surmise which one it was； I rose and circled around behind them； gazing
silently at the obscene picture I’d painted； thrilled as though I were recalling a
now distant yet blissful memory。 Black joined us。 For whatever reason； that
the four of us were looking at that illustration relieved me。
“Could the blind and the seeing ever be equal？” said Stork much later。 Was
he implying that even though what we saw was obscene； the pleasure of sight
that Allah had bestowed upon us was glorious？ Nay； what would Stork know
of such matters？ He never read the Koran。 I knew that the old masters of Herat
would frequently recite this verse。 The great masters used this verse as a
response to enemies of painting who warned that illustrating was forbidden
by our faith and that painters would be sent to Hell on Judgment Day。 Until
that magical moment； however； I’d never even once heard from Butterfly those
words that now emerged from his mouth as if on their own：
“I’d like to depict how the blind and the seeing are not equal！”
“Who are the blind and the seeing？” Black said naively。
“The blind and the seeing are not equal； it’s what ‘ve ma yestevil’ama ve’l
basiru’nun means；” Butterfly said and continued：
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“…nor are the darkness and the light。
The shade and the heat are not equal；
nor are the living and the dead。“
I shuddered for an instant； thinking of the fates of Elegant Effendi； Enishte
and our storyteller brother who was killed tonight。 Were the others as
frightened as I？ Nobody moved for a time。 Stork was still holding my book
open； but seemed not to see the vulgarity I’d painted though we were all still
staring at it！
“I’d want to paint Judgment Day；” said Stork。 “The resurrection of the
dead； and the separation of the guilty from the innocent。 Why is it that we
cannot depict the Sacred Word of our faith？”
In our youth； working together in the same room of our workshop； we
would periodically lift our faces from our work boards and tables； just as the
aging masters would do to rest their eyes； and begin talking about any topic
that happened to enter our minds。 Back then； just as we now did while
looking at the book open before us； we didn’t look at one another as we
chatted。 For our eyes would be turned toward some distant spot outside an
open window。 I’m not sure if it was the excitement of recalling something
remarkably beautiful from my halcyon apprenticeship days； or the sincere
regret I felt at that moment because I hadn’t read the Koran for so long； or the
horror of the crime I’d seen at the coffeehouse that night； but when my turn
came to speak； I grew confused； my heart quickened as if I’d e under the
threat of some danger； and as nothing else came to mind； I simply said the
following：
“You remember those verses at the end of ”The Cow‘ chapter？ I’d want
most of all to depict them： “Oh God； judge us not by what we’ve forgotten
and by our mistakes。 Oh God； burden us not with a weight we cannot bear； as
with those who have gone before us。 Forgive and absolve us of our
transgressions and sins！ Treat us with mercy； my dear God。”“ My voice broke
and I was embarrassed by the tears I shed unexpectedly—perhaps because I
was wary of the sarcasm that we always kept at the ready during our
apprenticeships to protect ourselves and to avoid exposing our sensitivities。
I thought my tears would quickly abate； but unable to restrain myself； I
began to cry in great sobs。 As I wept； I could sense that each of the others was
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overe by feelings of fraternity； devastation and sorrow。 From now on； the
European style would be preeminent in Our Sultan’s workshop； the styles and
books to which we’d devoted our entire lives would slowly be forgotten—yes；
in fact； the whole venture would e to an end； and if the Erzurumis didn’t
throttle us and finish us off； the Sultan’s torturers would leave us
maimed…But as I cried； sobbed and sighed—even though I continued to
listen to the sad patter of the rain—a part of my mind sensed that these were
not the things I was actually crying about。 To what extent were the others
aware of this？ I felt vaguely guilty for my tears； which were at once genuine
and false。
Butterfly came up beside me； placed his arm upon my shoulder； stroked my
hair； kissed my cheek and forted me with honeyed words。 This show of
friendship made me cry with even more sincerity and guilt。 I couldn’t see his
face but； for some reason； I incorrectly thought he too was crying。 We sat
down。
We recalled how we’d started our workshop apprenticeships in the same
year； the strange sadness of being torn away from our mothers to suddenly
begin a new life； the pain of beatings we received from the first day； the joy of
the first gifts from the Head Treasurer； and the days we went back home；
running the whole way。 At first； only he talked while I listened sorrowfully； but
later； when Stork and； sometime afterward； Black—who came to the
workshop for a time and left it； during our early apprenticeship years—joined
our mournful conversation； I forgot that I’d just been crying and began to talk
and laugh freely with them。
We reminisced about winter mornings when we would wake early； light the
stove in the largest room of the workshop and mop the floors with hot water。
We recalled an old “master；” may he rest in peace； who was so uninspired and
cautious that he could draw only a single leaf of a single tree during the span
of a single day and who； when he saw that we were again looking at the lush
green leaves of the springtime trees through the open window rather than at
the leaf he drew； without striking us； would chastise us for the hundredth
time： “Not out there； in here！” We recalled the wailing； which could be heard
throughout the entire atelier； of the scrawny apprentice who walked toward
the door； satchel in hand； having been sent back home because the intensity of
the work caused one of his eyes to wander。 Next； we imagined how we
watched （with pleasure because it wasn’t our fault） the slow spread of a
deadly red seeping from a bronze inkpot that had cracked over a page three
illuminators had labored on for three months （it depicted the Ottoman army
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on the banks of the K？n？k River en route to Shirvan； overing the threat of
starvation by occupying Eresh and filling their stomachs）。 In a refined and
respectful manner； we talked about how the three of us together made love to
and together fell in love with a Circasian lady； the most beautiful of the wives
of a seventy…year…old pasha who—in consideration of his conquests； strength
and wealth