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the death to him before anyone else。 To this end； I sought out an upholsterer； a
relative on my late father’s side； who’d worked in the tailors’ work stalls
opposite Coldfountain Gate ever since I was a child。 When I found him； I
kissed his mottled hand and explained imploringly that I needed to see the
Head Treasurer。 He had me wait among his balding apprentices who were
sewing curtains； doubled over the multicolored silk spread over their laps；
then； he had me follow a head tailor’s assistant who； I learned； was going to
the palace to take measurements。 When we climbed up to the Parade Square
through Coldfountain Gate I knew I’d be able to avoid passing the workshop
opposite the Hagia Sophia； and thus； I was spared from announcing the crime
to the other miniaturists。
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The Parade Square seemed abustle now； whereas it usually seemed empty to
me。 Though there wasn’t a single person at the Petitioner’s Gate； before which
petitioners would line up on days when the Divan convened； nor anyone in
the vicinity of the granaries； it was as if I could hear a continuous din
emanating from the windows of the sick house； from the carpenters’
workshop； the bakery； the stables； the grooms with their horses before the
Second Gate （whose spires I looked upon with awe） and from among the
cypresses。 I attributed my sense of alarm to the fear of passing through the
Gate of Salutation； or Second Gate； which I would soon be doing for the first
time in my life。
At the gate； I could neither focus my attention on the spot where the
executioners were said to be ever at the ready； nor could I hide my agitation
from the keepers of the gate who glanced inquiringly at the bolt of upholstery
cloth I carried as a prop so onlookers would assume I was assisting my tailor…
cum…guide。
As soon as we entered the Divan Square； a deep silence enveloped us。 I felt
my heart pounding even in the veins of my forehead and neck。 This area； so
often described by my Enishte and others who visited the palace； lay before
me like a heavenly garden of unequaled beauty。 Yet； I didn’t feel the elation of
a man who’d entered Heaven； just trepidation and pious reverence； I felt
myself to be a simple servant of Our Sultan； who； as I now thoroughly
understood； was indeed the foundation of this worldly realm。 I stared at the
peacocks roaming through the greenery； the gold cups chained to splashing
fountains and the Grand Vizier’s heralds robed in silk （who seemed to move
about without touching the ground）； and I felt the thrill of serving my
Sovereign。 There was no doubt that I would plete Our Sultan’s secret
book； whose unfinished illustrations I carried under my arm。 Without
knowing exactly what I was doing； I trailed behind the tailor； my eyes fixed on
the Divan Tower； spellbound by fear more than awe now at its proximity。
Acpanied by a royal page who’d attached himself to us； we fearfully
and silently； as in a dream； passed the Divan building and the Treasury； I felt
that I’d seen this place before and knew it well。
We entered through a wide door into a room that was referred to as the
Old Divan Chamber。 Beneath its huge dome； I saw master artisans holding
cloth； pieces of leather； silver scabbards and mother…of…pearl inlaid chests。 I
inferred that these men were from Our Sultan’s craftsmen’s guilds： mace
makers； boot makers； silversmiths； master velvet makers； ivory engravers； and
luthiers。 They were all waiting outside the Head Treasurer’s door with various
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petitions concerning payments； the acquisition of materials and requests to
enter the Sultan’s forbidden private quarters to take measurements。 I was
pleased to discover no illuminators among them。
We withdrew to one side and began to wait as well。 Occasionally； we heard
the raised voice of the treasurer’s clerk； suspecting an error in accounts；
request clarification； this would be met by a polite response； from a locksmith；
for example。 Voices rarely rose above a whisper； the flutter of the courtyard
pigeons echoing in the dome above us were louder than the petty requests of
the humble artisans。
When my turn came； I entered the Head Treasurer’s small domed chamber
to find it occupied by a single clerk。 I quickly explained that there was an
important matter to be submitted to the Head Treasurer’s attention： A book
project that Our Sultan had missioned and that was of utmost
importance to Him。 Intrigued by what I was holding； the clerk raised his eyes。 I
showed him the illustrations from my Enishte’s book。 I noticed that the
peculiarity of the pictures； their striking eccentricity； boggled his mind。 I
hastened to inform him of my Enishte’s name； his sobriquet and his vocation；
adding that he’d died on account of these pictures。 I spoke quickly； well aware
that if I returned from the palace without reaching Our Sultan； I’d be accused
of having put Enishte into that dreadful state myself。
When the clerk left to apprise the Head Treasurer； I broke into a cold sweat。
Would the Head Treasurer； who； as my Enishte once informed me； never left
Our Sultan’s side； who on occasion even spread out His prayer rug for Him；
and who was frequently His confidant—would he ever leave the restricted
Enderun quarters of the palace to see me？ The fact that a messenger had been
dispatched to the heart of the palace on my behalf was unbelievable enough。 I
wondered where Our Excellency the Sultan Himself might be： Had He retired
to one of the kiosks near the shore？ Was He in the harem？ Was the Head
Treasurer in His pany？
Much later； I was summoned。 Let me put it this way： I was taken so
unawares I had no time to be afraid。 Even so； I panicked when I