arrangement of pages and their position to the coloring of the most trivial
details。 In this regard； he has the right to succeed me as Head Illuminator。 But
he’s so ambitious and conceited； and so condescending toward the other
illustrators that he could never manage so many men； and would end up
losing them all。 Actually； if it were left to him； with his incredible
industriousness； he’d simply make all the illustrations in the workshop
himself。 If he put his mind to such a task； he could in fact succeed。 He’s a great
master。 He knows his craft。 He admires himself。 How nice for him。
When I visited him unannounced once； I caught him at work。 Resting upon
folding worktables； desks and cushions were all the pages he was working on：
illustrations for Our Sultan’s books； for me； for miserable costume books that
he dashed off for foolish European travelers eager to belittle us； one page of a
triptych he was making for a pasha who thought highly of himself； images to
be pasted in albums； pages made for his own pleasure and even a vulgar
rendition of coitus。 Tall； thin Stork was flitting from one illustration to the
next like a bee among flowers； singing folk songs； tweaking the cheek of his
apprentice who was mixing paint and adding a ic twist to the painting he
was working on before showing it to me with a smug chuckle。 Unlike my other
miniaturists； he didn’t stop working in a ceremonial show of respect when I
arrived； on the contrary； he happily exhibited the swift exercise of his God…
given talent and the skill he’d acquired through hard work （he could do the
work of seven or eight miniaturists at the same time）。 Now； I catch myself
secretly thinking that if the vile murderer is one of my three master
miniaturists； I hope to God it’s Stork。 During his apprenticeship； the sight of
him at my door on Friday mornings didn’t excite me the way Butterfly did on
his day。
Since he paid equal attention to every odd detail； with no basis of
discrimination except that it be visible； his aesthetic approach resembled that
of the Veian masters。 But unlike them； my ambitious Stork neither saw nor
depicted people’s faces as individual or distinct。 I assume； since he either
openly or secretly belittled everyone； that he didn’t consider faces important。
I’m certain deceased Enishte didn’t appoint him to draw Our Sultan’s face。
Even when depicting a subject of the utmost importance； he couldn’t keep
from situating a skeptical dog somewhere at some distance from the event； or
drawing a disgraceful beggar whose misery demeaned the wealth and
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extravagance of a ceremony。 He had enough self…confidence to mock whatever
illustration he made； its subject and himself。
“Elegant Effendi’s murder resembles the way Joseph’s brothers tossed him
into a well out of jealousy；” said Black。 “And my Enishte’s death resembles the
unforeseen murder of Hüsrev at the hands of his son who had his heart set on
Hüsrev’s wife； Shirin。 Everyone says that Stork loved to paint scenes of war and
gruesome depictions of death。”
“Anyone who thinks an illuminator resembles the subject of the picture he
paints doesn’t understand me or my master miniaturists。 What exposes us is
not the subject； which others have missioned from us—these are always
the same anyway—but the hidden sensibilities we include in the painting as
we render that subject： A light that seems to radiate from within the picture； a
palpable hesitancy or anger one notices in the position of figures； horses
and trees； the desire and sorrow emanating from a cypress as it reaches to the
heavens； the pious resignation and patience that we introduce into the
illustration when we ornament wall tiles with a fervor that tempts
blindness…Yes； these are our hidden traces； not those identical horses all in a
row。 When a painter renders the fury and speed of a horse； he doesn’t paint
his own fury and speed； by trying to make the perfect horse； he reveals his love
for the richness of this world and its creator； displaying the colors of a passion
for life—only that and nothing more。”
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I AM CALLED BLACK
Various manuscript pages lay before me and the great Master Osman—some
with calligraphed texts and ready to be bound； some not yet colored or
otherwise unfinished for whatever reason—as we spent an entire afternoon
evaluating the master miniaturists and the pages of my Enishte’s book；
keeping charts of our assessments。 We thought we’d seen the last of the
mander’s respectful but crude men； who’d brought us the pages collected
from the miniaturists and calligraphers whose homes they raided and searched
（some pieces had nothing whatsoever to do with either of our two books and
some pages confirmed that the calligraphers； as well； were secretly accepting
