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What was frightening was the silence in which this abundance of incredible
objects was interred。 Behind us we heard the clattering of the seal being
affixed to the lock on the door； and we looked around in awe； motionless。
I saw swords； elephant tusks； caftans； silver candlesticks and satin banners。 I
saw mother…of…pearl inlaid boxes； iron trunks； Chinese vases； belts； long…necked
lutes； armor； silk cushions； model globes； boots； furs； rhinoceros horns；
ornamented ostrich eggs； rifles； arrows； maces and cabis。 There were heaps
of carpets； cloth and satin everywhere； seemingly cascading over me from the
wood…paneled upper floors； from the balustrades； the built…in closets and
small storage cells built into the walls。 A strange light； the likes of which I’d
never seen； shone on the cloth； the boxes； the caftans of sultans； swords； the
huge pink candles； the wound turbans； pillows embroidered with pearls； gold
filigree saddles； diamond…handled scimitars； ruby…handled maces； quilted
turbans； turban plumes； curious clocks； ewers and daggers； ivory statues of
horses and elephants； narghiles with diamond…studded tops； mother…of…pearl
chests of drawers； horse aigrettes； strands of large prayer beads； and helmets
adorned with rubies and turquoise。 This light； which filtered faintly down
from the high windows； illuminated floating dust particles in the half…
darkened room like the summer sunlight that streams in from the glass
skylight atop the dome of a mosque—but this wasn’t sunlight。 In this peculiar
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light； the air had bee palpable and all the objects appeared as if made from
the same material。 After we apprehensively experienced the silence in the
room for a while longer； I knew it was as much the light as the dust covering
everything that dimmed the red color reigning in the cold room； melding all
the objects into an arcane sameness。 And as the eye swam over these strange
and indistinct items； unable to distinguish one from another at even the
second or third glance； this great profusion of objects became even more
terrifying。 What I thought was a chest； I later decided was a folding worktable；
and later still； some strange Frankish device。 I saw that the mother…of…pearl
inlaid chest among the caftans and plumes pulled out of their boxes and
hastily tossed hither and yon was actually an exotic cabi sent by the
Muscovite Czar。
Jezmi Agha placed the brazier in the fire niche that had been cut into the
wall。
“Where are the books located？” whispered Master Osman。
“Which books？” said the dwarf。 “The ones from Arabia； the Kufic Korans；
those that His Excellency Sultan Selim the Grim； Denizen of Paradise； brought
back from Tabriz； the books of pashas whose property was seized when they
were condemned to death； the gift volumes brought by the Veian
ambassador to Our Sultan’s grandfather； or the Christian books from the time
of Sultan Mehmet the Conqueror？”
“The books that Shah Tahmasp sent His Excellency Sultan Selim； Denizen of
Paradise； as a present twenty…five years ago；” said Master Osman。
The dwarf brought us to a large wooden cabi。 Master Osman grew
impatient as he opened the doors and cast his eyes on the volumes before him。
He opened one； read its colophon and leafed through its pages。 Together； we
gazed in astonishment at the carefully drawn illustrations of khans with
slightly slanted eyes。
“”Genghis Khan； Chagatai Khan； Tuluy Khan and Kublai Khan the Ruler of
China；“” read Master Osman before closing the book and taking up another。
We came across an incredibly beautiful illustration depicting the scene in
which Ferhad； empowered by love； carries his beloved Shirin and her horse
away on his shoulder。 To convey the passion and woe of the lovers； the rocks
on the mountain； the clouds and the three noble cypresses witnessing
Ferhad’s act of love were drawn with a trembling grief…stricken hand in such
agony that Master Osman and I were instantly affected by the taste of tears
and sorrow in the falling leaves。 This touching moment had been depicted—as
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the great masters intended—not to signify Ferhad’s muscular strength； but
rather to convey how the pain of his love was felt at once throughout the
entire world。
“A Bihzad imitation made in Tabriz eighty years ago；” Master Osman said
as he replaced the volume and opened another。
This was a picture that showed the forced friendship between the cat and
the mouse from Kelile and Dimne。 Out in the fields； a poor mouse； caught
between the attacks of a marten on the ground and a hawk in the air； finds his
salvation in an unfortunate cat caught in a hunter’s trap。 They e to an
agreement： The cat； pretending to be the mouse’s friend； licks him； thereby
scaring away the marten and the hawk。 In turn； the mouse cautiously frees the
cat from the snare。 Even before I could understand the painter’s sensibility；
the master had stuffed the book back beside the other volumes and had
randomly opened another。
This was a pleasant picture of a mysterious woman and a man： The woman
had elegantly opened one hand while asking a question； holding her knee with
the other over her green cloak； as the man turned to her and listened intently。
I looked at the picture avidly； jealous of the intimacy； love and friendship
between them。
Putting that book down； Master Osman opened to a page from another
book。 The cavalry of Persian and Turanian armies； eternal enemies； had donned
their full panoply of armor； helmets； greaves； bows； quivers and arrows and
had mounted those magnificent； legendary and fully armored horses。 Before
they engaged one another in a battle to the death； they were arrayed in orderly
ranks facing each other on a dusty yellow steppe holding the tips of their
lances upright； bedecked in an array of colors and patiently watching their
manders； who’d rushed to the fore and begun to fight。 I was about to tell
myself that regardless of whether the illustration was made today or a
hundred years ago； whether it’s a depiction of war or love； what the artist of
absolute faith actually paints and conveys is a battle with his will and his love
for painting； I was going to declare further that the miniaturist actually paints
his own patience； when Master Osman said：
“It’s not here either；” and shut the heavy tome。
In the pages of an album we saw high mountains interwoven with curling
clouds in a landscape illustration that seemed to go on forever。 I thought how
painting meant seeing this world yet depicting it as if it were the Otherworld。
Master Osman recounted how this Chinese illustration might’ve traveled from
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Bukhara to Herat； from Herat to Tabriz； and at last； from Tabriz to Our
Sultan’s palace； moving from book to book along the way； bound and
unbound； finally to be rebound with other paintings at the end of the journey
from China to Istanbul。
We saw pictures of war and death； each more frightening and more
expertly done than the next： Rüstem together with Shah Mazenderan； Rüstem
attacking Afrasiyab’s army； and Rüstem； disguised in armor； a mysterious and
unidentified hero warrior…In another album we saw dismembered corpses；
daggers drenched in red blood； sorrowful soldiers in whose eyes the light of
death gleamed and warriors cutting each other down like reeds； as fabled
armies； which we could not name； clashed mercilessly。 Master Osman—for
who knows how many thousandth time—looked upon Hüsrev spying on
Shirin bathing in a lake by moonlight； upon the lovers Leyla and Mejnun
fainting as they beheld each other after an extended separation； and a spirited
picture； all aflutt