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Occasionally; Black would sit dead still for long stretches and fix his eyes deeply 
123 
 
into mine。 I could imagine what he was thinking: “I’ll be your slave until I can 
have your daughter。” Once; as I would do when he was a child; I took him out 
into the yard and tried to explain to him; as a father might; about the trees; 
about the light falling onto the leaves; about the melting snow and why the 
houses  seemed  to  shrink  as  we  moved  away  from  them。  But  this  was  a 
mistake:  It  proved  only  that  our  former  filial  relationship  had  long  since 
collapsed。 Now patient sufferance of the rantings of a demented old man had 
taken the place of Black’s childhood curiosity and passion for knowledge。 I was 
just an old man whose daughter was the object of Black’s love。 The influence 
and  experience  of  the  countries  and  cities  that  my  nephew  had  traveled 
through for a dozen years had been fully absorbed by his soul。 He was tired of 
me; and I pitied him。 And he was angry; I assumed; not only because I hadn’t 
allowed him to marry Shekure twelve years ago—after all; there was no other 
choice then—but because I dreamed of paintings whose style transgressed the 
precepts  of  the  masters  of  Herat。  Furthermore;  because  I  raved  about  this 
nonsense with such conviction; I imagined my death at his hands。 
I was not; however; afraid of him; on the contrary; I tried to frighten him。 
For I believed that fear was appropriate to the 。 
“As in those pictures;” I said; “one ought to be able to situate oneself at the 
center of the world。 One of my illustrators brilliantly depicted Death for me。 
Behold。” 
Thus I began to show him the paintings I’d secretly missioned from the 
master  miniaturists  over  the  last  year。  At  first;  he  was  a  tad  shy;  even 
frightened。 When he understood that the depiction of Death was inspired by 
familiar scenes that could be found in many Book of Kings volumes—from the 
scene of Afrasiyab’s decapitation of Siyavush; for example; or Rüstem’s murder 
of Suhrab without realizing this e interested in 
the  subject。  Among  the  pictures  that  depicted  the  funeral  of  the  late  Sultan 
Süleyman   was   one   I’d   made   with   bold   but   sad   colors;   bining   a 
positional  sensibility  inspired  by  the  Franks  with  my  own  attempt  at 
shading—which  I’d  added  later。  I  pointed  out  the  diabolic  depth  evoked  by 
the  interplay  of  cloud  and  horizon。  I  reminded  him  that  Death  was  unique; 
just like the portraits of infidels I had seen hanging in Veian palazzos; all of 
them  desperately  yearned  to  be  rendered  distinctly。  “They  want  to  be  so 
distinct  and  different;  and  they  want  this  with  such  passion  that;”  I  said; 
“look; look into the eyes of Death。 See how men do not fear Death; but rather 
the violence implicit in the desire to be one…of…a…kind; unique and exceptional。 
124 
 
Look at this illustration and write an account of it。 Give voice to Death。 Here’s 
paper and pen。 I shall give what you write to the calligrapher straightaway。” 
He stared at the picture in silence。 “Who painted this?” he asked later。 
“Butterfly。  He’s  the  most  talented  of  the  lot。  Master  Osman  had  been  in 
love with and awed by him for years。” 
“I’ve  seen  rougher  versions  of  this  depiction  of  a  dog  at  the  coffeehouse 
where the storyteller performs;” Black said。 
“My  illustrators;  most  of  whom  are  spiritually  bound  to  Master  Osman 
and  the  workshop;  take  a  dim  view  of  the  labors  performed  for  my  book。 
When they leave here at night I imagine they have their vulgar fun over these 
illustrations which they draw for money and ridicule me at the coffeehouse。 
And  who  among  them  will  ever  forget  the  time  Our  Sultan  had  the  young 
Veian artist; whom He’d invited from the embassy at my behest; paint His 
portrait。 Thereafter; He had Master Osman make a copy of that oil painting。 
Forced to imitate the Veian painter; Master Osman held me responsible for 
this  unseemly  coercion  and  the  shameful  portrait  that  came  of  it。  He  was 
justified。” 
All day long; I showed him every picture—except the final illustration that I 
cannot;  for  whatever  reason;  finish。  I  prodded  him  to  write。  I  discussed  the 
temperaments  of  the  miniaturists;  and  I  enumerated  the  sums  of  money  I 
meted out to them。 We discussed “perspective” and whether the diminutive 
objects in the background of Veian pictures were sacrilegious; and equally; 
we  talked  about  the  possibility  that  unfortunate  Elegant  Effendi  had  been 
murdered for excessive ambition and out of jealousy over his wealth。 
As  Black  returned  home  that  night;  I  was  confident  he’d  e  again  the 
next morning as promised and that he’d once again listen to me recount the 
stories  that  would  constitute  my  book。  I  listened  to  his  footsteps  fading 
beyond the open gate; there was something to the cold night that seemed to 
make my sleepless and troubled murderer stronger and more devilish than me 
and my book。 
I  closed  the  courtyard  gate  tightly  behind  him。  I  placed  the  old  ceramic 
water basin that I used as a basil planter behind the gate as I did each night。 
Before I reduced the stove to smoldering ashes and went to bed; I glanced up 
to see Shekure in a white gown looking like a ghost in the blackness。 
“Are you absolutely certain that you want to marry him?” I asked。 
125 
 
