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the mosque’s stone funeral block; and I felt such anger toward the miscreant 
who’d  mitted  this  crime;  believe  me;  even  the  Allahümme  Barik  prayer 
became muddled in my mind。 
After the prayers; while the congregation shouldered the coffin; I was still 
among all the miniaturists and calligraphers。 Stork and I had forgotten that on 
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some nights; when we sat in the dim light of oil lamps working until morning 
on my book; he’d tried to convince me of the inferiority of Elegant Effendi’s 
gilding  work  and  of  the  lack  of  balance  in  his  use  of  colors—he  colored 
everything  navy  blue  so  it  would  look  richer!  We’d  both  forgotten  that  I’d 
actually  given  him  credence;  by  allowing  “But  no  one  else  is  qualified  to  do 
this  work;”  and  we  embraced  each  other  anyway;  sobbing  once  more。  Later; 
Olive gave me a friendly and respectful look before hugging me—a man who 
knows how to embrace is a good man—and these gestures so pleased me that 
I  was  reminded  how  of  all  the  workshop  artists;  he  was  the  one  who  most 
believed in my book。 
On the stairs of the courtyard gate I found myself beside Head Illuminator 
Master  Osman。  We  were  both  at  a  loss  for  words;  a  strange  and  tense 
moment。 One of the deceased’s brothers began to cry and sob; and someone 
pompously shouted; “God is great。” 
“To  which  cemetery?”  Master  Osman  asked  me  for  the  sake  of  asking 
something。 
To respond “I don’t know” seemed hostile for some reason。 Flustered; and 
without thinking; I asked the same question of the man standing next to me 
on the stairs; “To which cemetery? The one by the Edirne Gate?” 
“Eyüp;” said an ill…tempered; bearded and young dolt。 
“Eyüp;” I said turning to the master; but he’d heard what the ill…tempered 
dolt had said anyway。 Then; he looked at me as if to say; “I understand” in a 
way that let me know he didn’t want our encounter to last a moment longer 
than it already had。 
Without  mentioning  my  influence  on  Our  Sultan’s  growing  interest  in 
Frankish  styles  of  painting;  Master  Osman  was  of  course  annoyed  that  Our 
Sultan  had  ordered  me  to  oversee  the  writing  out;  embellishment  and 
illustration of the illuminated manuscript; which I’ve described as “secret。” On 
one occasion; the Sultan forced the great Master Osman to copy a portrait of 
His Highness; which had been missioned from a Veian。 I know Master 
Osman holds me responsible for having to imitate that painter; for having to 
make  that  strange  painting;  which  he  did  with  disgust;  referring  to  the 
experience as “torture。” His wrath was justified。 
Standing  in  the  middle  of  the  staircase  for  a  while;  I  looked  at  the  sky。 
When I was convinced that I’d been left quite behind; I continued down the 
icy stairs。 I’d barely descended—ever so slowly—two steps when a man took 
me by the arm and embraced me: Black。 
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“The air is freezing;” he said。 “You must be cold。” 
I  hadn’t  the  slightest  doubt  that  this  was  the  one  who’d  muddled 
Shekure’s  mind。  The  self…confidence  with  which  he  took  my  arm  was  proof 
enough。 There was something in his demeanor that announced; “I’ve worked 
for twelve years and have truly grown up。” When we came to the bottom of 
the stairs; I told him that I’d expect an account later of what he’d learned at 
the workshop。 
“You  go  ahead;  my  child;”  I  said。  “Go  ahead  and  catch  up  to  the 
congregation。” 
He was taken aback; but didn’t let on。 The way he let go of my arm with 
reservation and walked ahead of me pleased me; even。 If I gave Shekure to him; 
would he agree to live in the same house with us? 
