it I migick trosity I o t in tiflis, Kipcs, poor brides sold at inns, turkmen and Persian itutes isiable boys, but it  go into  all sense of decorum and self-control by sleeping ic riffraff—from Persia to Bag Arabian too tten t some ill took pains to maintain their honor. All my words of love, she charged, were insincere.

    I respectfully listened to my beloved’s outburst, uation and tion I hings

    pleased me: 1. t I refrained from loo matcen ed viciously to otuations, and 2. t I discovered Sicular aravels, proof t s of me muchan I’d assumed.

    Seeing  I’d become at being unable to carry out my desires, so pity me.

    “If you truly loved me, passionately and obsessively,” srying to excuse ry to control yourself like a gentleman. You  try to offend toained serious intentions. You’re not tions to marry me. Did anyone see you on your way here?”

    “Nay.”

    As if surned  face, o recall, toary clattering, ed in silence, but nobody entered. I recalled welve, Shan I did.

    “t of ts this place,” she said.

    “Do you ever come here?”

    “Jinns, poms, ts and make sounds out of silence. Everyt o come all them.”

    “S brougo s, but it was gone.”

    “I understand you told  you killed her.”

    “Not exactly. Is t ted? Not t I killed  I’d like to become her.”

    “ you’d killed her?”

    “ if I’d ever killed a man. I told rut I’d killed two men.”

    “In order to boast?”

    “to boast, and to impress a c ted ttle brigands by exaggerating time s of he house.”

    “Go on boasting t like you.”

    “S doesn’t like me, but Or my beloved’s error. “Yet, I so th.”

    e srembled in t as tent toget Siny sobs.

    “My ill-fated ed for my urn, I lived tely,  mig I mig  s to take me back to t since I’m not a o force me back t raid our  any time. My fat  me to be declared a  of ted a divorce, urning   er to live h us?”

    “how do you mean?”

    “If ogeth us?”

    “I don’t know.”

    “t t ime, believe me. My fat some evil is coming our . If estify t you’d in fact seen my ly come from Persia, they would believe you.”

    “I estify, but I  the one who killed him.”

    “All rigogetness, in order t I be declared a estify before t you salefield in Persia?”

    “I didn’t actually see it, my dear, but for your sake I estify so.”

    “Do you love my children?”

    “I do.”

    “tell me,  about t you love?”

    “I love S’s strengty, intelligence and stubbornness,” I said. “And I love Orive and delicate demeanor and uteness. I love t t they’re your children.”

    My black-eyed beloved smiled sligears. ted fluster of a ime, s:

    “My fat to be completed and presented to Our Sultan. t plagues us.”

    “ devilry  Effendi?”

    tion displeased tempt to be sincere, she said:

    “t  my fation and bears turists  tc!”

    “Your late ion urists, your fat o himself?”

    “ involved in any of t, but  keep to  all,” she said.

    A mysterious and strange quiet passed.

    “ t away from him?”

    “As mucwo-room house.”

    A fe too far aely to o, began barking excitedly.

    I couldn’t bring myself to ask tles and or of a fief, sa to ogetly, I asked my cion: “ to marry him?”

    “I ain to be married off to someone,” srue, and it succinctly and

    cleverly explained  avoided praising ting me. “You’d left, pero return. Disappearing in a sulk migom of love, yet a sulking lover is also tiresome and ure.” true as  it  cause enougo marry t rogue. It  too difficult to deduce from  a s time after I’d abandoned Istanbul, Sten about me, like everyone else old me tant lie to mend my broken , if only a little, and I considered it a sign of entions, ude. I began to explain ravels I couldn’t get  of my ts,  niged me like a specter. t secret, most profound agony I’d suffered and I assumed I’d never be able to s e real, but as I realized  t instant, it  t bit sincere.

    So t my feelings and desires migfully understood, I must presently lay bare tinction betruty t I’ve come to kno time: y in rut be, goads one to insincerity. Per example migurists, o t. Consider a perfect painting—tance—no matter  represents a real iculously conceived by Alla master miniaturists, it migill fail to matcy of talented miniaturist y of turist, or of us s of Alla emerge in moments of talent and perfection; on trary, it emerges tongue, mistakes, fatigue and frustration. I say t trong desire I felt for S t moment—as soo could tell—and, say, t I’d felt for a delicately featured, copper-complexioned, burgundy-mouty during my travels. ituition, Sood boto and torture for love’s sake as  tisfaction of  time y of beauties, So an inkh pearls.

    less S to go no  t moment  t e dark, altill time before nigs oion, to  like a wounded sparrow, she quickly hopped away.

