第 52 页

greyhounds, gazelle fawns with rumps in the air and frightened rabbits, before

leaving a leopard lying in a pool of red blood, its spots blooming like flowers.

Neither the Sultan’s chestnut horse with the white blaze nor the horses upon

which the falconers waited, their birds at the ready on their forearms, had the

mark we were looking for.

Till dusk, we pored over hundreds of horses that had issued from the

brushes of Olive, Butterfly and Stork over the last four or five years: the

Crimean Khan Mehmet Giray’s elegant-eared chestnut palomino; black and

golden horses; pinkish and gray-colored horses whose heads and necks alone

could be seen behind a hilltop during battle; the horses of Haydar Pasha who

recaptured the Halkul-Vad fortress from the Spanish infidels in Tunisia and the

Spaniards’ reddish-chestnut and pistachio-green horses, one of which had

tumbled headlong, as they fled from him; a black horse that caused Master

Osman to remark, “I overlooked this one. I wonder who did such careless

work?”; a red horse who politely turned his ears to the lute that a royal

pageboy was strumming under a tree; Shirin’s horse, Shebdiz, as bashful and

elegant as she, waiting for her while she bathed in a lake by moonlight; the

lively horses used in javelin jousts; the tempestlike horse and its beautiful

groom that for some reason caused Master Osman to remark, “I loved him

dearly in my youth, I’m very tired”; the sun-colored, golden, winged horse

which Allah sent to the prophet Elijah to protect him from an attack by the

pagans—whose wings had been mistakenly drawn on Elijah; Sultan Süleyman

the Magnificent’s gray thoroughbred with the small head and large body,

which stared sorrowfully at the young and lovable prince; enraged horses;

horses at full gallop; weary horses; beautiful horses; horses that nobody

noticed; horses that would never leave these pages; and horses that leapt over

gilded borders escaping their confinement.

Not one of them bore the signature we were looking for.

Even so, we were able to maintain a persistent excitement in the face of the

weariness and melancholy that descended upon us: A couple of times we

forgot about the horse and lost ourselves to the beauty of a picture, to colors

that forced a momentary surrender. Master Osman always looked at the

pictures—most of which he himself had created, supervised or ornamented—

more out of nostalgic enthusiasm than wonder. “These are by Kas?m from the

Kas?m Pasha district!” he said once, pointing out the little purple flowers at

the base of the red war tent of Our Sultan’s grandfather Sultan Süleyman. “He

295

was by no means a master, but for forty years he filled the dead space of

pictures with these five-leaf, single-blossom flowers, before he unexpectedly

died two years ago. I always assigned him to draw this small flower because he

could do it better than anyone.” He fell silent for a moment, then exclaimed,

“It’s a pity, a pity!” With all my soul, I sensed that these words signified the

end of an era.

Darkness had nearly overtaken us, when a light flooded the room. There

was a commotion. My heart, which had begun to beat like a drum,

comprehended immediately: The Ruler of the World, His Excellency Our

Sultan had abruptly entered. I threw myself at His feet. I kissed the hem of His

robe. My head spun. I couldn’t look Him in the eye.

He’d long since begun speaking with Head Illuminator Master Osman

anyway. It filled me with fiery pride to witness Him speak to the man with

whom I’d only moments ago been sitting knee to knee looking at pictures.

Unbelievable; His Excellency Our Sultan was now sitting where I’d been earlier

and He was listening attentively to what my master was explaining, as I had

done. The Head Treasurer, who was at his side and the Agha of the Falconers

and a few others whose identities I couldn’t make out were keeping close

guard over Him and gazing at the open pages of books with rapt attention. I

gathered all my courage and looked at length at the face and eyes of the

Sovereign Ruler of the World, albeit with a sidelong glance. How handsome He

was! How upright and proper! My heart no longer beat excitedly. At that

moment, our eyes met.

“How much I loved your Enishte, may he rest in peace,” He said. Yes, He

was speaking to me. In my excitement, I missed some of what He was saying.

