had discovered painting techniques with which they

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could　distinguish　any　one　man　from　another—without　relying　on　his　outfit　or

medals； just by the distinctive shape of his face。 This was the essence of

”portraiture。“

“If　your　face　were　depicted　in　this　fashion　only　once；　no　one　would　ever　be

able　to　forget　you；　and　if　you　were　far　away；　someone　who　laid　eyes　on　your

portrait would feel your presence as if you were actually nearby。 Those who

had　never　seen　you　alive；　even　years　after　your　death；　could　e　face…to…face

with　you　as　if　you　were　standing　before　them。”

We　remained　silent　for　a　long　time。　A　chilling　light　the　color　of　the　iciness

outside　filtered　through　the　upper　part　of　the　small　hallway　window　facing　the

street；　this　was　the　window　whose　lower　shutters　were　never　opened；　which

I’d　recently　paned　over　with　a　piece　of　cloth　dipped　in　beeswax。

“There　was　a　miniaturist；”　I　said。　“He　would　e　here　just　like　the　other

artists　for　the　sake　of　Our　Sultan’s　secret　book；　and　we　would　work　together

till　dawn。　He　did　the　best　of　the　gilding。　That　unfortunate　Elegant　Effendi；　he

left　here　one　night　never　to　arrive　at　home。　I’m　afraid　they　might　have　done

him　in；　that　poor　master　gilder　of　mine。”

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I　AM　ORHAN

Black　asked：　“Have　they　indeed　killed　him？”

This Black was tall； skinny and a