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of a seventy…year…old pasha who—in consideration of his conquests； strength
and wealth—wanted ceiling ornamentation in his home made in imitation of
the designs in Our Sultan’s hunting lodge。 Then； we longingly recalled how on
winter mornings we would have our lentil soup on the threshold of the
yawning door so its steam wouldn’t soften the paper。 We also lamented being
separated from workshop friends and masters when the latter pelled us to
travel to distant places to serve as journeymen。 For a time； the sweetness of
my dear Butterfly in his sixteenth year appeared before my eyes： He was
burnishing paper to a high gloss by rubbing it quickly with a smooth seashell
as the sunlight； ing through an open window on a summer’s day； struck
his naked honey…colored forearms。 For a moment he stopped what he was so
absentmindedly doing and carefully lowered his face to the page to examine a
blemish。 After making a few passes over the offending spot with the
burnishing shell using different motions； he returned to his former pattern；
moving his hand back and forth as he stared out of the window into the
distance； losing himself in daydreams。 I shall never forget how before looking
outside again； he briefly gazed into my eyes—as I would later do to others。
This dolorous look has only one meaning； which all apprentices know quite
well： Time doesn’t flow if you don’t dream。
414
I WILL BE CALLED A MURDERER
You’d forgotten about me； hadn’t you？ Why should I conceal my presence
from you any longer？ For speaking in this voice； which is gradually getting
stronger and stronger； has bee irresistible for me。 At times； I restrain
myself only with great effort； and I’m afraid that the strain in my voice will
give me away。 At times； I let myself go pletely unchecked； and that’s when
those words； signs of my second character； which you might recognize； spill
from my lips； my hands begin to tremble； beads of sweat collect on my
forehead and I realize at once that these little whispers of my body； in turn；
will furnish new clues。
Yet I’m so very content here！ As we console ourselves with twenty…five years
of memories we’re reminded not of the animosities； but of the beauties and
the pleasures of painting。 There’s also something in our sitting here with a
sense of the impending end of the world； caressing each other with tear…filled
eyes as we remember the beauty of bygone days； that recalls harem women。
I’ve taken this parison from Abu Said of Kirman who included the
stories of the old masters of Shiraz and Herat in his History of the sons of
Tamerlane。 Thirty years ago； Jihan Shah； ruler of the Blacksheep； came to the
East where he routed the small armies and ravaged the lands of the Timurid
khans and shahs who were fighting among themselves。 With his victorious
Turkmen hordes； he passed through the whole of Persia into the East； finally； at
Astarabad； he defeated Ibrahim； the grandson of Shah Ruh who was
Tamerlane’s son； he then took Gorgan and sent his armies against the fortress
of Herat。 According to the historian from Kirman； this devastation； not only to
Persia； but to the heretofore undefeated power of the House of Tamerlane；
which had ruled over half the world from Hindustan to Byzantium for half a
century； caused such a tempest of destruction that pandemonium reigned
over the men and women in the besieged fortress of Herat。 The historian Abu
Said reminds the reader with perverse pleasure how Jihan Shah of the
Blacksheep mercilessly killed everyone who was a descendant of Tamerlane in
the fortresses he conquered； how he selectively culled women from the harems
of shahs and princes and added them to his own harem； and how he pitilessly
separated miniaturist from miniaturist and cruelly forced most of them to
serve as apprentices to his own master illuminators。 At this point in his
History； he turns his attentions from the shah and his warriors who tried to
repel the enemy from the crenellated towers of the fortress； to the miniaturists
among their pens and paints in the workshop awaiting the terrifying
415
culmination of the siege whose oute was long evident。 He lists the names
of the artists； declaring one after another how they were world…renowned and
would never be forgotten； and these illuminators； all of whom； like the women
of the shah’s harem； have since been forgotten； embraced each other and wept；
unable to do anything but recall their former days of bliss。
We too； like melancholy harem women； reminisced about the gifts of fur…
lined caftans and purses full of money that the Sultan would present to us in
reciprocation for the colorful decorated boxes； mirrors and plates； embellished
ostrich eggs； cut…paper work； single…leaf pictures； amusing albums； playing
cards and books we’d offer him on holidays。 Where were the hardworking；
long…suffering； elderly artists of that day who were satisfied with so little？
They’d never sequester themselves at home and jealously hide their methods
from others； dreading that their moonlighting would be found out； but would
e to the workshop every day without fail。 Where were the old miniaturists
who humbly devoted their entire lives to drawing intricate designs on castle
walls； cypress leaves whose uniqueness was discernible only after close scrutiny
and the seven…leaf steppe grasses used to fill empty spaces？ Where were the
uninspired masters who never grew jealous； having accepted the wisdom and
justice inherent in God’s bestowal of talent and ability upon some artists and
patience and pious resignation upon others？ We recalled these fatherly
masters； some of whom were hunched and perpetually smiling； others dreamy
and drunk and still others intent upon foisting off a spinster daughter； and as
we recollected； we attempted to resurrect the forgotten details of the
workshop as it had been during our apprentice and early mastership years。
Do you remember the limner who stuck his tongue into his cheek when he
ruled pages—to the left side if the line he drew headed right； and to the right
side if the line went left； the small； thin artist who laughed to himself；
chortling and mumbling “patience； patience； patience” when he dribbled
paint； the septuagenarian master gilder who spent hour upon hour talking to
the binder’s apprentices downstairs and claimed that red ink applied to the
forehead stopped aging； the ornery master who relied on an unsuspecting
apprentice or even randomly stopped anyone passing by to test the
consistency of paint upon their fingernails after his own nails were pletely
filled； and the portly artist who made us laugh as he caressed his beard with
the furry