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books to which we’d devoted our entire lives would slowly be forgotten—yes；
in fact； the whole venture would e to an end； and if the Erzurumis didn’t
throttle us and finish us off； the Sultan’s torturers would leave us
maimed…But as I cried； sobbed and sighed—even though I continued to
listen to the sad patter of the rain—a part of my mind sensed that these were
not the things I was actually crying about。 To what extent were the others
aware of this？ I felt vaguely guilty for my tears； which were at once genuine
and false。
Butterfly came up beside me； placed his arm upon my shoulder； stroked my
hair； kissed my cheek and forted me with honeyed words。 This show of
friendship made me cry with even more sincerity and guilt。 I couldn’t see his
face but； for some reason； I incorrectly thought he too was crying。 We sat
down。
We recalled how we’d started our workshop apprenticeships in the same
year； the strange sadness of being torn away from our mothers to suddenly
begin a new life； the pain of beatings we received from the first day； the joy of
the first gifts from the Head Treasurer； and the days we went back home；
running the whole way。 At first； only he talked while I listened sorrowfully； but
later； when Stork and； sometime afterward； Black—who came to the
workshop for a time and left it； during our early apprenticeship years—joined
our mournful conversation； I forgot that I’d just been crying and began to talk
and laugh freely with them。
We reminisced about winter mornings when we would wake early； light the
stove in the largest room of the workshop and mop the floors with hot water。
We recalled an old “master；” may he rest in peace； who was so uninspired and
cautious that he could draw only a single leaf of a single tree during the span
of a single day and who； when he saw that we were again looking at the lush
green leaves of the springtime trees through the open window rather than at
the leaf he drew； without striking us； would chastise us for the hundredth
time： “Not out there； in here！” We recalled the wailing； which could be heard
throughout the entire atelier； of the scrawny apprentice who walked toward
the door； satchel in hand； having been sent back home because the intensity of
the work caused one of his eyes to wander。 Next； we imagined how we
watched （with pleasure because it wasn’t our fault） the slow spread of a
deadly red seeping from a bronze inkpot that had cracked over a page three
illuminators had labored on for three months （it depicted the Ottoman army
413
on the banks of the K？n？k River en route to Shirvan； overing the threat of
starvation by occupying Eresh and filling their stomachs）。 In a refined and
respectful manner； we talked about how the three of us together made love to
and together fell in love with a Circasian lady； the most beautiful of the wives
of a seventy…year…old pasha who—in consideration of his conquests； strength
and wealth—wanted ceiling ornamentation in his home made in imitation of
the designs in Our Sultan’s hunting lodge。 Then； we longingly recalled how on
winter mornings we would have our lentil soup on the threshold of the
yawning door so its steam wouldn’t soften the paper。 We also lamented being
separated from workshop friends and masters when the latter pelled us to
travel to distant places to serve as journeymen。 For a time； the sweetness of
my dear Butterfly in his sixteenth year appeared before my eyes： He was
burnishing paper to a high gloss by rubbing it quickly with a smooth seashell
as the sunlight； ing through an open window on a summer’s day； struck
his naked honey…colored forearms。 For a moment he stopped what he was so
absentmindedly doing and carefully lowered his face to the page to examine a
blemish。 After making a few passes over the offending spot with the
burnishing shell using different motions； he returned to his former pattern；
moving his hand back and forth as he stared out of the window into the
distance； losing himself in daydreams。 I shall never forget how before looking
outside again； he briefly gazed into my eyes—as I would later do to others。
This dolorous look has only one meaning； which all apprentices know quite
well： Time doesn’t flow if you don’t dream。
414
I WILL BE CALLED A MURDERER
You’d forgotten about me； hadn’t you？ Why should I conceal my presence
from you any longer？ For speaking in this voice； which is gradually getting
stronger and stronger； has bee irresistible for me。 At times； I restrain
myself only with great effort； and I’m afraid that the strain in my voice will
give me away。 At times； I let myself go pletely unchecked； and that’s when
those words； signs of my second character； which you might recognize； spill
from my lips； my hands begin to tremble； beads of sweat collect on my
forehead and I realize at once that these little whispers of my body； in turn；
will furnish new clues。
Yet I’m so very content here！ As we console ourselves with twenty…five years
of memories we’re reminded not of the animosities； but of the beauties and
the pleasures of painting。 There’s also something in our sitting here with a
sense of the impending end of the world； caressing each other with tear…filled
eyes as we remember the beauty of bygone days； that recalls harem women。
I’ve taken this parison from Abu Said of Kirman who included the
stories of the old masters of Shiraz and Herat in his History of the sons of
Tamerlane。 Thirty years ago； Jihan Shah； ruler of the Blacksheep； came to the
East where he routed the small armies and ravaged the lands of the Timurid
khans and shahs who were fighting among themselves。 With his victorious
T