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task by torturers and plucking out his disgusting； oily hair； strand by strand； so
he shrieks each time。
Who is this murderer who vexes me so？ Why has he killed me in such a
surprising way？ Be curious and mindful of these matters。 You say the world is
full of base and worthless criminals？ Perhaps this one did it； perhaps that one？
In that case let me caution you： My death conceals an appalling conspiracy
against our religion； our traditions and the way we see the world。 Open your
eyes； discover why the enemies of the life in which you believe； of the life
you’re living； and of Islam； have destroyed me。 Learn why one day they might
do the same to you。 One by one； everything predicted by the great preacher
Nusret Hoja of Erzurum； to whom I’ve tearfully listened； is ing to pass。 Let
me say also that if the situation into which we’ve fallen were described in a
book； even the most expert of miniaturists could never hope to illustrate it。 As
with the Koran—God forbid I’m misunderstood—the staggering power of
such a book arises from the impossibility of its being depicted。 I doubt you’ve
fully prehended this fact。
Listen to me。 When I was an apprentice； I too feared and thus ignored
underlying truths and voices from beyond。 I’d joke about such matters。 But
6
I’ve ended up in the depths of this deplorable well！ It could happen to you； be
wary。 Now； I’ve nothing left to do but hope for my thorough decay； so they
can find me by tracing my stench。 I’ve nothing to do but hope—and imagine
the torture that some benevolent man will inflict upon that beastly murderer
once he’s been caught。
7
I AM CALLED BLACK
After an absence of twelve years I entered Istanbul like a sleepwalker。 “The
earth called to him；” they say of men who are about to die； and in my case； it
was death that drew me back to the city where I’d been born and raised。
When I first returned； I thought there was only death； later； I would also
encounter love。 Love； however； was a distant and forgotten thing； like my
memories of having lived in the city。 It was in Istanbul； twelve years ago； that I
fell helplessly in love with my young cousin。
Four years after I first left Istanbul； while traveling through the endless
steppes； snow…covered mountains and melancholy cities of Persia； carrying
letters and collecting taxes； I admitted to myself that I was slowly forgetting
the face of the childhood love I’d left behind。 With growing panic； I tried
desperately to remember her； only to realize that despite love； a face long not
seen finally fades。 During the sixth year I spent in the East； traveling or
working as a secretary in the service of pashas； I knew that the face I imagined
was no longer that of my beloved。 Later； in the eighth year； I forgot what I’d
mistakenly called to mind in the sixth； and again visualized a pletely
different countenance。 In this way； by the twelfth year； when I returned to my
city at the age of thirty…six； I was painfully aware that my beloved’s face had
long since escaped me。
Many of my friends and relatives had died during my twelve…year exile。 I
visited the cemetery overlooking the Golden Horn and prayed for my mother
and for the uncles who’d passed away in my absence。 The earthy smell of mud
mingled with my memories。 Someone had broken an earthenware pitcher
beside my mother’s grave。 For whatever reason； gazing at the broken pieces； I
began to cry。 Was I crying for the dead or because I was； strangely； still only at
the beginning of my life after all these years？ Or was it because I’d e to the
end of my life’s journey？ A faint snow fell。 Entranced by the flakes blowing
here and there； I became so lost in the vagaries of my life that I didn’t notice
the black dog staring at me from a dark corner of the cemetery。
My tears subsided。 I wiped my nose。 I saw the black dog wagging its tail in
friendship as I left the cemetery。 Sometime later； I settled into our
neighborhood； renting one of the houses where a relative on my father’s side
once lived。 It seems I reminded the landlady of her son who’d been killed by
Safavid Persian soldiers at the front and so she agreed to clean the house and
cook for me。
8
I set out on long and satisfying walks through the streets as if I’d settled not
in Istanbul； but temporarily in one of the Arab cities at the other end of the
world。 The streets had bee narrower； or so it seemed to me。 In certain
areas； on roads squeezed between houses leaning toward one another； I was
forced to rub up against walls and doors to avoid being hit by laden
packhorses。 There were more wealthy people； or so it seemed to me。 I saw an
ornate carriage； a citadel drawn by proud horses； the likes of which couldn’t
be found in Arabia or Persia。 Near the “Burnt Column；” I saw some
bothersome beggars dressed in rags huddling together as the smell of offal
ing from the chicken…sellers market wafted over them。 One of them who
was blind smiled as he watched the falling snow。
Had I been told Istanbul used to be a poorer； smaller and happier city； I
might not have believed it； but that’s what my heart told me。 Though my
beloved’s house was where it’d always been among linden and chestnut trees；
others were now living there； as I learned from inquiring at the door。 I
discovered that my beloved’s mother； my maternal aunt； had died； and that
her husband； my Enishte； and his daughter had moved away。 This is how I
came to learn that father and daughter were the victims of certain
misfortunes； from strangers answering the door； who in such situations are
perfectly forthing； without the least awareness of how mercilessly they’ve
broken your heart and destroyed your dreams。 I won’t describe all of this to
you now； but allow me to say that as I recalled warm； verdant and sunny
summer days in that old garden； I also noticed icicles the size of my little finger
hanging from the branches of the linden tree in a place whose misery； snow
and neglect now evoked nothing but death。
I’d already learned about some of what had befallen my relatives through a
letter my Enishte sent to me in Tabriz。 In that letter； he invited me back to
Istanbul； explaining that he was preparing a secret book for Our Sultan and
that he wanted my help。 He’d heard that for a period while in Tabriz； I made
books for Ottoman pashas； provincial governors and Istanbulites。 What I did
then was to use the money advanced by clients who’d placed manuscript
orders in Istanbul to locate miniaturists and calligraphers who were frustrated
by the wars and the presence of Ottoman soldiers； but hadn’t yet left for
Kazvin or another Persian city； and it was these masters—plaining of
poverty and neglect—whom I missioned to inscribe； illustrate and bind
the pages of the manuscripts I would then send back to Istanbul。 If it weren’t
for the love of illustrating and fine books that my Enishte instilled in me
during my youth； I could have never involved myself in such pursuits。
9
At the market end of the street； where at one time my Enishte had lived； I
found the barber； a master by trade； in his shop among the same mirrors；
straight razors； pitchers of water and soap brushes。 I caught his eye； but I’m
not sure he recognized me。 It delighted me to see that the head…washing basin；
which hung by a chain from the ceiling； still traced the same old arc； swinging
back and forth as he filled it with hot water。
Some of the neighborhoods and streets I’d frequented in my youth had
disappeared in ashes and smoke； replaced by burnt ruins whe