“You get back inside。 To the funeral。”
I passed through snow…covered streets； between poor rotting houses leaning
this way and that way； barely able to stand； and through fire…ravaged
neighborhoods。 I walked for a long time； taking the cautious steps of an aging
man trying not to slip and fall on the ice。 I passed through out…of…the…way
neighborhoods and gardens and fields。 I walked by shops that dealt in
carriages and wheels and passed iron smiths； saddlers； harness makers and
farriers on my way toward the walls of the city。
I’m not sure why they decided to start the funeral procession all the way at
the Mihrimah Mosque near the city’s Edirne Gate。 At the mosque； I embraced
the big…headed and bewildered brothers of the deceased； who looked angry
and obstinate。 We miniaturists and calligraphers embraced each other and
wept。 As I was performing my prayers within a leaden fog that had suddenly
descended and swallowed everything； my gaze fell on the coffin resting atop
the mosque’s stone funeral block； and I felt such anger toward the miscreant
who’d mitted this crime； believe me； even the Allahümme Barik prayer
became muddled in my mind。
After the prayers； while the congregation shouldered the coffin； I was still
among all the miniaturists and calligraphers。 Stork and I had forgotten that on
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some nights； when we sat in the dim light of oil lamps working until morning
on my book； he’d tried to convince me of the inferiority of Elegant Effendi’s
gilding work and of the lack of balance in his use of colors—he colored
everyt