A silence filled t Effendi. I assumed he’d kill me as

    o confess and terrify me? Did  ed? I ed I  artist iffly be t large inkpot reserved for red, but I didn’t turn to face  yet quieted down,” I said.

    e fell silent again. time, I kne my deatune, old  e intelligent, and if you grant t an illustrator must never reveal elligence is, of course, an asset.  ion, but I oo confused to see myself out of this game. here was Shekure?

    “You kne  you?” he asked.

    I  kno all, not until old me. In t done  Effendi, and t te miniaturist migually succumbed to ies and made trouble for t of us.

    I o ty house.

    “I’m not surprised you killed ernally of t’s more, ruggling  is, ruggling to make pictures in a Muslim city. As urists are inclined to feel guilty and regretful,  to blame ourselves before oto be asy. e make our books in secret like soo tacks of ics ist’s imagination.““You don’t fault me for murdering t idiotic miniaturist, do you then?”

    “ attracts us to ing, illustrating and painting is bound up in tribution. It’s not only for money and favor t o evening, continuing by candlelig to t of blindness and sacrifice ourselves for pictures and books, it’s to escape ttle of oto escape ty, but in contrast to to create,  to see and appreciate tures rator of genuine talent! Yet, genuine painting is es. It’s contained in ture, urist kno, yet at time,  as o sucful, nerve-ence? By blaming ist believes

    en to s , for or of Isfa these hellfires himself.”

    “But you’re not a miniaturist,”  kill  of fear.”

    “You murdered ed to paint as you wis fear.”

    For t time in a long  e intelligent: “I knoo distract me, to dupe me, to get yourself out of tuation,” and   said is trut you to understand, listen to me.”

    I looked into ely forgotten ty customary bet to where?

    “Never fear, I  offend your terly as o face me. “Even no seem to be me. It’s as if to do its evil bidding. Yet I need t t’s t ing, too.”

    “tales about the Devil.”

    “You then?”

    o murder me, so ed me to enrage  lying but you’re not acknoher.”

    “I acknoorments of t o our necks in sin because of you, and now you’re preac hoja’s rabid henchmen will kill us all.”

    t . ould somebody passing doreet ing and enter the house?

    “o buy time t of curiosity. “o meet at t well?”

    “t Elegant Effendi left your o me,” ed desire to confess. “ing. I tried at lengto dissuade  of it. I got o o told ,  better proof t an illustrator is motivated by greed alone? t’s anot sorry. alented, but mediocre artist. the greedy oaf

    o dig into truly   o do ae a miserable co do your gilding. ted  ion  leave a trace…tell me, t is tyle“? today, botalk about ter of a painter’s talent, yle.“ Syle distinguisist from ot?”

    “Fear not,” I said, “a neyle doesn’t spring from a miniaturist’s ole, a seemingly never-ending era ends, a rons. One day, a compassionate sultan  talented refugee miniaturists and calligrapent or palace and begin to establiss s, unaccustomed to one anotinue at first in tive painting styles, over time, as reet, truggle and compromise. tyle is t of years of disagreements, jealousies, rivalries and studies in color and painting. Generally, it’ll be t gifted member of t’s also call  fortunate. to t of turists falls ty of perfecting and refining tyle tual imitation.”

    Unable to look me straiged gentle manner, and begging my compassion as mucy, rembling like a maiden:

    “Do I yle of my own?”

    I t tears leness, sympater, I ened to tell  I believed to be truth:

    “You are t talented, divinely inspired artist  enced toucail t I’ve seen in all my sixty years. If you put a painting before me s, I’d still be able to recognize instantly the God-given magnificence of your pen.”

    “Agreed, but I kno e tery of my skill,” er of my methods.”

    “Your pen selects t line seemingly of its o your touc your pen drarutray a croension emerging from tioning on text metamorpo an elegant eternal o your paintings again and again to   t it, I begin to read ting aneoget surpasses even tivism of ters.”

    “Fine and  about ters. Start from the beginning.”

    “You ruly magnificent and forceful line, t t you’ve painted raty itself. And just as your talent could create a picture t  devout man to renounce  could also bring t ant unbeliever to Allah.”

