
And who among them will ever forget the time Our Sultan had the young
Veian artist； whom He’d invited from the embassy at my behest； paint His
portrait。 Thereafter； He had Master Osman make a copy of that oil painting。
Forced to imitate the Veian painter； Master Osman held me responsible for
this unseemly coercion and the shameful portrait that came of it。 He was
justified。”
All day long； I showed him every picture—except the final illustration that I
cannot； for whatever reason； finish。 I prodded him to write。 I discussed the
temperaments of the miniaturists； and I enumerated the sums of money I
meted out to them。 We discussed “perspective” and whether the diminutive
objects in the background of Veian pictures were sacrilegious； and equally；
we talked about the possibility that unfortunate Elegant Effendi had been
murdered for excessive ambition and out of jealousy over his wealth。
As Black returned home that night； I was confident he’d e again the
next morning as promised and that he’d once again listen to me recount the
stories that would constitute my book。 I listened to his footsteps fading
beyond the open gate； there was something to the cold night that seemed to
make my sleepless and troubled murderer stronger and more devilish than me
and my book。
I closed the courtyard gate tightly behind him。 I placed the old ceramic
water basin that I used as a basil planter behind the gate as I did each night。
Before I reduced the stove to smoldering ashes and went to bed； I glanced up
to see Shekure in a white gown looking like a ghost in the blackness。
“Are you absolutely certain that you want to marry him？” I asked。
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“No； dear Father。 I’ve long since forgotten about marriage。 Besides； I am
married。”
“If you still want to marry him； I’m willing to give you my blessing now。”
“I wish not to be wed to him。”
“Why？”
“Because it’s against your will。 In all sincerity； I desire nobody that you do
not want。”
I noticed； momentarily； the coals in the stove reflected in her eyes。 Her eyes
had aged； not out of unhappiness； but anger； yet there was no trace of offense
in her voice。
“Black is in love with you；” I said as if divulging a secret。
“I know。”
“He listened to all I had to say today not out of his love of painting； but out
of his love for you。”
“He will plete your book； this is what matters。”
“Your husband might return one day；” I said。
“I’m not certain why； perhaps it’s the silence； but tonight I’ve realized once
and for all that my husband will never return。 What I’ve dreamt seems to be
the truth： They must’ve killed him。 He’s long since turned to dust。” She
whispered the last statement lest the sleeping children hear。 And she said it
with a peculiar tinge of anger。
“If they happen to kill me；” I said； “I want you to finish this book to which
I’ve dedicated everything。 Swear that you will。”
“I give my word。 Who will be the one to plete your book？”
“Black！ You can ensure that he does so。”
“You are already ensuring that he does so； dear Father；” she said。 “You have
no need for me。”
“Agreed； but he’s giving in to me because of you。 If they kill me； he might
be afraid to continue on。”
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