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country； he’d forgotten these old styles； if he’d ever actually learned them。
Though the value of many miniaturists resides precisely in the splendid models
of form they’ve mitted to memory； had Velijan truly forgotten them； he’d
have bee an even greater illustrator。 Still； there were two benefits； of which
he wasn’t even aware； to harboring the teachings of his mentors in the depths
of his soul like a pair of unconfessed sins： 1。 For such a gifted miniaturist；
clinging to old forms inevitably stirred feelings of guilt and alienation that
would spur his talent to maturity。 2。 In a moment of difficulty； he could
always recall what he claimed to have forgotten； and thus； he could
successfully plete any new subject； history or scene by recourse to one of
the old Herat models。 With his keen eye； he knew how to harmonize what
he’d learned from the old forms and Shah Tahmasp’s old masters in new
pictures。 Herat painting and Istanbul ornamentation happily merged in Olive。
As with all of my miniaturists； I once paid an unannounced visit to his
home。 Unlike my work area and that of many other master miniaturists； his
was a filthy confusion of paints； brushes； burnishing shells； his folding
worktable and other objects。 It was a mystery to me； but he wasn’t even
embarrassed by it。 He took no outside jobs to earn a few extra silver coins。
After I related these facts； Black said it was Olive who showed the most
enthusiasm for and the most ease with the styles of the Frankish masters
admired by his late Enishte。 I understood this to be praise from the deceased
fool’s point of view； mistaken though it was。 I can’t say whether Olive was
more deeply and secretly bound to the Herat styles—which went back to his
father’s mentor Siyavush and Siyavush’s mentor Muzaffer； back to the era of
Bihzad and the old masters—than he appeared to be； but it always made me
wonder whether Olive harbored other hidden tendencies。 Of my miniaturists
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（I told myself spontaneously）； he was the most quiet and sensitive； but also
the most guilty and traitorous； and by far the most devious。 When I thought
about the mander’s torture chambers； he was the first to e to mind。
（I both wanted and didn’t want him to be tortured。） He had the eyes of a jinn；
he noticed and took account of everything； including my own shortings；
however； with the reserve of an exile able to acmodate himself to any
situation； he’d rarely open his mouth to point out mistakes。 He was wily； yes；
but not in my opinion a murderer。 （I didn’t tell Black this。） Olive didn’t
believe in anything。 He had no faith in money； but he’d nervously squirrel it
away。 Contrary to what is monly believed； all murderers are men of
extreme faith rather than unbelievers。 Manuscript illumination leads to
painting； and painting； in turn； leads to—God forbid—challenging Allah。
Everybody knows this。 Therefore； to judge by his lack of faith； Olive is a
genuine artist。 Nevertheless； I believe that his God…given gifts fall short of
Butterfly’s； or even Stork’s。 I would’ve wanted Olive to be my son。 As I said
this； I wanted to incur Black’s jealousy； but he only responded by opening his
dark eyes and staring with childlike curiosity。 Then I said Olive was
magnificent when he worked in black ink； when he rendered； for pasting in
albums； warriors； hunting scenes； Chinese…inspired landscapes full of storks
and cranes； pretty boys gathered beneath a tree reciting verse and playing lutes；
and when he depicted the sorrow of legendary lovers； the wrath of a sword…
bearing； enraged shah； and a hero’s expression of fear as he dodged the attack
of a dragon。
“Perhaps Enishte wanted Olive to do the last picture that would show in
great detail； in the style of the Europeans； Our Sultan’s face and manner of
sitting；” Black said。
Was he trying to confuse me？
“Supposing this were the case； after Olive killed Enishte； why would he
abscond with a picture he was already familiar with？” I said。 “Or； if you like；
why would he murder Enishte in order to see that picture？”
We both pondered these questions for a while。
“Because there’s something missing in that painting；” said Black。 “Or
because he regrets something he did and is scared by it。 Or even…” he
thought for a while。 “Or； having killed Enishte； he might’ve taken the painting
to do further harm； for the sake of having a memento； or even for no reason at
all。 Olive is； after all； a great illustrator who’d naturally have a lot of respect for
a beautiful painting。”
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“We’ve already discussed in what ways Olive is a great illustrator；” I said；
growing angry。 “But none of Enishte’s illustrations is beautiful。”
“We haven’t yet seen the last painting；” Black said boldly。
The Attributes of Butterfly
He is known as Hasan Chelebi from the Gunpowder Factory district； but to me
he’s always been “Butterfly。” This nickname always reminds me of the beauty
of his boyhood and youth： He was so handsome that those who saw him
didn’t believe their eyes and wanted a second look。 I’ve always been
astonished by the miracle of his being as talented as he is handsome。 He’s a
master of color and this is his greatest strength； he painted passionately；
reeling with the pleasure of applying color。 But I cautioned Black that Butterfly
was flighty； aimless and indecisive。 Anxious to be just； I added： He’s a genuine
miniaturist who paints from the heart。 If the arts of ornamentation are not
meant to cater to intelligence； to speak to the animal within us； or to bolster
the pride of the Sultan； that is； if this art is meant to be only a festival for the
eyes； then Butterfly is indeed a true miniaturist。 He makes wide； easy； blithe
curves； as if he’d taken lessons from the masters of Kazvin forty years ago； he
confidently applies his bright； pure colors； and there’s always a gentle
circularity hidden in the arrangement of his paintings； but I’m the one who
trained him； not those long…dead masters of Kazvin。 Maybe it’s for this reason
that I love him like a son； nay； more than a son—but I never felt any awe
toward him。 As with all of my apprentices； in his boyhood and adolescence； I
beat him freely with brush handles； rulers and even pieces of wood； but this
doesn’t mean I don’t respect him。 Though I beat Stork frequently with rulers； I
respect him too。 In contrast to what the casual onlooker might assume； a
master’s beating doesn’t rid the young apprentice of jinns of talent and the
Devil； but only suppresses them temporarily。 If it happens to be a good
beating； and deserved； later on the jinns and the Devil will rise up and
stimulate the developing miniaturist’s resolve to work。 As for the beatings I
administered to Butterfly； they shaped him into a content and obedient artist。
I at once felt the need to praise him to Black： “Butterfly’s artistry；” I said；
“is solid proof that the picture of bliss； which the celebrated poet ponders in
his masnawi； is only possible through a God…given gift for understanding and
applying color。 When I realized this； I also realized what Butterfly lacked： He
hadn’t known that momentary loss of faith that Jami refers to in his poetry as
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”the dark night of the soul。“ Like an illustrator painting in the great happiness
of Heaven； he sets to his work with conviction and contentment； believing that
he can make a blissful painting； which he does succeed in doing。 Our armies
besieging Doppio castle； the Hungarian ambassador kissing the feet of Our
Sultan； Our Prophet ascending through the seven heavens； these are of course
all inherently happy scenes； but rendered by Butterfly； they bee flights of
ecstasy springing from the page。 In an illustration of mine； if the darkness of
death or the seriousness of a government session weighs heavy； I’ll tell
Butterfly to ”color it as you see fit；“ and thereupon； the outfits； leaves； flags
and sea that lay there muted as if sprinkled with dirt meant to fill a grave
begin to ripple in the breeze。 There are times when I think Allah wants the
world to be seen the way Butterfly illustrates it； that He wants life to be
jubilation。 Indeed； this is a realm where colors harmoniously recite
magnificent ghazals to each other； where time stops； where the Devil never
appears。”
However； even Butterfly knows this isn’t enough。 Someone must have quite
rightly—yes； in good measure—whispered to him that in his work everything
was as joyous as a holiday； but devoid of d