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after page with lovely tones of gold； we make the greatest of paintings； we
adorn armoires and boxes。 We’ve done nothing else for years。 It is our calling。
They mission paintings from us； ordering us to arrange a ship； an antelope
or a sultan within the borders of a particular frame； demanding a certain style
of bird； a certain type of figure； take this particular scene from the story； forget
about such…and…such。 Whatever it is they demand； we do it。 ”Listen；“ Enishte
Effendi said to me； ”here； draw a horse of your own imagining； right here。“ For
three days； like the great artists of old； I sketched hundreds of horses so I might
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e to know exactly what ”a horse of my own imagining‘ was。 To accustom
my hand； I drew a series of horses on a coarse sheet of Samarkand paper。“
I took these sketches out and showed them to Elegant。 He looked at them
with interest and； leaning close to the paper； began to study the black and
white horses in the faint moonlight。 “The old masters of Shiraz and Herat；” I
said； “claimed that a miniaturist would have to sketch horses unceasingly for
fifty years to be able to truly depict the horse that Allah envisioned and
desired。 They claimed that the best picture of a horse should be drawn in the
dark； since a true miniaturist would go blind working over that fifty…year
period； but in the process； his hand would memorize the horse。”
The innocent expression on his face； the one I’d also seen long ago； when
we were children； told me that he’d bee pletely absorbed in my
horses。
“They hire us； and we try to make the most mysterious； the most
unattainable horse； just as the old masters did。 There’s nothing more to it。 It’s
unjust of them to hold us responsible for anything more than the illustration。”
“I’m not sure that’s correct；” he said。 “We； too； have responsibilities and
our own will。 I fear no one but Allah。 It was He who provided us with reason
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
25
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 portrayi