Diary of a Painter

February 25, 1489

I have been on this ship four weeks now, and it's tiring. Everything seems to be the same. I'm sick of the ocean. I'm sick of the waves, literally. Finally, I'm sick of the sense of madness that comes from loneliness. It is a harsh reality I thought would be better. I walked into this path and now I must keep it until the end of my time here. The Zingari have been helping me a lot through all my trials, and they are determined help me fit in. They have taught me Turkish.  The women were quite kind to me. They believe I will bring them wealth, for they have seen my paintings. I believe them. In contrast to my beliefs, they are kind people and believe like I do. On the ship there is a man. He is kind to all the women here. He does not notice me at all. I watch him from a far and he has never noticed. How he got in the ship I do not know? The ship is supposed to be only for the gypsy women, but it seems that he has. I fear he will harm us, but he is eccentric. He wears a head dress all the time, and his garbs are such bright colors. He brings us girls food and drink, but I have had a lot of trouble eating lately. He brought wine tonight, and he brought me a Turkish dish that was quite good. I asked him how long it took to get to the Bosporus Strait. It is the first time I have been here. It has taken me an entire moon to get here, and it is a beautiful place. I am happy to be here. The Gypsies, what they are called here, are happy to be here as well. I could get used to this. They make good money with services, and I have begun to enjoy "servicing" these people. The women come to talk about there husbands. The same husbands that have been complained about are being helped in another tent over. It is surprising the wives have never realized it. There was a man here earlier who "bought me out" and he neither wanted me to talk to or to help him. He asked about me. Of course I lied though he looked quite familiar. I can't place him though. I think he was the man from the ship. He wore the same head dress, though the colors were off slightly. I do hope it wasn't him. He looked like one of the men that used to stay in father's shop at night. The women asked me where I learned to write. I have begun to teach most of them and give them books to practice their writing skills. Most of these women have never seen a blank book before. It's quite sad to be honest. I wish I could tell more about the journey. One day my story will be out there. The man promised to keep the diary and myself safe. He said his name was Yusuf or Joseph in my tongue. His kindness showed me there is still a little light left in the world.