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there； an efficient and fastidious librarian had them bound together with

other unrelated illustrations belonging to the workshop； and thus they were

separated into several bound albums。 Hasan fled Istanbul； and disappeared；

never　to　be　heard　from　again。　Shevket　and　Orhan　never　forgot　that　it　wasn’t

Black　but　their　Uncle　Hasan　who　was　the　one　who　killed　my　father’s　murderer。

In place of Master Osman； who died two years after going blind； Stork

became Head Illuminator。 Butterfly； y late

father’s　talents；　devoted　the　rest　of　his　life　to　drawing　ornamental　designs　for

carpets； cloths and tents。 The young assistant masters of the workshop gave

themselves over to similar work。 No one behaved as though abandoning

illustration　were　any　great　loss。　Perhaps　because　nobody　had　ever　seen　his　own

face　done　justice　on　the　page。

My　whole　life；　I’ve　secretly　very　much　wanted　two　paintings　made；　which

I’ve　never　mentioned　to　anybody：

1。 My own portrait； but I knew however hard the Sultan’s miniaturists

tried；　they’d　fail；　because　even　if　they　could　see　my　beauty；　woefully；　none　of

them　would　believe　a　woman’s　face　was　beautiful　without　depicting　her　eyes

and　lips　like　a　Chinese　woman’s。　Had　they　represented　me　as　a　Chinese　beauty；

the way the old masters of Herat would’ve； perhaps those who saw it and

recognized　me　could　discern　my　face　behind　the　face　of　that　Chinese　beauty。

But later generations； even if they realized my eyes weren’t really slanted；

could never determine what my face truly looked like。 How happy I’d be