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ful　men　who　are　pleased　by　flattery　and　praise

but　recollect　vaguely　that　they　ought　not　be　would—as　though　he　wished　to

change　the　subject。

“Despite　being　a　great　master　of　Persian　legends　and　styles；　you’ve　created　a

distinct world of illustration worthy of Ottoman glory and strength；” I

whispered。 “You’re the one who brought to art the power of the Ottoman

sword；　the　optimistic　colors　of　Ottoman　victory；　the　interest　in　and　attention

to objects and implements； and the freedom of a fortable lifestyle。 My

dear master； it’s been the greatest honor of my life to look at these

masterpieces　by　the　old　legendary　masters　with　you…”

For　a　long　time　I　whispered　on　in　this　manner。　Within　the　icy　darkness　and

cluttered disarray of the Treasury； which resembled a recently abandoned

battlefield；　our　bodies　were　so　close　that　my　whispering　became　an　expression

of　intimacy。

Later；　as　with　certain　blind　men　who　can’t　control　their　facial　expressions；

Master Osman’s eyes assumed the look of an old man lost in pleasure。 I

praised　the　old　master　at　length；　now　with　heartfelt　emotion；　now　shuddering

with　the　inner　revulsion　I　felt　toward　the　blind。

360

He　held　my　hand　with　his　cold　fingers；　caressed　my　forearm　and　touched

my　face。　His　strength　and　age　seemed　to　pass　through　his　fingers　into　me。　I；

again；　thought　of　Shekure　who　awaited　me　at　home。

Standing　still　that　way　for　a　time；　pages　opened　before　us；　it　was　as　if　my

lavish　praise　and　his　self…admiration　and　self…pity　had　so　fatigued　us　that　we

were　resting。　We’d　bee　embarrassed　of　each　other。

“