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lodger； with whom I was forced to share a caravansary cell； were going to
recount a heart…warming story。
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The Head Treasurer diffidently said； “Our Sultan； one year prior； charged me
with having an illuminated manuscript prepared under conditions of the
utmost privacy； a manuscript that would be included among the gifts meant
for an ambassadorial delegation。 In light of the secrecy of the book； His
Excellency did not deem it appropriate that Master Lokman the Royal
Historian be enlisted to write the manuscript。 Similarly； He did not venture to
involve you； ires。 Indeed； He supposed that you
were already fully engaged with the Book of Festivities。”
Upon entering this room I had abruptly assumed that some wretch had
slandered me； claiming that I was mitting heresy in such…and…such an
illustration and that I’d lampooned the Sovereign in another； I imagined with
horror that this tattler had been able to convince the Sovereign of my guilt and
that I was about to be laid out for torture with no consideration for my age。
And so to hear that the Head Treasurer was simply trying to make amends for
Our Sultan’s having missioned a manuscript from an outsider—these
words were sweeter than honey indeed。 Without learning anything new； I
listened to an account of the manuscript； about which I was already well
aware。 I was privy to the rumors about Nusret Hoja of Erzurum； and naturally；
to the intrigues within the workshop。
“Who is responsible for preparing the manuscript？” I asked。
“Enishte Effendi； as you know；” said the Head Treasurer。 Fixing his gaze into
my eyes； he added； “You were aware that he died an untimely death； that is to
say； that he was murdered； weren’t you？”
“Nay；” I said simply； like a child； and fell quiet。
“Our Sultan is quite furious；” the Head Treasurer said。
That Enishte Effendi was a dunce。 The master miniaturists always mocked
him for being more pretentious than knowledgeable； more ambitious than
intelligent。 I knew something was rotten at the funeral anyway。 How was he
killed； I wondered？
The Head Treasurer explained exactly how。 Appalling。 Dear God protect us。
Yet who could be responsible？
“The Sultan has decreed；” said the Head Treasurer； “that the book in
question should be finished as soon as possible； as with the Book of Festivities
manuscript…”
“He has also made a second decree；” said the mander of the Imperial
Guard。 “If； indeed； this unspeakable murderer is one of the miniaturists； He
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wants the black…hearted devil found。 He intends to sentence him to a
punishment such as will stand as a deterrent to one and all。”
An expression of such excitement appeared on the face of the mander
as if to suggest he already knew the monstrous punishment Our Sultan had
decreed。
I knew that Our Sultan had only recently charged these two men with this
task； thereby forcing them to cooperate—on which account they couldn’t hide
their distaste even now。 Seeing this inspired in me a love for the Sultan that
went beyond mere awe。 A servant boy served coffee and we sat for a while。
I was told that Enishte Effendi had a nephew named Black Effendi whom
he’d cultivated； a man trained in illumination and book arts。 Had I met him？ I
remained silent。 A short while ago； upon the invitation of his Enishte； Black
had returned from the Persian front； where he was under Serhat Pasha’s
mand—the mander shot me a look of suspicion。 Here； in Istanbul； he
worked himself into his Enishte’s good graces and learned the story of the
book whose creation Enishte was overseeing。 Black claimed that after Elegant
Effendi was killed； Enishte suspected one of the master miniaturists who
visited him at night to work on this manuscript。 He’d seen the illustrations
these masters had made and said that Enishte’s murderer—the selfsame
painter who stole the Sultan’s illustration with the lion’s share of gold leaf—
was one of them。 For two days； this young Black Effendi had concealed the
death of Enishte from the palace and the Head Treasurer。 Within that very
two…day period； he’d rushed ahead with a marriage to Enishte’s daughter； an
ethically and religiously dubious affair； and settled into Enishte’s house； thus；
both the men before me considered Black a suspect。
“If their houses and workplaces are searched and the missing page turns up
with one of my master miniaturists； Black’s innocence will be established at
once；” I said。 “Frankly； however； I can tell you that my dearest children； my
divinely inspired miniaturists； whom I’ve known since they were apprentices；
are incapable of taking the life of another man。”
“As for Olive； Stork and Butterfly；” said the mander； mockingly using
the nicknames I’d affectionately given to them； “we intend to b their
homes； haunts； places of work and； if applicable； shops； leaving no stone
unturned。 And that includes Black…” His expression bespoke resignation：
“Given such troublesome circumstances； thank God； the judge has granted us
permission to resort to torture if necessary during the interrogation of Black
Effendi。 Torture was deemed lawfully permissible because a second murder
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had been mitted against someone with a link to the miniaturists guild；
