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his day。
Since he paid equal attention to every odd detail； with no basis of
discrimination except that it be visible； his aesthetic approach resembled that
of the Veian masters。 But unlike them； my ambitious Stork neither saw nor
depicted people’s faces as individual or distinct。 I assume； since he either
openly or secretly belittled everyone； that he didn’t consider faces important。
I’m certain deceased Enishte didn’t appoint him to draw Our Sultan’s face。
Even when depicting a subject of the utmost importance； he couldn’t keep
from situating a skeptical dog somewhere at some distance from the event； or
drawing a disgraceful beggar whose misery demeaned the wealth and
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extravagance of a ceremony。 He had enough self…confidence to mock whatever
illustration he made； its subject and himself。
“Elegant Effendi’s murder resembles the way Joseph’s brothers tossed him
into a well out of jealousy；” said Black。 “And my Enishte’s death resembles the
unforeseen murder of Hüsrev at the hands of his son who had his heart set on
Hüsrev’s wife； Shirin。 Everyone says that Stork loved to paint scenes of war and
gruesome depictions of death。”
“Anyone who thinks an illuminator resembles the subject of the picture he
paints doesn’t understand me or my master miniaturists。 What exposes us is
not the subject； which others have missioned from us—these are always
the same anyway—but the hidden sensibilities we include in the painting as
we render that subject： A light that seems to radiate from within the picture； a
palpable hesitancy or anger one notices in the position of figures； horses
and trees； the desire and sorrow emanating from a cypress as it reaches to the
heavens； the pious resignation and patience that we introduce into the
illustration when we ornament wall tiles with a fervor that tempts
blindness…Yes； these are our hidden traces； not those identical horses all in a
row。 When a painter renders the fury and speed of a horse； he doesn’t paint
his own fury and speed； by trying to make the perfect horse； he reveals his love
for the richness of this world and its creator； displaying the colors of a passion
for life—only that and nothing more。”
287
I AM CALLED BLACK
Various manuscript pages lay before me and the great Master Osman—some
with calligraphed texts and ready to be bound； some not yet colored or
otherwise unfinished for whatever reason—as we spent an entire afternoon
evaluating the master miniaturists and the pages of my Enishte’s book；
keeping charts of our assessments。 We thought we’d seen the last of the
mander’s respectful but crude men； who’d brought us the pages collected
from the miniaturists and calligraphers whose homes they raided and searched
（some pieces had nothing whatsoever to do with either of our two books and
some pages confirmed that the calligraphers； as well； were secretly accepting
work from outside the palace for the sake of a few extra coins）； when the most
brash of them stepped over to the exalted master and removed a piece of
paper from his sash。
I paid no mind at first； thinking it was one of those petitions from a father
seeking an apprenticeship for his son by approaching as many division heads
and group captains as possible。 I could tell that the morning sun had vanished
by the pale light that filtered inside。 To rest my eyes； I was doing an exercise
the old masters of Shiraz remended miniaturists do to stave off premature
blindness； that is； I was trying to look emptily into the distance without
focusing。 That’s when I recognized with a thrill the sweet color and heart…
stopping folds of the paper which my master held and stared at with an
expression of disbelief。 This matched exactly the letters that Shekure had sent
me via Esther。 I was about to say； “What a coincidence” like an idiot； when I
noticed that； like Shekure’s first letter； it was acpanied by a painting on
coarse paper！
Master Osman kept the painting to himself。 He handed me the letter that I
just then embarrassingly realized was from Shekure。
My Dear Husband Black。 I sent Esther to sound out late Elegant Effendi’s
widow； Kalbiye。 While there； Kalbiye showed Esther this illustrated page； which
I’m sending to you。 Later； I went to Kalbiye’s house； doing everything within my
power to persuade her that it was in her best interest to give me the picture。 This
page was on poor Elegant Effendi’s body when he was removed from the well。
Kalbiye swears that nobody had missioned her husband； may he rest in divine
light； to draw horses。 So then； who made them？ The mander’s men searched
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the house。 I’m sending this note because this matter must have significance to the
investigation。 The children kiss your hands respectfully。 Your wife； Shekure。
I carefully read the last three words of this beautiful note thrice as if staring
at three wondrous red roses in a garden。 I leaned over the page that Master
Osman was scrutinizing； magnifying lens in hand。 I straightaway noticed that
the shapes whose ink had bled were horses sketched in a single motion as the
old masters would do to accustom the hand。
Master Osman； who read Shekure’s note without ment； voiced a
question： “Who drew this？” He then answered himself； “Of course； the same
miniaturist who drew the late Enishte’s horse。”
Could he be so certain？ Moreover； we weren’t at all sure who’d drawn the
horse for the book。 We removed the horse from among the nine pages and
began to examine it。
It was a handsome； simple； chestnut horse that you couldn’t take your eyes
off of。 Was I being truthful when I said this？ I had plenty of time to look at
this horse with my Enishte； and later； when I was left alone with these
illustrations； but I hadn’t given it much thought then。 It was a beautiful； but
ordinary