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because he believed he could never bring himself to paint in the Ottoman
style—not as the result of an illness he’d had on the road as some claimed。 To
set an example for them； I used to tell my illuminators in their moments of
frustration how Bihzad had blinded himself。
Was there no other recourse？ If a master miniaturist made use of the new
methods here and there in out…of…the…way places； couldn’t he then； if only a
little； save the entire workshop and the styles of the old masters？
There was a dark stain on the extremely sharp point of the elegantly tapered
plume needle； yet my weary eyes couldn’t determine whether it was blood or
not。 Lowering the magnifying lens； as if beholding a melancholy depiction of
love with a matching sense of melancholy； I looked at the needle for a long
time。 I tried to imagine how Bihzad could’ve done it。 I’d heard that one
doesn’t go blind immediately； the velvety darkness descends slowly； sometimes
after days； sometimes after months； as with old men who go blind naturally。
I’d caught sight of it while passing into the next room； I stood and looked；
yes； there it was： an ivory mirror with a twisted handle and thick ebony frame；
its length nicely embellished with script。 I sat down again and gazed at my
own eyes。 How beautifully the flame of the candle danced in my pupils—
which had witnessed my hand paint for sixty years。
“How had Master Bihzad done it？” I asked myself once more。
Never once taking my eyes off the mirror； with the practiced movements of
a woman applying kohl to her eyelids； my hand found the needle on its own。
Without hesitation； as if making a hole at the end of an ostrich egg soon to be
embellished； I bravely； calmly and firmly pressed the needle into the pupil of
my right eye。 My innards sank； not because I felt what I was doing； but because
I saw what I was doing。 I pushed the needle into my eye to the depth of a
quarter the length of a finger； then removed it。
In the couplet worked into the frame of the mirror； the poet had wished
the observer eternal beauty and wisdom—and eternal life to the mirror itself。
Smiling； I did the same to my other eye。
For a long while I didn’t move。 I stared at the world—at everything。
As I’d surmised； the colors of the world did not darken； but seemed to
bleed ever so gently into one another。 I could still more or less see。
The pale light of the sun fell over the red and oxblood cloth of the Treasury。
In the accustomed ceremony； the Head Treasurer and his men broke the seal
350
and opened the lock and the door。 Jezmi Agha changed the chamber pots；
lamps and brazier； brought in fresh bread and dried mulberries and
announced to the others that we would continue searching for the horses with
oddly drawn nostrils within Our Sultan’s books。 What could be more
exquisite than looking at the world’s most beautiful pictures while trying to
recollect God’s vision of the world？
351
I AM CALLED BLACK
When the Head Treasurer and the chief officers opened the portal with great
ceremony my eyes were so accustomed to the velvety red aura of the Treasury
rooms that the early morning winter sunlight filtering in from the courtyard
of the Royal Private Quarters of the Enderun seemed terrifying。 I stood dead
still； as did Master Osman himself： If I moved； it seemed； the clues we sought
in the moldy； dusty and tangible air of the Treasury might escape。
With curious amazement； as if seeing some magnificent object for the first
time； Master Osman stared at the light cascading toward us between the
heads of the Treasury chiefs lined up in rows on either side of the open portal。
The night before； I watched him as he turned the pages of the Book of Kings。
I noticed this same expression of astonishment pass over his face as his
shadow； cast upon the wall； trembled faintly； his head carefully sank down
toward his magnifying lens； and his lips first contorted delicately； as if
preparing to reveal a pleasant secret； then twitched as he gazed in awe at an
illustration。
After the portal was shut again； I wandered impatiently between rooms
ever more restless； I thought nervously that we wouldn’t have time to cull
enough information from the books in the Treasury。 I sensed that Master
Osman couldn’t focus adequately on his task； and I confessed my misgivings
to him。
Like a genuine master grown accustomed to caressing his apprentices； he
held my hand in a pleasing way。 “Men like us have no choice but to try to see
the world the way God does and to resign ourselves to His justice；” he said。
“And here； among these pictures and possessions； I have the strong sensation
that these two things are beginning to converge： As we approach God’s vision
of the world； His justice approaches us。 See here； the needle Master Bihzad
blinded himself with…”
Master Osman callously told the story of the needle； and I scrutinized the
extremely sharp point of this disagreeable object beneath the magnifying glass
which he lowered so I might better see； a pinkish film covered its tip。
“The old masters；” Master Osman said； “would suffer pangs of conscience
about changing their talent； colors and methods。 They’d consider it
dishonorable to see the world one day as an Eastern shah manded； the
next； as a Western ruler did—which is what the artists of our day do。”
352
His eyes were neither trained on mine nor upon the pages in front of him。
It seemed as though he were gazing at a distant unattainable whiteness。 In a
page of the Book of Kings lying open before him； Persian and Turanian armies
clashed with all their force。 As horses fought shoulder to shoulder； enraged
heroic warriors drew their swords and slaughtered one another with the color
and joy of a festival； their armor pierced by the lances of the cavalry； their
heads and arms severed； their bodies hacked apart or cloven in two； strewn all
over the field。
“When the great masters of old were forced to adopt the styles of victors
and imitate their miniaturists； they preserved their honor by using a needle to
heroically bring on the blindness that the labors of painting would’ve caused
in time。 Yes； before the pureness of God’s darkness fell over their eyes like a
divine reward； they’d stare at a masterpiece ceaselessly for hours or even days；
and because they stubbornly stared out of bowed heads； the meaning and
world of those pictures—spotted with blood dripping from their eyes—would
take the place of all the evil they suffered； and as their eyes ever so slowly
clouded over they’d approach blindness in peace。 Do you have any idea which
illustration I’d want to stare at till I’d attained the divine blackness of the
blind？”
Like a man trying to re