work from outside the palace for the sake of a few extra coins）； when the most
brash of them stepped over to the exalted master and removed a piece of
paper from his sash。
I paid no mind at first； thinking it was one of those petitions from a father
seeking an apprenticeship for his son by approaching as many division heads
and group captains as possible。 I could tell that the morning sun had vanished
by the pale light that filtered inside。 To rest my eyes； I was doing an exercise
the old masters of Shiraz remended miniaturists do to stave off premature
blindness； that is； I was trying to look emptily into the distance without
focusing。 That’s when I recognized with a thrill the sweet color and heart…
stopping folds of the paper which my master held and stared at with an
expression of disbelief。 This matched exactly the letters that Shekure had sent
me via Esther。 I was about to say； “What a coincidence” like an idiot； when I
noticed that； like Shekure’s first letter； it was acpanied by a painting on
coarse paper！
Master Osman kept the painting to himself。 He handed me the letter that I
just then embarrassingly realized was from Shekure。
My Dear Husband Black。 I sent Esther to sound out late Elegant Effendi’s
widow； Kalbiye。 While there； Kalbiye showed Esther this illustrated page； which
I’m sending to you。 Later； I went to Kalbiye’s house； doing everything within my
power to persuade her that it was in her best interest to give me the picture。 This
page was on poor Elegant Effendi’s body when he was removed from the well。
Kalbiye swears that nobody had missioned her husband； may he rest in divine
light； to draw horses。 So then； who made them？ The mander’s men searched
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the house。 I’m sending this note because this matter must have significance to the
investigation。 The children kiss your hands respectfully。 Your wife； Shekure。
I carefully read the last three words of this beautiful note thrice as if staring
at three wondrous red roses in a garden。 I leaned over the page that Master
Osman was scrutinizing； magnifying lens in hand。 I straightaway noticed that
the shapes whose ink had bled were horses sketched in a single motion as the
old masters would do to accustom the hand。
Master Osman； who read Shekure’s note without ment； voiced a
question： “Who drew this？” He then answered himself； “Of course； the same
miniaturist who drew the late Enishte’s horse。”
Could he be so certain？ Moreover； we weren’t at all sure who’d drawn the
horse for the book。 We removed the horse from among the nine pages and
began to examine it。
It was a handsome； simple； chestnut horse that you couldn’t take your eyes
off of。 Was I being truthful when I said this？ I had plenty of time to look at
this horse with my Enishte； and later； when I was left alone with these
illustrations； but I hadn’t given it much thought then。 It was a beautiful； but
ordinary horse： It was so ordinary that we weren’t even able to determine
who’d drawn it。 It wasn’t a true chestnut； but more bay…colored； there was a
faint hint of red in its coat as well。 It was a horse that I’d seen so often in
other books and other illustrations that I knew it’d been drawn by rote
without the miniaturist’s stopping to give it any consideration at all。
We stared at the horse this way until we discovered it concealed a secret。
Now； however； I could see a beauty in the horse that shimmered like heat
rising before my eyes and within it a force that roused a zest for life； learning
and embracing the world。 I asked myself； “Who’s the miniaturist with the
magic touch that depicted this horse the way Allah would see it？” as if having
forgotten suddenly that he was also nothing but a base murderer。 The horse
stood before me as if it were a real horse； but somewhere in my mind I also
knew it was an illustration； being caught between these two thoughts was
enchanting and aroused in me a sense of wholeness and perfection。
For a time； we pared the blurred horses drawn for practice with the
horse made for my Enishte’s book； determining finally that they’d been made
by the same hand。 The proud stances of those strong and elegant studs
bespoke stillness rather than motion。 I was in awe of the horse of Enishte’s
book。
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“This is such a spectacular horse；” I said； “it gives one the urge to pull out a
piece of paper and copy it； and then to draw every last thing。”
“The greatest pliment you can pay a painter is to say that his work has
stimulated your own enthusiasm to illustrate；” said Master Osman。 “But now
let’s forget about his talent and try to uncover this devil’s identity。 Had
Enishte Effendi； may he rest in peace； ever mentioned the kind of story this
pi