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secret from you; and not because I won’t eventually tell you。 It’s as though I 
myself don’t quite know what the pictures mean。 I do; however; know what 
kind of paintings they ought to be。” 
Four months after I sent my letter; I heard from the barber located on the 
street where we used to live that Black had returned to Istanbul; and; in turn; I 
invited him to our house。 I was fully aware that my story bore a promise of 
both sorrow and bliss that would bind the two of us together。 
“Every  picture  serves  to  tell  a  story;”  I  said。  “The  miniaturist;  in  order  to 
beautify the manuscript we read; depicts the most vital scenes: the first time 
lovers  lay  eyes  on  each  other;  the  hero  Rüstem  cutting  off  the  head  of  a 
devilish monster; Rüstem’s grief when he realizes that the stranger he’s killed 
is  his  son;  the  love…crazed  Mejnun  as  he  roams  a  desolate  and  wild  Nature 
among  lions;  tigers;  stags  and  jackals; the  anguish  of  Alexander;  who;  having 
e  to  the  forest  before  a  battle  to  divine  its  oute  from  the  birds; 
witnesses  a  great  falcon  tear  apart  his  woodcock。  Our  eyes;  fatigued  from 
reading these tales; rest upon the pictures。 If there’s something within the text 
that  our  intellect  and  imagination  are  at  pains  to  conjure;  the  illustration 
es at once to our aid。 The images are the story’s blossoming in color。 But 
painting without its acpanying story is an impossibility。 
28 
 
“Or so I used to think;” I added; as if regretfully。 “But this is indeed quite 
possible。  Two  years  ago  I  traveled  once  again  to  Venice  as  the  Sultan’s 
ambassador。 I observed at length the portraits that the Veian masters had 
made。  I  did  so  without  knowing  to  which  scene  and  story  the  pictures 
belonged; and I struggled to extract the story from the image。 One day; I came 
across a painting hanging on a palazzo wall and was dumbfounded。 
“More  than  anything;  the  image  was  of  an  individual;  somebody  like 
myself。 It was an infidel; of course; not one of us。 As I stared at him; though; I 
felt as if I resembled him。 Yet he didn’t resemble me at all。 He had a full round 
face  that  seemed  to  lack  cheekbones;  and  moreover;  he  had  no  trace  of  my 
marvelous chin。 Though he didn’t look anything like me; as I gazed upon the 
picture; for some reason; my heart fluttered as if it were my own portrait。 
“I learned from the Veian gentleman who was giving me a tour through 
his palazzo that the portrait was of a friend; a nobleman like himself。 He had 
included whatever was significant in his life in his portrait: In the background 
landscape  visible  from  the  open  window  there  was  a  farm;  a  village  and  a 
blending  of  color  which  made  a  realistic…looking  forest。  Resting  on  the  table 
before the nobleman were a clock; books; Time; Evil; Life; a calligraphy pen; a 
map;  a  pass;  boxes  containing  gold  coins;  bric…a…brac;  odds  and  ends; 
inscrutable  yet  distinguishable  things  that  were  probably  included  in  many 
pictures;  shadows  of  jinns  and  the  Devil  and  also;  the  picture  of  the  man’s 
stunningly beautiful daughter as she stood beside her father。 
“What  was  the  narrative  that  this  representation  was  meant  to  embellish 
and plete? As I regarded the work; I slowly sensed that the underlying tale 
was the picture itself。 The painting wasn’t the extension of a story at all; it was 
something in its own right。 
“I  never  forgot  the  painting  that  bewildered  me  so。  I  left  the  palazzo; 
returned to the house where I was staying as a guest and pondered the picture 
the entire night。 I; too; wanted to be portrayed in this manner。 But; no; that 
wasn’t appropriate; it was Our Sultan who ought to be thus portrayed! Our 
Sultan ought to be rendered along with everything He owned; with the things 
that  represented  and  constituted  His  realm。  I  settled  on  the  notion  that  a 
manuscript could be illustrated according to this idea。 
“The  Veian  virtuoso  had  made  the  nobleman’s  picture  in  such  a  way 
that you would immediately know which particular nobleman it was。 If you’d 
never seen that man; if they told you to pick him out of a crowd of a thousand 
others; you’d be able to select the correct man with the help of that portrait。 
The  Veian  masters  had  discovered  painting  techniques  with  which  they 
29 
 
