somewhat stupider expressions because they haven’t yet killed； and like all
fools； they appear to have good intentions。 After I took care of that pathetic
man； wandering the streets of Istanbul for four days was enough to confirm
that everyone with a gleam of cleverness in his eye and the shadow of his soul
cast across his face was a hidden assassin。 Only imbeciles are innocent。
Tonight； for example； while warming up with a steaming coffee at the
coffeehouse located in the back streets of the slave market； gazing at the sketch
of a dog hanging on the back wall； I was gradually forgetting my plight and
laughing with the rest of them at everything the dog recounted。 Then； I had
the sensation that one of the men beside me was a mon murderer like
myself。 Though he was simply laughing at the storyteller as I was； my intuition
was sparked； either by the way his arm rested near mine or by the way he
restlessly rapped his fingers on his cup。 I’m not sure how I knew； but I
suddenly turned and looked him directly in the eye。 He gave a start and his
face contorted。 As the crowd dispersed； an acquaintance of his took him by the
arm and said； “Nusret Hoja’s men will surely raid this place。”
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Raising an eyebrow； he signaled the man quiet。 Their fear infected me。 No
one trusted anyone； everyone expected to be done in at any moment by the
man next to him。
It had bee even colder； and snow had accumulated on street corners
and at the bases of walls。 In the blindness of night； I could find my way along
the narrow streets only by groping with my hands。 At times； the dim light of
an oil lamp still burning somewhere inside a wooden house filtered out from
behind blackened windows and drawn shutters； reflecting on the snow； but
mostly； I could see nothing； and found my way by listening for the sounds of
watchmen banging their sticks on stones； for the howling of mad dogs； or the
sounds ing from houses。 At times the narrow and dreadful streets of the
city seemed to be lit up by a wondrous light ing from the snow itself； and
in the darkness； amid the ruins and trees； I thought I spotted one of those
ghosts that have made Istanbul such an ominous place for thousands of years。
From within houses； now and again； I heard the noises of miserable people
having coughing fits or snorting or wailing as they cried out in their dreams；
or I heard the shouts of husbands and wives as they tried to strangle each
other； their children sobbing at their feet。
For a couple of nights in a row； I came to this coffeehouse to relive the
happiness I’d felt before being a murderer； to raise my spirits and to listen
to the storyteller。 Most of my miniaturist friends； the brethren with whom I’d
spent my entire life； came here every night。 Since I’d silenced that lout with
whom I’d made illustrations since childhood I didn’t want to see any of them。
Much embarrasses me about the lives of my brethren； who can’t do without
gossiping； and about the disgraceful atmosphere of joviality in this place。 I
even sketched a few pictures for the storyteller so they wouldn’t accuse me of
conceit； but that failed to put an end to their envy。
They’re justified in being jealous。 Not one of them could surpass me in
mixing colors； in creating and embellishing borders； posing pages；
selecting subjects； drawing faces； arranging bustling war and hunting scenes
and depicting beasts； sultans； ships； horses； warriors and lovers。 Not one could
approach my mastery in imbuing illustrations with the poetry of the soul； not
even in gilding。 I’m not bragging； but explaining this to you so you might fully
understand me。 Over time； jealousy bees an element as indispensable as
paint in the life of the master artist。
During my walks； which grow increasingly longer due to my restlessness； I
e face…to…face occasionally with one of our most pure and innocent
religious countrymen； and a strange notion suddenly enters my head： If I think
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about the fact that I’m a murderer； the man before me will read it on my face。
Therefore； I force myself to think of different things； just as I forced myself；
writhing in embarrassment； to banish thoughts of women when performing
prayers as an adolescent。 But unlike those days of youthful fits when I couldn’t
get the act of copulation out of my thoughts； now； I can indeed forget the
murder that I’ve mitted。
You realize； in fact； that I’m explaining all these things because they relate
to my predicament。 But if I were to divulge even one detail related to the
killing itself； you’d figure it all out and this would relieve me from being a
nameless； faceless murderer roaming among you like an apparition and
relegate me to the status of an ordinary； confessed criminal who has given
himself up； soon to pay for his crime with his head。 Give me the license not to
dwell on every single detail； allow me to keep some clues to myself： Try to
discover who I am from my choice of words and colors； as attentive people like
yourselves might examine footprints to catch a thief。 This； in turn； brings us to
the issue of “style；” which is now of widespread interest： Does a miniaturist；
ought a miniaturist； have his own personal style？ A use of color； a voice all his
own？
Let’s consider a piece by Bihzad； the master of masters； patron saint of all
miniaturists。 I happened across this masterpiece； which also nicely pertains to
my situation because it’s a depiction of murder； among the pages of a flawless
niy…year…old book of the Herat school。 It emerged from the library of a
Persian prince killed in a merciless battle of succession and recounts the story
of Hüsrev and Shirin。 You； of course； know the fate of Hüsrev and Shirin； I refer
to Nizami’s version； not Firdusi’s：
The two lovers finally marry after a host of trials and tribulations； however；
the young and diabolical Shiruye； Hüsrev’s son by his previous wife； won’t give
them any peace。 The prince has his eye on not only his father’s throne but also
his father’s young wife； Shirin。 Shiruye； of whom Nizami writes； “His breath
had the stench of a lion’s mouth；” by hook or crook imprisons his father and
succeeds to the throne。 One night； entering the bedchamber of his father and
Shirin； he feels his way in the dark； and on finding the pair in bed； stabs his
father in the chest with his dagger。 Thus； the father’s blood flows till dawn and
he slowly dies in the bed that he shares with the beautiful Shirin； who remains
sleeping peacefully beside him。
This picture by the great master Bihzad； as much as the tale itself； addresses
a grave fear I’ve carried within me for years： The horror of waking in the black
of night to realize there’s a stranger making faint sounds as he creeps about
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the blackness of the room！ Imagine that the intruder wields a dagger in one
hand as he strangles you with the other。 Every detail； the finely wrought wall；
window and frame ornamentation； the curves and circular designs in the red
rug； the color of the silent scream emanating from your clamped throat and
the yellow and purple flowers embroidered with incredible finesse and vigor
on the magnificent quilt upon which the bare and vile foot of your murderer
mercilessly steps as he ends your life； all of these details serve the same
purpose： While augmenting the beauty of the painting； they remind you just
ho in which you will soon die and the world you will
soon leave。 The indifference of the painting’s beauty and of the world to your
death； the fact of your being totally alone in death despite the presence of your
wife； this is the inescapable meaning that strikes you。
“This is by Bihzad；” the aging master said twenty years ago as we examined
the book I held in my trembling hands。 His face was illuminated not by the
nearby candle； but by the pleasure of observation itself。 “This is so Bihzad that
there’s no need for a signature。”
Bihzad was so well aware of this fact that he didn’t hide his signature
anywhere in the painting。 And according to the elderly master； there was a
sense of embarrassment and a feeling of shame in this decision of his。 Where
there is true art and genuine virtuosity the artist can paint an inparable
masterpiece without leaving even a trace of his identity。
Fearing for my life； I murdered my unfortunate victim in an ordinary and
crude manner。 As I returned to this fire…ravaged area night after night to
ascertain whether I’d left behind any traces that might betray me； questions of
style increasingly arose in my head。 What was venerated as style was nothing
more than an imperfection or flaw that revealed the guilty hand。
I could’ve located this place even without the brill