I noted in the faces of my old companions fear, bewilderment and the inescapable feeling devouring us all: jealousy. Along with the angry revulsion they felt toward a man hopelessly mired in sin, they were also envious.
“During the nights I spent here staring at this picture by the light of an oil lamp, I felt for the first time that God had forsaken me and only Satan would befriend me in my isolation,” I said. “I know that even if I were truly the center of the world-and each time I looked at the picture this is precisely what I wanted-despite the splendor of the red that ruled the painting, despite being surrounded by all of these things I loved, including my dervish companions and the woman who resembled beautiful Shekure, I’d still be lonely. I’m not afraid of possessing character and individuality, nor do I fear others bowing down and worshiping me; on the contrary, this is what I desire.”
“You mean to say that you feel no remorse?” said Stork like a man who’d just left a Friday sermon.
“I feel like the Devil not because I’ve murdered two men, but because my portrait has been made in this fashion. I suspect that I did away with them so I could make this picture. But now the isolation I feel terrifies me. Imitating the Frankish masters without having attained their expertise makes a miniaturist even more of a slave. Now I’m desperate to escape this trap. Of course, all of you know: After all is said and done, I killed them both so the workshop might persist as it always has, and Allah certainly knows this too.”
“Yet this will bring even greater trouble upon us,” said my beloved Butterfly.
I abruptly grabbed the wrist of that fool Black, who was still looking at the picture, and with all my strength, digging my nails into his flesh, I angrily squeezed and twisted it. The dagger that he rather timidly held dropped from his hand. I grabbed it from the ground.
“But now you won’t be able to resolve your troubles by handing me over to the torturer,” I said. As if to poke out his eye, I brought the point of the dagger toward Black’s face. “Give me the plume needle.”
He took it out and handed it to me with his good hand, and I stuck it into my sash. I focused my gaze into his lamblike eyes.
“I pity beautiful Shekure because she had no alternative but to marry you,” I said. “If I hadn’t been forced to kill Elegant Effendi to save you all from ruin, she would’ve married me and been happy. Indeed, I was the one who most fully understood the tales and talents of the Europeans as her father recounted them to us. So, listen carefully to the last of what I will tell you: There is no longer any place here in Istanbul for us master miniaturists who wish to live by skill and honor alone. Yes, this is what I’ve realized. If we’re reduced to imitating the Frankish masters, as the late Enishte and Our Sultan desired, we will be restrained, if not by the Ezurumis and those like Elegant Effendi, then by the justified cowardice within us, and we won’t be able to continue. If we fall sway to the Devil and continue, betraying everything that has come before in a futile attempt to attain a style and European character, we will still fail-just as I failed in making this self-portrait despite all my proficiency and knowledge. This primitive picture I’ve made, without even achieving a fair resemblance of myself, revealed to me what we’ve know all along without admitting it: The proficiency of the Franks will take centuries to attain. Had Enishte Effendi’s book been completed and sent to them, the Venetian masters would’ve smirked, and their ridicule would’ve reached the Venetian Doge-that is all. They’d have quipped that the Ottomans have given up being Ottoman and would no longer fear us. How wonderful it would be if we could persist on the path of the old masters! But no one wants this, neither His Excellency Our Sultan, nor Black Effendi-who is melancholy because he has no portrait of his precious Shekure. In that case, sit yourselves down and do nothing but ape the Europeans century after century! Proudly sign your names to your imitation paintings. The old masters of Herat tried to depict the world the way God saw it, and to conceal their individuality they never signed their names. You, however, are condemned to signing your names to conceal your lack of individuality. But there is an alternative. Each of you has perhaps been summoned, and if so, you’re hiding it from me: Akbar, Sultan of Hindustan, is strewing about money and blandishments, trying to gather in his court the most talented artists in the world. It’s quite apparent that the book to be completed for the thousandth year of Islam will not be prepared here in Istanbul, but in the workshops of Agra.”
“Must an artist first become a murderer to be as high and mighty as you?” asked Stork.
“Nay, it’s enough to be the most gifted and the most talented,” I said heedlessly.
A proud cockerel crowed twice in the distance. I gathered my bundle and my gold pieces, my notebook of forms, and put my illustrations into my portfolio. I considered how I might kill each of them one by one with the dagger, whose point I held at Black’s throat, but I felt nothing but affection for my boyhood friends-including Stork, who’d stuck the plume needle into my eyes.
I screamed at Butterfly, who had stood up, and thus scared him into sitting back down. Now, confident I’d be able to escape the lodge safely, I hastened toward the door; and at the threshold, I impatiently uttered the momentous words I’d been planning to say:
“My flight from Istanbul shall resemble Ibn Shakir’s flight from Baghdad under Mongol occupation.”
“In that case, you must head West instead of East,” said jealous Stork.
“To God belongs the East and the West,” I said in Arabic like the late Enishte.
“But East is east and West is west,” said Black.
“An artist should never succumb to hubris of any kind,” said Butterfly, “he should simply paint the way he sees fit rather than troubling over East or West.”
“So very true,” I said to beloved Butterfly. “Accept my kiss.”
I’d hardly taken two steps toward him when Black dutifully pounced upon me. In one hand I held my satchel containing my clothes and gold coins, and under my other arm, the portfolio filled with pictures. Taking care to protect my belongings, I failed to protect myself. I couldn’t prevent him from grabbing the forearm of the hand that held the dagger. But luck did not shine upon him, either; he tripped slightly over a low worktable and momentarily lost his balance. Instead of taking control of my arm, he ended up hanging by it. Kicking him with all my might and biting his fingers, I freed myself. He howled, fearing for his life. Then, I stepped on the same hand, causing him great pain. Brandishing the dagger before the other two, I shouted:
“Halt!”
They stayed seated where they were. I stuck the point of the dagger into one of Black’s nostrils, the way Keykavus had done in the legend. When it began to bleed, bitter tears flowed from his imploring eyes.
“Now, tell me then,” I said, “shall I go blind?”
“According to legend, blood clots in the eyes of some and not in others. If Allah is pleased with your artistry, he’ll bestow His own magnificent blackness upon you and take you under His care. In that case, you shall behold not this wretched world, but the exquisite vistas that He sees. If He is displeased, you shall continue to see the world the way you now do.”
“I shall practice genuine artistry in Hindustan,” I said. “I’ve yet to make the picture Allah will judge me by.”
“Don’t nourish the illusion over much that you’ll be able to escape Frankish methods,” said Black. “Did you know that Akbar Khan encourages all his artists to sign their work? The Jesuit priests of Portugal long ago introduced European painting and methods there. They are everywhere now.”