“You searched and searched but you couldn’t find my hidden treasure,” I said.

Out of habit, I used the back of my hand as a broom to sweep away the ashes in what used to be a hearth and when an old stove emerged, I lifted up its iron lid with a creak. I held the lamp to the small mouth of the stove. I shall never forget how Stork leapt forward and greedily grabbed the leather pouches within before Black could act. He was about to open the pouches right there in the mouth of the oven, but as I had returned to the large salon, followed by Black who was afraid of remaining here, Stork bounded after us on his long thin legs.

When they saw that one pouch contained a pair of clean woolen socks, my drawstring trousers, my red underwear, the nicest of my undershirts, my silk shirt, my straight razor, my comb and other belongings, they were momentarily at a loss. Out of the other pouch, which Black opened, emerged fifty-three Venetian gold coins, pieces of gold leaf that I’d stolen from the workshop in recent years, my sketchbook of model forms which I concealed from everybody, more stolen gold leaf hidden between the pages, indecent pictures-some of which I’d drawn myself and some I’d collected-a keepsake agate ring from my dear mother along with a lock of her white hair, and my best pens and brushes.

“If I were truly a murderer as you suspect,” I said with stupid pride, “the final picture would’ve emerged from my secret treasury, not these things.”

“Why these things?” asked Stork.

“When the Imperial Guard searched my house, as they did yours, they shamelessly pilfered two of these gold pieces that I’ve spent my entire life collecting. I thought about how we’d be searched again on account of this wretched murderer-and I was right. If that last picture were with me, it would be here.”

It was a mistake to utter this last sentence; nevertheless, I could sense that they were put at ease and no longer afraid that I’d strangle them in a dark corner of the lodge. Have I gained your trust as well?

At this time, however, I was overwhelmed by a severe restlessness; no, it wasn’t that my illuminator friends, whom I’d known since childhood, saw how I’d been greedily squirreling money away for years, how I bought and saved gold, or even that they learned about my sketchbooks and obscene pictures. In truth, I regretted having shown them all of these things in a moment of panic. Only the mysteries of a man who lived quite aimlessly could be exposed so easily.

“Nonetheless,” said Black much later, “we must come to a consensus about what we will say under torture if Master Osman happens to turn us over without any forewarning.”

A hollowness and depression descended upon us. In the pale light of the lamp, Stork and Butterfly were staring at the vulgar pictures in my sketchbook. They displayed an air of complete indifference; in fact, they were even happy in some horrid way. I had a strong urge to look at the picture-I could very well 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:

“…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 come 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 overcome 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 come 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 comforted 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.