illuminated manuscript； which I’ve described as “secret。” On
one occasion； the Sultan forced the great Master Osman to copy a portrait of
His Highness； which had been missioned from a Veian。 I know Master
Osman holds me responsible for having to imitate that painter； for having to
make that strange painting； which he did with disgust； referring to the
experience as “torture。” His wrath was justified。
Standing in the middle of the staircase for a while； I looked at the sky。
When I was convinced that I’d been left quite behind； I continued down the
icy stairs。 I’d barely descended—ever so slowly—two steps when a man took
me by the arm and embraced me： Black。
103
“The air is freezing；” he said。 “You must be cold。”
I hadn’t the slightest doubt that this was the one who’d muddled
Shekure’s mind。 The self…confidence with which he took my arm was proof
enough。 There was something in his demeanor that announced； “I’ve worked
for twelve years and have truly grown up。” When we came to the bottom of
the stairs； I told him that I’d expect an account later of what he’d learned at
the workshop。
“You go ahead； my child；” I said。 “Go ahead and catch up to the
congregation。”
He was taken aback； but didn’t let on。 The way he let go of my arm with
reservation and walked ahead of me pleased me； even。 If I gave Shekure to him；
would he agree to live in the same house with us？
We’d left the city through the Edirne Gate。 I saw the coffin on the verge of
disappearing into the fog along with the crowd of illustrators； calligraphers
and apprentices shoul