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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第119章

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following claim somewhere in one of his sermons; which are written out and 
collected in a thick tome: Kalenderi dervishes are the unnecessary dross of the 
world because they don’t belong to any of the four categories into which men 
are divided: 1。 notables; 2。 merchants; 3。 farmers and 4。 artists; thus; they are 
superfluous。 
Additionally; he said the following: “These two always tramp about as a pair 
and always argue about which of them will be the first to eat with their only 
spoon;  and  those  who  don’t  know  that  this  is  a  sly  allusion  to  their  true 
concern—who’ll be the first to bugger the other—find it amusing and laugh。 
His  Excellency  Please…Don’t…Take…It…Wrong  Hoja  has  uncovered  our  secret 
because he; along with us; the pretty young boys; apprentices and miniaturists; 
are all fellow travelers on the same path。” 
 
The Real Secret 
 
However;  the  real  secret  is  this:  While  the  Frank  infidel  was  making  our 
picture;  he  gazed  at  us  so  sweetly  and  with  such  attention  to  detail  that  we 
took  a  liking  to  him  and  enjoyed  being  depicted  by  him。  But;  he  was 
mitting the error of looking at the world with his naked eye and rendering 
what he saw。 Thus; he drew us as if we were blind although we could see just 
fine; but we didn’t mind。 Now; we’re quite content; indeed。 According to the 
Hoja; we’re in Hell; according to some unbelievers we’re nothing but decayed 
corpses and according to you; the intelligent society of miniaturists gathered 
here; we’re a picture; and because we’re a picture; we stand here before you as 
though  we  were  alive  and  well。  After  our  run…in  with  the  respected  Hoja 
Effendi and after walking from Konya to Sivas in three nights; through eight 
villages; begging all the way; one night we were beset by such cold and snow 
that  we  two  dervishes;  hugging  each  other  tightly;  fell  asleep  and  froze  to 
death。  Just  before  dying  I  had  a  dream:  I  was  the  subject  of  a  painting  that 
entered Heaven after thousands and thousands of years。 
 
 
   
335 
 
IT IS I; MASTER OSMAN 
 
They tell a story in Bukhara that dates back to the time of Abdullah Khan。 This 
Uzbek Khan was a suspicious ruler; and though he didn’t object to more than 
one  artist’s  brush  contributing  to  the  same  illustration;  he  was  opposed  to 
painters copying from one another’s pages—because this made it impossible 
to determine which of the artists brazenly copying from one another was to 
blame  for  an  error。  More  importantly;  after  a  time;  instead  of  pushing 
themselves  to  seek  out  God’s  memories  within  the  darkness;  pilfering 
miniaturists would lazily seek out whatever they saw over the shoulder of the 
artist  beside  them。  For  this  reason;  the  Uzbek  Khan  joyously  weled  two 
great masters; one from Shiraz in the South; the other from Samarkand in the 
East; who’d fled from war and cruel shahs to the shelter of his court; however; 
he  forbade  the  two  celebrated  talents  to  look  at  each  other’s  work;  and 
separated  them  by  giving  them  small  workrooms  on  opposite  ends  of  his 
palace; as far from each other as possible。 Thus; for exactly thirty…seven years 
and  four  months;  as  if  listening  to  a  legend;  these  two  great  masters  each 
listened  to  Abdullah  Khan  recount  the  magnificence  of  the  other’s  never…to…
be…seen  work;  how  it  differed  from  or  was  oddly  similar  to  the  other’s。 
Meanwhile;  they  both  lived  dying  of  curiosity  about  each  other’s  paintings。 
After  the  Uzbek  Khan’s  life  had  run  its  long  tortoiselike  course;  the  two  old 
artists ran to each other’s rooms to see the paintings。 Later still; sitting upon 
either  edge  of  a  large  cushion;  holding  each  other’s  books  on  their  laps  and 
looking at the pictures that they recognized from Abdullah Khan’s fables; both 
the  miniaturists  were  overe  with  great  disappointment  because  the 
illustrations they saw weren’t nearly as spectacular as those they’d anticipated 
from the stories they’d heard; but instead appeared; much like all the pictures 
they’d  seen  in  recent  years;  rather  ordinary;  pale  and  hazy。  The  two  great 
masters didn’t then realize that the reason for this haziness was the blindness 
that had begun to descend upon them; nor did they realize it after both had 
gone  pletely  blind;  rather  they  attributed  the  haziness  to  having  been 
duped by the Khan; and hence they died believing dreams were more beautiful 
than pictures。 
In  the  dead  of  night  in  the  cold  Treasury  room;  as  I  turned  pages  with 
frozen fingers and gazed upon the pictures in books that I’d dreamed of for 
forty  years;  I  knew  I  was  much  happier  than  the  artists  in  this  pitiless  story 
from Bukhara。 It gave me such a thrill to know; before going blind and passing 
into the Hereafter; that I was handling the very books whose legends I’d heard 
336 
 
about my whole life; and at times I would murmur; “Thank you; God; thank 
you”  when  I  saw  that  one  of  pages  I  was  turning  was  even  more  marvelous 
than its legend。 
For  instance;  eighty  years  ago  Shah  Ismail  crossed  the  river  and  by  the 
sword reconquered Herat and all of Khorasan from the Uzbeks; whereupon he 
appointed his brother Sam Mirza governor of Herat; to celebrate this joyous 
occasion;  his  brother;  in  turn;  had  a  manuscript  prepared;  an  illuminated 
version of a book entitled The Convergence of the Stars; which recounted a story 
as witnessed by Emir Hüsrev in the palace of Delhi。 According to legend; one 
illustration in this book showed the two rulers meeting on the banks of a river 
where they celebrated their victory。 Their faces resembled the Sultan of Delhi; 
Keykubad;  and  his  father;  Bughra  Khan;  the  Ruler  of  Bengal;  who  were  the 
subjects of the book; but they also resembled the faces of Shah Ismail and his 
brother  Sam  Mirza;  the  men  responsible  for  the  book’s  creation。  I  was 
absolutely certain that the heroes of whichever story I conjured while looking 
at  the  page  would  appear  there  in  the  sultan’s  tent;  and  I  thanked  God  for 
giving me the chance to see this miraculous page。 
In  an  illustration  by  Sheikh  Muhammad;  one  of  the  great  masters  of  the 
same legendary era; a poor subject whose awe and affection for his sultan had 
reached the level of pure love was desperately hoping; as he watched the sultan 
play polo; that the ball would roll toward him so he could grab it and present 
it  to  his  sovereign。  After  he’d  waited  long  and  patiently;  the  ball  did  indeed 
e  to  him;  and  he  was  depicted  handing  it  to  the  sultan。  As  had  been 
described to me thousands of times; the love; awe and submission that a poor 
subject  aptly  feels  toward  a  great  khan  or  an  exalted  monarch;  or  that  a 
handsome young apprentice feels toward his master; was rendered here with 
such delicacy and deep passion; from the extension of the 
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