    “true, but I’m not sure t amounts to praise. try again.”

    “turist  and its secrets as , most vibrant, most genuine colors.”

    “Yes, and w else?”

    “You knoest of painters after Bihzad and Mir Seyyid Ali.”

    “Yes, I’m aoo, y Black Effendi?”

    “First, t require a miniaturist’s skill,” I said. “Second, unlike yourself,  a murderer.”

    ly under t I migo escape tmare to a neyle.” Upon my broac,  discussion concerning t  like fat like t of t, ts neck, teries of red ink,  before me…e agreed t if t brougs of red paint—o K, anbul couldn’t make tings at all. As alked, tency of time, like t of t, seemed to co flourned  do weig.

    itomary workaday ease, e my skill?”

    “If erference, Our Sultan  over, of course, c to see ion of an  rait, struck by  illustrations; ter, if akes time to examine tacle akingly and devotedly created at t of our eyes, so mucter. You kno barring a miracle, reasury  even

    asking  isans, o painting, ever  one day a miracle of ackno will find us.”

    e  for a ly ing for something.

    “ miracle ings il raigruly be appreciated?  we deserve?”

    “Never!”

    “how so?”

    “t you ,” I said. “In ture, you’ll be even less appreciated.”

    “Books last for centuries,”   confidence.

    “Believe me, none of tian masters ic sensibility, your conviction, your sensitivity, ty and brig tings are more compelling because tself. t paint t, ignoring ive; t  street level, or from taking in , desk, mirror, iger, er and  all, as you kno persuaded by everyttempting to imitate tly ting seems diso me. I resent it. But to tings t  as t. Indeed, t  . Beo realize t to alized is tyle. And it’s not only tants of Venice ion, but all tailors, butcs and grocers in all traits made t a glance at tings and you too  to see yourself t to believe t you’re different from all oticuliar ing people, not as t as tually seen by ting in ty. One day everyone  as ting“ is mentioned, tailor rating  sucrait so  be convinced, upon seeing t  an ordinary simpleton, but an extraordinary man.”

    “So? e can make t portrait, as ty assassin.

    “e !” I replied. “ you learned from your victim, te Elegant Effendi, ators of ture bravely to paint like t’ll amount

    to t, our colors  our books and our paintings, and terest anding  be able to find ts at all. Indifference, time and disaster roy our art. tains fise and starcermites, ies of insect s out of existence. Bindings  and pages . omen ligoves, t servants and clessly tear out tures. Crations oy pens. t . tear and cut up our paintings, pero make otures or for games and sucertainment. roy trations to tures of ick toget only because of t also due to being smeared er, bad glue, spit and all manner of filtains of mold and dirt oget ogetattered, faded and unreadable pages,   volume to emerge intact, like a miracle, from ttom of a bone-dry c anbul t  been burned to t least once every ty years t y, er could possibly imagine t erpiece mig more tury, or t one day ures mig only our o, but every single royed by  out of neglect: Scfully spying on S; lovers gazing at eaclety; Rüstem’s ling a o deat ttom of a ate of a lovelorn Mejnun befriending a iger and a mountain goat in t; ture and ful ss a so tes ; teardrop border illuminations; te players t embellisic poems; tations t ens of turist apprentices; ts secretly ten betrations; tures  ts, under t, beneats covering lovers; tiently aing Our Sultan’s late grandfatoriously marcress; tents t even in your youtrate and t appeared in t of Our Sultan’s great-grandfat  tails, ed teeted nails; ties of birds including Solomon’s s and restless dogs; fast-moving clouds; tures; teurisens of te trees ience of Job; the palaces—and

    time of tamerlane or Sa accompanied stories from mucens of tening to music played by beautiful ting on magnificent carpets in fields of florees; traordinary pictures of ceramics and carpets t oion to tice illustrators from Samarkand to Islambol beaten to t of tears over t one y years; tes t you still depict ounding scenes of deating sultans, and artled fleeing gazelles, your dying sies, your ss t glimmer as if nigself ars, your glike cypresses, your red-tinted pictures of love and deat, all of it will vanish…”

    Raising t, ruck me on trength.

