“You’re incriminating yourself senselessly,” I said so he might be done with his ranting. “I’m convinced that the atelier could not harbor anybody capable of committing such a crime. You’re all brethren. There’s no great harm in illustrating a few subjects that haven’t been depicted previously, at least no harm so great as to be an occasion for enmity.”
As happened when I first heard the horrid news, I had an epiphany of sorts. Elegant Effendi’s murderer was one of the premier masters in the palace workshop and he was a member of the crowd before me, climbing the hill that led to the cemetery. I was also convinced that the murderer would continue with his devilry and sedition, that he was an enemy of the book I was making, and most probably, that he’d visited my house to pick up some work illustrating and painting. Had Butterfly, too, like most of the artists who frequented my house, fallen in love with Shekure? As he made his assertions, had he forgotten the times when I’d requested that he paint pictures that were contrary to his point of view, or was he just needling me with expert skill?
Nay, I thought a little while later, he couldn’t be needling me. Butterfly, like the other master illustrators, obviously owed me a debt of gratitude: With money and gifts to miniaturists dwindling, due to the wars and lack of interest on the part of Our Sultan, the sole significant source of extra income had for some time been what they earned working for me. I knew they were jealous of one another over my attentions, and for this reason-but not only for this reason-I met with them individually at my house, hardly a basis for hostility toward me. All of my miniaturists were mature enough to behave intelligently, to sincerely find a reason to admire a man to whom they were obliged for their own profit.
To relieve the silence and ensure that the previous topic of conversation wouldn’t be revisited, I said, “Oh, will His wonders never cease! They’re able to take the coffin up that hill as fast as they brought it down.”
Butterfly smiled sweetly showing all his teeth: “Due to the cold.”
Could this one actually kill a man, I wondered, for example, out of envy? Might he kill me? He had the following excuse: This man was debasing my religion. Nay, but he’s a great master, a perfect embodiment of talent, why should he resort to murder? Age means not only straining oneself climbing hills, but also, I gather, not being so afraid of death. It means a lack of desire, entering into a slave girl’s bedchamber, not in a fit of excitement, but out of custom. In a burst of intuition, I told him to his face the decision I’d made:
“I’m not continuing with the book any longer.”
“What?” said Butterfly as his expression changed.
“There’s some kind of ill-fortune in it. Our Sultan has cut off the funding. You’re to tell Olive and Stork, as well.”
Perhaps he would have inquired further, but we found ourselves on the slopes of the graveyard amid tightly spaced towering cypresses, high ferns and tombstones. As the great crowd encircled the grave site, my only clue that the body was at that very moment being lowered into the grave was the increasing intensity of the weeping and sobbing and the exclamations of bismillahi and ala milleti Resulullah.
“Uncover his face completely,” someone said.
They were removing the white shroud, and they must’ve been eye to eye with the corpse if indeed there was an eye remaining in that smashed head. I was in the back and I couldn’t see anything. I’d once gazed into the eyes of Death, not at a grave site, in an entirely different place…
A memory: Thirty years ago, Our Sultan’s grandfather, Denizen of Paradise, decided once and for all to take Cyprus from the Venetians. Sheikhulislam Ebussuut Effendi, recalling that this island was once designated a commissariat for Mecca and Medina, issued a fatwa which more or less stated that it was inappropriate for an island which had helped sustain holy sites to remain under Christian infidel control. In turn, the difficult task of informing the Venetians of this unforeseen decision, that they must surrender their island, fell to me. As a result, I was able to tour the cathedrals of Venice. Though I marveled at their bridges and palazzos, I was most enchanted by the pictures hanging in Venetian homes. Nevertheless, in the midst of this bewilderment, trusting in the hospitality displayed by the Venetians, I delivered the menacing correspondence, informing them in a haughty, supercilious fashion that Our Sultan desired Cyprus. The Venetians were so angry that in their congress, which had been hastily convened, it was decided that even to discuss such a letter was unacceptable. Furious mobs had forced me to confine myself to the Doge’s palazzo. And when some rogues managed to get past the guards and doorkeepers and had set to strangling me, two of the Doge’s personal musketeers succeeded in escorting me out one of the secret passageways to an exit that opened onto the canal. There, in a fog not unlike this one, I thought for an instant that the tall and pale gondolier dressed in white, who’d taken me by the arm, was none other than Death. I caught sight of my reflection in his eyes.
Longingly, I dreamed of finishing my book in secret and returning to Venice. I approached the grave, which had been carefully covered with dirt: At this moment, angels are interrogating him above, asking him whether he is male or female, his religion and whom he recognizes as his prophet. The possibility of my own death came to mind.
A crow alighted beside me. I gazed lovingly into Black’s eyes and asked him to take my arm and accompany me on the way back. I told him I expected him at the house early the next morning to continue working on the book. I had indeed imagined my own death, and realized, once again, that the book must be completed, whatever the cost.
I WILL BE CALLED A MURDERER
They threw cold, muddy earth onto the battered and disfigured corpse of ill-fated Elegant Effendi and I wept more than any of them. I shouted, “I want to die with him!” and “Let me share his grave!” and they held me by the waist so I wouldn’t fall in. I gasped for air and they pressed their palms to my forehead, drawing my head back so I might breathe. By the glances of the deceased’s relatives, I sensed I might have exaggerated my sobs and wailing; I pulled myself together. Based upon my excessive sorrow the workshop gossips might suppose that Elegant Effendi and I had been in love.
I hid behind a plane tree until the funeral ended to avoid drawing more attention to myself. A relative of the oaf I’d sent to Hell-an even bigger idiot than the deceased-discovered me behind the tree and stared deep into my eyes with a look he assumed was meaningful. He held me in his embrace for a while, then the ignoramus said the following: “Were you ”Saturday“ or ”Wednesday‘?“
“”Wednesday“ was the workshop name of the dearly departed for a time,” I said. He fell silent.
The story behind these workshop names, which bound us to one another like a secret pact, was simple: During our apprenticeships, when Osman the miniaturist had newly graduated from assistant master to the level of master, we all shared a great respect, admiration and love for him. He was a virtuoso and he taught us everything, for God had blessed him with an enchanting artistic gift and the intellect of a jinn. Early each morning, as was demanded of apprentices, one of us would go to the master’s home, and following respectfully behind him on the way to the workshop, carry his pen and brush box, his bag and his portfolio full of papers. So desperate were we to be near him that we’d argue and fight among ourselves to determine who would go that day.
Master Osman had a favorite. But if he were always to go, it would fan the flames of the never-ending gossip and tasteless jokes that inevitably filled the workshop, and so the great master decided that each of us would be assured a specified day of the week. The great master worked on Fridays and stayed at home Saturdays. His son, whom he loved dearly-who later betrayed him and us by quitting the trade-would accompany his father on Mondays like a common apprentice. There was also a tall thin brother of ours known as “Thursday,” a miniaturist more gifted than any of us, who passed away at a young age, succumbing to the fever brought on by a mysterious illness. Elegant Effendi, may he rest in peace, would go on Wednesdays, and was therefore known as “Wednesday.” Later, our great master meaningfully and lovingly changed our names from “Tuesday” to “Olive,” from “Friday” to “Stork,” and from “Sunday” to “Butterfly,” renaming the dearly departed as “Elegant” in allusion to the finesse of his gilding work. The great master must have said, “Welcome ”Wednesday,“ how are you this morning?” to the late Elegant just as he used to greet all of us back then.