well。 Considering this incredible possibility made my heart quicken and drew
me toward the horror of plete abandonment felt by a child who’s
suddenly lost his father。 Each time this came to mind； I had to restrain myself
from cutting Black’s throat。 I didn’t attempt to argue the point with Black or
myself： Why should the fact that we made a few foolish illustrations inspired
by European masters lower us to the level of traitors？ Once again； I thought
that behind Elegant’s death stood Stork and Olive and their schemes against
me。 I removed the sword from Black’s throat。
“Let’s go to Olive’s house together； and search it from top to bottom；” I
said。 “If the last picture is with him； at least we’ll know whom to fear。 If not；
we’ll take him with us as support and go on to raid Stork’s house。”
I told him to trust me and that his dagger was enough weaponry for the
two of us。 I apologized for not even having offered him a glass of linden tea。 As
I lifted the oil lamp from the floor； we both stared meaningfully at the cushion
upon which I’d flattened him。 I approached him with the lamp in my hand
and told him how the ever…so…faint cut on his throat would be a mark of our
friendship。 He bled only slightly。
The motion made by the Erzurumis and those pursuing them could
still be heard on the streets； but no one noticed us。 We were quick to arrive at
Olive’s house。 We knocked on the courtyard door； the door of the house； and
impatiently upon the shutters。 Nobody was home； we made so much noise
that we were certain he wasn’t sleeping。 Black gave voice to what we both were
thinking： “Shall we go inside？”
I twisted the metal loop of the door lock using the blunt edge of Black’s
dagger； then inserting it into the space between door and jamb and levering it
with all our weight； we broke the lock。 We were met by the stench of
dampness； dirt and loneliness； which had accumulated over years。 By the light
of the lamp； we noticed an unmade bed； sashes tossed randomly upon
cushions； vests； two turbans； undershirts； Nimetullah Effendi the
Nakshibendi’s Persian dictionary； a wooden turban stand； broadcloth； needle
and thread； a small copper pan full of apple peels； quite a few cushions； a
velvet bedspread； his paints； his brushes and all of his supplies。 I was on the
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verge of rifling through the writing paper； the layer upon layer of carefully
trimmed Hindustan paper； and the illuminated pages on his small desk； but I
restrained myself both because Black was more enthusiastic than I； and
because I knew full well how a master miniaturist would incur nothing but
bad luck if he went through the belongings of a less talented miniaturist。 Olive
is not as talented as is assumed； he’s merely eager。 He tries to cover up for his
lack of talent with adoration of the old masters。 The old legends； however； only
rouse an artist’s imagination； it’s the hand that does the painting。
As Black was searching meticulously through all the chests and boxes； going
as far as to check the bottoms of laundry baskets； without touching anything I
glanced at Olive’s Bursa towels； his ebony b； his dirty bath hand towel； his
rosewater bottles； a ridiculous waist cloth with an Indian block…print pattern；
quilted jackets； a heavy； dirty women’s robe with a slit； a dented copper tray；
filthy carpets and other furnishings too cheap and slovenly for the money he
earned。 Olive was either very stingy and salting his money away or he was
squandering it somehow…
“The house of a murderer； precisely；” I said later。 “There isn’t even a prayer
rug。” But this wasn’t what I was thinking。 I concentrated。 “These are the
belongings of a man who doesn’t know how to be happy…” I said。 Yet； in a
corner of my mind； I thought sadly about how misery and proximity to the
Devil nursed painting。
“Despite knowing what it takes to be content； a man might still be
unhappy；” said Black。
He placed before me a series of pictures drawn on coarse Samarkand paper；
backed with heavy sheets； which he’d removed from the depths of a chest。 We
studied the pictures： a delightful Satan all the way from Khorasan that had
emerged from beneath the ground； a tree； a beautiful woman； a dog and the
picture of Death I myself had drawn。 These were the illustrations that the
murdered storyteller hung up each night he told one of his disgraceful stories。
Prompted by Black’s question； I pointed out the picture of Death I had drawn。
“The same pictures are in my Enishte’s book；” he said。
“Both the storyteller and the proprietor of the coffeehouse realized the
wisdom of having the miniaturists render the illustrations each night。 The
storyteller would have one of us quickly dash off an illustration on one of
these coarse sheets； ask us a little about the story and about our in jokes and
then； adding some of his own material； he’d start the evening’s performance。”
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“Why did you make the same picture of Death for him that you made for
my Enishte’s book？”
“Upon the request of the storyteller； it was a lone figure on the page。 But I
didn’t draw it with attention and effort the way I had for Enishte’s book； I
drey hand felt like drawing it。 The others too； perhaps
trying to be witty； drew for the storyteller in a cruder and simpler manner
what they had made for that secret book。”
“Who made the horse；” he asked； “with the slit nostrils？”
Lowering the lamp we watched the horse in wonder。 It resembled the horse
made for Enishte’s book； but it ore careless and catered to a
simpler taste； as if somebody had not only paid the illustrator less money and
made him work faster； but also forced him to make a rougher and； I suppose
precisely for this reason； more realistic horse。
“Stork would know best who made this horse；” I said。 “He’s a conceited
fool who can’t last a day without listening to the gossip of miniaturists； that’s
why he visits the coffeehouse every night。 Yes； most certainly； Stork drew this
horse。”
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I AM CALLED “STORK”
Butterfly and Black arrived in the middle of the night； they spread the pictures
on the floor before me； and asked me to tell them who’d made which
illustration。 It reminded me of the game “Whose Turban” we used to play
when we were children： You’d draw the various headdresses of a hoja； a
cavalryman； a judge； an executioner； a head treasurer and secretary and try to
match them with the corresponding names written on other facedown sheets。
I told them I’d made the dog myself。 We’d told its story to the storyteller。 I
said that gentle Butterfly； who held a dagger to my throat； must’ve drawn
Death； over which the light of the lamp wavered pleasantly。 I remembered that
Olive h