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Shevket and Orhan playing； we made love； always referring to it as “spreading
salve onto wounds。” This was how my jealous sons； whom I didn’t want to
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suffer beatings at the jealous whims of a rough and melancholy father； were
able to continue sleeping in the same bed with me for years。 All sensible
women know how it’s much nicer to sleep curled up with one’s children than
with a melancholy husband who’s been beaten down by life。
We； my children and I； were happy； but Black couldn’t be。 The most obvious
reason for this was the wound on his shoulder and neck that never pletely
healed； my beloved husband was left “crippled；” as I heard him described by
others。 But this didn’t disrupt his life； other than in its appearance。 There were
even times when I heard other women； who’d seen my husband from a
distance； describe him as handsome。 But Black’s right shoulder was lower than
the left and his neck remained oddly cocked。 I also heard gossip to the effect
that a woman like myself could only marry a husband whom she felt was
beneath her； and how as much as Black’s wound was the cause of his
discontent； it was also the secret source of our shared happiness。
As with all gossip； there is perhaps an element of truth in this as well。
However deprived and destitute I felt at not being able to pass down the
streets of Istanbul mounted tall on an exceptionally beautiful horse；
surrounded by slaves； lady servants and attendants—what Esther always
thought I deserved—I also occasionally longed for a brave and spirited
husband who held his head high and looked at the world with a sense of
victory。
Whatever the cause； Black always remained melancholy。 Because I knew
that his sadness had nothing to do with his shoulder； I believed that
somewhere in a secret corner of his soul he was possessed by a jinn of sorrow
that dampened his mood even during our most exhilarating moments of
lovemaking。 To appease that jinn； at times he’d drink wine； at times stare at
illustrations in books and take an interest in art； at times he’d even spend his
days and nights with miniaturists chasing after pretty boys。 There were periods
when he entertained himself in the pany of painters； calligraphers and
poets in orgies of puns； double entendres； innuendos； metaphors and games of
flattery； and there were periods when he forgot everything and surrendered
himself to secretarial duties and a governmental clerkship under Hunched
Süleyman Pasha； into whose service he’d managed to enter。 Four years later；
when Our Sultan died； and with the ascension of Sultan Mehmed； who turned
his back entirely on all artistry； Black’s enthusiasm for illumination and
painting turned from an openly celebrated pleasure into a private secret
pursued behind closed doors。 There were times when he’d open one of the
books left to us by my father； and stare； guilty and sad； at an illustration made
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during the era of Tamerlane’s sons in Herat—yes； Shirin falling in love with
Hüsrev after seeing his picture—not as if it were part of a happy game of
talent still being played in palace circles； but as if he were dwelling upon a
sweet secret long surrendered to memory。
In the third year of Our Sultan’s reign； the Queen of England sent His
Excellency a miraculous clock that contained a musical instrument with a
bellows。 An English delegation assembled this enormous clock after weeks of
toil with various pieces； cogs； pictures and statuettes that they brought with
them from England； erecting it on a slope of the Royal Private Garden facing
the Golden Horn。 The crowds that collected on the slopes of the Golden Horn
or came in ca？ques to watch； astonished and awed； saw how the life…size
statues and ornaments spun around each other purposefully when the huge
clock played its noisy and terrifying music； how they danced elegantly and
meaningfully by themselves in time to the melody as if they were creations of
God rather than of His servants； and how the clock announced the time to all
Istanbul with a chime that resembled the sounding of a bell。
Black and Esther told me on different occasions how the clock； as well as
being the focus of endless astonishment on the part of Istanbul’s riffraff and
dull…witted mobs； was understandably a source of disfort to the pious and
to Our Sultan because it symbolized the power of the infidel。 In a time when
rumors of this sort abounded； Sultan Ahmed； the subsequent sovereign； woke
up in the middle of the night under Allah’s instigation； seized His mace and
descended from the harem to the Private Garden where He shattered the clock
and its statues to pieces。 Those who brought us the news and the rumors
explained how as Our Sultan slept； He saw the sacred face of Our Exalted
Prophet bathed in holy light and how the Apostle of God warned Him： If Our
Sultan allowed his subjects to be awed by pictures and； worse yet； by objects
that mimicked Mankind and thus peted with Allah’s creations； the
sovereign would be diverging from divine will。 They also added that Our
Sultan had taken up His mace while still dreaming。 This was more or less how
Our Sultan dictated the event to His faithful historian。 He had this book；
entitled The Quintessence of Histories； prepared by calligraphers； upon whom
He lavished purses full of gold； though He forbade its illustration by
miniaturists。
Thus withered the red rose of the joy of painting and illumination that had
bloomed for a century in Istanbul； nurtured by inspiration from the lands of
Persia。 The conflict between the methods of the old masters of Herat and the
Frankish masters that paved the ong artists and endless
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quandries was never resolved。 For painting itself was abandoned； artists
painted neither like Easterners nor Westerners。 The miniaturists did not grow
angry and revolt； but like old men b to an illness； they
gradually accepted the situation with humble grief and resignation。 They were
neither curious about nor dreamed about the work of the great masters of
Herat and Tabriz； whom they once followed with awe； or the Frankish masters；
whose innovative methods they aspired to； caught indecisively between envy
and hatred。 Just as the doors of houses are closed of an evening and the city is
left to darkness； painting was also abandoned。 It was mercilessly forgotten that
we’d once looked upon our world quite differently。
My father’s book； sadly； remained unfinished。 From where Hasan scattered
the pleted pages on the ground； they were transferred to the Treasury；
there； an efficient and fastidious librarian had them bound together with
other unrelated illustrations belonging to the workshop； and thus they were
separated into several bound albums。 Hasan fled Istanbul； and disappeared；
never to be heard from again。 Shevket and Orhan never forgot that it wasn’t
Black but their Uncle Hasan who was the one who killed my father’s murderer。
In place of Master Osman； who died two years after going blind； Stork
became Head Illuminator。 Butterfly； y late
father’s talents； devoted the rest of his life to drawing ornamental designs for
carpets； cloths and tents。 The young assistant masters of the workshop gave
themselves over to similar work。 No one behaved as though abandoning
illustration were any great loss。 Perhaps because nobody had ever seen his own
face done justice on the page。
My whole life； I’ve secretly very much wanted two paintings made； which
I’ve never mentioned to anybody：
1。 My own portrait； but I knew however hard the Sultan’s miniaturists