We’d left the city through the Edirne Gate。 I saw the coffin on the verge of 
disappearing  into  the  fog  along  with  the  crowd  of  illustrators;  calligraphers 
and apprentices shouldering it as they quickly descended the hill toward the 
Golden  Horn。  They  were  walking  so  fast;  they’d  already  traveled  half  of  the 
muddy road that led down the snow…covered valley to Eyüp。 In the silent fog; 
off  to  the  left;  the  chimney  of  the  Han?m  Sultan  Charity  candleworks  shop 
happily  piped  up  its  smoke。  Under  the  shadow  of  the  walls;  there  were 
tanneries and the bustling slaughterhouses that served the Greek butchers of 
Eyüp。 The smell of offal ing from these places had wafted over the valley; 
which extended to the vaguely discernible domes of the Eyüp Mosque and its 
cypress…lined  cemetery。  After  walking  for  a  while  longer;  I  heard  from  below 
the shouts of children at play ing from the new Jewish quarter in Balat。 
When we reached the plain where Eyüp was located; Butterfly approached 
me; and in his usual fiery manner; abruptly broached his subject: 
“Olive and Stork are the ones behind this vulgarity;” he said。 “Like everyone 
else;  they  knew  I  had  a  bad  relationship  with  the  deceased。  They  knew 
everyone  was  aware  of  this。  There  was  jealousy  between  us;  even  open 
animosity  and  antagonism;  over  who  would  assume  leadership  of  the 
workshop  after  Master  Osman。  Now  they  expect  the  guilt  to  fall  on  my 
shoulders;  or  at  the  least;  that  the  Head  Treasurer;  and  under  his  influence; 
Our Sultan; will distance themselves from me; nay; from us。” 
“Who is this ”us’ of which you speak?“ 
“Those  of  us  who  believe  that  the  old  morality  ought  to  persist  at  the 
workshop; that we should follow the path laid by the Persian masters; that an 
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artist shouldn’t illustrate just any scene for money alone。 In place of weapons; 
armies;  slaves  and  conquests;  we  believe  that  the  old  myths;  legends  and 
stories ought to be introduced anew into our books。 We shouldn’t forgo the 
old models。 Genuine miniaturists shouldn’t loiter at the shops in the bazaar 
and paint any old thing; depictions of indecency; for a few extra kurush from 
anybody who happens by。 His Excellency Our Sultan would find us justified。” 
“You’re incriminating yourself senselessly;” I said so he might be done with 
his ranting。 “I’m convinced that the atelier could not harbor anybody capable 
of  mitting  such  a  crime。  You’re  all  brethren。  There’s  no  great  harm  in 
illustrating  a  few  subjects  that  haven’t  been  depicted  previously;  at  least  no 
harm so great as to be an occasion for enmity。” 
As happened when I first heard the horrid news; I had an epiphany of sorts。 
Elegant  Effendi’s  murderer  was  one  of  the  premier  masters  in  the  palace 
workshop and he was a member of the crowd before me; climbing the hill that 
led to the cemetery。 I was also convinced that the murderer would continue 
with his devilry and sedition; that he was an enemy of the book I was making; 
and  most  probably;  that  he’d  visited  my  house  to  pick  up  some  work 
illustrating  and  painting。  Had  Butterfly;  too;  like  most  of  the  artists  who 
frequented my house; fallen in love with Shekure? As he made his assertions; 
had he forgotten the times when I’d requested that he paint pictures that were 
contrary to his point of view; or was he just needling me with expert skill? 
Nay; I thought a little while later; he couldn’t be needling me。 Butterfly; like 
the  other  master  illustrators;  obviously  owed  me  a  debt  of  gratitude:  With 
money  and  gifts  to  miniaturists  dwindling;  due  to  the  wars  and  lack  of 
interest on the part of Our Sultan; the sole significant source of extra ine 
had for some time been what they earned working for me。 I knew they were 
jealous of one another over my attentions; and for this reason—but not only 
for this reason—I met with them individually at my house; hardly a basis for 
hostility  toward  me。  All  of  my  miniaturists  were  mature  enough  to  behave 
intelligently;  to  sincerely  find  a  reason  to  admire  a  man  to  whom  they  were 
obliged for their own profit。 
To  relieve  the  silence  and  ensure  that  the  previous  topic  of  conversation 
wouldn’t be revisited; I said; “Oh; will His wonders never cease! They’re able 
to take the coffin up that hill as fast as they brought it down。” 
Butterfly smiled sweetly showing all his teeth: “Due to the cold。” 
Could  this  one  actually  kill  a  man;  I  wondered;  for  example;  out  of  envy? 
Might  he  kill  me?  He  had  the  following  excuse:  This  man  was  debasing  my 
105 
 
religion。  Nay;  but  he’s  a  great  master;  a  perfect  embodiment  of  talent;  why 
should  he  resort  to  murder?  Age  means  not  only  straining  oneself  climbing 
hills; but also; I gather; not being so afraid of death。 It means a lack of desire; 
entering into a slave girl’s bedchamber; not in a fit of excitement; but out of 
custom。 In a burst of intuition; I told him to his face the decision I’d made: 
“I’m not continuing with the book any longer。” 
“What?” said Butterfly as his expression changed。 
“There’s some kind of ill…fortune in it。 Our Sultan ha

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