pursued behind closed doors。 There were times when he’d open one of the
books left to us by my father； and stare； guilty and sad； at an illustration made
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during the era of Tamerlane’s sons in Herat—yes； Shirin falling in love with
Hüsrev after seeing his picture—not as if it were part of a happy game of
talent still being played in palace circles； but as if he were dwelling upon a
sweet secret long surrendered to memory。
In the third year of Our Sultan’s reign； the Queen of England sent His
Excellency a miraculous clock that contained a musical instrument with a
bellows。 An English delegation assembled this enormous clock after weeks of
toil with various pieces； cogs； pictures and statuettes that they brought with
them from England； erecting it on a slope of the Royal Private Garden facing
the Golden Horn。 The crowds that collected on the slopes of the Golden Horn
or came in ca？ques to watch； astonished and awed； saw how the life…size
statues and ornaments spun around each other purposefully when the huge
clock played its noisy and terrifying music； how they danced elegantly and
meaningfully by themselves in time to the melody as if they were creations of
God rather than of His servants； and how the clock announced the time to all
Istanbul with a chime that resembled the sounding of a bell。
Black and Esther told me on different occasions how the clock； as well as
being the focus of endless astonishment on the part of Istanbul’s riffraff and
dull…witted mobs； was understandably a source of disfort to the pious and
to Our Sultan because it symbolized the power of the infidel。 In a time when
rumors of this sort abounded； Sultan Ahmed； the subsequent sovereign； woke
up in the middle of the night under Allah’s instigation； seized His mace and
descended from the harem to the Private Garden where He shattered the clock
and its statues to pieces。 Those who brought us the news and the rumors
explained how as Our Sultan slept； He saw the sacred face of Our Exalted
Prophet bathed in holy light and how the Apostle of God warned Him： If Our
Sultan allowed his subjects to be awed by pictures and； worse yet； by objects
that mimicked Mankind and thus peted with Allah’s creations； the
sovereign would be diverging from divine will。 They also added that Our
Sultan had taken up His mace while still dreaming。 This was more or less how
Our Sultan dictated the event to His faithful historian。 He had this book；
entitled The Quintessence of Histories； prepared by calligraphers； upon whom
He lavished purses full of gold； though He forbade its illustration by
miniaturists。
Thus withered the red rose of the joy of painting and illumination that had
bloomed for a century in Istanbul； nurtured by inspiration from the lands of
Persia。 The conflict between the methods of the old masters of Herat and the
Frankish masters that paved the ong artists and endless
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quandries was never resolved。 For painting itself was abandoned； artists
painted neither like Easterners nor Westerners。 The miniaturists did not grow
angry and revolt； but like old men b to an illness； they
gradually accepted the situation with humble grief and resignation。 They were
neither curious about nor dreamed about the work of the great masters of
Herat and Tabriz； whom they once followed with awe； or the Frankish masters；
whose innovative methods they aspired to； caught indecisively between envy
and hatred。 Just as the doors of houses are closed of an evening and the city is
left to darkness； painting was also abandoned。 It was mercilessly forgotten that
we’d once looked upon our world quite differently。
My father’s book； sadly； remained unfinished。 From where Hasan scattered
the pleted pages on the ground； they were transferred to the Treasury；
there； an efficient and fastidious librarian had them bound together with
other unrelated illustrations belonging to the workshop； and thus they were
separated into several bound albums。 Hasan fled Istanbul； and disappeared；
never to be heard from again。 Shevket and Orhan never forgot that it wasn’t
Black but their Uncle Hasan who was the one who killed my father’s murderer。
In place of Master Osman； who died two years after going blind； Stork
became Head Illuminator。 Butterfly； y late
father’s talents； devoted the rest of his life to drawing ornamental designs for
carpets； cloths and tents。 The young assistant masters of the workshop gave
themselves over to similar work。 No one behaved as though abandoning
illustration were any great loss。 Perhaps because nobody had ever seen his own
face done justice on the page。
My whole life； I’ve secretly very much wanted two paintings made； which
I’ve never mentioned to anybody：
1。 My own portrait； but I knew however hard the Sultan’s miniaturists
tried； they’d fail； because even if they could see my beauty； woefully； none of
them would believe a woman’s face was beautiful without depicting her eyes
and lips like a Chinese woman’s。 Had they represented me as a Chinese beauty；
the way the old masters of Herat would’ve； perhaps those who saw it and
recognized me could discern my face behind the face of that Chinese beauty。
But later generations； even if they realized my eyes weren’t really slanted；
could never determine what my face truly looked like。 How happy I’d be
today； in my old age—which I live out through the fort of my children—if
I had a youthful portrait of myself！
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2。 A picture of bliss： What the poet Blond Naz？m of Ran had pondered in
one of his verses。 I know quite well how this painting ought to be made。
Imagine the picture of a mother with her two children； the younger one；
whom she cradles in her arms； nursing him as she smiles； suckles happily at
her bountiful breast； smiling as well。 The eyes of the slightly jealous older
brother and those of the mother should be locked。 I’d like to be the mother in
that picture。 I’d want the bird in the sky to be depicted as if flying； and at the
same time； happily and eternally suspended there； in the style of the old
masters of Herat who were able to stop time。 I know it’s not easy。
My son Orhan； who’s foolish enough to be logical in all matters； reminds
me on the one hand that the time…halting masters of Herat could never depict
me as I am； and on the other hand； that the Frankish masters who perpetually
painted mother…with…child portraits could never stop time。 He’s been insisting
for years that my picture of bliss could never be painted anyhow。
Perhaps he’s right。 In actuality； we don’t look for smiles in pictures of bliss；
but rather； for the happiness in life itself。 Painters know this； but this is
precisely what they cannot depict。 That’s why they substitute the joy of seeing
for the joy of life。
In the hopes that he might pen this story； which is beyond depiction； I’ve
told it to my son Orhan。 Without hesitation I gave him the letters Hasan and
Black sent me； along with the rough horse illustrations with the smeared ink；
which were found on poor Elegant Effendi。 Above all； don’t be taken in by
Orhan if he’s drawn Black more absentminded than he is； made our lives
harder than they are； Shevket worse and me prettier and harsher than I am。
For the sake of a delightful and convincing story； there isn’t a lie Orhan
wouldn’t deign to tell。
1990–92； 1994–98
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336–330 B。C。： Darius ruled in Persia。 He was the last king of the
Achaemenids； losing his empire to Alexander the Great。
336–323 B。C。： Alexander the Great established his empire。 He conquered
Persia and invaded India。 His exploits as hero and monarch were legendary
throughout the Islamic world even until modern times。
622： The Hegira。 The emigration of the Prophet Muhammad from Mecca
to Medina； and the beginning of the Muslim calendar。
1010： Firdusi’s Book of Kings。 The Persian poet Firdusi （lived circa 935–
1020） presented his Book of Kings to Sultan Mahmud of Ghazni。 Its episodes
on Persian myth and history—including Alexander’s invasion； tales of the hero
Rüstem and the struggle between Persia and Turan—have inspired miniaturists
since the fourteenth century。
1206–1227： The reign of Mongol ruler Genghis Khan。 He invaded Persia；
Russia and China； and extended his empire from Mongolia to Europe。
C。 1141–1209： The Persian poet Nizami lived。 He wrote the romantic epic the
Quintet； prised of the following stories； all of which have inspired
miniaturist painters： The Treasury of Mysteries； Hüsrev and Shirin； Leyla and
Mejnun； The Seven Beauties and The Book of