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absolutely had to write these stories； but all that came to mind were the
stories the storyteller told at the coffeehouse。
133
I WILL BE CALLED A MURDERER
Ticking away； my windup clock told me it was evening。 The prayers had yet to
be called； but long before； I’d lit the candle resting beside my folding
pleted drawing an opium addict from memory；
having dipped my reed pen into black Hasan Pasha ink and skated it over well…
burnished and beautifully sized paper； when I heard that voice calling me out
to the street as it did every night。 I resisted。 I was so determined not to go； but
to stay at home and work； I even tried nailing my door shut for a time。
This book I was hastily pleting was missioned by an Armenian
who’d e all the way from Galata； knocking on my door this morning
before anyone had risen。 The man； an interpreter and guide； though he
stuttered； hunted me down whenever a Frank or Veian traveler wanted a
“book of costumes” and engaged me in a bout of vicious bargaining。 Having
agreed that morning upon a lesser…quality book of costumes for a price of
twenty silver pieces； I proceeded to illustrate a dozen Istanbulites in a single
sitting around the time of the evening prayer； paying particular attention to
the detail of their outfits。 I drew a Sheikhulislam； a palace porter； a preacher； a
Janissary； a dervish； a cavalryman； a judge； a liver seller； an executioner—
executioners in the act of torture sold quite well—a beggar； a woman bound
for the hamam； and an opium addict。 I’d done so many of these books just to
earn a few extra silver pieces that I began to invent games for myself to fight
off boredom while I drew； for example； I forced myself to draw the judge
without lifting my pen off the page or to draw the beggar with my eyes closed。
All brigands； poets and men of constant sorrow know that when the
evening prayer is called the jinns and demons within them will grow agitated
and rebellious； urging in unision： “Out！ Outside！” This restless inner voice
demands； “Seek the pany of others； seek blackness； misery and disgrace。”
I’ve spent my time appeasing these jinns and demons。 I’ve painted pictures；
which many regard as miracles that have issued from my hands； with the help
of these evil spirits。 But for seven days now after dusk； since I murdered that
disgrace； I’m no longer able to control the jinns and demons within me。 They
rage with such violence that I tell myself they might calm down if I go out for
a while。
After saying so； as always without knowing how； I found myself roaming
through the night。 I walked briskly； advancing through snowy streets； muddy
passages； icy slopes and deserted sidewalks as if I would never stop。 As I
walked； descending into the dark of night； into the most remote and
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abandoned parts of the city； I’d ever so gradually leave my soul behind； and
walking along the narrow streets； my footsteps echoing off the walls of stone
inns； schools and mosques； my fears would subside。
Of their own accord； my feet brought me to the abandoned streets of this
neighborhood on the outskirts of the city； where I came each night and where
even specters and jinns would shudder to roam。 I heard tell that half the men
in this neighborhood had perished in the wars with Persia and that the rest
had fled； declaring it ill…omened； but I don’t believe such superstition。 The
only tragedy that has befallen this good quarter on account of the Safavid wars
was the closing of the Kalenderi dervish house forty years ago because it was
suspected of harboring the enemy。
I meandered behind the mulberry bushes and the bay…leaf trees； which had
a pleasant aroma even in the coldest weather； and with my usual
fastidiousness； I straightened up the wall boards between the collapsed
chimney and the window with its dilapidated shutters。 I entered and drew the
lingering scent of one…hundred…year…old incense and mold deep into my lungs。
It made me so blissful to be here； I thought tears would fall from my eyes。
If I haven’t already said so； I’d like to say that I fear nothing but Allah and
the punishment meted out in this world has no import whatsoever in my
opinion。 What I fear are the various torments that murderers like myself will
have to endure on Judgment Day； as is clearly described in the Glorious Koran；
in the “Criterion” chapter； for example。 In the ancient books； that I quite
rarely lay hold of； whenever I see this punishment in all its colors and violence；
recalling the simple； childish； yet terrifying scenes of Hell illustrated on calfskin
by the old Arab miniaturists； or； for whatever reason； the torments of demons
depicted by Chinese and Mongol master artists； I can’t keep myself from
drawing this analogy and heeding its logic： What does “The Night Journey”
chapter state in its thirty…third verse？ Is it not written that one should not；
without justification； take the life of another whose murder God forbids？ All
right then： The miscreant I’ve sent to Hell was not a believer； whose murder
God had forbidden； and besides； I had excellent justification for shattering his
skull。
This man had slandered those of us who’d worked on that book Our Sultan
had secretly missioned。 If I hadn’t silenced him； he would’ve denounced
as unbelievers Enishte Effendi； all the miniaturists and even Master Osman；
letting the rabid followers of the Hoja of Erzurum have their way with them。 If
someone succeeded in announcing that the miniaturists were mitting
blasphemy； these followers of Ezurumi—who are looking for any excuse to
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exercise their strength—wouldn’t just be satisfied with doing away with the
master miniaturists； they’d destroy the entire workshop and Our Sul