“…I was quite aggrieved. However, it’s quite a comfort to see that each of

these pictures he made is a masterpiece. When the Venetian giaour sees these,

he will be stunned and fear my wisdom. You shall determine who the accursed

miniaturist is by this horse’s nose. Otherwise, however merciless, it’ll be

necessary to torture all the master miniaturists.”

“Sovereign Refuge of the World Your Excellency My Sultan,” said Master

Osman. “Perhaps we can better catch the man responsible for this slip of the

brush, if my master miniaturists are forced to draw a horse on a blank sheet of

paper, quickly, without any story in mind.”

“Only, of course, if this is really a slip of the brush and not an actual nose,”

said Our Sultan shrewdly.

296

“My Sultan,” said Master Osman, “to this end, if a competition by express

command of Your Highness were announced tonight; if a guard were to visit

Your miniaturists, requesting them to draw a horse quickly on a blank sheet

for this contest…”

Our Sultan looked at the Commander of the Imperial Guard with an

expression that said, “Did you hear that?” Then he said, “Do you know which

of the Poet Nizami’s stories of rivalry I like best of all?”

Some of us said, “We know.” Some said, “Which one?” Some, including

myself, fell silent.

“I’m not fond of the contest of poets or the story about the contest

between Chinese and Western painters and the mirror,” said the handsome

Sultan. “I like best the contest of doctors who compete to the death.”

After He’d said this, He abruptly took leave of us for His evening prayers.

Later, as the evening azan was being called, in the half dark, after exiting the

gates of the palace, I hurried toward my neighborhood happily imagining

Shekure, the boys and our house, when I recalled with horror the story of the

contest of doctors:

One of the two doctors competing in the presence of their sultan—the one

often depicted in pink—made a poison green pill strong enough to fell an

elephant, which he gave to the other doctor, the one in the navy-blue caftan.

That doctor first swallowed the poisonous pill, and afterward, swallowed a

navy-blue antidote that he’d just made. As could be understood from his

gentle laughter, nothing at all happened to him. Furthermore, it was now his

turn to give his rival a whiff of death. Moving ever so deliberately, savoring the

pleasure of taking his turn, he plucked a pink rose from the garden, and

bringing it to his lips, inaudibly whispered a mysterious poem into its petals.

Next, with gestures that bespoke extreme confidence, he extended the rose to

his rival so he might take in its bouquet. The force of the whispered poem so

agitated the doctor in pink that upon bringing the flower to his nose, which

bore nothing but its regular scent, he collapsed out of fear and died.

297

I AM CALLED “OLIVE”

Prior to the evening prayers, there came a knock at the door and I opened it

without ceremony: It was one of the Commander’s men from the palace, a

clean, handsome, cheerful and becoming youth. In addition to paper and a

writing board, he carried an oil lamp in his hand, which cast shadows over his

face rather than illuminating it. He quickly apprised me of the situation: Our

Sultan had declared a contest among the master miniaturists to see who could

draw the best horse in the shortest time. I was asked to sit on the floor,

arrange paper on the board and the board on my knees and quickly depict the

world’s most beautiful horse in the space indicated within the borders of the

page.

I invited my guest inside. I ran and fetched my ink and the finest of my

brushes made from hair clipped from a cat’s ear. I sat down on the floor and

froze! Might this contest be a ruse or ploy that I’d end up paying for with my

blood or my head? Perhaps! But hadn’t all the legendary illustrations by the

old masters of Herat been drawn with fine lines that ran between death and

beauty?

I was filled with the desire to illustrate, yet I was seemingly afraid to draw

exactly like the old masters, and I restrained myself.

Looking at the blank sheet of paper, I paused so that my soul might rid

itself of apprehension. I ought to have focused solely on the beautiful horse I

was about to render; I ought to have mustered my strength and concentration.

