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picture of a horse？”
“I once saw a winged horse in an enchanting book that a great teacher； a
scholar of scholars； had presented to my late hoja。”
I didn’t know whether I should push the head of this clown into his soup；
who； along with his teacher； had taken Strange Creatures seriously； and drown
him or leave him to describe in glowing terms the only horse picture he’d ever
seen in his life—in who knows how poor a manuscript copy。 I came up with a
third alternative； and that was to drop my spoon and quit the shop。 After
walking for a long while I entered the abandoned dervish lodge； where I was
overe with a sense of peace。 I tidied up and without doing anything else； I
listened to the silence。
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Later； I removed the mirror from where I kept it hidden and set it upon the
low worktable。 Next； I placed the two…page illustration and the drawing board
on my lap。 When I could see my face in the mirror from where I sat； I
attempted to draw my portrait in charcoal。 I drew for a long time； patiently。
Much later； when I saw that once again the face on the page didn’t resemble
my face in the mirror； I was filled with such misery that tears welled in my
eyes。 How did the Veian painters that Enishte described with such flourish
do it？ I then imagined myself to be one of them； thinking that if I illustrated in
that state of mind； I could perhaps make a convincing self…portrait。
Later still； I cursed the European painters and Enishte both； erased what I’d
done and began looking into the mirror anew to begin another drawing。
Ultimately； I found myself wandering the streets again； and then； here； at
this despicable coffeehouse。 I wasn’t even sure how I happened to e here。
As I entered； I felt such embarrassment about mingling with these miserable
miniaturists and calligraphers that sweat accumulated on my forehead。
I sensed that they were watching me； alerting each other of my presence
with their elbows； and laughing—all right； I could plainly see them doing it。 I
seated myself in the corner； trying to behave naturally。 At the same time my
eyes sought the other masters； my dear brethren with whom； at one time； I’d
served as Master Osman’s apprentice。 I was certain each of them was also
asked to draw a horse this evening and that they’d each expended great
desperate efforts； taking the contest arranged by these idiots quite seriously。
The storyteller effendi hadn’t yet begun his performance。 The picture
hadn’t even been hung up yet。 I was forced to socialize with the coffeehouse
crowd。
So be it then； let me be frank with you： Like everyone else I； too； made
jokes； told indecent stories； kissed my panions on the cheeks with
exaggerated gestures； spoke in double entendres； innuendos and puns； asked
how the young assistant masters were doing； and like everybody else；
mercilessly needled our mon enemies； and after I really warmed up； I went
so far as to roughhouse and kiss men on the neck。 Yet； knowing that a part of
my soul remained mercilessly silent when I involved myself in such behavior
caused me unbearable torment。
Noheless； before long； I not only succeeded in using figurative language
to pare my own cock； and those of others that were much…talked about； to
brushes； reeds； coffeehouse pillars； flutes； newel posts； door knockers； leeks；
minarets； lady fingers in heavy syrup； pine trees； and twice； to the world itself；
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I was equally successful in paring the asses of much…discussed pretty boys
to oranges； figs； small haycocklike pastries； pillows and also to tiny anthills。
Meanwhile； the most conceited of the calligraphers my age was only able to
pare his oateurishly and without any self…confidence I
might add—to a ship’s mast and a porter’s pole。 Furthermore； I made
allusions to old miniaturists’ dicks that would no longer rise； the cherry…
colored lips of new apprentices； master calligraphers who hoarded their
money （as did I） in a certain place （“the most disgusting nook”）； how perhaps
opium had been put into the wine I was drinking instead of rose petals； the
last great masters of Tabriz and Shiraz； the mixing of coffee and wine in
Aleppo； and the calligraphers and beautiful boys to be found there。
At times it seemed that one of the two spirits within me had； in the end；
emerged victorious； leaving the other behind； and that I’d finally forgotten
that silent and loveless aspect of myself。 At these times I remembered the
holiday celebrations of my childhood during which I was able to be myself
along with my kith and kin。 Despite all these jokes； kisses and embraces； there
was still a silence within me that left me suffering and isolated in the heart of
the crowd。
Who had endowed me with this silent and merciless spirit—it was not a
spirit but a jinn—which always chided me and cut me off from others？ Satan？
But the silence within me was eased； not by the crass mischief instigated by
Satan； on the contrary； by the most pure and simple stories that drove into
one’s soul。 Under the influence of wine； I told two stories； hoping that this
would grant me peace。 A tall； pale； yet pinkish…plected calligrapher’s
apprentice focused his green eyes onto mine and was listening to me with rapt
attention。
Two Stories on Blindness and Style
the Miniaturist Told to Ease the Loneliness in His Soul
ALIF
Contrary to what is assumed； making drawings of horses by looking at actual
horses wasn’t a discovery of European masters。 The original idea belonged to
the great master Jemalettin of Kazvin。 After Tall Hasan； the Khan of the
Whitesheep； conquered Kazvin； the old master Jemalettin was not content to
simply join the book…arts workshop of the victorious khan； instead he headed
out on campaign with him； claiming that he wanted to embellish the khan’s
309
History with scenes of war he’d witnessed himself。 So this great master； who
for sixty…two years had made pictures of horses； cavalry charges and battles
without ever having seen a battle； went to war for the first time。 But before he
could even see the thunderous and violent clash of sweating horses； he lost his
hands and his eyesight to enemy cannon…fire。 The old master； like all genuine
virtuosos； had in any case been awaiting blindness as though it were Allah’s
blessing； and neither did he treat the loss of his hands as a great deficiency。 He
maintained that the memory of a miniaturist was located not in the hand； as
some insisted； but in the intellect and the heart； and furthermore； now that he
was blind； he declared that he could see the true pictures； scenery and essential
and flawless horses that Allah manded be seen。 To share these wonders
with lovers of art； he hired a tall； pale…skinned； pink…pl