making suspects of them all； from apprentice to master。”
I mulled this over silently： 1。 The phrase “lawfully permissible” made clear
that Our Sultan wasn’t the one who’d granted the permission for torture。 2。
Because all the miniaturists were under suspicion of double murder in the eyes
of the judge； and because I； though Head Illuminator； had been unable to
identify the criminal in our midst； I； too； was suspect。 3。 I understood that
they wanted my explicit or implicit approval to go ahead with the torture of
my beloved Butterfly； Olive； Stork and the others； all of whom； in recent years；
had betrayed me。
“Since Our Sultan desires both the satisfactory pletion of the Book of
Festivities and this book—which is evidently only half finished；” said the Head
Treasurer； “we’re worried that torture might damage the masters’ hands and
eyes； destroying their agility。” He faced me。 “Isn’t this so？”
“There was similar worry over another incident recently；” said the
mander brusquely。 “A goldsmith and a jeweler who did repairs fell sway
to the Devil。 They were childishly enchanted with a ruby…handled coffee cup
belonging to Our Sultan’s younger sister Nejmiye Sultan； and ended up
stealing it。 Since the theft of the cup； which overwhelmed Our Sultan’s sister
with grief—she was quite fond of the piece—occurred in the üsküdar Palace；
the Sovereign appointed me to investigate。 It became apparent that both Our
Sultan and Nejmiye Sultan wanted no harm to e to the eyes and fingers of
the master gold… and jewelry smiths lest their skills be affected。 So； I had all
the master jewelry smiths stripped naked and thrown into the freezing pool in
the yard among pieces of ice and frogs。 Periodically； I’d have them taken out
and lashed forcefully； taking care that their faces and hands remained
unharmed。 Within a short period； the jeweler who’d been duped by the Devil
confessed and accepted his punishment。 Despite the ice…cold water； the frozen
air and all the lashings； no lasting injury came to the eyes and fingers of the
master jewelers because they were pure of heart。 Even the Sultan mentioned
that His sister was quite pleased with my work and that the jewelers were
working with more zeal now that the bad apple was out of the barrel。”
I was certain that the mander would treat my master illustrators more
severely than he had the jewelers。 Though he had respect for Our Sultan’s
enthusiasm for illuminated manuscripts； like many others； he deemed
calligraphy the only respectable art form； belittling embellishment and
illustration as flirtations with heresy； fit for women and deserving of nothing
but rebuke。 In order to provoke me； he said； “While you’ve been absorbed in
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your work； your beloved miniaturists have already begun scheming to see
who’ll bee Head Miniaturist upon your death。”
Was this gossip I hadn’t already heard？ Had he informed me of something
new？ Restraining myself； I didn’t respond。 The Head Treasurer was more than
aware of the fury I felt toward him for missioning a manuscript from that
deceased half…wit behind my back； and toward my ingrate miniaturists； who’d
secretly prepared these illustrations to curry favor and earn a few extra silver
coins。
I caught myself pondering the methods of torture that might be inflicted。
They wouldn’t resort to flaying during the interrogation； because that
inevitably leads to death。 They wouldn’t impale anyone； either； as they do with
rebels； because that’s used as a deterrent。 Cracking and splintering the fingers；
arms or legs of these miniaturists was also out of the question。 Of course； the
removal of an eye—which I gathered was a measure of increasing frequency
these days； to judge by the growing numbers of one…eyed people on the streets
of Istanbul—would be inappropriate for master artists。 So； as I imagined my
dear miniaturists in a secluded corner of the Royal Private Garden； there in the
ice…cold pool among the water lilies； shivering violently and glaring hatefully at
one another； I had the passing urge to laugh。 Nevertheless； it caused me agony
to imagine how Olive would shriek when his hindquarters were branded with
a hot iron and how dear Butterfly’s skin would pale when he was shackled。 I
couldn’t bear to conjure the scene of dear Butterfly—whose skill and love for
illumination brought tears to my eyes—as he was given the bastinado like a
mon thieving apprentice。 I just stood there dumbfounded and hollow。
My elderly mind was mute under the spell of its own internal silence。 There
was a time when we’d paint together with a passion that made us forget
everything。
“These men are the most expert miniaturists serving Our Sultan；” I said。
“Make certain no harm befalls them。”
Pleased； the Head Treasurer rose； grabbed a number of pages from the
worktable at the other end of the room and arranged them in front of me。
Next； as if the room were dark； he placed beside me two large candle holders
whose portly tapers burned with bobbing and twittering flames so I could
study the paintings in question。
How might I explain what I saw as I moved the magnifying lens over them？
I felt like laughing—and not because they were humorous。 I was incensed—it
seemed that Enishte Effendi had instructed my masters as follows： “Don’t
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