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They wouldn’t resort to flaying during the interrogation； because that
inevitably leads to death。 They wouldn’t impale anyone； either； as they do with
rebels； because that’s used as a deterrent。 Cracking and splintering the fingers；
arms or legs of these miniaturists was also out of the question。 Of course； the
removal of an eye—which I gathered was a measure of increasing frequency
these days； to judge by the growing numbers of one…eyed people on the streets
of Istanbul—would be inappropriate for master artists。 So； as I imagined my
dear miniaturists in a secluded corner of the Royal Private Garden； there in the
ice…cold pool among the water lilies； shivering violently and glaring hatefully at
one another； I had the passing urge to laugh。 Nevertheless； it caused me agony
to imagine how Olive would shriek when his hindquarters were branded with
a hot iron and how dear Butterfly’s skin would pale when he was shackled。 I
couldn’t bear to conjure the scene of dear Butterfly—whose skill and love for
illumination brought tears to my eyes—as he was given the bastinado like a
mon thieving apprentice。 I just stood there dumbfounded and hollow。
My elderly mind was mute under the spell of its own internal silence。 There
was a time when we’d paint together with a passion that made us forget
everything。
“These men are the most expert miniaturists serving Our Sultan；” I said。
“Make certain no harm befalls them。”
Pleased； the Head Treasurer rose； grabbed a number of pages from the
worktable at the other end of the room and arranged them in front of me。
Next； as if the room were dark； he placed beside me two large candle holders
whose portly tapers burned with bobbing and twittering flames so I could
study the paintings in question。
How might I explain what I saw as I moved the magnifying lens over them？
I felt like laughing—and not because they were humorous。 I was incensed—it
seemed that Enishte Effendi had instructed my masters as follows： “Don’t
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paint like yourselves； paint as if you were someone else。” He’d forced them to
recall nonexistent memories； to conjure and paint a future； which they’d never
want to live。 What was even more incredible was that they were killing each
other over this nonsense。
“By looking at these illustrations； can you tell me which miniaturist worked
on which picture？” asked the Head Treasurer。
“Yes；” I said angrily。 “Where did you find these paintings？”
“Black brought them of his own accord and left them with me；” said the
Head Treasurer。 “He’s bent on proving that he and his late Enishte are
innocent。”
“During the interrogation； torture him；” I said。 “That way we’ll learn what
other secrets our late Enishte was harboring。”
“We’ve sent for him；” said the mander of the Imperial Guard。
“Afterward； we’ll thoroughly search the house of that newlywed。”
Both their faces were strangely illuminated； a flicker of fear and awe
overcame them； and they snapped to their feet。
Without having to turn around I knew we were in the presence of His
Excellency； Our Sultan； the Refuge of the World。
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I AM ESTHER
Oh； how wonderful it is to cry along with the rest of them！ While the men
were at the funeral of my dear Shekure’s father； the women； kith and kin；
spouses and friends； gathered in the house and shed their tears； and I； too；
beat my chest in mourning and wept with them。 Now wailing in unison with
the pretty maiden beside me； leaning on her and swaying back and forth； now
crying in a pletely different frame of mind； I was deeply touched by my
own woes and pitiful life。 If I could cry like this just once a week； I thought； I
might forget how I had to roam the streets all day just to make ends meet；
forget being mocked for my weight and my Jewishness and be reborn an even
more chattermouth Esther。
I like social gatherings because I can eat to my heart’s content； and； at the
same time； forget that I’m the black sheep of the crowd。 I love the baklava；
mint candy； marzipan bread and fruit leather of holidays； the pilaf with meat
and the tea…cup pastries of circumcision ceremonies； drinking sour…cherry
sherbet at celebrations held by the Sultan in the Hippodrome； eating
everything at weddings； and tossing down the sesame； honey or variously
flavored condolence halvas sent by the neighbors at wakes。
I quietly slipped into the hallway； put on my shoes and went downstairs。
Before I turned into the kitchen； I grew curious about an odd noise ing
through the half…open door of the room next to the stable。 I took a few steps
in that direction and glanced inside to discover that Shevket and Orhan had
tied up the son of one of the women mourners and were in the midst of
painting his face with their late grandfather’s paints and brushes。 “If you try
to escape； we’ll hit you like this；” Shevket said and slapped the boy。
“My dear child； play nice and gentle now； don’t hurt each other； all right？”
I said in a voice as velvety as I could muster。
“Mind your own affairs！” Shevket shouted。
I noticed the small； frightened； blond…haired sister of the boy they were
tormenting standing beside them； and for whatever reason； I felt for her
pletely。 Forget about it； now； Esther！
In the kitchen； Hayriye peered at me suspiciously。
“I’ve cried myself dry； Hayriye；” I said。 “For God’s sake； pour me a glass of
water。”
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She did so； silently。 Before I drank it； I stared into her eyes； swollen from
weeping。
“Poor Enishte Effendi； they say he was already dead before Shekure’s
wedding；” I mented。 “People’s mouths aren’t like bags that can be cinched
up； some even claim there was foul play involved。”
In an exaggerated gesture； she looked down at her toes。 Then she lift