    “Am I still beautiful? Answer me quickly.”

    I told ifully sened to me, believing and agreeing  I said.

    “And my clothes?”

    I told her.

    “Do I smell nice?”

    Of course, S o as “love c consist of sucorical games, but of tional maneuvers between lovers.

    “ kind of living do you expect to earn?” so care for my fatherless children?”

    As I talked about my more tal and secretarial experience, t knotle and nessing deats, I embraced her.

    “ifully s primal mystery.”

    to prove iger  it for ting I’d made for  my ion t ime I didn’t find myself immobilized by a staggering yoke of lust; botunned by ttering—like a flock of sparro ered our s, cs and stomac lovemaking t antidote to love?

    As I palmed s, Sermined and ser  I  a mature-enougo maintain a trust I’d sullied beforeo forget t t involved in any y deeds and too inexperienced to kno suffering underlie o sigo treets, , and forgetting t urbing t of t:

    “ are o do now?”

    “I don’t knoe footprints in tain to be erased by teness—and disappeared quietly.

    I ILL BE CALLED A MURDERERDoubtless, you too  I’m about to describe: At times, reets of Istanbul, able steo my mout a public kitcing tention on tyle border illumination, I feel I’m living t as if it . t is,   I .

    traordinary events I e occurred at once in t and in t. It  snoreet we Effendi lived.

    Unlike ot I ed. On otake me mindedly t about otold my mot t volumes al rosettes dating from time of tamerlane, about tinued s otill painted under my name or about my tomfoolery and transgressions. time,  and intent.

    tyard gate—t I feared no one s oo knock, reassuring me t Allaone-paved portion of tyard t I s rations to Enis book y. to t beside ted t, and perc a sparroly oblivious to t fart tone stove,  even at te o t, table for visitors’  of ted it to be. I entered table, and as an uninvited guest migo avoid e scene, I stamped my feet and cougaircase to ters.

    My couged no response. Nor did tamping my muddy s next to t trance of teroom. As om o be S green pair among t for naugy t no one was home crossed my mind.

    I o t into t cuddled tresses, and opened a c in tall armoire  door.  te almond scent in t be t of Suffed into t, fell onto my dim-ted o a copper pitc was cold.

    “e Effendi called from ?”

    I sly exited tered te Effendi on  er.

    “It’s me, Enishte Effendi,” I said. “Me.”

    “ you be?”

    At t instant, I understood t te Effendi ed o do le mockery of us. As a y scribe mige in t leaf of a magnificently illustrated manuscript, I slo.”

    “ first, then added, “hah!”

    Just like ts Deate Effendi sank into a very brief silence t lasted forever. If t noioned “Deat I’ve come o involve myself in sucely misunderstood te? take off  a knife?

    “So, you’ve come,”  tirely different tone: “elcome, my cell me t is it t you ?”

    It e dark by noered time, revealed a pomegranate and plane tree—to distinguislines of objects  to please a rator. I could not fully see Enis, as usual, before a lo t fell to  side. I tried desperately to recapture timacy betures togetly and quietly discussing t by candleligones, reed pens, ink  of tion or out of embarrassment, but I  moment, I decided to explain myself tory.

    Perist Ser ing ing ry, and in tion of an arcane logic reserved for geometry. After acatus of master painter at a young age, tuoso ouc a full ty years in pursuit of t fearless innovation of subject matter, composition and style. orking in tyle—brougo us by t sense of symmetry, roduced terrifying demons, esticles, ers and giants into tle and sensitive  style of painting;  to take an interest in and be influenced by traiture t ern sugal and Flanders; roduced forgotten tecing back to time of Gengo paint cock-raising scenes like Alexander’s peeping at naked beauties s; ed Our Glorious Prop ascending on teed Burak, scing and sable to tire community of book lovers. , at times secretly, at times openly, drinking large quantities of aking opium,  lasted for ty years. Later,

    in  time, cely. Coming to t every painting y years ’s more, ed ty years of o going from palace to palace, from city to city, searcreasuries of sultans and kings, in order to find and destroy ts ed. In  noto destroy it; gaining access by flattery or by ruse, and precisely ion, ear out tration appeared, or, seizing an opportunity, er on t. I recounted tale as an example of urist could suffer great agony for untingly forsaking . tioned aining  trated; so many books t  cull  exaggeration, as if I’d experienced it myself, I told er, in profound sorro, o deat terrible conflagration.

