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made trouble for the rest of us。
I was ever so slightly grateful to this murderer； with whom I was alone in
the empty house。
“I’m not surprised you killed him；” I said。 Men like us who live with books
and dream eternally of their pages fear only one thing in this world。 What’s
more； we’re struggling with something more forbidden and dangerous； that is；
we’re struggling to make pictures in a Muslim city。 As with Sheikh
Muhammad of Isfahan； we miniaturists are inclined to feel guilty and
regretful； we’re the first to blame ourselves before others do； to be ashamed
and beg pardon of God and the munity。 We make our books in secret like
shameful sinners。 I know too well how submission to the endless attacks of
hojas； preachers； judges and mystics who accuse us of blasphemy； how the
endless guilt both deadens and nourishes the artist’s imagination。“
“You don’t fault me for murdering that idiotic miniaturist； do you then？”
182
“What attracts us to writing； illustrating and painting is bound up in this
fear of retribution。 It’s not only for money and favor that we kneel before our
work from morning to evening； continuing by candlelight through the night to
the point of blindness and sacrifice ourselves for pictures and books； it’s to
escape the prattle of others； to escape the munity； but in contrast to this
passion to create； we also want those we’ve forsaken to see and appreciate the
inspired pictures we’ve made—and if they should call us sinners？ Oh； the
suffering this brings upon the illustrator of genuine talent！ Yet； genuine
painting is hidden in the agony no one sees and no one creates。 It’s contained
in the picture； which on first sight； they’ll say is bad； inplete； blasphemous
or heretical。 A genuine miniaturist knows he must reach that point； yet at the
same time； he fears the loneliness that awaits him there。 Who would accede to
such a frightful； nerve…wracking existence？ By blaming himself before anyone
else does； the artist believes he’ll be spared what he’s feared for years。 Others
listen to him and believe him only when he admits his guilt； for which he is
then condemned to burn in Hell—the illustrator of Isfahan lit these hellfires
himself。”
“But you’re not a miniaturist；” he said。 “I didn’t kill him out of fear。”
“You murdered him because you wanted to paint as you wished； without
fear。”
For the first time in a long while； the miniaturist who aspired to be my
murderer said something quite intelligent： “I know you’re explaining all this
to distract me； to dupe me； to get yourself out of this situation；” and he
added； “but what you’ve just said is the truth。 I want you to understand；
listen to me。”
I looked into his eyes。 He’d pletely forgotten the formality customary
between us as he spoke： He’d been carried away by his own thoughts。 But to
where？
“Never fear； I won’t offend your honor；” he said。 He laughed bitterly as he
circled around to face me。 “Even now；” he said； “as I’m doing this； it doesn’t
seem to be me。 It’s as if there’s something writhing within me pelling me
to do its evil bidding。 Yet I need that thing noheless。 It’s that way with
painting； too。”
“These are old wives’ tales about the Devil。”
“You think I’m lying； then？”
183
He didn’t have enough courage to murder me； so he wanted me to enrage
him。 “Nay； you’re not lying but you’re not acknowledging what you feel
either。”
“I acknowledge very well what I feel。 I’m suffering the torments of the grave
without having died。 Unawares； we’ve sunk to our necks in sin because of you；
and now you’re preaching ”more courage。“ You’re the one who’s made me a
murderer。 Nusret Hoja’s rabid henchmen will kill us all。”
The less confident he became； the more he raised his voice and the more
fiercely he gripped the inkpot。 Would somebody passing down the snowy
street hear his shouting and enter the house？
“How did you kill him？” I asked； more to buy time than out of curiosity。
“How did you chance to meet at the mouth of that well？”
“The night Elegant Effendi left your house； he came to me；” he said； with an
unexpected desire to confess。 “He said he’d seen the final double…leaf painting。
I tried at length to dissuade him from making an issue out of it。 I got him to
walk over to the area ravaged by the fire。 I told him I had money buried near
the well。 When he heard that； he believed me…What better proof that an
illustrator is motivated by greed alone？ That’s another reason I’m not sorry。
He was a talented； but mediocre artist。 The greedy oaf was ready to dig into
the frozen earth with his fingernails。 You see； if I truly had gold pieces buried
beside that well； I wouldn’t have had to do away with him。 Yes； you hired
yourself quite a miserable wretch to do your gilding。 The dearly departed had
finesse； but his choice of color and application was ordinary； and his
illuminations were uninspired。 I didn’t leave a trace…Tell me； then； what is
the essence of ”style‘？ Today； both the Franks and the Chinese talk about the
character of a painter’s talent； what they call “style。” Should style distinguish a
good artist from others or not？“
“Fear not；” I said； “a new style doesn’t spring from a miniaturist’s own
desire。 A prince dies； a shah loses a battle； a seemingly never…ending era ends； a
workshop is closed and its members disband； searching for other homes and
other bibliophiles to bee their patrons。 One day； a passionate sultan
will assemble these exiles； these bewildered but talented refugee miniaturists
and calligraphers； in his own tent or palace and begin to establish his own
book…arts workshop。 Even if these artists； unaccustomed to one another；
continue at first in their respective painting styles； over time； as with children
who gradually