My house was opposite the direction we were heading along the road leading away from the coffeehouse。 We tacked right and left down neighborhood streets and passed through empty gardens that bore the depressing scent of damp and lonely trees as we traced a wide arc back toward my house。 We’d covered more than half the route； when Black stopped and said： “For two days； Master Osman and I examined the masterpieces of the legendary masters in the Treasury。” Much later； nearly screaming； I said； “After a certain age； even if a painter shares a worktable with Bihzad； what he sees may please his eyes and bring contentment and excitement to his soul； but it won’t enhance his talent； because one paints with the hand； not the eyes； and the hand at my age； let alone at Master Osman’s； does not easily learn new things。” Assured my beautiful wife was waiting for me； I spoke at the top of my voice to let her know I wasn’t alone so she might hide herself from Black—not that I took this pathetic dagger…wielding fool seriously。 387 We passed through the courtyard gate； and I thought I saw the light of a lamp moving in the house； but thank God all was in darkness now。 It was such a merciless rape of my privacy for this knife…wielding beast to force his way into my heavenly home； where I spent my days； indeed all my time； seeking out and painting Allah’s memories until my eyes tired—whereupon I’d make love to my beloved； the most beautiful woman in the world—that I swore to take revenge upon him。 Lowering the lamp； he examined my papers； a page I was in the midst of pleting—condemned prisoners pleading to the Sultan to be relieved of their chains of debt and receiving His benevolence—my paints； my worktables； my knives； my reed…cutting boards； my brushes； everything around my writing table； my papers again； my burnishing stones； my penknives and the spaces between my pen and paper boxes； he looked in cabis； chests； beneath cushions； at one of my paper scissors； and beneath a soft red cushion and a carpet before going back； bringing the lamp closer and closer to each object and examining the same places once again。 As he said when he first drew his weapon； he wouldn’t search my entire house； only my atelier。 Indeed； couldn’t I conceal my wife—the only thing I wanted to hide—in the room from which she was now spying on us？ “There’s a final picture that belonged to the book my Enishte was having made；” he said。 “Whoever killed him also stole that picture。” “It was different from the others；” I said immediately。 “Your Enishte； may he rest in peace； made me draw a tree in one corner of the page。 In the background somewhere…and in the middle of the page； in the foreground； was to be someone’s picture； probably a portrait of Our Sultan。 That space； quite large if I might add； was awaiting its picture。 Because the objects in the background were to be smaller； as in the European style； he wanted me to make the tree smaller。 As the picture developed； it gave the impression of being a view of this world from a window； nothing like an illustration at all。 It was then I prehended that in a picture made with the perspectival methods of the Franks； the borders and gilding took the place of a window frame。” “Elegant Effendi was responsible for the borders and the gilding。” “If that’s what you’re asking； I already told you I didn’t murder him。” “A murderer never admits to his crime；” he said quickly； then asked me what I was doing at the coffeehouse during the raid。 He placed the oil lamp just beside the cushion upon which I was seated； in a way that would illuminate my face along with my papers and the pages I was 388 illuminating。 He himself was scurrying about the room like a shadow in the dark。 Besides telling him what I’ve told you； that I actually was an infrequent visitor to the coffeehouse and just happened to be passing by； I also repeated that I made two of the pictures which were hung on the wall there—although I actually disapproved of the goings…on at the coffeehouse。 “Because；” I added； “the art of painting only ends up condemning and punishing itself when it derives its strength from the desire to condemn and punish the evils of life rather than from the painter’s own skill； love of his art and desire to embrace Allah…regardless of whether it’s the preacher from Erzurum or Satan himself that’s denounced。 More importantly； if that coffeehouse crowd hadn’t targeted the Erzurumis； it might not have been raided tonight。” “Even so； you would go there；” said the wretch。 “Yes； because I enjoyed myself there。” Had he an inkling of how honest I was being？ I added； “Despite knowing how ugly and wrong something is； we descendants of Adam might still derive considerable pleasure from it。 And I’m embarrassed to say I was also entertained by those cheap illustrations； the mimicry and those stories about Satan； the gold coin and the dog； which the storyteller told crudely without meter or rhyme。” “Even so； why would you even step foot in that den of unbelievers？” “Fine then；” I said resigning myself to an inner voice； “at times there’s also a worm of doubt that gnaws at me： Ever since I was openly recognized as the most talented and most proficient among the masters of the workshop； not only by Master Osman； but by Our Sultan as well； I began to be so terrified of the envy of the others that I tried； if only at times； to go where they went； to befriend them and to resemble them so they wouldn’t turn on me in a sudden fit of vengeance。 Do you understand？ And since they’ve begun labeling me an ”Erzurumi；“ I’ve been going to that den of vile unbelievers so others might discount this