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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；
“Wele ”Wednesday；“ how are you this morning？” to the late Elegant just
as he used to greet all of us back then。
When I recalled how he would address me； I thought my eyes might fill
with tears： Master Osman admired us； and his own eyes would tear when he
beheld the beauty of our work； he’d kiss our hands and arms； and despite the
beatings； we felt as if we were in Heaven as apprentices； and so our talent
blossomed with his love。 Even jealousy； which cast its shadow over those
happy years； had a different hue then。
Now I am pletely divided； just like those figures whose head and hands
are drawn and painted by one master while their bodies and clothes are
depicted by another。 When a God…fearing man like myself unexpectedly
bees a murderer； it takes time to adjust。 I’ve adopted a second voice； one
befitting a murderer； so that I might still carry on as though my old life
continued。 I am speaking now in this derisive and devious second voice； which
I keep out of my regular life。 From time to time； of course； you’ll hear my
familiar； regular voice； which would’ve remained my only voice had I not
bee a murderer。 But when I speak under my workshop name； I’ll never
admit to being “a murderer。” Let no one try to associate these two voices； I
have no individual style or flaws in artistry to betray my hidden persona。
Indeed； I believe that style； or for that matter； anything that serves to
distinguish one artist from another； is a flaw—not individual character； as
some arrogantly claim。
I do admit that in my own situation； this presents a problem。 For though I
might speak through my workshop name； lovingly given to me by Master
Osman and used by Enishte Effendi； who also admired it； in no wise do I want
you to figure out whether I am Butterfly； Olive or Stork。 For if you do you
won’t hesitate to turn me over to the torturers of the Sultan’s mander of
the Imperial Guard。
And； I must mind what I think about and say。 Actually； I know that you’re
listening to me even when I’m mulling over matters in private。 I can’t afford
careless contemplation of my frustrations or the incriminating details of my
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life。 Even when recounting the “Alif；” “Ba” and “Djim” stories。 I was always
mindful of your gaze。
One side of the warriors； lovers； princes and legendary heroes that I’ve
illustrated tens of thousands of times faces whatever is depicted there； in that
mythical time—the enemies they’re battling； for example； or the dragons
they’re slaying； or the beautiful maidens over whom they weep。 But another
aspect； and another side of their bodies； faces the book lover who happens to
be gazing at the magnificent painting。 If I do have style and character； it’s not
only hidden in my artwork； but in my crime and in my words as well！ Yes； try
to discover who I am from the color of my words！
I； too； know that if you catch me； it’ll bring consolation to unfortunate
Elegant Effendi’s miserable soul。 They’re shoveling dirt on him as I stand here
beneath trees； amid chirping birds； watching the gilded waters of the Golden
Horn and the leaden domes of Istanbul； and discovering anew how wonderful
it is to be alive。 Pathetic Elegant Effendi； soon after he joined the circle of that
fierce…browed preacher from Erzurum； he stopped liking me pletely； yet； in
the twenty…five years that we illustrated books for Our Sultan； there were
times when we felt very close to each other。 Twenty years ago； we became
friends while working on a royal history in verse for the late father of our
present sultan。 But we were never closer than when working on the eight
illustrated plates that were to acpany a collection of Fuzuli poems。 One
summer evening back then； as a concession to his understandable but illogical
desires—apparently a miniaturist ought to feel in his soul the text he’s
illustrating—I came here and patiently listened to him pretentiously recite
lines from Fuzuli’s collected works as flocks of swallows fluttered above us in a
frenzy。 I still recall a line recited that evening： “I am not me but eternally thee。”
I’ve always wondered how one might illustrate this line。
I ran to his house as soon as I learned that his body had been found。 There；
the diminutive garden where we once sat and recited poetry； now covered in
snow； seemed diminished； just like any garden revisited after a period of years。
His house was that way； too。 From the next room； I could hear the wails of
women； and their exaggerated exclamations； mounting as if they were
peting with each other。 When his eldest brother spoke； I listened intently：
The face of our forlorn brother Elegant was practically destroyed； and his head
was smashed。 After he was removed from the bottom of the well where he’d
lain for four days； his brothers scarcely knew him； and his poor wife； Kalbiye；
whom they’d brought from the house； was forced to identify the
unrecognizable body in the dark of night by its torn and tattered clothing。 I
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was reminded of a depiction of the Midian merchants pulling Joseph from the
pit into which he’d been cast by his jealous brothers。 I quite enjoy painting
this scene from the romance of Joseph and Zuleyha； for it r