that we might distinguish Good from Evil。”
It was an appropriate response。
“Allah sees and knows all…” I said in Arabic。 “He’ll know that you and I；
we’ve done this work without being aware of what we were doing。 Who will
you notify about Enishte Effendi？ Aren’t you aware that behind this affair rests
the will of His Excellency Our Sultan？”
Silence。
I wondered whether he was really such a buffoon or whether his loss of
posure and ranting had sprung out of a sincere fear of Allah。
We stopped at the mouth of the well。 In the darkness； I vaguely caught
sight of his eyes and could see that he was scared。 I pitied him。 But it was too
late for that。 I prayed to God to give me one more sign that the man standing
before me was not only a dim…witted coward； but an unredeemable disgrace。
“Count off twelve steps and dig；” I said。
“Then； what will you do？”
“I’ll explain it all to Enishte Effendi； and he’ll burn the pictures。 What other
recourse is there？ If one of Nusret Hoja’s followers hears of such an allegation；
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nothing will remain of us or the book…arts workshop。 Are you familiar with
any of the Erzurumis？ Accept this money so that we can be certain you won’t
inform on us。”
“What is the money contained in？”
“There are seventy…five Veian gold pieces inside an old ceramic pickle
jar。”
The Veian ducats made good sense； but where had I e up with the
ceramic pickle jar？ It was so foolish it was believable。 I was thereby reassured
that God was with me and had given me a sign。 My old panion
apprentice； who’d grown greedier with each passing year； had already started
excitedly counting off the twelve steps in the direction I indicated。
There were two things on my mind at that moment。 First of all； there were
no Veian coins or anything of the sort buried there！ If I didn’t e up
with some money this buffoon would destroy us。 I suddenly felt like
embracing the oaf and kissing his cheeks as I sometimes did when we were
apprentices； but the years had e between us！ Second； I was preoccupied
with figuring out how we were going to dig。 With our fingernails？ But this
contemplation； if you could call it that； lasted only a wink in time。
Panicking； I grabbed a stone that lay beside the well。 While he was still on
the seventh or eighth step； I caught up to him and struck him on the back of
his head with all my strength。 I struck him so swiftly and brutally that I was
momentarily startled； as if the blow had landed on my own head。 Aye； I felt
his pain。
Instead of anguishing over what I’d done； I wanted to finish the job quickly。
He’d begun thrashing about on the ground and my panic deepened further。
Long after I’d dropped him into the well； I contemplated how the
crudeness of my deed did not in the least befit the grace of a miniaturist。
24
I AM YOUR BELOVED UNCLE
I am Black’s maternal uncle； his enishte； but others also call me “Enishte。”
There was a time when Black’s mother encouraged him to address me as
“Enishte Effendi；” and later； not only Black； but everyone began referring to
me that way。 Thirty years ago； after we’d moved to the dark and humid street
shaded by chestnut and linden trees beyond the Aksaray district； Black began
to make frequent visits to our house。 That was our residence before this one。 If
I were away on summer campaign with Mahmut Pasha； I’d return in the
autumn to discover that Black and his mother had taken refuge in our home。
Black’s mother； may she rest in peace； was the older sister of my dearly
departed wife。 There were times on winter evenings I’d e home to find my
wife and his mother embracing and tearfully consoling each other。 Black’s
father； who could never maintain his teaching posts at the remote little
religious schools where he taught； was ill…tempered； angry and had a weakness
for drink。 Black was six years old at the time； he’d cry when his mother cried；
quiet down when his mother fell silent and regarded me； his Enishte； with
apprehension。
It pleases me to see him before me now； a determined； mature and
respectful nephew。 The respect he shows me； the care with which he kisses my
hand and presses it to his forehead； the way； for example； he said； “Purely for
red；” when he presented me with the Mongol inkpot as a gift； and his polite
and demure habit of sitting before me with his knees mindfully together； all of
this not only announces that he is the sensible grown man he aspires to be；
but it reminds me that I am indeed the venerable elder I aspire to be。
He shares a likeness with his father； whom I’ve seen once or twice： He’s tall
and thin； and makes slightly nervous yet being gestures with his arms and
hands。 His custom of placing his hands on his knees or of staring deeply and
