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inscrutable　　yet　　distinguishable　　things　　that　　were　　probably　　included　　in　　many

pictures；　　shadows　　of　　jinns　　and　　the　　Devil　　and　　also；　　the　　picture　　of　　the　　man’s

stunningly　beautiful　daughter　as　she　stood　beside　her　father。

“What　　was　　the　　narrative　　that　　this　　representation　　was　　meant　　to　　embellish

and　plete？　As　I　regarded　the　work；　I　slowly　sensed　that　the　underlying　tale

was　the　picture　itself。　The　painting　wasn’t　the　extension　of　a　story　at　all；　it　was

something　in　its　own　right。

“I　　never　　forgot　　the　　painting　　that　　bewildered　　me　　so。　　I　　left　　the　　palazzo；

returned　to　the　house　where　I　was　staying　as　a　guest　and　pondered　the　picture

the　entire　night。　I；　too；　wanted　to　be　portrayed　in　this　manner。　But；　no；　that

wasn’t　appropriate；　it　was　Our　Sultan　who　ought　to　be　thus　portrayed！　Our

Sultan　ought　to　be　rendered　along　with　everything　He　owned；　with　the　things

that　　represented　　and　　constituted　　His　　realm。　　I　　settled　　on　　the　　notion　　that　　a

manuscript　could　be　illustrated　according　to　this　idea。

“The　　Veian　　virtuoso　　had　　made　　the　　nobleman’s　　picture　　in　　such　　a　　way

that　you　would　immediately　know　which　particular　nobleman　it　was。　If　you’d

never　seen　that　man；　if　they　told　you　to　pick　him　out　of　a　crowd　of　a　thousand

others；　you’d　be　able　to　select　the　correct　man　with　the　help　of　that　portrait。

The　　Veian　　masters　　had　　discovered　　painting　　techniques　　with　　which　　they

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could　distinguish　any　one　man　from　another—without　relying　on　his　outfit　or

medals；　　just　　by　　the　　distinctive　　shape　　of　　his　　face。　　This　　was　　the　　essence　　of

”portraiture。“

“If　your　face　were　depicted　in　this　fashion　only　once；　no　one　would　ever　be

able　to　forget　you；　and　if　you　were　far　away；　someone　who　laid　eyes　on　your

portrait　　would　　feel　　your　　presence　　as　　if　　you　　were　　actually　　nearby。　　Those　　who

had　never　seen　you　alive；　even　years　after　your　death；　could　e　face…to…face

with　you　as　if　you　were　standing　before　them。”

We　remained　silent　for　a　long　time。　A　chilling　light　the　color　of　the　iciness

outside　filtered　through　the　upper　part　of　the　small　hallway　window　facing　the

street；　this　was　the　window　whose　lower　shutters　were　never　opened；　which

I’d　recently　paned　over　with　a　piece　of　cloth　dipped　in　beeswax。

“There　was　a　miniaturist；”　I　said。　“He　would　e　here　just　like　the　other

artists　for　the　sake　of　Our　Sultan’s　secret　book；　and　we　would　work　together

till　dawn。　He　did　the　best　of　the　gilding。　That　unfortunate　Elegant　Effendi；　he

left　here　one　night　never　to　arrive　at　home。　I’m　afraid　they　might　have　done