illustrating and painting。 Had Butterfly； too； like most of the artists who
frequented my house； fallen in love with Shekure？ As he made his assertions；
had he forgotten the times when I’d requested that he paint pictures that were
contrary to his point of view； or was he just needling me with expert skill？
Nay； I thought a little while later； he couldn’t be needling me。 Butterfly； like
the other master illustrators； obviously owed me a debt of gratitude： With
money and gifts to miniaturists dwindling； due to the wars and lack of
interest on the part of Our Sultan； the sole significant source of extra ine
had for some time been what they earned working for me。 I knew they were
jealous of one another over my attentions； and for this reason—but not only
for this reason—I met with them individually at my house； hardly a basis for
hostility toward me。 All of my miniaturists were mature enough to behave
intelligently； to sincerely find a reason to admire a man to whom they were
obliged for their own profit。
To relieve the silence and ensure that the previous topic of conversation
wouldn’t be revisited； I said； “Oh； will His wonders never cease！ They’re able
to take the coffin up that hill as fast as they brought it down。”
Butterfly smiled sweetly showing all his teeth： “Due to the cold。”
Could this one actually kill a man； I wondered； for example； out of envy？
Might he kill me？ He had the following excuse： This man was debasing my
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religion。 Nay； but he’s a great master； a perfect embodiment of talent； why
should he resort to murder？ Age means not only straining oneself climbing
hills； but also； I gather； not being so afraid of death。 It means a lack of desire；
entering into a slave girl’s bedchamber； not in a fit of excitement； but out of
custom。 In a burst of intuition； I told him to his face the decision I’d made：
“I’m not continuing with the book any longer。”
“What？” said Butterfly as his expression changed。
“There’s some kind of ill…fortune in it。 Our Sultan has cut off the funding。
You’re to tell Olive and Stork； as well。”
Perhaps he would have inquired further； but we found ourselves on the
slopes of the graveyard amid tightly spaced towering cypresses； high ferns and
tombstones。 As the great crowd encircled the grave site； my only clue that the
body was at that very moment being lowered into the grave was the increasing
intensity of the weeping and sobbing and the exclamations of bismillahi and
ala milleti Resulullah。
“Uncover his face pletely；” someone said。
They were removing the white shroud； and they must’ve been eye to eye
with the corpse if indeed there was an eye remaining in that smashed head。 I
was in the back and I couldn’t see anything。 I’d once gazed into the eyes of
Death； not at a grave site； in an entirely different place…
A memory： Thirty years ago； Our Sultan’s grandfather； Denizen of Paradise；
decided once and for all to take Cyprus from the Veians。 Sheikhulislam
Ebussuut Effendi； recalling that this island was once designated a
missariat for Mecca and Medina； issued a fatwa which more or less stated
that it was inappropriate for an island which had helped sustain holy sites to
remain under Christian infidel control。 In turn； the difficult task of informing
the Veians of this unforeseen decision； that they must surrender their
island； fell to me。 As a result； I was able to tour the cathedrals of Venice。
Though I marveled at their bridges and palazzos； I was most enchanted by the
pictures hanging in Veian homes。 Nevertheless； in the midst of this
bewilderment； trusting in the hospitality displayed by the Veians； I
delivered the menacing correspondence； informing them in a haughty；
supercilious fashion that Our Sultan desired Cyprus。 The Veians were so
angry that in their congress； which had been hastily convened； it was decided
that even to discuss such a letter was unacceptable。 Furious mobs had forced
me to confine myself to the Doge’s palazzo。 And when some rogues managed
to get past the guards and doorkeepers and had set to strangling me； two of
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the Doge’s personal musketeers succeeded in escorting me out one of the
secret passageways to an exit that opened onto the canal。 There； in a fog not
unlike this one； I thought for an instant that the tall and pale gondolier
dressed in white； who’d taken me by the arm； was none other than Death。 I
caught sight of my reflection in his eyes。
Longingly； I dreamed of finishing my book in secret and returning to
Venice。 I approached the grave； which had been carefully covered with dirt： At
this moment； angels are interrogating him above； asking him whether he is
male or female； his religion and whom he recognizes as his prophet。 The
