e to the forest before a battle to divine its oute from the birds；
witnesses a great falcon tear apart his woodcock。 Our eyes； fatigued from
reading these tales； rest upon the pictures。 If there’s something within the text
that our intellect and imagination are at pains to conjure； the illustration
es at once to our aid。 The images are the story’s blossoming in color。 But
painting without its acpanying story is an impossibility。
28
“Or so I used to think；” I added； as if regretfully。 “But this is indeed quite
possible。 Two years ago I traveled once again to Venice as the Sultan’s
ambassador。 I observed at length the portraits that the Veian masters had
made。 I did so without knowing to which scene and story the pictures
belonged； and I struggled to extract the story from the image。 One day； I came
across a painting hanging on a palazzo wall and was dumbfounded。
“More than anything； the image was of an individual； somebody like
myself。 It was an infidel； of course； not one of us。 As I stared at him； though； I
felt as if I resembled him。 Yet he didn’t resemble me at all。 He had a full round
face that seemed to lack cheekbones； and moreover； he had no trace of my
marvelous chin。 Though he didn’t look anything like me； as I gazed upon the
picture； for some reason； my heart fluttered as if it were my own portrait。
“I learned from the Veian gentleman who was giving me a tour through
his palazzo that the portrait was of a friend； a nobleman like himself。 He had
included whatever was significant in his life in his portrait： In the background
landscape visible from the open window there was a farm； a village and a
blending of color which made a realistic…looking forest。 Resting on the table
before the nobleman were a clock； books； Time； Evil； Life； a calligraphy pen； a
map； a pass； boxes containing gold coins； bric…a…brac； odds and ends；
inscrutable yet distinguishable things that were probably included in many
pictures； shadows of jinns and the Devil and also； the picture of the man’s
stunningly beautiful daughter as she stood beside her father。
“What was the narrative that this representation was meant to embellish
and plete？ As I regarded the work； I slowly sensed that the underlying tale
was the picture itself。 The painting wasn’t the extension of a story at all； it was
something in its own right。
“I never forgot the painting that bewildered me so。 I left the palazzo；
returned to the house where I was staying as a guest and pondered the picture
the entire night。 I； too； wanted to be portrayed in this manner。 But； no； that
wasn’t appropriate； it was Our Sultan who ought to be thus portrayed！ Our
Sultan ought to be rendered along with everything He owned； with the things
that represented and constituted His realm。 I settled on the notion that a
manuscript could be illustrated according to this idea。
“The Veian virtuoso had made the nobleman’s picture in such a way
that you would immediately know which particular nobleman it was。 If you’d
never seen that man； if they told you to pick him out of a crowd of a thousand
others； you’d be able to select the correct man with the help of that portrait。
The Veian masters had discovered painting techniques with which they
29
could distinguish any one man from another—without relying on his outfit or
medals； just by the distinctive shape of his face。 This was the essence of
”portraiture。“
“If your face were depicted in this fashion only once； no one would ever be
able to forget you； and if you were far away； someone who laid eyes on your
portrait would feel your presence as if you were actually nearby。 Those who
had never seen you alive； even years after your death； could e face…to…face
with you as if you were standing before them。”
We remained silent for a long time。 A chilling light the color of the iciness
outside filtered through the upper part of the small hallway window facing the
street； this was the window whose lower shutters were never opened； which
I’d recently paned over with a piece of cloth dipped in beeswax。
“There was a miniaturist；” I said。 “He would e here just like the other
artists for the sake of Our Sultan’s secret book； and we would work together
till dawn。 He did the best of the gilding。 That unfortunate Elegant Effendi； he
left here one night never to arrive at home。 I’m afraid they might have done
him in； that poor master gilder of mine。”
30
I AM ORHAN
Black asked： “Have they indeed killed him？”
This Black was tall； skinny and a little frightening。 I was walking toward
them where they sat talking in the second…floor workshop with the blue door
when my grandfather said； “They might have done him in。” Then he caught
sight of me。 “What are you doing here？”
He looked at me in such a way that I climbed onto his lap without
answering。 Then he put me back down right away。
“Kiss Black’s hand；” he said。
I kissed the back of his hand and touched it to my forehead。 It had no smell。
“He’s quite charming；” Black said and kissed me on my cheek。 “One day
he’ll be a brave young man。”
“This is Orhan； he’s six。 There’s also an older one； Shevket； who’s seven。
That one’s quite a stubborn little child。”
“I went back to the old street in Aksaray；” said Black。 “It was cold；
everything was covered in snow and ice。 But it was as if nothing had changed
at all。”
“Alas！ Everything has changed； everything has bee worse；” my
grandfather said。 “Significantly worse。” He turned to me。 “Where’s your
brother？”
“He’s with our mentor； the master binder。”
“So； what are you doing here？”
“The master said； ”Fine work； you can go now‘ to me。“
“You made your way back here alone？” asked my grandfather。 “Your older
brother ought to have acpanied you。” Then he said to Black： “There’s a
binder friend of mine with whom they work twice a week after their Koran
school。 They serve as his apprentices； learning the art of binding。”
“Do you like to make illustrations like your grandfather？” asked Black。
I gave him no answer。
“All right then；” said my grandfather。 “Leave us be； now。”
31
The heat from the open brazier that warmed the room was so nice that I
didn’t want to leave。 Smelling the paint and glue； I stood still for a moment。 I
could also smell coffee。
“Yet does illustrating in a new way signify a new way of seeing？” my
grandfather began。 “This is the reason why they’ve murdered that poor gilder
despite the fact that he worked in the old style。 I’m not even certain he’s been
killed； only that he’s missing。 They’re illustrating a memorative story in
verse； a Book of Festivities； for Our Sultan by order of the Head Illuminator
Master Osman。 Each of the miniaturists works at his own home。 Master
Osman； however； occupies himself at the palace book…arts workshop。 To begin
with； I want you to go there and observe everything。 I worry that the others；
that is； the miniaturists； have ended up falling out with and slaying one
another。 They go by the workshop names that Head Illuminator Master
Osman gave them years ago： ”Butterfly；“ ”Olive；“ ”Stork‘…You’re also to go
and observe them as they work in their homes。“
Instead of heading downstairs； I spun around。 There was a noise ing
from the next room with the built…in closet where Hayriye slept。 I went in。
Inside there was no Hayriye； just my mother。 She was embarrassed to see me。
She stood half in the closet。
“Where have you been？” she asked。
But she knew where I’d been。 In the back of the closet there was a peephole
through which you could see my grandfather’s workshop； and if its door were