what he feared。 “How should I say it？ It’s as if this were a sin of desire； like
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growing arrogant before God； like considering oneself of utmost importance；
like situating oneself at the center of the world。”
Thereafter； this idea dawned on him： These methods which the Frankish
artists made use of as if playing a prideful child’s game； could be more than
simply magic associated with Our Exalted Sultan—but could in fact bee a
force meant to serve our religion； bringing under its sway all who beheld it。
I learned that the idea of preparing an illuminated manuscript had arisen
then： my Enishte； who’d returned to Istanbul from Venice； suggested it would
be excellent indeed for Our Sultan to be the subject of a portrait in the
Frankish style。 But after His Excellency took exception； a book containing
pictures of Our Sultan and the objects that represented Him was agreed upon。
“It is the story that’s essential；” our wisest and most Glorious Sultan had
said。 “A beautiful illustration elegantly pletes the story。 An illustration that
does not plement a story； in the end； will bee but a false idol。 Since we
cannot possibly believe in an absent story； we will naturally begin believing in
the picture itself。 This would be no different than the worship of idols in the
Kaaba that went on before Our Prophet； peace and blessings be upon him； had
destroyed them。 If not as part of a story； how would you propose to depict this
red carnation； for example； or that insolent dwarf over there？”
“By exposing the carnation’s beauty and uniqueness。”
“In the arrangement of your scene； then； would you situate the flower at
the precise center of the page？”
“I was afraid；” my Enishte said。 “I panicked momentarily when I realized
where Our Sultan’s thoughts were taking me。”
What filled my Enishte with fear was the notion of situating at the center of
the page—and thereby； the world—something other than what God had
intended。
“Thereafter；” Our Sultan had said； “you’ll want to exhibit a picture in
whose center you’ve situated a dwarf。” It was as I had assumed。 “But this
picture could never be displayed： after a while； we’d begin to worship a
picture we’ve hung on a wall； regardless of the original intentions。 If I believed；
heaven forbid； the way these infidels do； that the Prophet Jesus was also the
Lord God himself； then I’d also hold that God could be observed in this world；
and even； that He could manifest in human form； only then might I accept the
depiction of mankind in full detail and exhibit such images。 You do
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understand that； eventually； we would unthinkingly begin worshiping any
picture that is hung on a wall； don’t you？”
My Enishte said： “I understood it quite well； and because I did； I was afraid
of what we both were thinking。”
“For this reason；” Our Sultan remarked； “I could never allow my portrait to
be displayed。”
“Though this is exactly what he wanted；” whispered my Enishte； with a
devilish titter。
It was my turn to be frightened now。
“Noheless； it is my desire that my portrait be made in the style of the
Frankish masters；” Our Sultan went on。 “Such a portrait will； of course； have
to be concealed within the pages of a book。 Whatever that book might be； you
shall be the one to tell me。”
“In an instant of surprise and awe； I considered his statement；” said my
Enishte； then grinning more devilishly than before； he seemed； suddenly； to
bee someone else。
“His Excellency Our Sultan ordered me to start working on His book
posthaste。 My head spun with joy。 He added that it ought to be prepared as a
present for the Veian Doge； whom I was to visit once again。 Once the book
was pleted； it would bee a symbol of the vanquishing power of the
Islamic Caliph Our Exalted Sultan； in the thousandth year of the Hegira。 He
requested that I prepare the illuminated manuscript in utmost secrecy；
primarily to conceal its purpose as an olive branch extended to the Veians；
but also to avoid aggravating workshop jealousies。 And in a state of great
elation and sworn to secrecy； I embarked upon this venture。”
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I AM YOUR BELOVED UNCLE
And so it was on that Friday morning； I began to describe the book that would
contain Our Sultan’s portrait painted in the Veian style。 I broached the
topic to Black by recounting how I’d brought it up with Our Sultan and how
I’d persuaded him to fund the book。 My hidden purpose was to have Black
write the stories—which I hadn’t even begun—that were meant to
acpany the illustrations。
I told him I’d pleted most of the book’s illustrations and that the last
picture was nearly finished。 “There’s a depiction of Death；” I said； “and I had
the most clever of miniaturists； Stork； illustrate the tree representing the
peacefulness of Our Sultan’s worldly realm。 There’s a picture of Satan and a
horse meant to spirit us far far away。 There’s a dog； always cunning and wily；
and also a gold coin…I had the master miniaturists depict these things with
such beauty；” I told Black； “that if you saw them but once； you’d know
straightaway what the corresponding text ought to be。 Poetry and painting；
words and color； these things are brothers to each other； as you well know。”
For a while； I pondered whether I should tell him I might marry off my
daughter to him。 Would he live together with us in this house？ I told myself
not to be taken in by his rapt attention and his childlike expression。 I knew he
was scheming to elope with my Shekure。 Still； I could rely on nobody else to
finish my book。
Returning together from the Friday prayers； we discussed “shadow；” the
greatest of innovations manifest in the paintings of the Veian masters。 “If；”
I said； “we intend to make our paintings from the perspective of pedestrians
exchanging pleasantries and regarding their world； that is； if we intend to
illustrate from the street； we ought to learn how to account for—as the Franks
do—what is； in fact； most prevalent there： shadows。”
“How does one depict shadow？” asked Black。
From time to time； as my nephew listened； I perceived impatience in him。
He’d begin to fiddle with the Mongol inkpot he’d given me as a present。 At
times； he’d take up the iron poker and stoke the fire in the stove。 Now and
then I imagined that he wanted to lower that poker onto my head and kill me
because I dared to move the art of illustrating away from Allah’s perspective；
because I would betray the dreams of the masters of Herat and their entire
tradition of painting； because I’d duped Our Sultan into already doing so。
Occasionally； Black would sit dead still for long stretches and fix his eyes deeply
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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。
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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 sil