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youths in love with each other； and was reminded of the love my own
handsome apprentices nourished for painting。 A tiny…footed； transparent…
skinned； weak and girlish youth had bared a delicate forearm； which aroused
in one the desire to kiss it and die； while a cherry…lipped； almond…eyed；
sapling…thin； button…nosed beauty of a maiden gazed with wonder—as though
viewing three lovely flowers—upon the three small； deep marks of passion the
youth had burned onto the inside of that adorable arm to demonstrate the
strength of his love and his attachment to her。
Oddly； my heart began to quicken and pound。 As had happened sixty years
ago in my early apprenticeship； while I was looking at some rather indecent
illustrations of handsome marble…skinned boys and slim small…breasted
maidens drawn in the black…ink style of Tabriz； beads of sweat accumulated on
my forehead。 I recalled the passion for painting I felt and the depth of thought
I experienced when； a few years after I’d married and taken my first steps
toward master status； I saw a lovely angel…faced； almond…eyed； rose…petal…
skinned youth brought in as an apprentice candidate。 For a moment； I had the
strong feeling that painting was not about melancholy and regret but about
this desire I felt and that it was the talent of the master artist that first
transformed this desire into a love of God and then into a love of the world as
God saw it； so strong was this feeling that it caused me to relive with ecstatic
delight all the years I’d spent over the drawing board until my back was
hunched； all the beatings I’d endured while learning my craft； my dedication
to courting blindness through illustration and all the agonies of painting I’d
suffered and made others suffer。 As if running my eyes over something
forbidden； I stared long and silently at this wondrous illustration with the
same delight。 Much later I was still staring。 A teardrop slid from my eye over
my cheek into my beard。
342
When I noticed that one of the candlesticks slowly floating through the
Treasury was approaching me； I put the album away and randomly opened
one of the volumes the dwarf had recently set beside me。 This was a special
album prepared for shahs： I saw two deer at the edge of a green copse
enamored of each other； with jackals watching them in hostile envy。 I turned
the page： Chestnut and bay horses that could’ve been the work of only one of
the old masters of Herat—how spectacular they were！ I turned the page： A
confidently seated governmental official greeted me from a seventy…year…old
picture； I couldn’t determine who it was from the face because he looked like
anybody； or so I thought； yet the air of the painting； the seated man’s beard
painted in various hues recalled something。 My heart beat quickly as I
recognized the execution of the magnificent hand in the piece。 My heart knew
before I did； only he could’ve drawn such a splendid hand： This was the work
of Bihzad。 It was as if light were gushing from the painting to my face。
I had seen pictures drawn by the Great Master Bihzad a few times before；
perhaps because I hadn’t looked at them alone； but in a group of former
masters years ago； perhaps because we couldn’t be certain whether it was
indeed the work of the great Bihzad； I hadn’t been as taken as I was now。
The heavy moldy darkness of the Treasury chamber seemed to brighten。
This beautifully drawn hand merged in my mind with that thin； magnificent
arm branded with signs of love； which I’d just now seen。 Again； I praised God
for showing me such spectacular beauty before I went blind。 How do I know
I’ll soon be blind？ I don’t know！ I sensed that I could share this intuition of
mine with Black； who’d sidled up to me holding a candle and was looking at
the page； but something else came out of my mouth。
“Behold the remarkable rendering of the hand；” I said。 “It’s Bihzad。”
My hand went of its own will to hold Black’s； as if it were holding the hand
of one of those soft； velvet…skinned； beautiful apprentice boys； each of whom
I’d loved in my youth。 His hand was smooth and firm； warmer than my own；
delicate and broad； and I was thrilled by the veined side of his wrist。 When I
was young； I would take an apprentice child’s hand into my palm and； before
telling him how to hold the brush； I’d gaze with affection into his sweet；
frightened eyes。 That’s how I looked at Black。 Reflected in his pupils； I saw the
flame of the candle he held aloft。 “We miniaturists are brethren；” I said； “but
now everything is ing to an end。”
“How do you mean？”
343
I said； “Everything is ing to an end” like a great master who longs for
blindness； having devoted his years to a lord or a prince； having created
masterpieces in his workshop in the style of the ancients； having even ensured
that this workshop had its own style； a great master who knows； whenever his
patron lord loses his last battle； that new lords will e in the wake of the
plundering enemy； disband the workshop； tear apart bound volumes leaving
the pages in disarray and belittle and destroy what remains； including the fine
details that he long believed in； that were of his own discovery and that he
loved like his own children。 But I needed to explain this to Black differently。
“This illustration is of the great Poet Abdullah Hatifi；” I said。 “Hatifi was
such a great poet that he simply stayed home while everybody else rushed out
and toadied up to Shah Ismail after the king took Herat。 In response； Shah
Ismail personally went all the way to his house on the outskirts of the city to
see him。 We know this is Hatifi； not from Bihzad’s rendering of Hatifi’s face；
but from the writing beneath the illustration； don’t we？”
Black looked at me； indicating “yes” with his pretty eyes。 “When we look at
the face of the poet in the painting；” I said； “we see that it could be a face like
any other face。 If Abdullah Hatifi were here； God rest his soul； we could never
hope to recognize him from the face in this picture。 However； we could do so
relying on the illustration in its entirety： There’s something in the manner of
the position； in Hatifi’s pose； in the colors； the gilding and the stunning
hand rendered by Master Bihzad that at once indicates the picture is of a poet。
Meaning precedes form in the world of our art。 As we begin to paint in
imitation of the Frankish and Veian masters； as in the book that Our Sultan
had missioned from your Enishte； the domain of meaning ends and the
domain of form begins。 However； with the Veian methods…”
“My Enishte； may he rest in eternal peace； was murdered；” Black said
rudely。
I caressed Black’s hand； which rested within my own； as if respectfully
st