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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 and left； but kept my
eyes trained attentively on Master Osman。 Was he truly blind or was he trying
to convince the world； including himself； that he was blind？ I’d heard that
some untalented and inpetent old masters from Shiraz feigned blindness
in their old age to curry respect and to prevent others from mentioning their
failures。
“I would like to die here；” he said。
“My great master； my dear sir；” I fawned； “in this age when value is placed
not on painting but on the money one can earn from it； not on the old
masters but on imitators of the Franks； I so well understand what you’re
saying that it brings tears to my eyes。 Yet it is also your duty to protect your
master illustrators from their enemies。 Please tell me； what conclusions have
you drawn from the ”courtesan method‘？ Who is the miniaturist who painted
that horse？“
“Olive。”
He’d said this with such ease that I had no chance to be surprised。
He fell silent。
“But I’m also certain that Olive wasn’t the one who murdered your Enishte
or unfortunate Elegant Effendi；” he said calmly。 “I believe that Olive drew the
horse because he’s the one who’s most bound to the old masters； who knows
most intimately the legends and styles of Herat and whose master…apprentice
genealogy stretches back to Samarkand。 Now I know you won’t ask me； ”Why
haven’t we encountered these nostrils in the other horses that Olive drew over
the years？“ since I’ve already mentioned how at times a detail—the wing of a
bird； the way a leaf is attached to a tree—can be preserved in memory for
generations； passing from master to apprentice； and yet might not manifest on
the page due to the influence of a moody or rigid master or on account of the
particular tastes and whims of a particular workshop or sultan。 So then； this is
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the horse that dear Olive； in his childhood； learned directly from the Persian
masters without ever being able to forget it。 The fact that the horse suddenly
appeared for the sake of Enishte’s book is a cruel trick of Allah’s。 Hadn’t all of
us taken the old masters of Herat as our models？ Just like the Turkmen
illustrators for whom the face of a beautiful woman meant one with Chinese
features； didn’t we think exclusively of the masterpieces of Herat when we
thought of well…executed pictures？ We are all their devoted admirers。
Nourishing all great art is the Herat of Bihzad； and supporting this Herat are
the Mongol horsemen and the Chinese。 Why should Olive； thoroughly bound
to the legends of Herat； murder poor Elegant Effendi； who was even more
bound—even blindly devoted—to the same old methods？”
“Who then？” I said。 “Butterfly？”
“Stork！” he said。 “This is what I know in my heart of hearts； for I am well
acquainted with his greed and fury。 Listen； in all probability while gilding for
your Enishte； who foolishly and clumsily imitated Frankish methods； poor
Elegant Effendi came to believe that this venture might somehow be
dangerous。 Since he was enough of a dolt to listen earnestly to the drivel of
that foolish preacher from Erzurum—unfortunately； masters of gilding；
though closer to God than painters； are also boring and stupid—and
moreover； because he knew your silly Enishte’s book was an important project
of the Sultan； his fears and doubts clashed： Should he believe in his Sultan or
in the preacher from Erzurum？ Any other time this unfortunate child； whom I
knew like the back of my hand； would’ve e to me about a dilemma that
was eating away at him。 But even he； with his bird brain； knew very well that
the act of gilding for your Enishte； that mimic of the Franks； amounted to a
betrayal of me and our guild； and so he sought another confidant。 He confided
in the wily and ambitious Stork and made the mistake of letting himself be
awed by the intellect and morality of a man whose talent impressed him。 I’ve
seen plenty of times how Stork manipulated Elegant Effendi by taking
advantage of the poor gilder’s admiration。 Whatever argument took place
between them； it resulted in Elegant Effendi’s murder at Stork’s hands。 And
since the deceased long ago confided his worries to the Erzurumis； they； in a
fit of vengeance and to demonstrate their power； went on to kill your
Frankophile Enishte； whom they held responsible for the death of their
panion。 I can’t say that I’m all that sorry about the whole matter。 Years
ago； your Enishte duped Our Sultan into having a Veian painter—his name
was Sebastiano—make a portrait of His Excellency in the Frankish style as if He
were an infidel king。 Not satisfied with that； in a disgraceful affront to my
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dignity； he had this shameful work given to me as a model to be copied； and
out of dire fear of Our Sultan； I dishonorably copied that picture which was
made using infidel methods。 Had I not been forced to do that； perhaps I could
grieve for your Enishte； and today help find the scoundrel who killed him。 But
my concern is not for your Enishte； it’s for my workshop。 Your Enishte is
responsible for the way my master miniaturists—whom I love more than if
they were my own children； whom I trained with doting attention for twenty…
five years—betrayed me and our entire artistic tradition； he’s to blame for
their enthusiastic imitation of European masters with the justification that ”it
is the will of Our Sultan。“ Each of those disgraceful masters deserves nothing
but torture！ If we； the society of miniaturists； learn to serve foremost our own
talent and art instead of Our Sultan who provides us with work； we shall have
earned entry through the Gates of Heaven。 Now then； I’d like to study this
book alone。”
Master Osman uttered this last statement like the last wish of a
disconsolate weary pasha who was responsible for military defeat and
condemned to beheading。 He opened the book Jezmi Agha placed before him
and in a scolding voice ordered the dwarf to turn to the pages he wanted。
With this accusatory tone； he instantly became the Head Illuminator with
whom the entire workshop was familiar。
I withdrew into a corner among cushions embroidered with pearls； rusty…
barreled rifles with jewel…studded butts and cabis； and began eyeing Master
Osman。 The doubt gnawing away at me spread throughout my entire being： If
he wished to stop the creation of Our Sultan’s book； it made perfect sense
that Master Osman might’ve orchestrated the murders of poor Elegant Effendi
and； afterward； of my Enishte—I reprimanded myself for just now feeling such
awe toward him。 On the other hand； I couldn’t restrain myself from feeling
profound respect for this great master who now gave himself over to the
picture before him and； blind or half blind； was peering at it closely as if
looking with the countless wrinkles of his old face。 It dawned on me that to
preserve the old style and the regimen of the miniaturists’ workshop； to rid
himself of Enishte’s book and to bee again the Sultan’s only favorite； he
would gladly surrender any one of his master miniaturists； and me as well； to
the torturers of the mander of the Imperial Guard。 I furiously began to
think of freeing myself from the love that bound me to him over the last two
days。
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Much later； I was still pletely confused。 I stared randomly at the
illuminated pages of the volumes I extracted from chests solely to appease the
demons that had risen within me and to distract my jinns of indecision。
How many men and women had fingers in their mouths！ This was used as
a gesture of surprise in all the workshops from Samarkand to