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the Tatar Khan’s ambassador。 As I was brushing a sparse amount of gold wash
onto the horse’s reins； somebody knocked at the door。 I quit what I was doing。
It was an imperial pageboy。 The Head Treasurer had summoned me to the
palace。 My eyes ached ever so mildly。 I placed my magnifying lens in my
pocket； and left with the boy。
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Oh； how nice it is to walk through the streets after having worked without
a break for so long！ At such times； the whole world strikes one as original and
stunning； as if Allah had created it all the day before。
I noticed a dog； more meaningful than all the pictures of dogs I’d ever seen。
I saw a horse； a lesser creation than what my master miniaturists might make。
I spied a plane tree in the Hippodrome； the same tree whose leaves I’d just
now accented with tones of purple。
Strolling through the Hippodrome； whose parades I’d illustrated over the
last two years； was like stepping into my own painting。 Let’s say we were to
turn down a street： In a Frankish painting； this would result in our stepping
outside both the frame and the painting； in a painting made following the
example of the great masters of Herat； it’d bring us to the place from which
Allah looks upon us； in a Chinese painting； we’d be trapped； because Chinese
illustrations are infinite。
The pageboy； I discovered； wasn’t taking me to the Divan Chamber where I
often met with the Head Treasurer to discuss one of the following： the
manuscripts and ornamented ostrich eggs or other gifts my miniaturists were
preparing for Our Sultan； the health of the illustrators or the Head Treasurer’s
own constitution and peace of mind； the acquisition of paint； gold leaf or
other materials； the usual plaints and requests； the desires； delights；
demands and disposition of the Refuge of the World； Our Sultan； my eyesight；
my looking glasses or my lumbago； or the Head Treasurer’s good…for…nothing
son…in…law or the health of his tabby cat。 Silently； we entered the Sultan’s
Private Garden。 As if mitting a crime； but with great delicacy； we serenely
descended toward the sea through the trees。 “We’re nearing the Sea…Side
Kiosk；” I thought； “this means I will see the Sultan。 His Excellency must be
here。” But we turned off the path。 We walked ahead a few steps through the
arched doorway of a stone building behind the rowboat and ca？que sheds。 I
could smell the scent of baking bread wafting from the guard’s bakery before
catching sight of the Imperial Guard themselves in their red uniforms。
The Head Treasurer and the mander of the Imperial Guard were
together in one room： Angel and Devil！
The mander； who performed executions in the name of Our Sultan on
the palace grounds—who tortured； interrogated； beat； blinded and
administered the bastinado—smiled sweetly at me。 It was as if some piddling
lodger； with whom I was forced to share a caravansary cell； were going to
recount a heart…warming story。
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The Head Treasurer diffidently said； “Our Sultan； one year prior； charged me
with having an illuminated manuscript prepared under conditions of the
utmost privacy； a manuscript that would be included among the gifts meant
for an ambassadorial delegation。 In light of the secrecy of the book； His
Excellency did not deem it appropriate that Master Lokman the Royal
Historian be enlisted to write the manuscript。 Similarly； He did not venture to
involve you； ires。 Indeed； He supposed that you
were already fully engaged with the Book of Festivities。”
Upon entering this room I had abruptly assumed that some wretch had
slandered me； claiming that I was mitting heresy in such…and…such an
illustration and that I’d lampooned the Sovereign in another； I imagined with
horror that this tattler had been able to convince the Sovereign of my guilt and
that I was about to be laid out for torture with no consideration for my age。
And so to hear that the Head Treasurer was simply trying to make amends for
Our Sultan’s having missioned a manuscript from an outsider—these
words were sweeter than honey indeed。 Without learning anything new； I
listened to an account of the manuscript； about which I was already well
aware。 I was privy to the rumors about Nusret Hoja of Erzurum； and naturally；
to the intrigues within the workshop。
“Who is responsible for preparing the manuscript？” I asked。
“Enishte Effendi； as you know；” said the Head Treasurer。 Fixing his gaze into
my eyes； he added； “You were aware that he died an untimely death； that is to
say； that he was murdered； weren’t you？”
“Nay；” I said simply； like a child； and fell quiet。
“Our Sultan is quite furious；” the Head Treasurer said。
That Enishte Effendi was a dunce。 The master miniaturists always mocked
him for being more pretentious than knowledgeable； more ambitious than
intelligent。 I knew something was rotten at the funeral anyway。 How was he
killed； I wondered？
The Head Treasurer explained exactly how。 Appalling。 Dear God protect us。
Yet who could be responsible？
“The Sultan has decreed；” said the Head Treasurer； “that the book in
question should be finished as soon as possible； as with the Book of Festivities
manuscript…”
“He has also made a second decree；” said the mander of the Imperial
Guard。 “If； indeed； this unspeakable murderer is one of the miniaturists； He
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wants the black…hearted devil found。 He intends to sentence him to a
punishment such as will stand as a deterrent to one and all。”
An expression of such excitement appeared on the face of the mander
as if to suggest he already knew the monstrous punishment Our Sultan had
decreed。
I knew that Our Sultan had only recently charged these two men with this
task； thereby forcing them to cooperate—on which account they couldn’t hide
their distaste even now。 Seeing this inspired in me a love for the Sultan that
went beyond mere awe。 A servant boy served coffee and we sat for a while。
I was told that Enishte Effendi had a nephew named Black Effendi whom
he’d cultivated； a man trained in illumination and book arts。 Had I met him？ I
remained silent。 A short while ago； upon the invitation of his Enishte； Black
had returned from the Persian front； where he was under Serhat Pasha’s
mand—the mander shot me a look of suspicion。 Here； in Istanbul； he
worked himself into his Enishte’s good graces and learned the story of the
book whose creation Enishte was overseeing。 Black claimed that after Elegant
Effendi was killed； Enishte suspected one of the master miniaturists who
visited him at night to work on this manuscript。 He’d seen the illustrations
these masters had made and said that Enishte’s murderer—the selfsame
painter who stole the Sultan’s illustration with the lion’s share of gold leaf—
was one of them。 For two days； this young Black Effendi had concealed the
death of Enishte from the palace and the Head Treasurer。 Within that very
two…day period； he’d rushed ahead with a marriage to Enishte’s daughter； an
ethically and religiously dubious affair； and settled into Enishte’s house； thus；
both the men before me considered Black a suspect。
“If their houses and workplaces are searched and the missing page turns up
with one of my master miniaturists； Black’s innocence will be established at
once；” I said。 “Frankly； however； I can tell you that my dearest children； my
divinely inspired miniaturists； whom I’ve known since they were apprentices；
are incapable of taking the life of another man。”
“As for Olive； Stork and Butterfly；” said the mander； mockingly using
the nicknames I’d affectionately given to them； “we intend to b their
homes； haunts； places of work and； if applicable；