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through the house； I know he’s aware that my daughter has returned here to
her father’s house with her two sons。
I’ve neglected to mention the new house I had built in Black’s absence。
Most likely； Black； like any young fellow who’d set his mind to being a
man of wealth and prestige； considered it quite discourteous to broach such a
subject。 Still； when we entered； I told him on the staircase that the second
floor was always less humid； and that moving upstairs had served to ease the
pains in my joints。 When I said “the second floor；” I felt oddly embarrassed；
but let me tell you： Men with much less money than I； even simple spahi
cavalrymen with tiny military fiefs； will soon be able to build two…story
houses。
We were in the room with the blue door that I used as the painting
workshop in winter； and I sensed that Black was aware of Shekure’s presence
in the adjacent room。 I at once disclosed to him the matter that inspired the
letter I’d sent to Tabriz； inviting him to Istanbul。
“Just as you did in concert with the calligraphers and miniaturists of Tabriz；
I； too； have been preparing an illustrated manuscript；” I said。 “My client is； in
fact； His Excellency Our Sultan； the Foundation of the World。 Because this
book is a secret； Our Sultan has disbursed payment to me under cover of the
27
Head Treasurer。 And I have e to an understanding with each of the most
talented and acplished artists of Our Sultan’s atelier。 I have been in the
process of missioning one of them to illustrate a dog； another a tree； a
third I’ve charged with making border designs and clouds on the horizon； and
yet another is responsible for the horses。 I wanted the things I depicted to
represent Our Sultan’s entire world； just as in the paintings of the Veian
masters。 But unlike the Veians； my work would not merely depict material
objects； but naturally the inner riches； the joys and fears of the realm over
which Our Sultan rules。 If I ended up including the picture of a gold coin； it
was to belittle money； I included Death and Satan because we fear them。 I
don’t know what the rumors are about。 I wanted the immortality of a tree；
the weariness of a horse and the vulgarity of a dog to represent His Excellency
Our Sultan and His worldly realm。 I also wanted my cadre of illustrators；
nicknamed ”Stork；“ ”Olive；“ ”Elegant‘ and “Butterfly；” to select subjects of
their own choosing。 On even the coldest； most forbidding winter evenings；
one of my Sultan’s illustrators would secretly visit to show me what he’d
prepared for the book。
“What kind of pictures were we making？ Why were we illustrating them in
that way？ I can’t really answer you at present。 Not because I’m withholding a
secret from you； and not because I won’t eventually tell you。 It’s as though I
myself don’t quite know what the pictures mean。 I do； however； know what
kind of paintings they ought to be。”
Four months after I sent my letter； I heard from the barber located on the
street where we used to live that Black had returned to Istanbul； and； in turn； I
invited him to our house。 I was fully aware that my story bore a promise of
both sorrow and bliss that would bind the two of us together。
“Every picture serves to tell a story；” I said。 “The miniaturist； in order to
beautify the manuscript we read； depicts the most vital scenes： the first time
lovers lay eyes on each other； the hero Rüstem cutting off the head of a
devilish monster； Rüstem’s grief when he realizes that the stranger he’s killed
is his son； the love…crazed Mejnun as he roams a desolate and wild Nature
among lions； tigers； stags and jackals； the anguish of Alexander； who； having
e to the forest before a battle to divine its oute from the birds；
witnesses a great falcon tear apart his woodcock。 Our eyes； fatigued from
reading these tales； rest upon the pictures。 If there’s something within the text
that our intellect and imagination are at pains to conjure； the illustration
es at once to our aid。 The images are the story’s blossoming in color。 But
painting without its acpanying story is an impossibility。
28
“Or so I used to think；” I added； as if regretfully。 “But this is indeed quite
possible。 Two years ago I traveled once again to Venice as the Sultan’s
ambassador。 I observed at length the portraits that the Veian masters had
made。 I did so without knowing to which scene and story the pictures
belonged； and I struggled to extract the story from the image。 One day； I came
across a painting hanging on a palazzo wall and was dumbfounded。
“More than anything； the image was of an individual； somebody like
myself。 It was an infidel； of course； not one of us。 As I stared at him； though； I
felt as if I resembled him。 Yet he didn’t resemble me at all。 He had a full round
face that seemed to lack cheekbones； and moreover； he had no trace of my
marvelous chin。 Though he didn’t look anything like me； as I gazed upon the
picture； for some reason； my heart fluttered as if it were my own portrait。
“I learned from the Veian gentleman who was giving me a tour through
his palazzo that the portrait was of a friend； a nobleman like himself。 He had
included whatever was significant in his life in his portrait： In the background
landscape visible from the open window there was a farm； a village and a
blending of color which made a realistic…looking forest。 Resting on the table
before the nobleman were a clock； books； Time； Evil； Life； a calligraphy pen； a
map； a pass； boxes containing gold coins； bric…a…brac； odds and ends；
inscrutable yet distinguishable things that were probably included in many
pictures； shadows of jinns and the Devil and also； the