“The Venetians measure a miniaturist’s prowess by his ability to discover novel subject matter and techniques that have never before been used,” insisted the old man arrogantly.
“Venetians die like Venetians,” said the illustrator who would soon draw me.
“All our deaths resemble one another,” said the old man.
“Legends and paintings recount how men are distinct from one another, not how everybody resembles one another,” said the wise illustrator. “The master miniaturist earns his mastery by depicting unique legends as if we were already familiar with them.”
In this manner, the conversation turned to the differences between the deaths of Venetians and Ottomans, to the Angel of Death and the other angels of Allah, and how they could never be appropriated by the artistry of the infidels. The young master who is presently staring at me with his beautiful eyes in our dear coffeehouse was disturbed by these weighty words, his hands grew impatient, he longed to depict me, yet he had no idea what kind of entity I was.
The sly and calculating old man who wanted to beguile the young master caught the scent of the young man’s eagerness. In the shadowy room, the old man bore his eyes, which glowed in the light of the idly burning oil lamp, into the miracle-handed young master.
“Death, whom the Venetians depict in human form, is to us an angel like Azrael,” he said. “Yes, in the form of a man. Just like Gabriel, who appeared as a person when he delivered the Sacred Word to Our Prophet. You do understand, don’t you?”
I realized that the young master, whom Allah had endowed with astonishing talent, was impatient and wanted to illustrate me, because the devilish old man had succeeded in arousing him with this devilish idea: What we essentially want is to draw something unknown to us in all its shadowiness, not something we know in all its illumination.
“I am not, in the least, familiar with Death,” said the miniaturist.
“We all know Death,” said the old man.
“We fear it, but we don’t know it.”
“Then it falls to you to draw that fear,” said the old man.
He was about to create me just then. The great master miniaturist’s nape was tingling; his arm muscles were tensing up and his fingers yearned for a reed pen. Yet, because he was the most genuine of great masters, he restrained himself, knowing that this tension would further deepen the love of painting in his soul.
The wily old man understood what was happening, and aiming to inspire the youth in his rendition of me, which he was certain would be completed before long, he began to read passages about me from the books before him: El-Jevziyye’s Book of the Soul, Gazzali’s Book of the Apocalypse and Suyuti.
And so, as the master miniaturist with the miracle touch was making this portrait, which you now so fearfully behold, he listened to how the Angel of Death had thousands of wings which spanned Heaven and Earth, from the farthest point in the East to the farthest point in the West. He heard how these wings would be a great comfort to the truly faithful yet for sinners and rebels as painful as a spike through the flesh. Since a majority of you miniaturists are bound for Hell, he depicted me laden with spikes. He listened to how the angel sent to you by Allah to take your lives would carry a ledger wherein all your names appeared and how, some of your names would be circled in black. Only Allah has knowledge of the exact moment of death: When this moment arrives, a leaf falls from the tree located beneath His throne and whoever lays hold of this leaf can read for whom Death has come. For all these reasons, the miniaturist depicted me as a terrifying being, but thoughtful, too, like one who understands accounts. The mad old man continued to read: when the Angel of Death, who appeared in human form, extended his hand and took the soul of the person whose time on Earth had ended, an all-encompassing light reminiscent of the light of the sun shone, and thus, the wise miniaturist depicted me bathed in light, for he also knew that this light wouldn’t be visible to those who had gathered beside the deceased. The impassioned old man read from the Book of the Soul about ancient grave robbers who had witnessed, in place of bodies riddled with spikes, only flames and skulls filled with molten lead. Hence, the wondrous illustrator, listening intently to such accounts, depicted me in a manner that would terrify whoever laid eyes on me.
Later, he regretted what he’d done. Not due to the terror with which he’d imbued his picture, but because he dared to make the illustration at all. As for me, I feel like someone whose father regards him with embarrassment and regret. Why did the miniaturist with the gifted hands regret having illustrated me?
1. Because I, the picture of Death, had not been drawn with enough mastery. As you can see, I am not as perfect as what the great Venetian masters or the old masters of Herat drew. I, too, am embarrassed by my wretchedness. The great master has not depicted me in a style befitting the dignity of Death.
2. Upon being cunningly duped by the old man, the master illustrator who drew me found himself, suddenly and unwittingly, imitating the methods and perspectives of the Frankish virtuosos. It disturbed his soul because he felt he was being disrespectful and, he sensed for the first time, oddly dishonorable toward the old masters.
3. It must’ve even dawned on him, as it does now on some of the imbeciles who have tired of me and are smiling: Death is no laughing matter.
The master miniaturist who made me now roams the streets endlessly each night in fits of regret; like certain Chinese masters, he believes he’s become what he has drawn.
I AM ESTHER
Ladies from the neighborhoods of Redminaret and Blackcat had ordered purple and red quilting from the town of Bilejik; so, early in the morning, I loaded up my makeshift satchel-the large cloth that I’d fill up and tie into a bundle. I removed the green Chinese silk that had recently arrived by way of the Portuguese trader but wasn’t selling, substituting the more alluring blue. And given the persistent snows of this endless winter, I carefully folded plenty of colorful socks, thick sashes and heavy vests, all of wool, arranging them in the center of the bundle: When I spread open my blanket a bouquet of color would bloom to make even the most indifferent woman’s heart leap. Next, I packed some lightweight, but expensive, silk handkerchiefs, money purses and embroidered washcloths especially for those ladies who called for me not to make a purchase but to gossip. I lifted the tote. My goodness, this is much too heavy, it’ll break my back. I put it down and opened it. As I stared at it, trying to determine what to leave out, I heard knocking at the door. Nesim opened it and called to me.
It was that concubine Hayriye, all flushed and blushing. She held a letter in her hand.
“Shekure sent it,” she hissed. This slave was so flustered that you’d think she was the one who’d fallen in love and wanted to get married.
With dead seriousness, I grabbed the letter. I warned the idiot to return home without being seen by anyone and she left. Nesim cast a questioning eye at me. I took up the larger, yet lighter decoy satchel I carried whenever I was out delivering my letters.
“Shekure, the daughter of Master Enishte, is burning with love,” I said. “She’s gone clear out of her mind, the poor girl.”
I cackled and stepped outside, but then was gripped by pangs of embarrassment. If truth be told, I longed to shed a tear for Shekure’s sorrows instead of making light of her dalliances. How beautiful she is, that dark-eyed melancholy girl of mine!
I ever so quickly strode past the run-down homes of our Jewish neighborhood, which looked even more deserted and pitiful in the morning cold. Much later, when I caught sight of that blind beggar who always took up his spot on the corner of Hasan’s street, I shouted as loud as I could, “Clothierrr!”