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admire and respect the Chelebi； they honor his love； making a passing joke or
two about it and letting life take its course。 But the Chelebi； who can’t control
his incurable agony； begins to get drunk each night and sit at the doorstep of
the house wherein the silver…skinned beauty lives happily with her husband；
crying for hours on end like a child。 In the end this alarms the neighbors。 Each
night as the lover cries in agony； they are able neither to beat him and drive
him away nor to fort him。 The Chelebi； as suited a gentleman； learns to
cry inwardly without lashing out or annoying anybody。 But gradually； his
hopeless grief works its way into the neighborhood； being the sorrow and
grief of all； the residents lose their sense of well…being； and like the fountain
which flows mournfully in the square； the Chelebi himself became a font of
sorrow。 Initially； the talk of misery spreads throughout the neighborhood；
being in turn the rumor of ill…fortune and later the certainty of doom。
Some move away； some experience a spate of bad luck and some are unable to
practice their craft； because they’ve lost the will to work。 After the
neighborhood empties out； one day the lovelorn Chelebi also moves away with
his wife and children； leaving the silver…skinned beauty and her husband all
alone。 This misfortune； of which they are the focus； douses the flames of their
love and causes them to drift apart。 Though they live together for the rest of
their lives； they’re never again able to be happy。
I was on the verge of saying how much I liked this story because it showed
the pitfulls of love and women； when for Heaven’s sake； I’d forgotten that I’d
lost my capacity to reason。 Since I’m now a woman； I’m going to say
something else entirely。 All right then； it’s something like this：
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Oh； how wonderful love is！
Now then； who are those strangers bursting through the door？
385
I AM CALLED “BUTTERFLY”
I saw the mob and knew the Erzurumis had begun slaying us witty
miniaturists。
Black was also in the crowd watching the attack。 I saw him holding a dagger
acpanied by a group of odd…looking men； the well…known Esther the
clothier and other women carrying cloth sacks。 I had an urge to flee after
seeing the establishment cruelly wrecked and the coffeehouse…goers beaten
mercilessly as they tried to leave。 Later； another mob； perhaps the Janissaries；
arrived。 The Erzurumis snuffed out their torches and fled。
There was nobody at the dark entrance of the coffeehouse； and no one was
looking。 I walked inside。 Everything was in shambles。 I stepped on the
shattered cups； plates； glasses and bowls。 An oil lamp hanging from a nail high
on the wall hadn’t died out during the turmoil but only illuminated the soot
marks on the ceiling； leaving in darkness the floor strewn with the boards of
wrecked wood benches； broken low tables and other debris。
Stacking long cushions atop one another； I reached up and grabbed hold of
the oil lamp。 Within its circle of light； I noticed bodies lying on the floor。
When I saw that one face was covered in blood； I turned away； and went to the
next。 The second body was moaning； and upon seeing my lamp； made a
childlike noise。
Someone else entered。 At first I was alarmed； though I could sense it was
Black。 The both of us leaned over the third body sprawled on the floor。 As I
lowered the lamp to his head； we saw what we’d suspected： They’d killed the
storyteller。
There was no trace of blood on his face； which was made up like a woman’s；
but his chin； brow and rouge…covered mouth were battered； and judging by his
neck； covered in bruises； he’d been throttled。 His hands were cast backward
over his head on either side。 It wasn’t difficult to figure out that one of them
held the old man’s arms behind his back while the others beat him in the face
before strangling him。 I wonder； had they said； “Cut out his tongue so he never
again slanders his Excellency the Preacher Hoja Effendi；” and then set about
doing so？
“Bring the lamp here；” said Black。 Near the stove； the light of the lamp
struck broken coffee grinders； sieves； scales and pieces of broken coffee cups
lying in the mud of spilled coffee。 In the corner where the storyteller hung his
pictures each night； Black was searching for the performer’s props； sash；
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magician’s handkerchief and popping stick。 Black said he was after the pictures
and held the lamp he’d taken from me to my face： Yes； of course I’d drawn
two of them out of a sense of fraternity。 We could find nothing but the Persian
skullcap that the deceased wore over his perfectly shaved head。
Seeing no one else； we exited into the blackness of night through a narrow
passageway that led away from the back door。 During the raid much of the
crowd and the artists within probably escaped through this door； but the
knocked…over planters and bags of coffee strewn everywhere indicated that
there was a struggle here as well。
The fact that the coffeehouse was raided and the master storyteller
murdered； coupled with the terrifying blackness of night； brought Black and I
closer together。 This was also what caused the silence between us。 We passed
two more streets。 Black handed the lamp back to me； then he drew his dagger
and pressed it to my throat。
“We’re going to your house；” he said。 “I want to search it so I can put my
mind at ease。”
“It’s already been searched。”
Rather than be offended by him； I had the urge to tease him。 Didn’t Black’s
belief in the disgraceful rumors about me simply prove he was also jealous of
me？ He held the dagger without much confidence。
My house was opposite the direction we were heading along the road
leading away from the coffeehouse。 We tacked right and left down
neighborhood streets and passed through empty gardens that bore the
depressing scent of damp and lonely trees as we traced a wide arc back toward
my house。 We’d covered more than half the route； when Black stopped and
said：
“For two days； Master Osman and I examined the masterpieces of the
legendary masters in the Treasury。”
Much later； nearly screaming； I said； “After a certain age； even if a painter
shares a worktable with Bihzad； what he sees may please his eyes and bring
contentment and excitement to his soul； but it won’t enhance his talent；
because one paints with the hand； not the eyes； and the hand at my age； let
alone at Master Osman’s； does not easily learn new things。”
Assured my beautiful wife was waiting for me； I spoke at the top of my
voice to let her know I wasn’t alone so she might hide herself from Black—not
that I took this pathetic dagger…wielding fool seriously。
387
We passed through the courtyard gate； and I thought I saw the light of a
lamp moving in the house； but thank God all was in darkness now。 It was such
a merciless rape of my privacy for this knife…wielding beast to force his way
into my heavenly home； where I spent my days； indeed all my time； seeking
out and painting Allah’s memories until my eyes tired—whereupon I’d make
love to my beloved； the most beautiful woman in the world—that I swore to
take revenge upon him。
Lowering the lamp； he examined my papers； a page I was in the midst of
pleting—condemned prisoners pleading to the Sultan to be relieved of
their chains of debt and receiving His benevolence—my paints； my worktables；
my knives； my reed…cutting boards； my brushes； everything around my writing
table； my papers again； my burnishing stones； my penknives and the spaces
between my pen and paper boxes； he looked in cabis； chests； beneath
cushions； at one of my paper scissors； and beneath a soft red cushion and a
carpet before going back； bringing the lamp closer and closer to each object
and examining the same places once again。 As he said when he first drew his
weapon； he wouldn’t search my entire house； only my atelier。 Indeed； couldn’t
I conceal my wife—the only thing I wanted to hide—in the room from which
she was now spying on us？
“There’s a final picture that belonged to the book my Enishte was having
made；” he said。 “Whoever killed him also stole that picture。”
“It was different from the others；” I said immediately。 “Your Enishte； may
he rest in peace； made me draw a tree in one corner of the page。 In the
background somewhere…and in the middle of the page； in the foreground；
was to be someone’s picture； probably a portrait of Our Sultan。 That space；
quite large if I might add； was awaiting its picture。 Because the objects in the
background were to be smaller；