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Even so； we were able to maintain a persistent excitement in the face of the
weariness and melancholy that descended upon us： A couple of times we
forgot about the horse and lost ourselves to the beauty of a picture； to colors
that forced a momentary surrender。 Master Osman always looked at the
pictures—most of which he himself had created； supervised or ornamented—
more out of nostalgic enthusiasm than wonder。 “These are by Kas？m from the
Kas？m Pasha district！” he said once； pointing out the little purple flowers at
the base of the red war tent of Our Sultan’s grandfather Sultan Süleyman。 “He
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was by no means a master； but for forty years he filled the dead space of
pictures with these five…leaf； single…blossom flowers； before he unexpectedly
died two years ago。 I always assigned him to draw this small flower because he
could do it better than anyone。” He fell silent for a moment； then exclaimed；
“It’s a pity； a pity！” With all my soul； I sensed that these words signified the
end of an era。
Darkness had nearly overtaken us； when a light flooded the room。 There
was a motion。 My heart； which had begun to beat like a drum；
prehended immediately： The Ruler of the World； His Excellency Our
Sultan had abruptly entered。 I threw myself at His feet。 I kissed the hem of His
robe。 My head spun。 I couldn’t look Him in the eye。
He’d long since begun speaking with Head Illuminator Master Osman
anyway。 It filled me with fiery pride to witness Him speak to the man with
whom I’d only moments ago been sitting knee to knee looking at pictures。
Unbelievable； His Excellency Our Sultan was now sitting where I’d been earlier
and He was listening attentively to what my master was explaining； as I had
done。 The Head Treasurer； who was at his side and the Agha of the Falconers
and a few others whose identities I couldn’t make out were keeping close
guard over Him and gazing at the open pages of books with rapt attention。 I
gathered all my courage and looked at length at the face and eyes of the
Sovereign Ruler of the World； albeit with a sidelong glance。 How handsome He
was！ How upright and proper！ My heart no longer beat excitedly。 At that
moment； our eyes met。
“How much I loved your Enishte； may he rest in peace；” He said。 Yes； He
was speaking to me。 In my excitement； I missed some of what He was saying。
“…I was quite aggrieved。 Hofort to see that each of
these pictures he made is a masterpiece。 When the Veian giaour sees these；
he will be stunned and fear my wisdom。 You shall determine who the accursed
miniaturist is by this horse’s nose。 Otherwise； however merciless； it’ll be
necessary to torture all the master miniaturists。”
“Sovereign Refuge of the World Your Excellency My Sultan；” said Master
Osman。 “Perhaps we can better catch the man responsible for this slip of the
brush； if my master miniaturists are forced to draw a horse on a blank sheet of
paper； quickly； without any story in mind。”
“Only； of course； if this is really a slip of the brush and not an actual nose；”
said Our Sultan shrewdly。
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“My Sultan；” said Master Osman； “to this end； if a petition by express
mand of Your Highness were announced tonight； if a guard were to visit
Your miniaturists； requesting them to draw a horse quickly on a blank sheet
for this contest…”
Our Sultan looked at the mander of the Imperial Guard with an
expression that said； “Did you hear that？” Then he said； “Do you know which
of the Poet Nizami’s stories of rivalry I like best of all？”
Some of us said； “We know。” Some said； “Which one？” Some； including
myself； fell silent。
“I’m not fond of the contest of poets or the story about the contest
between Chinese and Western painters and the mirror；” said the handsome
Sultan。 “I like best the contest of doctors who pete to the death。”
After He’d said this； He abruptly took leave of us for His evening prayers。
Later； as the evening azan was being called； in the half dark； after exiting the
gates of the palace； I hurried toward my neighborhood happily imagining
Shekure； the boys and our house； when I recalled with horror the story of the
contest of doctors：
One of the two doctors peting in the presence of their sultan—the one
often depicted in pink—made a poison green pill strong enough to fell an
elephant； which he gave to the other doctor； the one in the navy…blue caftan。
That doctor first swallowed the poisonous pill； and afterward； swallowed a
navy…blue antidote that he’d just made。 As could be understood from his
gentle laughter； nothing at all happened to him。 Furthermore； it was now his
turn to give his rival a whiff of death。 Moving ever so deliberately； savoring the
pleasure of taking his turn； he plucked a pink rose from the garden； and
bringing it to his lips； inaudibly whispered a mysterious poem into its petals。
Next； with gestures that bespoke extreme confidence； he extended the rose to
his rival so he might take in its bouquet。 The force of the whispered poem so
agitated the doctor in pink that upon bringing the flower to his nose； which
bore nothing but its regular scent； he collapsed out of fear and died。
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I AM CALLED “OLIVE”
Prior to the evening prayers； there came a knock at the door and I opened it
without ceremony： It was one of the mander’s men from the palace； a
clean； handsome； cheerful and being youth。 In addition to paper and a
writing board； he carried an oil lamp in his hand； which cast shadows over his
face rather than illuminating it。 He quickly apprised me of the situation： Our
Sultan had declared a contest among the master miniaturists to see who could
draw the best horse in the shortest time。 I was asked to sit on the floor；
arrange paper on the board and