All the horses I’d ever drawn and seen began to gallop before my eyes. Yet

one was the most flawless of all. I was presently going to render this horse

which nobody had been able to draw before. Decisively, I pictured it in my

mind’s eye. The world faded away, as if I’d suddenly forgotten myself,

forgotten that I was sitting here, and even that I was about to draw. My hand

dipped the brush into the inkwell of its own accord, taking up just the right

amount. Come now, my good hand, bring the wonderful horse of my

imagination into this world! The horse and I had seemingly become one and

we were about to appear.

Following my intuition, I searched for the appropriate place within the

bordered blank page. I imagined the horse standing there, and suddenly:

Even before I was able to think, my hand set forth decisively of its own

volition—see how gracefully—curling quickly from the hoof, it rendered that

beautiful thin lower leg, and moved upward. As it curved with the same

298

decisiveness past the knee and rose quickly to the base of the chest, I grew

elated! Arching from here, it moved victoriously higher: How beautiful the

animal’s chest was! The chest tapered to form the neck, exactly like that of the

horse in my mind’s eye. Without lifting my brush, I came down from the

cheek, reaching the powerful mouth, which I’d left open after a moment’s

thought; I entered the mouth—this is how it’s going to be then, open your

mouth wider now, horsey—and I brought out its tongue. I slowly turned out

the nose—no room for indecision! Angling up steadily, I looked momentarily

at the whole image, and when I saw that I’d made my line exactly as I’d

imagined it, I forgot entirely what I was drawing, and the ears and the

magnificent curve of the spectacular neck were rendered by my hand alone. As

I drew the backside from memory, my hand stopped on its own to let the

bristles of the brush sip from the inkwell. I was quite content while rendering

the rump, and the forceful and protruding hindquarters; I was completely

engrossed in the picture. I seemed to be standing beside the horse I was

drawing as I joyously began the tail. This was a war steed, a racehorse; making

a knot of its tail and winding it around, I exuberantly moved upward; as I was

drawing the dock and buttocks I felt a pleasant coolness on my own ass and

anus. Pleased by that feeling, I gleefully completed the splendid softness of the

rump, the left hind leg that was slightly behind the right, and then the hooves.

I was astonished by the horse I’d drawn and by my hand, which had rendered

the elegant positioning of the left foreleg exactly as I had conceived it.

I lifted my hand from the page and quickly drew the fiery, sorrowful eyes;

with but a moment’s hesitation, I made the nostrils and the saddle blanket. I

hatched in the mane strand by strand, as if tenderly combing it with my

fingers. I fitted the beast with stirrups, added a white blaze to his forehead

and finished him off properly by eagerly, measuredly, yet in full proportion

drawing his balls and cock.

When I draw a magnificent horse, I become that magnificent horse.

299

I AM CALLED “BUTTERFLY”

I believe it was about the time of the evening prayer. Someone was at the door.

He explained that the Sultan had announced a competition. As you command,

my dear Sultan; indeed, who could draw a more beautiful horse than I?

It gave me pause, however, when I learned that the picture was to be made

without color in the black-ink style. Why no colors? Because I happen to be

the best in the selection and application of them? Who would judge which

illustration was best? I tried to get more information out of the broad-

shouldered, pink-lipped, pretty boy who’d come from the palace, and was able

to infer that Head Illuminator Master Osman was behind this contest. Master

Osman, without a doubt, knows my talent and likes me the best of all the

masters.

So, as I gazed at the empty page, the stance, look and demeanor of a horse

that would please both the Sultan and Master Osman came to life before my

eyes. The horse ought to be lively, but serious, like the horses Master Osman

made ten years ago, and it should be rearing, in the way that always pleased

Our Sultan, so that both of them would concur on the horse’s beauty. How

many gold pieces are they offering, I wonder? How would Mir Musavvir make

this picture? How would Bihzad?

Suddenly, the beast entered my thoughts with such speed, that by the time

I understood what it was, my damnable hand grabbed the brush and began to

draw a miraculous horse beyond anyone’s conception, starting from the raised