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the past。 It was evening； the twilight gave way to blackness and a very faint
snow fell as I walked down the street where Enishte Effendi lived。
Unlike other evenings； I’d e here knowing precisely what I wanted。 On
other evenings； my legs would take me here as I absentmindedly thought
about other things： how I’d told my mother I earned seven hundred silver
pieces for a single book； about the covers of Herat volumes with ungilded
ornamental rosettes dating from the time of Tamerlane； about the continued
shock of learning that others still painted under my name or about my
tomfoolery and transgressions。 This time； however； I’d e here with
forethought and intent。
The large courtyard gate—that I feared no one would open for me—opened
on its own when I went to knock； reassuring me that Allah was with me。 The
shiny stone…paved portion of the courtyard that I walked through on those
nights when I came to add new illustrations to Enishte Effendi’s magnificent
book was empty。 To the right beside the well rested the bucket； and perched on
it a sparrow apparently oblivious to the cold； a bit farther on sat the open…air
stone stove； which for some reason wasn’t lit even at this late hour； and to the
left； the stable for visitors’ horses which made up part of the house’s ground
floor。 Everything was as I expected it to be。 I entered through the unlocked
door beside the stable； and as an uninvited guest might do to avoid happening
upon an inappropriate scene； I stamped my feet and coughed as I climbed the
wooden staircase to the living quarters。
My coughing elicited no response。 Nor did the noise of stamping my
muddy shoes； which I removed and left next to those lined up at the entrance
of the wide hall which was also used as an anteroom。 As had bee my
custom whenever I visited； I searched for what I assumed to be Shekure’s
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elegant green pair among the others； but for naught； and the possibility that
no one was home crossed my mind。
I walked to the right into the room—there was one in each corner of the
second floor—where I imagined Shekure slept cuddled with her children。 I
groped for beds and mattresses； and opened a chest in the corner and a tall
armoire with a very light door。 While I thought the delicate almond scent in
the room must be the scent of Shekure’s skin； a pillow； which had been stuffed
into the cabi； fell onto my dim…witted head and then onto a copper pitcher
and cups。 You hear a noise and suddenly realize the room is dark； well； I
realized it was cold。
“Hayriye？” Enishte Effendi called from within another room； “Shekure？
Which of you is it？”
I swiftly exited the room； walking diagonally across the wide hall； and
entered the room with the blue door where I had labored with Enishte Effendi
on his book this past winter。
“It’s me； Enishte Effendi；” I said。 “Me。”
“Who might you be？”
At that instant； I understood that the workshop names Enishte Effendi had
selected had less to do with secrecy then with his subtle mockery of us。 As a
haughty scribe might write in the colophon on the last leaf of a magnificently
illustrated manuscript； I slowly pronounced the syllables of my full name；
which included my father’s name； my place of birth and the phrase “your
poor sinful servant。”
“Hah？” he said at first； then added； “Hah！”
Just like the old man who meets Death in the Assyrian fable I heard as a
child； Enishte Effendi sank into a very brief silence that lasted forever。 If there
are those among you who believe； since I’ve just now mentioned “Death；” that
I’ve e here to involve myself in such an affair； you’ve pletely
misunderstood the book you’re holding。 Would someone with such designs
knock on the gate？ Take off his shoes？ e without a knife？
“So； you’ve e；” he said； again like the old man in the fable。 But then he
assumed an entirely different tone： “Wele； my child。 Tell me then； what is
it that you want？”
It had grown quite dark by now。 Enough light entered through the narrow
beeswax…dipped cloth windowpane—which； when removed in springtime；
revealed a pomegranate and plane tree—to distinguish the outlines of objects
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within the room； enough light to please a humble Chinese illustrator。 I could
not fully see Enishte Effendi’s face as he sat； as usual； before a low； folding
reading desk； so that the light fell to his left side。 I tried desperately to
recapture the intimacy between us when we’d painted miniatures together；
gently and quietly discussing them all night by candlelight amid these
burnishing stones； reed pens； inkwells and brushes。 I’m not sure if it was out
of this sense of alienation or out of embarrassment； but I was ashamed and
held back from openly confessing my misgivings； at that moment； I decided to
explain myself through a story。
Perhaps you’ve also heard of the artist Sheikh Muhammad of Isfahan？ There
was no painter who could surpass him in choice of color； in his sense of
symmetry； in depicting human figures； animals and faces； in painting with an
effusiveness bespeaking poetry； and in the application of an arcane logic
reserved for geometry。 After achieving the status of master painter at a young
age； this virtuoso with a divine touch spent a full thirty years in pursuit of the
most fearless innovation of subject matter； position and style。 Working in
the Chinese black…ink style—brought to us by the Mongols—with skill and an
elegant sense of symmetry； he was the one who introduced the terrifying
demons； horned jinns； horses with large testicles； half…human monsters and
giants into the devilishly subtle and sensitive Herat style of painting； he was
the first to take an interest in and be influenced by the portraiture that had
e by Western ships from Portugal and Flanders； he reintroduced forgotten
techniques dating back to the time of Genghis Khan and hidden in decaying
old volumes； before anybody else； he dared to paint cock…raising scenes like
Alexander’s peeping at naked beauties swimming on the island of women and
Shirin bathing by moonlight； he depicted Our Glorious Prophet ascending on
the back of his winged steed Burak； shahs scratching themselves； dogs
copulating and sheikhs drunk with wine and made them acceptable to the
entire munity of book lovers。 He’d done it； at times secretly； at times
openly； drinking large quantities of wine and taking opium； with an
enthusiasm that lasted for thirty years。 Later； in his old age； he became the
disciple of a pious sheikh； and within a short time； changed pletely。
ing to the conclusion that every painting he’d made over the previous
thirty years was profane and ungodly； he rejected them all。 What’s more； he
devoted the remaining thirty years of his life to going from palace to palace；
from city to city； searching through the libraries and the treasuries of sultans
and kings； in order to find and destroy the manuscripts he’d illuminated。 In
whichever shah’s； prince’s or nobleman’s library he found a painting he’d
made in previous years； he’d stop at nothing to destroy it； gaining access by
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flattery or by ruse； and precisely when no one was paying attention； he’d
either tear out the page on which his illustration appeared； or； seizing an
opportunity； he’d spill water on the piece； ruining it。 I recounted this tale as
an example of how a miniaturist could suffer great agony for unwittingly
forsaking his faith under the spell of his art。 This was why I mentioned how
Sheikh Muhammad had burned down Prince Ismail Mirza’s immense library
containing hundreds of books that the sheikh himself had illustrated；