    “Are you afraid, my ce Effendi compassionately, “of tings we’ve made?”

    t see for myself, but I sensed t h a smile.

    “Our book is no longer a secret,” I ansant. But rumors are spreading. tted blasp,  as Our Sultan  one meant to entertain our oers. t even depicts Satan as amiable. tted an unforgivable sin by daring to draive of a mangy street dog, a  ttend prayers. I cannot sleep for t suchings.”

    “e made trations togete Effendi. “Could ted such an offense?”

    “Not at all,” I said expansively. “But t it someing in  we hold sacred.”

    “You yourself ing.”

    “Nay, I made pictures of ed in various places on a large s, ration,” I said ion and precision t I e Effendi. “But I never saed illustration. If I ire painting, I’d  denying all this foul slander.”

    “ t you feel guilty?” ’s gna your soul? o doubt yourself?”

    “…to  one tacked er spending montrating a book…to suffer torments of  last painting in its entirety.”

    “Is t troubles you?” his why you’ve come?”

    Suddenly panic seized me. Could ed Elegant Effendi?

    “t Our Sultan det ly supports the book.”

    “?” ion  ed. t reliable o ensure one’s living.”

    Did o inform him of a rumor?

    “Poor old Elegant Effendi, God rest  painting and  it reviled our fait told me tices are, everyone gossips.”

    Maintaining t on for quite some time. I didn’t kno of fear after doing a o flattery, I icipating t Enisration and put me at ease.   overcome my fears about being mired in sin?

    Intending to startle ly asked, “Mig  being a?”

    In place of an ansely and elegantly o ely silent. “It  in a w’s lighe candle.”

    After ligick from t coals of ted ticed in o ly. Or  an expression of pity? ? as  I  of a base

    murderer or  of control and I upidly listening to  as if somebody else  beneat iced it before?

    “tans feel for paintings, illustrations and fine books can be divided into te Effendi. “At first t paintings for t, to influence e to satisfy tastes. Because to enjoy paintings, tige ime amassing books, ence of tumn of a sultan’s life, ence of ality. By ”ality“ I mean to be remembered by future generations, by our grandcures and books ality ts ted, and, at times, tories ten. Later, eaco t painting is an obstacle to securing a place in turally somet botimidates me t. Saer miniaturist and spent  atelier as ers from tabriz, destroyed terminable crises of regret.  painting es of heaven?”

    “You knoe  on Judgment Day, Allaers most severely.”

    “Not painters,” corrected Enis from t from Bukhari.”

    “On Judgment Day, to bring ted to life,” I said cautiously. “Since to do so t o suffer torments of  it not be forgotten t in tor“ is one of ttributes of Alla is Allaive, o existence,  to compete est of sins is committed by painters ive as he.”

    I made my statement firmly, as if I, too, were accusing o my eyes.

    “Do you t we’ve been doing?”

    “Never,” I said  Elegant Effendi, may  in peace, began to assume ing.  your use of tive and tian masters  temptation of Satan. In t painting, you’ve supposedly rendered tal using teche

    impression not of a painting but of reality; to suc to entice men to bo, as o  only because t of perspective removes ting from God’s perspective and lo to treet dog, but because your reliance on tians as ablisraditions  of trip us of our purity and reduce us to being their slaves.”

    “Note Effendi. “In ts, er out of joy and causes a co run doain of tyles ofore never brougogetogeto create someting to ting of an Arabic illustrating sensibility and Mongol-Cing. Sa paintings marry Persian style urkmen subtleties. today, if men cannot adequately praise ts ’s because urists to adopt tyles of ters. to God belongs t and t. May ect us from terated.”

    and brig ,  on tening. Despite finding  believe  ening at times for tyard gate belo he was hoping someone would deliver him from my presence.

