I was meant to be among the pages of this illustrated manuscript that I
sadly heard was pleted today。 Unfortunately； on a cold winter’s day； the
Tatar courier who was carrying me as he crossed a rocky mountain pass was
ambushed by thieves。 First they beat the poor Tatar； then they robbed him and
raped him in a manner befitting thieves before mercilessly killing him。 As a
result； I know nothing about the page I’ve fallen from。 My request is that you
look at me and ask： “Were you perhaps meant to provide shade for Mejnun
disguised as a shepherd as he visited Leyla in her tent？” or “Were you meant to
fade into the night； representing the darkness in the soul of a wretched and
hopeless man？” How I would’ve wanted to plement the happiness of two
lovers who fled from the whole world； traversing oceans to find solace on an
island rich with birds and fruit！ I would’ve wanted to shade Alexander during
the final moments of his life on his campaign to conquer Hindustan as he died
from a persistent nosebleed brought on by sunstroke。 Or was I meant to
symbolize the strength and wisdom of a father offering advice on love and life
to his son？ Ah； to which story was I meant to add meaning and grace？
Among the brigands who’d killed the messenger and taken me with them；
dragging me headlong from mountain to mountain and city to city； there was
a thief who occasionally understood my worth； and had the refinement to
realize that looking at the drawing of a tree is more pleasant than looking at a
tree； but because he didn’t know to which story I belonged； he quickly tired of
me。 After dragging me from city to city； this rogue didn’t tear me apart and
dispose of me as I’d feared he might； but sold me to a cultivated man in a
caravansary for a jug of wine。 Sometimes at night this unfortunate delicate…
spirited man would stare at me by candlelight and cry。 In time； he died of grief
and they sold his belongings。 Thanks to the master storyteller who purchased
me； I’ve e all the way to Istanbul。 Now； I’m most happy； and honored to
be here tonight among you； the Ottoman Sultan’s miraculously inspired；
eagle…eyed； iron…willed； elegant…wristed； sensitive…spirited miniaturists and
calligraphers—and for Heaven’s sake； I beg of you not to believe those who
claim I’ve been hastily sketched onto coarse paper by some master miniaturist
as a wall prop。
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But hear yet what other lies； slander and brazen untruths are being spread！
You might remember how last night my master nailed the picture of a dog
here on the wall and recounted the adventures of this crass beast； and how at
the same time he told of the adventures of Husret Hoja of Erzurum！ Well now；
the admirers of His Excellency Nusret Hoja have pletely misunderstood
this story； they think he was the target of our account。 Could we have possibly
said that the great preacher； His Esteemed Excellency； was of uncertain birth？
God forbid！ Would it have even crossed our minds？ What mischief； what a
crude lie！ Clearly； Husret of Erzurum is being confused with Nusret of
Erzurum； so let me proceed to tell you the story of Cross…Eyed Nedret Hoja of
Sivas and the Tree。
Besides denouncing the wooing of pretty boys and the art of painting； this
Cross…Eyed Nedret Hoja of Sivas maintained that coffee was the Devil’s work
and that coffee drinkers would go to Hell。 Hey； you from Sivas； have you
forgotten how this enormous branch of mine was bent？ Let me tell you about
it； then； but swear you won’t tell anyone； and may Allah protect you from
baseless slander。 One morning； I awoke to find that a giant of a man—God
protect him； he was as tall as a minaret with hands like a lion’s claws—had
climbed up onto this branch of mine and hidden beneath my lush leaves
together with the aforementioned Hoja and； excuse the expression； they were
going at it like dogs in heat。 While the giant； whom I later realized was the
Devil； attended to his business with our hero； he was passionately kissing
his lovely ear and whispering into it； “Coffee is a sin； coffee is a vice…”
Accordingly； those who believe in the harmful effects of coffee； believe not in
the mandments of our good religion； but in the Devil himself。
And finally； I shall make mention of Frank painters； so if there are
degenerates among you who have pretensions to be like them； may you heed
my warning and be deterred。 Now； these Frank painters depict the faces of
kings； priests； noblemen and even women in such a manner that after gazing
upon the portrait； you’d be able to identify that person on the street。 Their
wives roam freely on the streets anyway—now； just imagine the rest。 As if this
weren’t enough； they’ve taken matters even further。 I don’t mean in regard to
pimping； but in regard to painting。
A great European master miniaturist and another great master artist are
walking through a Frank meadow discussing virtuosity and art。 As they stroll； a
forest es into view before them。 The more expert of the two says to the
other： “Painting in the new style demands such talent that if you depicted one
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of the trees in this forest； a man who looked upon that painting could e
here； and if he so desired； correctly select that tree from among the others。”
I thank Allah that I； the humble tree before you； have not been drawn with
such intent。 And not because I fear that if I’d been thus depicted all the dogs
in Istanbul would assume I was a real tree and piss on me： I don’t want to be a
tree； I want to be its meaning。
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I AM CALLED BLACK
The snow began to fall at a late hour and continued till dawn。 I spent the night
reading Shekure’s letter again and again。 I paced in the empty room of the
empty house； occasionally leaning toward the candlestick； in the flickering
light of the dim candle； I y beloved’s angry
letters； the somersaults they turned trying to deceive me and their hip…
swinging right…to…left progression。 Abruptly； those shutters would open before
my eyes； and my beloved’s face and her sorrowful smile would appear。 And
when I saw her real face； I forgot all of those other faces whose sour…cherry
mouths had increasingly matured and ripened in my imagination。
In the middle of the night I lost myself in dreams of marriage： I had no
doubts about my love or that it was reciprocated—we were married in a state
of great contentment—but； my imaginary happiness； set in a house with a
staircase； was dashed when I couldn’t find appropriate work and began
arguing with my wife； unable to make her heed my words。
I knew I’d appropriated these ominous images from the section on the ills
of marriage in Gazzali’s The Revival of Religious Science； which I’