and there’s nothing I can’t buy—all this is to say nothing of my dirty； vulgar
and base nature。 And those who know that I’m fake are given to even harsher
judgments。 As my actual value drops； however； my metaphorical value
increases—proof that poetry is consolation to life’s miseries。 But despite all
such heartless parison and thoughtless slander； I’ve realized that a large
majority do sincerely love me。 In this age of hatred； such heartfelt—even
impassioned—affection ought to gladden us all。
I’ve seen every square inch of Istanbul； street by street and district by
district； I’ve known all hands from Jews to Abkhazians and from Arabs to
Mingerians。 I once left Istanbul in the purse of a preacher from Edirne who
was going to Manisa。 On the way； we happened to be attacked by thieves。 One
of them shouted； “Your money or your life！” Panicking； the miserable preacher
hid us in his asshole。 This spot； which he assumed was the safest； smelled
worse than the mouth of the garlic lover and was much less fortable。 But
the situation quickly grew worse when instead of “Your money or your life！”
the thieves began to shout “Your honor or your life！” Lining up； they took him
by turns。 I don’t dare describe the agony we suffered in that cramped hole。 It’s
for this reason that I dislike leaving Istanbul。
I’ve been well received in Istanbul。 Young girls kiss me as if I were the
husband of their dreams； they hide me beneath their pillows； between their
huge breasts； and in their underwear； they even fondle me in their sleep to
make certain I’m still there。 I’ve been stored next to the furnace in a public
bath； in a boot； at the bottom of a small bottle in a wonderful…smelling musk
seller’s shop and in the secret pocket sewn into a chef’s lentil sack。 I’ve
wandered through Istanbul in belts made of camel leather； jacket linings made
from checkered Egyptian cloth； in the thick fabric of shoe lining and in the
hidden corners of multicolored shalwars。 The master watchmaker Petro hid me
in a secret partment of a grandfather clock； and a Greek grocer stuck me
directly into a wheel of kashari cheese。 I hid together with jewelry； seals and
keys wrapped in pieces of thick cloth stowed away in chimneys； in stoves；
beneath windowsills； inside cushions stuffed with rough straw； in
117
underground chambers and in the hidden partments of chests。 I’ve known
fathers the dinner table to check whether I was
still where I was supposed to be； women who sucked on me like candy for no
reason； children who sniffed at me as they stuck me up their noses and old
people with one foot in the grave who couldn’t relax unless they removed me
from their sheepskin purses at least seven times a day。 There was a meticulous
Circassian woman who； after spending the whole day cleaning the house； took
us coins out of her purse and scrubbed us with a coarse brush。 I remember the
one…eyed money changer who constantly stacked us up into towers； the porter
who smelled of morning glories and who； along with his family； watched us as
if looking out over a stunning landscape； and the gilder； no longer among us—
no need to name names—who spent his evenings arranging us into various
designs。 I’ve traveled in mahogany skiffs； I’ve visited the Sultan’s palace； I’ve
hidden within Herat…made bindings； in the heels of rose…scented shoes and in
the covers of packsaddles。 I’ve known hundreds of hands： dirty； hairy； plump；
oily； trembling and old。 I’ve been redolent of opium dens； candle…makers’
shops； dried mackerel and the sweat of all of Istanbul。 After experiencing such
excitement and motion； a base thief who had slit his victim’s throat in the
blackness of night and tossed me into his purse； once back in his accursed
house； spat in my face and grunted； “Damn you； it’s all because of you。” I was
so offended； so hurt； that I wanted nothing more than to disappear。
If I didn’t exist； however； no one would be able to distinguish a good artist
from a bad one； and this would lead to chaos among the miniaturists； they’d
all be at each other’s throats。 So I haven’t vanished。 I’ve entered the purse of
the most talented and intelligent of miniaturists and made my way here。
If you think you’re better than Stork； then by all means； get hold of me。
118
I AM CALLED BLACK
I wondered whether Shekure’s father was aware of the letters we exchanged。 If
I were to consider her tone； which bespoke a timid maiden quite afraid of her
father； I’d have to conclude that not a single word about me had passed
between them。 Yet； I sensed that this was not the case。 The slyness in Esther’s
looks； Shekure’s enchanting appearance at the window； the decisiveness with
which my Enishte sent me to his illustrators and his despair when he ordered
me to e this morning—all of it made me quite uneasy。
In the morning； as soon as my Enishte asked me to sit before him； he began
to describe the portraits he saw in Venice。 As the ambassador of Our Sultan；
Refuge of the ber of palazzos； churches and the
houses of prosperous men。 Over a period of days； he stood before thousands
of portraits。 He saw thousands of framed faces depicted on stretched canvas or
wood or painted directly onto walls。 “Each one was different from the next。
They were distinctive； unique human faces！” he said。 He was intoxicated by
their variety； their colors； the pleasantness—even severity—of the soft light
that seemed to fall on them and the meaning emanating from their eyes。
“As if a virulent plague had struck； everyone was having his portrait made；”
he said。 “In all of Venice； rich and influential men wanted their portraits
painted as a symbol； a memento of their lives and a sign of their riches； power
and influence—so they might always be there； standing before us； announcing
their existence； nay； their individuality and distinction。”
His words were belittling； as if he were speaking out of jealousy； ambition
or greed。 Though； at times； as he talked about the portraits he’d seen in
Venice； his face would abruptly light up like a child’s； invigorated。
Portraiture had bee such a contagion among affluent men； princes and
great families who were patrons of art that even when they missioned
frescoes of biblical scenes and religious legends for church walls； these infidels
would insist that their own images appear somewhere in the work。 For
instance； in a painting of the burial of St。 Stephan； you’d suddenly see； ah yes；
present among the tearful graveside mourners； the very prince who was giving
you the tour—in a state of pure enthusiasm； exhilaration and conceit—of the
paintings hanging on his palazzo walls。 Next； in the corner of a fresco
depicting St。 Peter curing the sick with his