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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第128章

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the  former  masters  of  Tabriz;  the  Mongols;  the  Inkhanids;  the  Jelayirids  and 
the Blacksheep; and taken as plunder by the defeated shah from the Uzbeks; 
the Persians and the Timurids。 I shall stare at these books until Our Sultan and 
the Head Treasurer remove me from here。” 
Yet by now his eyes showed the same lack of direction that one sees in the 
blind。 He held his mother…of…pearl…handled magnifying glass more out of habit 
than  to  see。  We  fell  silent。  Master  Osman  requested  that  the  dwarf;  who 
listened to his entire account as though to some bitter tale; once again locate 
and bring him a volume whose binding he described in detail。 Once the dwarf 
had gone away; I naively asked my master: 
“So  then;  who’s  responsible  for  the  horse  illustration  in  my  Enishte’s 
book?” 
“Both the horses in question have clipped nostrils;” he said; “regardless of 
whether it was done in Samarkand or; as I said; in Transoxiana; the one you’ve 
found in this album is rendered in the Chinese style。 As for the beautiful horse 
of Enishte’s book; that was made in the Persian style like the wondrous horses 
drawn by the masters of Herat。 Indeed; it is an elegant illustration whose equal 
358 
 
would  be  difficult  to  find  anywhere!  It’s  a  horse  of  artistry;  not  a  Mongol 
horse。” 
“But its nostrils are cut open like a genuine Mongol horse;” I whispered。 
“It’s apparent that two hundred years ago when the Mongols retreated and 
the reign of Tamerlane and his descendants began; one of the old masters in 
Herat  drew  an  exquisite  horse  whose  nostrils  were  indeed  cut  open—
influenced either by a Mongol horse that he’d seen or by another miniaturist 
who’d made a Mongol horse with clipped nostrils。 No one knows for certain 
on which page in which book and for which shah it was made。 But I’m sure 
that  the  book  and  picture  were  greatly  admired  and  praised—who  knows; 
maybe by the sultan’s favorite in the harem—and that they were legendary for 
a  time!  I’m  also  convinced  that  for  this  very  reason  all  the  mediocre 
miniaturists;  muttering  enviously  to  themselves;  imitated  this  horse  and 
multiplied  its  image。  In  this  fashion;  the  wonderful  horse  with  its  nostrils 
gradually became a model of form ingrained in the minds of the artists in that 
workshop。 Years later; after their rulers were defeated in battle; these painters; 
like somber women headed to other harems; found new shahs and princes to 
work for in new countries; and carried with them; stowed in their memories; 
the image of horses whose nostrils were elegantly cut open。 Perhaps under the 
influence  of  different  styles  and  different  masters  in  different  workshops; 
many  of  the  artists  never  made  use  of  and  eventually  forgot  this  unusual 
image  which  noheless  remained  preserved  in  a  corner  of  their  minds。 
Others;  however;  in  the  new  workshops  they  joined;  not  only  drew  elegant 
clipped…nosed horses; they also taught their pretty apprentices to do the same 
with the encouragement that ”this is how the old masters used to do it。“ So 
then; in this manner; even after the Mongols and their hardy horses retreated 
from  the  lands  of  the  Persians  and  Arabs;  even  centuries  after  new  lives  had 
begun in ravaged and burned cities; some painters continued drawing horses 
this  way;  believing  it  was  a  standard  form。  I’m  also  sure  that  others  still; 
pletely unaongol cavalry and the clipped noses 
of their steeds; draw horses the way we do in our workshop; insisting that this 
too is ”a standard form。“” 
“My  dear  master;”  I  said;  overwhelmed  with  awe;  “as  we  hoped;  your 
”courtesan method‘ truly did produce an answer。 It seems that each artist also 
bears his own hidden signature。“ 
“Not  each  artist;  but  each  workshop;”  he  said  with  pride。  “And  not  even 
each  workshop。  In  certain  miserable  workshops;  as  in  certain  miserable 
families; everyone speaks in a different voice for years without acknowledging 
359 
 
that happiness is born of harmony; and that as a matter of course; harmony 
bees happiness。 Some painters try to illustrate like the Chinese; some like 
the Turkmen and some like they do in Shiraz; fighting for years on end; never 
attaining a happy union—like a discontented husband and wife。” 
I saw that pride quite definitely ruled his face; the cross expression of a man 
who  wanted  to  be  all  powerful  had  now  replaced  the  look  of  the  morose; 
pitiable old man that I’d seen him wear for so long。 
“My dear master;” I said; “over a period of twenty years here in Istanbul; 
you’ve  united  various  artists  from  the  four  corners  of  the  world;  men  of  all 
natures  and  temperaments;  in  such  harmony  that  you’ve  ended  up  creating 
and defining the Ottoman style。” 
Why did the awe that I’d felt wholeheartedly only a short time ago give way 
to hypocrisy as I voiced my feelings? For our praise of a man; whose talent and 
mastery  genuinely  astounds  us;  to  be  sincere;  must  he  lose  most  of  his 
authority and influence and bee slightly pathetic? 
“Now then; where’s that dwarf hiding?” he said。 
He said this the way powerful men who are pleased by flattery and praise 
but recollect vaguely that they ought not be would—as though he wished to 
change the subject。 
“Despite being a great master of Persian legends and styles; you’ve created a 
distinct  world  of  illustration  worthy  of  Ottoman  glory  and  strength;”  I 
whispered。  “You’re  the  one  who  brought  to  art  the  power  of  the  Ottoman 
sword; the optimistic colors of Ottoman victory; the interest in and attention 
to  objects  and  implements;  and  the  freedom  of  a  fortable  lifestyle。  My 
dear  master;  it’s  been  the  greatest  honor  of  my  life  to  look  at  these 
masterpieces by the old legendary masters with you…” 
For a long time I whispered on in this manner。 Within the icy darkness and 
cluttered  disarray  of  the  Treasury;  which  resembled  a  recently  abandoned 
battlefield; our bodies were so close that my whispering became an expression 
of intimacy。 
Later; as with certain blind men who can’t control their facial expressions; 
Master  Osman’s  eyes  assumed  the  look  of  an  old  man  lost  in  pleasure。  I 
praised the old master at length; now with heartfelt emotion; now shuddering 
with the inner revulsion I felt toward the blind。 
360 
 
He held my hand with his cold fingers; caressed my forearm and touched 
my face。 His strength and age seemed to pass through his fingers into me。 I; 
again; thought of Shekure who awaited me at home。 
Standing still that way for a time; pages opened before us; it was as if my 
lavish praise and his self…admiration and self…pity had so fatigued us that we 
were resting。 We’d bee embarrassed of each other。 
“Where’s that dwarf gone to?” he asked again。 
I was certain that the wily dwarf was hiding in some niche watching us。 As 
if I were searching him out; I turned my shoulders right 
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