istanced ourselves from the

Islam of the time of Our Prophet； Apostle of God； to adopting new and vile

customs and to allowing Frankish； European sensibilities to flourish in our

midst。　This　is　all　that　the　Preacher　Erzurumi　is　saying；　but　his　enemies　attempt

to　persuade　the　Sultan　otherwise　by　claiming　that　the　Erzurumis　are　attacking

dervish　lodges　where　music　is　played；　and　that　they’re　defacing　the　tombs　of

saints。 They know I don’t share their animosity toward His Excellency

Erzurumi； so they’re making polite insinuations： “Are you the one who has

taken　care　of　our　brother　Elegant　Effendi？”

It suddenly dawned on me that these rumors had long been spreading

among the miniaturists。 That group of uninspired； untalented inpetents

was gleefully alleging that I was nothing but a beastly murderer。 I felt like

lowering an inkpot onto the Circassian skull of this buffoon Black purely

because　he　took　the　slander　of　this　jealous　group　of　miniaturists　seriously。

Black was examining my workshop； mitting everything he saw to

memory。 He was intently observing my long paper scissors； ceramic bowls

filled　with　yellow　pigment；　bowls　of　paint；　the　apple　I　occasionally　nibbled　as　I

worked； the coffeepot resting on the edge of the stove in the back； my