“No;  dear  Father。  I’ve  long  since  forgotten  about  marriage。  Besides;  I  am 
married。” 
“If you still want to marry him; I’m willing to give you my blessing now。” 
“I wish not to be wed to him。” 
“Why?” 
“Because it’s against your will。 In all sincerity; I desire nobody that you do 
not want。” 
I noticed; momentarily; the coals in the stove reflected in her eyes。 Her eyes 
had aged; not out of unhappiness; but anger; yet there was no trace of offense 
in her voice。 
“Black is in love with you;” I said as if divulging a secret。 
“I know。” 
“He listened to all I had to say today not out of his love of painting; but out 
of his love for you。” 
“He will plete your book; this is what matters。” 
“Your husband might return one day;” I said。 
“I’m not certain why; perhaps it’s the silence; but tonight I’ve realized once 
and for all that my husband will never return。 What I’ve dreamt seems to be 
the  truth:  They  must’ve  killed  him。  He’s  long  since  turned  to  dust。”  She 
whispered  the  last  statement  lest  the  sleeping  children  hear。  And  she  said  it 
with a peculiar tinge of anger。 
“If they happen to kill me;” I said; “I want you to finish this book to which 
I’ve dedicated everything。 Swear that you will。” 
“I give my word。 Who will be the one to plete your book?” 
“Black! You can ensure that he does so。” 
“You are already ensuring that he does so; dear Father;” she said。 “You have 
no need for me。” 
“Agreed; but he’s giving in to me because of you。 If they kill me; he might 
be afraid to continue on。” 
“In  that  case;  he  won’t  be  able  to  marry  me;”  said  my  clever  daughter; 
smiling。 
126 
 
Where did I e up with the detail about her smiling? During the entire 
conversation; I noticed nothing except an occasional glimmer in her eyes。 We 
were standing tensely facing one another in the middle of the room。 
“Do you municate with each other; exchange signals?” I asked; unable 
to contain myself。 
“How could you even think such a thing?” 
A long agonizing silence passed。 A dog barked in the distance。 I was slightly 
cold and shuddered。 The room was so black now that we could no longer see 
each  other;  we  could  each  only  sense  the  other’s  presence。  We  abruptly 
embraced with all our might。 She began to cry; and said that she missed her 
mother。 I kissed and stroked her head; which indeed smelled like her mother’s 
hair。 I walked her to her bedchamber and put her to bed next to the children 
who were sleeping side by side。 And as I reflected back over the last two days; I 
was certain that Shekure had corresponded with Black。 
 
 
   
127 
 
I AM CALLED BLACK 
 
When  I  returned  home  that  night;  ably  evading  my  landlady—who  was 
beginning to act like my mother—I sequestered myself in my room and lay on 
my mattress; giving myself over to visions of Shekure。 
Allow  me  the  amusement  of  describing  the  sounds  I’d  heard  in  Enishte’s 
house。 On my second visit after twelve years; she didn’t show herself。 She did 
succeed; however; in so magically endowing me with her presence that I was 
certain  of  being;  somehow;  continually  under  her  watch;  while  she  sized  me 
up as a future husband; amusing herself all the while as if playing a game of 
logic。 Knowing this; I also imagined I was continually able to see her。 Thus was 
I better able to understand Ibn Arabi’s notion that love is the ability to make 
the invisible visible and the desire always to feel the invisible in one’s midst。 
I  could  infer  that  Sh

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