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the first to take an interest in and be influenced by the portraiture that had
e by Western ships from Portugal and Flanders； he reintroduced forgotten
techniques dating back to the time of Genghis Khan and hidden in decaying
old volumes； before anybody else； he dared to paint cock…raising scenes like
Alexander’s peeping at naked beauties swimming on the island of women and
Shirin bathing by moonlight； he depicted Our Glorious Prophet ascending on
the back of his winged steed Burak； shahs scratching themselves； dogs
copulating and sheikhs drunk with wine and made them acceptable to the
entire munity of book lovers。 He’d done it； at times secretly； at times
openly； drinking large quantities of wine and taking opium； with an
enthusiasm that lasted for thirty years。 Later； in his old age； he became the
disciple of a pious sheikh； and within a short time； changed pletely。
ing to the conclusion that every painting he’d made over the previous
thirty years was profane and ungodly； he rejected them all。 What’s more； he
devoted the remaining thirty years of his life to going from palace to palace；
from city to city； searching through the libraries and the treasuries of sultans
and kings； in order to find and destroy the manuscripts he’d illuminated。 In
whichever shah’s； prince’s or nobleman’s library he found a painting he’d
made in previous years； he’d stop at nothing to destroy it； gaining access by
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flattery or by ruse； and precisely when no one was paying attention； he’d
either tear out the page on which his illustration appeared； or； seizing an
opportunity； he’d spill water on the piece； ruining it。 I recounted this tale as
an example of how a miniaturist could suffer great agony for unwittingly
forsaking his faith under the spell of his art。 This was why I mentioned how
Sheikh Muhammad had burned down Prince Ismail Mirza’s immense library
containing hundreds of books that the sheikh himself had illustrated； so many
books that he couldn’t cull his own from the others。 With great exaggeration；
as if I’d experienced it myself； I told how the painter； in profound sorrow and
regret； had burned to death in that terrible conflagration。
“Are you afraid； my child？” said Enishte Effendi passionately； “of the
paintings we’ve made？”
The room was black now； I couldn’t see for myself； but I sensed that he’d
said this with a smile。
“Our book is no longer a secret；” I answered。 “Perhaps this isn’t important。
But rumors are spreading。 They say we’ve underhandedly mitted
blasphemy。 They say that； here； we’ve made a book—not as Our Sultan had
missioned and hoped for—but one meant to entertain our own whims；
one that ridicules even Our Prophet and mimics infidel masters。 There are
those who believe it even depicts Satan as amiable。 They say we’ve mitted
an unforgivable sin by daring to draw； from the perspective of a mangy street
dog； a horsefly and a mosque as if they were the same size—with the excuse
that the mosque was in the background—thereby mocking the faithful who
attend prayers。 I cannot sleep for thinking about such things。”
“We made the illustrations together；” said Enishte Effendi。 “Could we have
even considered such ideas； let alone mitted such an offense？”
“Not at all；” I said expansively。 “But they’ve heard about it somehow。 They
say there’s one final painting in which； according to the gossip； there’s open
defiance of our religion and what we hold sacred。”
“You yourself have seen the final painting。”
“Nay； I made pictures of whatever you requested in various places on a
large sheet； which was to be a double…leaf illustration；” I said with a caution
and precision that I hoped would please Enishte Effendi。 “But I never saw the
pleted illustration。 If I had seen the entire painting； I’d have a clear
conscience about denying all this foul slander。”
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“Why is it that you feel guilty？” he asked。 “What’s gnawing at your soul？
Who has caused you to doubt yourself？”
“…to worry that one has attacked what he knows to be sacred； after
spending months merrily illustrating a book…to suffer the torments of Hell
while living…if I could only see that last painting in its entirety。”
“Is this what troubles you？” he said。 “Is this why you’ve e？”
Suddenly panic seized me。 Could he be thinking something horrendous； like
I was the one who’d killed the ill…fated Elegant Effendi？
“Those who want Our Sultan dethroned and replaced by the prince；” I said；
“are furthering this insidious gossip； saying that He secretly supports the
book。”
“How many really believe that？” he asked wearily。 “Every cleric with any
ambition who’s met with some favor and whose head has swollen as a result
will preach that religion is being ignored and disrespected。 This is the most
reliable way to ensure one’s living。”
Did he suppose I’d e solely to inform him of a rumor？
“Poor old Elegant Effendi； God rest his soul；” I said； my voice quavering。
“Supposedly； we killed him because he saw the whole of the last painting and
was convinced that it reviled our faith。 A division head I know at the palace
workshop told me this。 You know how junior and senior apprentices are；
everyone gossips。”
Maintaining this line of reasoning and growing increasingly impassioned； I
e。 I didn’t know how much of what I said I myself
had indeed heard； how much I fabricated out of fear after doing away with
that wicked slanderer； or how much I improvised。 Having devoted much of the
conversation to flattery； I was anticipating that Enishte Effendi would show
me the two…page illustration and put me at ease。 Why didn’t he realize this
was the only way I might overe my fears about being mired in sin？
Intending to st