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bridges； rowboats； candlesticks； churches and stables； oxen and carriage
wheels； as if all of them were of the same importance to Allah。
“Was there ever a time when you visited him unannounced as you had with
the others？”
“Whosoever looks upon Butterfly’s work will quickly sense that he
understands the value of love as well as the meaning of heartfelt joy and
sorrow。 But as with all lovers of color； he gets carried away with his emotions
and is fickle。 Because I was so enamored of his God…given and miraculous
talent； of his sensitivity to color； I paid close attention to him in his youth and
know everything there is to know about him。 Of course； in such situations； the
other miniaturists quickly bee jealous and the master…disciple relationship
bees strained and damaged。 There were many moments of love during
which Butterfly did not fear what others might say。 Recently； since he married
the neighborhood fruit seller’s pretty daughter； I’ve neither felt the desire to
go see him； nor have I had the chance。”
“Rumor has it that he’s in league with the followers of the Hoja from
Erzurum；” Black said。 “They say he stands to gain a lot if the Hoja and his men
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declare certain works inpatible with religion； and thereby； outlaw our
books—which depict battles； weapons； bloody scenes and routine ceremonies；
not to mention parades including everyone from chefs to magicians； dervishes
to boy dancers； and kebab makers to locksmiths—and confine us to the
subjects and forms of the old Persian masters。”
“Even if we returned skillfully and victoriously to those wondrous paintings
of Tamerlane’s time； even if we returned to that life and vocation in all its
minutia—as bright Stork would best be able to do after me—in the final
analysis； all of it’ll be forgotten；” I said mercilessly； “because everybody will
want to paint like the Europeans。”
Did I actually believe these words of damnation？
“My Enishte believed the same；” Black confessed meekly； “yet it filled him
with hope。”
The Attributes of Stork
I’ve seen him sign his name as the Sinning Painter Mustafa Chelebi。 Without
paying any mind to whether he had or ought to have a style； whether it should
be identified with a signature or； like the old masters； remain anonymous； or
whether or not a humble bearing required one to do so； he’d just sign his
name with a smile and a victorious flourish。
He continued bravely down the path I’d set him on and mitted to
paper what none before him had been able to。 Like myself； he too would
watch master glassblowers turning their rods and blowing glass melted in
ovens to make blue pitchers and green bottles； he saw the leather； needles and
wooden molds of the shoemakers who bent with rapt attention over the shoes
and boots they made； a horse swing tracing a graceful arc during a holiday
festival； a press squeezing oil from seeds； the firing of our cannon at the
enemy； and the screws and the barrels of our guns。 He saw these things and
painted them without objecting that the old masters of Tamerlane’s time； or
the legendary illustrators of Tabriz and Kazvin； hadn’t lowered themselves to
do so。 He was the first Muslim miniaturist to go to war and return safe and
sound； in preparation for the Book of Victories that he would later illustrate。 He
was the first to eagerly study enemy fortresses； cannon； armies； horses with
bleeding wounds； injured soldiers struggling for their lives and corpses—all
with the intent to paint。
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I recognize his work from his subject matter more than his style and from
his attention to obscure details more than his subject matter。 I could entrust
him with plete peace of mind to execute all aspects of a painting； from the
arrangement of pages and their position to the coloring of the most trivial
details。 In this regard； he has the right to succeed me as Head Illuminator。 But
he’s so ambitious and conceited； and so condescending toward the other
illustrators that he could never manage so many men； and would end up
losing them all。 Actually； if it were left to him； with his incredible
industriousness； he’d simply make all the illustrations in the workshop
himself。 If he put his mind to such a task； he could in fact succeed。 He’s a great
master。 He knows his craft。 He admires himself。 How nice for him。
When I visited him unannounced once； I caught him at work。 Resting upon
folding worktables； desks and cushions were all the pages he was working on：
illustrations for Our Sultan’s books； for me； for miserable costume books that
he dashed off for foolish European travelers eager to belittle us； one page of a
triptych he was making for a pasha who thought highly of himself； images to
be pasted in albums； pages made for his own pleasure and even a vulgar
rendition of coitus。 Tall； thin Stork was flitting from one illustration to the
next like a bee among flowers； singing folk songs； tweaking the cheek of his
apprentice who was mixing paint and adding a ic twist to the painting he
was working on before showing it to me with a smug chuckle。 Unlike my other
miniaturists； he didn’t stop working in a ceremonial show of respect when I
arrived； on the contrary； he happily exhibited the swift exercise of his God…
given talent and the skill he’d acquired through hard work （he could do the
work of seven or eight miniaturists at the same time）。 Now； I catch myself
secretly thinking that if the vile murderer is one of my three master
miniaturists； I hope to God it’s Stork。 During his apprenticeship； the sight of
him at my door on Friday mornings didn’t excite me the way Butterfly did on
his day。
Since he paid equal attention to every odd detail； with no basis of
discrimination except that