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in a futile attempt to attain a style and European character; we will still fail—
just as I failed in making this self…portrait despite all my proficiency and
knowledge。 This primitive picture I’ve made; without even achieving a fair
resemblance of myself; revealed to me what we’ve know all along without
admitting it: The proficiency of the Franks will take centuries to attain。 Had
Enishte Effendi’s book been pleted and sent to them; the Veian
masters would’ve smirked; and their ridicule would’ve reached the Veian
Doge—that is all。 They’d have quipped that the Ottomans have given up being
Ottoman and would no longer fear us。 How wonderful it would be if we could
persist on the path of the old masters! But no one wants this; neither His
Excellency Our Sultan; nor Black Effendi—who is melancholy because he has
no portrait of his precious Shekure。 In that case; sit yourselves down and do
nothing but ape the Europeans century after century! Proudly sign your
names to your imitation paintings。 The old masters of Herat tried to depict the
world the way God saw it; and to conceal their individuality they never signed
their names。 You; however; are condemned to signing your names to conceal
your lack of individuality。 But there is an alternative。 Each of you has perhaps
been summoned; and if so; you’re hiding it from me: Akbar; Sultan of
Hindustan; is strewing about money and blandishments; trying to gather in
his court the most talented artists in the world。 It’s quite apparent that the
book to be pleted for the thousandth year of Islam will not be prepared
here in Istanbul; but in the workshops of Agra。”
“Must an artist first bee a murderer to be as high and mighty as you?”
asked Stork。
“Nay; it’s enough to be the most gifted and the most talented;” I said
heedlessly。
A proud cockerel crowed twice in the distance。 I gathered my bundle and
my gold pieces; my notebook of forms; and put my illustrations into my
portfolio。 I considered how I might kill each of them one by one with the
dagger; whose point I held at Black’s throat; but I felt nothing but affection for
my boyhood friends—including Stork; who’d stuck the plume needle into my
eyes。
I screamed at Butterfly; who had stood up; and thus scared him into sitting
back down。 Now; confident I’d be able to escape the lodge safely; I hastened
432
toward the door; and at the threshold; I impatiently uttered the momentous
words I’d been planning to say:
“My flight from Istanbul shall resemble Ibn Shakir’s flight from Baghdad
under Mongol occupation。”
“In that case; you must head West instead of East;” said jealous Stork。
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