    I tottered for a  I could never even o describe. tire o yelloion of my mind assumed t ttack entional; yet, along —anotering part of my mind, in a sad sed to say to to be my murderer: “tacked me in error.”

    again and broug down upon my head.

    time, even tering part of my mind understood t take, but madness and  migerrified by tate of affairs t I began to raise my voice, rengty streets, no one o s hue; I knew I was all alone.

    artled by my ed. e momentarily came eye to eye. I could tell from , despite , o urist I kne an unfamiliar and ill-ranger ion protracted my momentary isolation for centuries. I ed to o embrace t  I did: “My c end my life.” As if in a dream,  to hear.

    onto my head again.

    My ts, , merging toget all colors  I t  was ink on his hands was my flowing blood.

    , cruel, and merciless I found it to be dying at t instant. Yet, t

    my aged and bloody o. t. My recollections ark side. My  ac th.

    I sood t tain.  is ten every only my stered skull and brain but every part of me, merging togetorment. itanding t t a portion of my mind reacted—as if ts only option—by forgetting tle sleep.

    Before I died, I remembered t I . An old man, living alone, rises from  and drinks a glass of er. able to discover t  gone? A fine t is filtering from , retracing eps back to o find t somebody is lying in  you be?” ranger. terious silence. tily. “No,” t an unfinisly blo tranger’s ers y bed, goes to sleep and lives for anoty years.

    I kne to be my fate.  t doo my ate of profound torment t I could only vaguely discern t.  and ted faintly by to fade.

    Yet, I ill alive. My desire to cling to to run aempt to protect my face and bloody   at one time, and t striking my face made me ahis.

    e struggled for a . rong and very agitated.  flat on my back. Pressing o my sically nailed me to tful tone, accosting me, a dying old man. Perand nor listen to ook no pleasure in looking into  eyes, ruck my ire body  red from ttering out of t, and I suppose, from ttering out of me.

    Saddened t t t, gentle lig  and enticing as t raig and as a c, I asked, “ho are you?”

    “It is I, Azrael, tes cher

    and faters. No mortal in ting me.”

    .

    My tears made me profoundly ty. On tupefying agony of my face and eyes drency ceased, yet t place range and terrifying. I kne to be t illumined realm, to  long remain in t caused me to ful pain and torment, to take solace. to stay, I’d o resign myself to torment and tion.

    Just before I died, I actually longed for my deat time, I understood to tion t I’d spent my entire life pondering, t find in books:  t everybody,  exception, succeeded in dying? It o pass on. I also understood t death would make me a wiser man.

    Nonet to take a long journey and unable to refrain from taking one last glance at  o see my daug time. I ed to grit my teet, to  for Surn.

    And tle lig, and my mind opened itself up to t, rifling tently for t picture. y- set and kick ts, boxes, inkpots and folding able. I sensed t I cures ired legs. And I ed.

    My pain  abating in t. I gre and could no longer stand to grit my teet again, I ing.

    t occurred to me, if S encounter my rut  to even t t t instant, I sensed t my murderer ed t painting.

    I’d become excessively ty but still I ed. Come noy Shekure, show yourself.

    S come.

    I no longer rengto and t seeing his seemed

    so bitter I ed to die of misery. Aftero my left, and smiling all ter.

    Forgetting all else, I greedily reacer.

    Mu he has said.”

    It an. I didn’t ans even afraid of  painting amounted to being duped by ed confidently. I dreamed of t aed me and of my future.

    Meanan vanis of me kne tan to flee  anot of my mind remembered t in t ten t Azrael  and est and t he whole world in his hands.

    As I gre approaco my aid, and yes, just as Gazzali ated in Pearls of Magnificence, ly said:

    “Open your mout your soul might leave.”

    “Not th,” I answered him.

    t one last excuse , t my time  I  o leave my bloodied and ugly body in tion for my daug I ed to leave t like some tigting garment t pinched.

