watched me by the light of the stove； I pulled on my clean long underwear； the
thick shirt of red broadcloth worn under armor in cold weather； woolen socks；
the boots of yellow leather； and over them； my gaiters。 Removing it from its
case； I was delighted to put on my breastplate； then I turned my back toward
Butterfly and as if ordering a pageboy； had him do up the laces of the armor
tightly and ordered him to attach my shoulder plates。 As I was putting on my
vambraces； gloves； the camel hair sword belt and finally the gold…worked
helmet that I wore for ceremonies； I proudly declared that henceforth battle
scenes would never again be depicted as they’d been in days of old。 “It is no
longer permissible to depict the cavalries of two opposing armies uniformly
using the same pattern as a guide and simply flipping it over to draw the
enemy’s forces；” I said。 “From now on； the battle scenes made in the
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workshops of the Ottomans will be drawn the way I’ve seen them and drawn
them： a tumult of armies； horses； armor…clad warriors and bloodied bodies！”
Seized by envy； Butterfly said； “The illuminator draws not what he sees； but
what Allah sees。”
“Yes；” I said； “however； exalted Allah certainly sees everything we see。”
“Of course； Allah sees what we see； but He doesn’t perceive it the way we
do；” said Butterfly as if chastising me。 “The confused battle scene that we
perceive in our bewilderment； He perceives in His omniscience as two
opposing armies in an orderly array。”
Naturally； I had a response。 I wanted to say； “It falls to us to believe in Allah
and to depict only what He reveals to us； not what He conceals；” but I held my
peace。 And I hadn’t kept quiet because Butterfly would otherwise accuse me of
imitating the Europeans or because he was relentlessly striking one end of his
dagger against my helmet and back； supposedly to test my armor； but because
I calculated that only if I restrained myself and won over Black and this pretty…
eyed oaf could we deliver ourselves from Olive’s scheming。
Once they knew they wouldn’t find what they were looking for here； they
told me what they were after。 There was a picture that the unspeakable
murderer had absconded with…I said that my house was already searched for
the same reason； as a result； the wise murderer most certainly would’ve hid
that picture where nobody could ever find it （I was thinking of Olive）； but did
they heed my words？ Black explained the horse drawn with clipped nostrils
and how the three…day period Our Sultan had granted Master Osman was well
nigh over。 When I inquired further about the significance of the clipped
nostrils； Black told me； looking straight into my eyes； how Master Osman；
analyzing them as a clue； linked them to Olive； although he suspected me even
more； being no stranger to my ambitions。
At first； it appeared they’d e here prepared to believe that I was the
murderer and to find proof of it； but in my opinion； this wasn’t the sole
reason for their visit。 They’d also e knocking at my door out of loneliness
and desperation。 When I opened the door； the dagger that Butterfly pointed at
me shook in his hand。 Not only were they terrified； thinking that the
despicable murderer； whose identity they were at such pains to uncover； might
corner them in the darkness； smiling like an old friend； and swiftly cut their
throats； they were also losing sleep for fear that Master Osman might conspire
with Our Sultan and the Head Treasurer to turn them over to the torturer—
not to mention the mob of Erzurumis roaming the streets； which demoralized
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them。 In short； they desired my friendship。 But Master Osman had instilled in
them the opposite notion。 It was my present obligation to show them sincerely
how Master Osman was mistaken； which is what they’d hoped for deep down
anyway。
Simply declaring that the great master was mistaken and that he’d bee
senile would surely arouse Butterfly’s enmity。 For in the watery eyes of the
handsome illuminator； whose eyelashes fluttered like the insect he was named
for as he banged upon my armor with his dagger； I could still make out the
pale fire of love he felt for the great master； whose favorite he had been。 In my
youth； the closeness of those two； master and apprentice； was enviously
ridiculed by the others； but they themselves paid no mind； they’d stare into
each other’s eyes at length and fondle each other in front of everybody； later
still； Master Osman would declare tactlessly that Butterfly was possessed of
the most agile pen and the most mature color brush。 This declaration—often
quite true—became the source of endless puns among the jealous miniaturists
using pens； brushes； inkpots and pen boxes in vulgar allusions； devilish
parisons and indecent metaphors。 For this reason； I’m not the only one
who senses that Master Osman wants Butterfly to succeed him as head of the
workshop。 I’ve long understood from the way he talks to others about my
belligerence； inpatibility and stubbornness that this is what the great
master has hidden in the back of his mind。 He thinks； justifiably； that I tend
far more toward the European methods than Olive or Butterfly； and could
never resist Our Sultan’s new desires by saying； “The great masters of old
would never paint this way。”
I knew I’d be able to cooperate closely with Black because our eager new
groom must’ve wanted to plete his deceased Enishte’s book； not only to
conquer beautiful Shekure’s heart and show her that he could fill her father’s
shoes； but also； most probably； to ingratiate himself with Our Sultan by the
quickest means possible。
Therefore； I introduced the matter quite unexpectedly by saying that
Enishte’s book was a blissful miracle without equal in the world。 When this
masterpiece was pleted； in keeping with Our Sultan’s decree and the late
Enishte Effendi’s desire； the whole world would marvel over the Ottoman
Sultan’s power and wealth as well as the talent； elegance and ability of us； His
master miniaturists。 Not only would they fear us； our power and our
relentlessness； they’d be bewildered； seeing how we laughed and cried； how we
stole from the Frankish masters； how we saw the most buoyant colors and the
minutest of details； and ultimately； they would acknowledge with terror what
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only the most intelligent sultans understood： that we were situated both
within the world of our paintings and far far away in the pany of the old
masters。
Butterfly had been striking me all along； first like a child eager to determine
whether or not my armor was genuine； next； like a friend who wanted to test
its strength； and finally； like an incorrigible and jealous foe who wanted to do
me harm。 In truth； he