intently into my eyes as if to say； “I understand； I’m listening to you with
reverence” when I tell him something of import； or the way he nods his head
with a subtle rhythm matching the measure of my words are all quite
appropriate。 Now that I’ve reached this age； I know that true respect arises not
from the heart； but from discrete rules and deference。
During the years Black’s mother brought him frequently to our house
under every pretense because she anticipated a future for him here； I
understood that books pleased him； and this brought us together。 As those in
the house used to put it； he would serve as my “apprentice。” I explained to
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him how miniaturists in Shiraz had created a new style by raising the horizon
line clear to the top of the border； and that while everyone depicted Mejnun
in a wretched state in the desert； crazed with love for his Leyla； the great
master Bihzad was better able to convey Mejnun’s loneliness by portraying
him walking among groups of women cooking； attempting to ignite logs by
blowing on them or walking between tents。 I remarked how absurd it was that
most of the illustrators who depicted the moment when Hüsrev spied the
naked Shirin bathing in a lake at midnight had whimsically colored the lovers’
horses and clothes without having read Nizami’s poem； my point being that a
miniaturist who took up a brush without the care and diligence to read the
text he was illustrating was motivated by nothing more than greed。
I’m delighted now to see that Black has acquired another essential virtue：
To avoid disappointment in art； one mustn’t treat it as a career。 Despite
whatever great artistic sense and talent a man might possess； he ought to seek
money and power elsewhere to avoid forsaking his art when he fails to receive
proper pensation for his gifts and efforts。
Black recounted how he’d met one by one all of the master illustrators and
calligraphers of Tabriz by making books for pashas； wealthy Istanbulites and
patrons in the provinces。 All these artists； I learned； were impoverished and
overe by the futility of their lot。 Not only in Tabriz； but in Mashhad and
Aleppo； many miniaturists had abandoned working on books and begun
making odd single…leaf pictures—curiosities that would please European
travelers—even obscene drawings。 Rumor has it that the illuminated
manuscript Shah Abbas presented to Our Sultan during the Tabriz peace treaty
has already been taken apart so its pages could be used for another book。
Supposedly； the Emperor of Hindustan； Akbar； was throwing so much money
around for a large new book that the most gifted illustrators of Tabriz and
Kazvin quit what they were doing and flocked to his palace。
As he told me all of this； he pleasantly interjected other stories as well； for
example； he described with a smile the entertaining story of a Mehdi forgery
or the frenzy that erupted among the Uzbeks when the idiot prince sent to
them by the Safavids as a hostage to peace fell feverishly ill and dropped dead
within three days。 Even so； I could tell from the shadow that fell across his face
that the dilemma to which neither of us referred； but which troubled us both；
had yet to be resolved。
Naturally； Black； like every young man who frequented our house or heard
what others had to say about us； or who knew about my beautiful daughter；
Shekure； from hearsay； had fallen in love with her。 Perhaps I didn’t consider it
26
dangerous enough to warrant my attention back then； but everyone—
including many who’d never laid eyes on her—fell in love with my daughter；
that belle of belles。 Black’s affliction was the overwhelming passion of an ill…
fated youth who had free access to our house； who was accepted and well liked
in our home and who had the opportunity actually to see Shekure。 He did not
bury his love； as I hoped he would； but made the mistake of revealing his
extreme passion to my daughter。
As a result； he pletely。
I assumed that Black now also knew how three years after he’d left
Istanbul； my daughter married a spahi cavalryman； at the height of her
loveliness； and that this soldier； having fathered two boys but still bereft of any
mon sense； had gone off on a campaign never to return again。 No one had
heard from the cavalryman in four years。 I gathered he was aware of this； not
only because such gossip spreads fast in Istanbul； but because during the
silences that passed between us； I felt he’d learned the whole story long ago；
judging by the way he looked into my eyes。 Even at this moment； as he casts
an eye at the Book of the Soul； which stands open on the folding X…shaped
reading stand； I know he’s listening for the sounds of her children running
through the house； I know he’s aware that my daughter has