could distinguish any one man from another—without relying on his outfit or 
medals;  just  by  the  distinctive  shape  of  his  face。  This  was  the  essence  of 
”portraiture。“ 
“If your face were depicted in this fashion only once; no one would ever be 
able to forget you; and if you were far away; someone who laid eyes on your 
portrait  would  feel  your  presence  as  if  you  were  actually  nearby。  Those  who 
had never seen you alive; even years after your death; could e face…to…face 
with you as if you were standing before them。” 
We remained silent for a long time。 A chilling light the color of the iciness 
outside filtered through the upper part of the small hallway window facing the 
street; this was the window whose lower shutters were never opened; which 
I’d recently paned over with a piece of cloth dipped in beeswax。 
“There was a miniaturist;” I said。 “He would e here just like the other 
artists for the sake of Our Sultan’s secret book; and we would work together 
till dawn。 He did the best of the gilding。 That unfortunate Elegant Effendi; he 
left here one night never to arrive at home。 I’m afraid they might have done 
him in; that poor master gilder of mine。” 
 
 
   
30 
 
I AM ORHAN 
 
Black asked: “Have they indeed killed him?” 
This  Black  was  tall;  skinny  and  a  little  frightening。  I  was  walking  toward 
them where they sat talking in the second…floor workshop with the blue door 
when  my  grandfather  said;  “They  might  have  done  him  in。”  Then  he  caught 
sight of me。 “What are you doing here?” 
He  looked  at  me  in  such  a  way  that  I  climbed  onto  his  lap  without 
answering。 Then he put me back down right away。 
“Kiss Black’s hand;” he said。 
I kissed the back of his hand and touched it to my forehead。 It had no smell。 
“He’s  quite  charming;”  Black  said  and  kissed  me  on  my  cheek。  “One  day 
he’ll be a brave young man。” 
“This  is  Orhan;  he’s  six。  There’s  also  an  older  one;  Shevket;  who’s  seven。 
That one’s quite a stubborn little child。” 
“I  went  back  to  the  old  street  in  Aksaray;”  said  Black。  “It  was  cold; 
everything was covered in snow and ice。 But it was as if nothing had changed 
at all。” 
“Alas!   Everything   has   changed;   everything   has   bee   worse;”   my 
grandfather  said。  “Significantly  worse。”  He  turned  to  me。  “Where’s  your 
brother?” 
“He’s with our mentor; the master binder。” 
“So; what are you doing here?” 
“The master said; ”Fine work; you can go now‘ to me。“ 
“You made your way back here alone?” asked my grandfather。 “Your older 
brother  ought  to  have  acpanied  you。”  Then  he  said  to  Black:  “There’s  a 
binder  friend  of  mine  with  whom  they  work  twice  a  week  after  their  Koran 
school。 They serve as his apprentices; learning the art of binding。” 
“Do you like to make illustrations like your grandfather?” asked Black。 
I gave him no answer。 
“All right then;” said my grandfather。 “Leave us be; now。” 
31 
 
The heat from the open brazier that warmed the room was so nice that I 
didn’t want to leave。 Smelling the paint and glue; I stood still for a moment。 I 
could also smell coffee。 
“Yet  does  illustrating  in  a  new  way  signify  a  new  way  of  seeing?”  my 
grandfather began。 “This is the reason why they’ve murdered that poor gilder 
despite the fact that he worked in the old style。 I’m not even certain he’s been 
killed;  only  that  he’s  missing。  They’re  illustrating  a  memorative  story  in 
verse;  a  Book  of  Festivities;  for  Our  Sultan  by  order  of  the  Head  Illuminator 
Master  Osman。  Each  of  the  miniaturists  works  at  his  own  home。  Master 
Osman; however; occupies himself at the palace book…arts workshop。 To begin 
with; I want you to go there and observe everything。 I worry that the others; 
that  is;  the  miniaturists;  have  ended  up  falling  out  with  and  slaying  one 
another。  They  go  by  the  workshop  names  that  Head  Illuminator  Master 
Osman  gave  them  years  ago: ”Butterfly;“  ”Olive;“  ”Stork‘…You’re  also  to  go 
and observe them as they work in their homes。“ 
Instead  of  heading  downstairs;  I  spun  around。  There  was  a  noise  ing 
from  the  next  room  with  the  built…in  closet  where  Hayriye  slept。  I  went  in。 
Inside there was no Hayriye; just my mother。 She was embarrassed to see me。 
She stood half in the closet。 
“Where have you been?” she asked。 
But she knew where I’d been。 In the back of the closet there was a peephole 
through which you could see my grandfather’s workshop; and if its 

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