possibility of my own death came to mind。
A crow alighted beside me。 I gazed lovingly into Black’s eyes and asked him
to take my arm and acpany me on the way back。 I told him I expected him
at the house early the next morning to continue working on the book。 I had
indeed imagined my own death； and realized； once again； that the book must
be pleted； whatever the cost。
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I WILL BE CALLED A MURDERER
They threw cold； muddy earth onto the battered and disfigured corpse of ill…
fated Elegant Effendi and I wept more than any of them。 I shouted； “I want to
die with him！” and “Let me share his grave！” and they held me by the waist so
I wouldn’t fall in。 I gasped for air and they pressed their palms to my forehead；
drawing my head back so I might breathe。 By the glances of the deceased’s
relatives； I sensed I might have exaggerated my sobs and wailing； I pulled
myself together。 Based upon my excessive sorrow the workshop gossips might
suppose that Elegant Effendi and I had been in love。
I hid behind a plane tree until the funeral ended to avoid drawing more
attention to myself。 A relative of the oaf I’d sent to Hell—an even bigger idiot
than the deceased—discovered me behind the tree and stared deep into my
eyes with a look he assumed was meaningful。 He held me in his embrace for a
while； then the ignoramus said the following： “Were you ”Saturday‘ or
“Wednesday’？”
“”Wednesday‘ was the workshop name of the dearly departed for a time；“ I
said。 He fell silent。
The story behind these workshop names； which bound us to one another
like a secret pact； was simple： During our apprenticeships； when Osman the
miniaturist had newly graduated from assistant master to the level of master；
we all shared a great respect； admiration and love for him。 He was a virtuoso
and he taught us everything； for God had blessed him with an enchanting
artistic gift and the intellect of a jinn。 Early each morning； as was demanded of
apprentices； one of us would go to the master’s home； and following
respectfully behind him on the way to the workshop； carry his pen and brush
box； his bag and his portfolio full of papers。 So desperate were we to be near
him that we’d argue and fight among ourselves to determine who would go
that day。
Master Osman had a favorite。 But if he were always to go； it would fan the
flames of the never…ending gossip and tasteless jokes that inevitably filled the
workshop； and so the great master decided that each of us would be assured a
specified day of the week。 The great master worked on Fridays and stayed at
home Saturdays。 His son； whom he loved dearly—who later betrayed him and
us by quitting the trade—would acpany his father on Mondays like a
mon apprentice。 There was also a tall thin brother of ours known as
“Thursday；” a miniaturist more gifted than any of us； who passed away at a
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young age； succumbing to the fever brought on by a mysterious illness。 Elegant
Effendi； may he rest in peace； would go on Wednesdays； and was therefore
known as “Wednesday。” Later； our great master meaningfully and lovingly
changed our names from “Tuesday” to “Olive；” from “Friday” to “Stork；” and
from “Sunday” to “Butterfly；” renaming the dearly departed as “Elegant” in
allusion to the finesse of his gilding work。 The great master must have said；
“Wele ”Wednesday；“ how are you this morning？” to the late Elegant just
as he used to greet all of us back then。
When I recalled how he would address me； I thought my eyes might fill
with tears： Master Osman admired us； and his own eyes would tear when he
beheld the beauty of our work； he’d kiss our hands and arms； and despite the
beatings； we felt as if we were in Heaven as apprentices； and so our talent
blossomed with his love。 Even jealousy； which cast its shadow over those
happy years； had a different hue then。
Now I am pletely divided； just like those figures whose head and hands
are drawn and painted by one master while their bodies and clothes are
depicted by another。 When a God…fearing man like myself unexpectedly
bees a murderer； it takes time to adjust。 I’ve adopted a second voice； one
befitting a murderer； so that I might still carry on as though my old life
continued。 I am speaking now in this derisive and devious second voice； which
I keep out of my regular life。 From time to time； of course； you’ll hear my
familiar； regular voice； which would’ve remained my only voice had I not
bee a murderer。 But when I speak under my workshop name； I’ll never
admit to being “a murderer。” Let no one try to associate these two voices； I
have no individual style or flaws in artistry to betray my hidden persona。
Indeed； I believe that style； or for that matter； a