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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第121章

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was  deserving  of  his  talents;  until  he  ended  up  in  the  workshop  of  an 
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inconsequential  chieftain  who  ruled  over  nothing  but  bare  mountaintops。 
Claiming that ”the khan’s dominions might be small but he knows painting;“ 
he  spent  the  remaining  twenty…five  years  of  his  life  there。  Whether  he  ever 
knew that this inconsequential lord was blind remains; even today; a subject of 
conjecture and a source of humor。” 
“Do you see this page?” I said well into the night; and this time they both 
rushed  to  my  side;  candlesticks  aloft。  “From  the  time  of  Tamerlane’s 
grandchildren to the present; this volume has seen ten owners on its way here 
from Herat over a span of one hundred fifty years。” Using my magnifying lens; 
the  three  of  us  read  the  signatures;  dedications;  historical  information  and 
names  of  sultans—who’d  strangled  one  another—filling  every  corner  of  the 
colophon  page;  pinched  together;  between  and  on  top  of  each  other:  “This 
volume  was  pleted  in  Herat;  with  the  help  of  God;  by  the  hand  of 
Calligrapher  Sultan  Veli;  son  of  Muzaffer  of  Herat;  in  the  year  of  the  Hegira 
849 for Ismet…üd Dünya; the wife of Muhammad Juki the victorious brother of 
the  Ruler  of  the  World;  Baysungur。”  Later  still;  we  read  that  the  book  had 
passed into the possession of the Whitesheep Sultan Halil; thence to his son 
Yakup  Bey;  and  thence  to  the  Uzbek  sultans  in  the  North;  each  of  whom 
happily amused himself with the book for a time; removing or adding one or 
two  pictures;  beginning  with  the  first  owner;  they  added  the  faces  of  their 
beautiful wives to the illustrations and appended their names proudly to the 
colophon  page;  afterward;  it  passed  to  Sam  Mirza  who’d  conquered  Herat; 
and he made a present of it; with a separate dedication; for his elder brother; 
Shah Ismail; who in turn brought it to Tabriz and had it prepared as a gift with 
yet another dedication。 When the denizen of paradise Sultan Selim the Grim 
defeated Shah Ismail at Chaldiran and plundered the Seven Heavens Palace in 
Tabriz;  the  book  ended  up  here  in  this  Treasury  in  Istanbul;  after  traveling 
across  deserts;  mountains  and  rivers  along  with  the  victorious  sultan’s 
soldiers。 
How much of an aging master’s interest and excitement did Black and the 
dwarf  share?  As  I  opened  new  volumes  and  turned  their  pages;  I  sensed  the 
profound sorrow of thousands of illustrators from hundreds of cities large and 
small; each with a distinctive temperament; each painting under the patronage 
of  a  different  cruel  shah;  khan  or  chieftain;  each  displaying  his  talent  and 
succumbing to blindness。 I felt the pain of the beatings we all received during 
our  long  apprenticeships;  the  blows  inflicted  with  rulers;  until  our  cheeks 
turned bright red; or with marble polishing stones upon our shaven heads; as I 
flipped—with  humiliation—through  the  pages  of  a  primitive  book  that 
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displayed  methods  and  implements  of  torture。  I  had  no  idea  what  this 
miserable book was doing in the Ottoman Treasury: Instead of seeing torture 
as  a  necessary  practice  administered  before  the  supervision  of  a  judge  to 
ensure  Allah’s  justice  in  the  world;  infidel  travelers  would  convince  their 
coreligionists  of  our  cruelty  and  evil…heartedness  by  having  dishonorable 
miniaturists abase themselves and dash off these pictures in exchange for a few 
gold  pieces。  I  was  embarrassed  at  the  obvious  depraved  pleasure  with  which 
this  miniaturist  had  drawn  pictures  of  bastinados;  beatings;  crucifixions; 
hangings  by  the  neck  or  the  feet;  hookings;  impalings;  firings  from  cannon; 
nailings;   stranglings;   the   cutting   of   throats;   feedings   to   hungry   dogs; 
whippings; baggings; pressings; soakings in cold water; the plucking of hair; the 
breaking  of  fingers;  the  delicate  flayings;  the  cutting  off  of  noses  and  the 
removal  of  eyes。  Only  true  artists  like  us  who’d  suffered  throughout  our 
apprenticeships  merciless  bastinados;  random  pummelings  and  fists  so  that 
the  irritable  master  who  drew  a  line  incorrectly  might  feel  better—not  to 
mention  hours  of  blows  from  sticks  and  rulers  so  that  the  devil  within  us 
would perish to be reborn as the jinn of inspiration—only we could feel such 
extreme  joy  by  depicting  bastinados  and  tortures;  only  we  could  color  these 
implements with the gaiety of coloring a child’s kite。 
Hundreds   of   years   hence;   men   looking   at   our   world   through   the 
illustrations we’ve made won’t understand anything。 Desiring to take a closer 
look; yet lacking the patience; they might feel the embarrassment; the joy; the 
deep pain and pleasure of observation I now feel as I examine pictures in this 
freezing Treasury—but they’ll never truly know。 As I turned the pages with my 
old   fingers   numbed   from   the   cold;   my   trusty   mother…of…pearl…handled 
magnifying  lens  and  my  left  eye  passed  over  the  pictures  like  an  old  stork 
traversing the earth; little surprised by the view below; yet still astonished to 
see  new  things。  From  these  pages  withheld  from  us  for  years;  some  of  them 
legendary;  I  came  to  know  which  artist  had  learned  what  from  whom;  in 
which workshop under which shah’s patronage the thing we now call “style” 
first  took  shape;  which  fabled  master  had  worked  for  whom;  and  how;  for 
example; the curling Chinese clouds I knew had spread throughout Persia from 
Herat under Chinese influence were also used in Kazvin。 I would occasionally 
allow  myself  an  exhausted  “Aha!”;  but  an  agony  lurked  deeper  within  me;  a 
melancholy  and  regret  I  can  scarcely  share  with  you  for  the  belittled; 
tormented;  pretty;  moon…faced;  gazelle…eyed;  sapling…thin  painters—battered 
by  masters—who  suffered  for  their  art;  yet  remained  full  of  excitement  and 
hope; enjoying the affection that developed between them and their masters 
341 
 
and  their  shared  love  of  painting;  before  succumbing  to  anonymity  and 
blindness after long years of toil。 
It was with such melancholy and regret that I entered this world of fine and 
delicate  feelings;  the  possibility  of  whose  depiction  my  soul  had  quietly 
forgotten over years of rendering wars and celebrations for Our Sultan。 In an 
album  of  collected  pictures  I  saw  a  red…lipped;  thin…waisted  Persian  boy 
holding a book on his lap exactly as I was holding one at that moment; and it 
reminded me of what shahs with a weakness for gold and power always forget: 
The world’s beauty belongs to Allah。 On the page of another album drawn by 
a young master from Isfahan; with tears in my eyes; I beheld two marvelous 
youths  in  love  with  each  other;  and  was  reminded  of  the  love  my  own 
handsome  apprentices  nourished  for  painting。  A  tiny…foo
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