Silent and unseen, under cover of early m darkness, I left like a guilty houseguest and walked tirelessly through the muddy backstreets. At Bayazid, I performed my ablution in the courtyard, ehe mosque and prayed. Ihere was no o the Imam Effendi and an old man who could sleep as he prayed—a talent only rarely achieved after a lifetime of practice. You know how there are moments in our sleepy dreams and sad memories when we feel Allah has taken notice of us and we pray
with the hopeful anticipation of one who』s mao thrust a petition into the Sultan』s hand: Thus did I beg Allah to grant me a cheerful home filled with loving people.
When I』d reached Master Osman』s house, I khat within a week』s time he』d gradually usurped my late Enishte』s pla my thoughts. He was more trary and more distant, but his belief in manuscript illumination was more profound. He resembled an introspective elderly dervish more than the great master who』d kicked up tempests of fear, awe and love among the miniaturists for so many years.
As we traveled from the master』s house to the palace—he mounted on a horse and hunched slightly, I on foot and likewise hunched forward—we must』ve recalled the elderly dervish and aspiring disciple in those cheap illustrations that apany old fables.
At the palace, we found the ander of the Imperial Guard and his men even more eager and ready than we. Our Sultan was certain that once we』d looked at the three masters』 horse drawings this m we could, in a trice, determine who among them was the accursed murderer; and so, He』d ordered that the criminal be quickly put to torture without even allowing him to ahe accusation. We were taken not to the executioners』 fountain where everyone could see and take warning, but to that small slapdash house in the sheltered seclusion of the Sultan』s Private Garden, which referred for interrogation, torture and strangling.
A youth, who seemed too elegant and polite to be one of the ander』s men, authoritatively placed three sheets of paper on a worktable.
Master Osman took out his magnifying lens and my heart began to pound. Like an eagle gliding elegantly over a tract of land, his eye, which he maintai a stant distance from the lens, passed ever so slowly over the three marvelous horse illustrations. And like that eagle catg sight of the baby gazelle which would be its prey, he slowed over each of the horses』 noses and focused on it ily and calmly.
「It』s not here,」 he said coldly after a time.
「What isn』t here?」 asked the ander.
I』d assumed the great master would work with deliberation, scrutinizing every aspect of the horses from mao hoof.
「The damned painter hasn』t left a sirace,」 said Master Osman. 「We won』t be able to determine who illustrated the chestnut horse from these pictures.」
Taking up the magnifying lens he』d put aside, I looked at the horses』 nostrils: The master was correct; there was nothing ihree horses resembling the peculiar nostrils of the chestnut horse drawn for my Enishte』s manuscript. Just then, my attention turo the torturers waiting outside with an implement
whose purpose I couldn』t fathom. As I was trying to observe them through the half-opened door, I saw somebody scuttle quickly backward as if possessed by a jinn, seeking shelter behind one of the mulberry trees.
At that moment, like ahereal light that illumihe leaden m, His Excellency Our Sultan, the Foundation of the World, ehe room.
Ma