ever　to　Allah’s　path。”

185

“True；　but　I’m　not　sure　that　amounts　to　praise。　Try　again。”

“There’s　no　miniaturist　who　knows　the　consistency　of　paint　and　its　secrets

as well as you do。 You always prepare and apply the glossiest； most vibrant；

most　genuine　colors。”

“Yes；　and　what　else？”

“You　know　you’re　the　greatest　of　painters　after　Bihzad　and　Mir　Seyyid　Ali。”

“Yes；　I’m　aware　of　this。　If　you　are　too；　why　are　you　making　the　book　with

that　model　of　mediocrity　Black　Effendi？”

“First； the work he does doesn’t require a miniaturist’s skill；” I said。

“Second；　unlike　yourself；　he’s　not　a　murderer。”

He smiled sweetly under the influence of my joke。 With this； I thought I

might　be　able　to　escape　this　nightmare　thanks　to　a　new　expression—this　word

“style。” Upon my broaching the subject； we began a pleasant discussion

concerning　the　bronze　Mongol　inkpot　he　held；　not　like　father　and　son；　but　like

two　curious　and　experienced　old　men。　The　weight　of　the　bronze；　the　balance　of

the　inkpot；　the　depth　of　its　neck；　the　length　of　old　calligraphy　reed　pens　and

the　mysteries　of　red　ink；　whose　consistency　he　could　feel　as　he　gently　swung

the inkpot before me…We agreed that if the Mongols hadn’t brought the

secrets of red paint—which they’d learned from Chinese masters—to

Khorasan；　Bukhara　and　Herat；　we　in　Istanbul　couldn’t　make　these　paintings　at

all。 As we talked； the consistency of time； like that of the paint； seemed to

change；　to　flow　ever　more　quickly。　In　a　corner　of　my　mind　I　was　wondering

why　no　one　had　yet　returned　home。　If　only　he’d　put