    “You yourself told me er of Isfa library containing tings ed  of bad conscience,”  me tell you anotory related to t legend t you don’t kno’s true,  t ty years of ing doions inspired by er years, o realize t tions of artists ed as models of form trations  tures in tely,  of ttempted to find ures and destroy t young miniaturists less books, rating otories, o be memorized by all and  book after book and illustration after illustration, o learn t painter does not content ing us erpieces; ultimately, urist’s artistry enters our souls t becomes terion for ty of our  ter of Isfa,  only nessed t t ead of disappearing, actually proliferated and increased; ood t everybody no. t resemble tings h were now considered ugly.”

    Unable to rein in tirring o control my desire to please Enishte Effendi, I fell

    before ears and I felt I o  er Osman.

    “A miniaturist,” said Enisone of a self-satisfied man, “creates  by tention to o say.”

    But it occurred to me t Enis even a miniaturist as I kissed tled ears. I . It ion into my oo knoatement is.

    “I’m not afraid of te said, “because I’m not afraid of death.”

    ood. Yet annoyance began to mount iced t tely beside Enisards s tures t a t, I saem among ts collected in trays, resting on t, among tting boards, inkwells and brus.

    “Let’s establis  fear take out t illustration. Let’s s to them.”

    “But  t  least enougo take it seriously? e’ve done not to be afraid.  could justify your being so frightened?”

    roked my  I mig into tears again; I embraced him.

    “I knounate gilder Elegant Effendi edly. “By slandering you, your book and us, Elegant Effendi o set Nusret  o trying to incite turists o rebel against you. I don’t kno of jealousy, peran’s influence. And turists also ermined Elegant Effendi o destroy us all. You can imagine ened and succumbed to suspicions as I myself  , by Elegant Effendi— illustrating, painting and all else  artist fell into a panic, killing t scoundrel and tossing o a well.”

    “Scoundrel?”

    “Elegant Effendi ured, ill-bred traitor. Villain!” I sed as if he room.

    Silence. Did  o somebody else’s s; yet, t w.

    “urist rator from Isfahan? ho killed him?”

    “I don’t know,” I said.

    Yet I ed o infer from my expression t I  I’d made a grave error in coming  I  going to succumb to feelings of guilt and regret. I could see t Enisified me. If  I ruck terror t  dare refuse to sing. I  t picture, not because of any sin I’d committed on its account—I genuinely ed to see ’d turned out.

    “Is it important ?” I said. “Is it not possible t whoever rid us of him has done a good deed?”

    I ter and morally superior to ot look you in templating reporting you and abandoning you to a fate of torture and execution.

    Outside, just in front of tyard gate, the dogs began a frenzied howling.

    “It’s begun to snoe  you  even lit a candle for you.”

    “It’s quite strange, indeed,”  understand it myself.”

    I believed ely, and despite ridiculing  as turists did, I once again kne I actually loved   flood of respect and affection, to o see t Master Osman’s style of painting, and ters of , ure  frig again. After some tragedy,  desperate  caring  appear,  everyt continue as it always has.

    “Let’s continue to illustrate our book,” I said. “Let everytinue as it always has.”

    “turists. I am continuing my h Black Effendi.”

    as o kill him?

    “er and her children?”

    I sensed t some oto my mout I couldn’t restrain myself. to be  and sarcastic. Beertaining jinns—intelligence and sarcasm—I sensed trolled t t, te began to racked t of blood.

    moment long ago? In a distant city, at a time  see fell, by t of a candle, I tempting to explain tears t I irely innocent to a crotcy old dotard, . Back t as noo ood from Enis cting an evil old man, and from o fix mercilessly into mine, t ended to crusattered memory from urist’s apprentice like a picture   inct but faded memory.

    So, as I arose and circled bee Effendi, lifting t neal ones t rested on able, turist  Master Osman illed in us all—rating inct yet faded colors, not as somet as if it side, ion,  small-mout, I said:

    “en-year-old apprentice, I sa suc.”

    “It’s a t,” said Enis it all tabriz. It’s for red.”

    At t very moment, it o drive t inkpot do onto ted old man’s faulty brain. But I didn’t give in to t is I, I’m t Effendi.”

    You understand rusted t Enisand, and in turn, forgive me—t he would fear and help me.