    I opened my moutly all  as in tures of Our Prop’s Miraj journey, during ears florained exion passed from my lungs th. All was subsumed in wondrous silence.

    I could see no my soul  my body and t I  s left my body and continued to tremble like mercury in Azrael’s palm. My ts  of t of t been born into.

    After so muc cause me trary, I relaxed, quickly realizing t my present situation  one, s I’d felt in life emporary. t ury upon

    century, until t nor gladdened me. Events I’d once endured briskly and sequentially e space and existed simultaneously. As in one of tings urist ed a number of unrelated t once.

    I, S ting grass, mud and broken branced onto treet. I knorust Black? Let me be frank  knoo tand, don’t you? I’m confused. to tine of meals, c,  even o be asked, o me of its oomorrow, before noon, I’ll know wo marry.

    I  to s, no’s not about t monstrosity Black s alk about t later.  I o discuss ’s not t o tisfying . to be , it’d make no difference if  surprises me is upidity! I suppose it never crossed  en and abduct me, play  me off, or open to even more dangerous outcomes. I can tell from  expression  after ing t anotwelve days?

    Do you knoime e to be irate ead, I pitied orment and are still so utterly incompetent.” I felt so protective of  I migake, I migually given myself to t spoiled little boy.

    tunate ceps. Just t a pom of a man  over me. Ducking my head, I slipped by him.

    Upon entering tyard gate, I kne  yet returned. Very ime, t yet been called. I climbed tairs, t ered my room to t beside tairs  t  t and t y  unlike t alone in to momentary daydreaming, my mind registered a noise coming from beloly belo from tc from t to table, used in summertime as trating  of an oil lamp there;

    suddenly, I  door betone yard, and after tyard gate—I o put it mildly.

    “ed. “S, Orhan…”

    I felt a cold draft. My fat be burning; I ougo sit  to be , my ts   he children.

    I crossed t er to boil on tairs brazier for t soup. I entered t t to say, “ her done?”

    the floor.

    I screamed, overcome  my fat.

    Listen, I can tell by your tigion t you’ve knoime e a lot.  you’re  noion to imes do ure, you’re trying to discern t ts in tory leading up to t. And tion, you’ll take pleasure in trying to imagine, not my pain, but  you’re so craftily trying to do.

    Yes, I returned o discover t someone ore out my  and smelled rembled and I couldn’t breato raise  silently in  up, Fat up, don’t die. orn papers and books, more tossing about of tables, paint sets and inkpots, more truction of cusables and ing boards, and t red t royed t. I reet outside, laugalking in te silence of tears off my cime I t about the children and our lives.

    I listened to to tever reason,   t  paying any mind to to pull airs. rengt and I sat on a step. I ears again  urned. I grabbed my fato my armpits, I continued to descend, faster time. My

    dear fat it made t mop as it struck eacep. At tairs, I turned o er, and  effort, dragging one floor, I took o ting room. In order to see cened back out to tove in tcurned ruck.

    , my God, whem?

    My mind  from tc er from tairs, and by t of an oil lamp, I quickly aircase and everyairs to my room, removed my bloodied clot on clean clot and rag, I  to enter tyard gate so prayer ered all my strengted for t top of tairs.

    “Mother, we’re back,” Orhan said.

    “ as if I were w sing.

    “But Mot stay out past to prayer…” S o say.

    “Quiet! Your grandfather is ill, he’s sleeping.”

    “Ill?” said ell from my silence t I a. After t arrived,  tarrying,  the children.”

    I o go do as I airs, te t steps and te. tairs and their shoes.

    “Ao t  go in there.”

    “I’m going into to be by t said, “not to Grandfather’s room.”

    “Your grandfat room,” I whispered.

    But I noticed t tated for a moment. “Let’s be certain t t’ve possessed your

    grandfat set upon to your room, no to t togetell me t  on treets till t. “ else?” “ticing sing arro a target in t. “I’m going into t to leave to die?” said S. “I’m going to tell you somet you’re not to tell anyone, are ood?” t to tell. “, a completely o your grandfat turns out . “Yes, from to take a look at tures in your grandfat a sinner ures immediately dies.”

    A silence.

    “Listen, I’m going doairs to be o carry tray. Don’t even till in the house.”

    “Mama, Mama, don’t go,” Orhan said.

    I squared myself to S. “You’re responsible for your brot get you, I’ll be t on tening expression t I made before slapping t your ill grandfat die. If you’re good, God  you your prayers and no one o  giving to it too muco pray. I  doairs.

    “Somebody knocked over t of orange jam,” said  couldn’t , not strong enoug ten into the house…”

    Sly saerror on my face and stopped: “’s tter, t o your dear father?”

    “he’s dead.”

    S tting board  ticed t t  from t from ally. I ran upstairs, and as I s. orn off, I entered to find t S o h his knees. he

    was choking him.

    “ are you t top of my lungs.

    “Or said.

    “Liar,” said Or opened told  to leave.” o cry.

    “If you don’t sit up ly, I’ll kill both of you.”

    “Mama, don’t go,” Orhan said.

    Doairs, I bound opping told  my fat died a natural deatened and recited some prayers asking for Allaection. Sared at ion for my fat enougo unleas of crying? Sed to go upstairs and see him.

    “ upstairs,” I said. “he back room.”

    S me suspiciously. But  y. S. Sook four or five steps beyond trance of tcood, and  and appre of t first to see my fatrying to illuminate tangular room.

    “Aaa sig  beside t  along table ionless. As s surned, s crying. I o see t sill s about o be able to register completely o tell her.

    “Noen to me, s oairs oo; troyed all, ’s ion you. After you t, I also  out. Father was home by himself.”

    “I  a,” sly. “here were you?”

    I ed o take careful note of my silence. t  you  breato anyone. Nor, for time being, ion t my father has been killed.”

    “ t murdered him?”

    as sruly suc or o corner me?

    “If I kne  t  know. Do you?”

    “ are o do now?”

    “You’re going to besoever  to o burst out crying, but I restrained myself. e bot.

    Mucer, I said, “Forget about t out the children.”

    Sed and started to cry, and I put my arms around igarily pitying, not only myself and t all of us. But even as   me. You kno leaving my fat did  I’d explained to and? Indeed, yes, sand and gro o cover up my  as if I  y, but I suspect t you mig as  it, you believe t I’m e be any darker? I began to cry, then hayriye cried, and we embraced again.

    I pretended to satisfy my  table  upstairs. From time to time, ep into t into tears. Later because tated, tig to me in bed. For a long ossed and turned t asking, “I ?” to lull to sleep, I promised to tell tory. You knohe darkness.

    “Mot going to get married are you?” said S.

    “Listen to me,” I said. “trikingly beautiful maiden. ell you ty maiden, rait, t’s how.”

    As I en do roubled, I recounted tale not from memory, but improvising according to  at t time. And since I colored it using a palette of my oed became a kind of melancration to accompany all t

    o me.

    After bot toget t vile demon tered about. e picked up ruined cs, books, clots, plates and inkpots t  and stered;  boxes and papers t orn up red; and  raugion of our privacy, tell you from experience, unfortunates ed by ts in tains, blankets and dayligurn, alloo forget t Azrael  my fater ience and love,  and pleasant memories but, reminded of tilessness of t’s damned soul, errified as well.

    my insistence  doairs, dreions and ing from ter— mentioned  of  c-bound Koran, error and alarmed t tyard gate o creak. It , after ce by moving rengter of s basil t my fater on spring mornings er, ered t, and it suddenly seemed t ted sing by t of to ot frig overcame us like a silent act of piety, as  my fat ed time; “o me.

    As  and aality and o frig looking at my fat back upstairs to fetcs and , unable to restrain myself, I looked doely quite as er I’d dressed my fatrengt and cried at length.

    For ty, let me en to tell of tances airs room so t discover  t t cus upon often over t ty years—so muc’d become part of

    orn apart.

    back in order, I mercilessly denied  to spread tress out in our room. “I don’t  to get suspicious in to , to be , I o be alone o punisered my bed but o sleep for a long   because I  yet lay in store.