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perhaps； but it had to do neither with my story nor with the bloody battle
scene before him。 He seemed to be expecting good news in which he could
gradually take fort。 When I was sure he wasn’t looking at me； I abruptly
grabbed the plume needle and walked away。
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In a dark part of the third of the Treasury rooms； the one abutting the
baths； there was a corner cluttered with hundreds of strange clocks sent as
presents from Frankish kings and sovereigns； when they stopped working； as
they usually did within a short time； they were set aside here。 Withdrawing to
this room； I carefully scrutinized the needle that Master Osman claimed
Bihzad had used to blind himself。
By the red daylight filtering inside； reflecting off the casings； crystal faces
and diamonds of the dusty and broken clocks； the golden tip of the needle；
coated with a pinkish liquid； occasionally shimmered。 Had the legendary
Master Bihzad actually blinded himself with this implement？ Had Master
Osman done the same terrible thing to himself？ The expression of an impish
Moroccan； the size of a finger and colorfully painted； attached to the
mechanism of one of the large clocks seemed to say “Yes！” Evidently； when the
clock was working； this man in the Ottoman turban would merrily nod his
head as the hour tolled—a small joke on the part of the Hapsburg king who
sent it； and his skillful clock…maker； for the amusement of Our Sultan and the
women of His harem。
I looked through quite a few very mediocre books： As the dwarf confirmed；
these were among the effects of pashas whose properties and belongings were
confiscated after they were beheaded。 So many pashas had been executed that
these volumes were without number。 With a pitiless joy； the dwarf declared
that any pasha so intoxicated by his own wealth and power as to forget he was
a subject of the Sultan and to have a book made in his own honor； illuminated
with gold leaf as if he were a monarch or a shah； well deserved to be executed
and have his possessions expropriated。 Even in these volumes； some of which
were albums； illuminated manuscripts or illustrated collections of poetry；
whenever I came across a version of Shirin falling in love with Hüsrev’s picture；
I stopped and stared。
The picture within a picture； that is； the picture of Hüsrev which Shirin
encountered during her countryside outing； was never rendered in detail； not
because miniaturists couldn’t adequately depict something so small—many
had the dexterity and finesse to paint upon fingernails； grains of rice or even
strands of hair。 Why then hadn’t they drawn the face and features of Hüsrev—
the object of Shirin’s love—in enough detail so that he might be recognized？
Sometime in the afternoon； perhaps to forget my hopelessness； and thinking；
as I leafed through a disorderly album I’d chanced upon； that I’d broach such
questions to Master Osman； I was struck by the image of a horse in a picture
of a bridal procession painted on cloth。 My heart skipped a beat。
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There before me was a horse with peculiar nostrils carrying a coquettish
bride。 The beast was looking at me out of the picture。 It was as though the
magical horse were on the verge of whispering a secret to me。 As if in a dream；
I wanted to shout； but my voice was silent。
In one continuous movement； I collected up the volume and ran among the
objects and chests to Master Osman； laying the page open before him。
He looked down at the picture。
When no spark of recognition appeared on his face； I grew impatient。 “The
nostrils of the horse are exactly like those made for my Enishte’s book；” I
exclaimed。
He lowered his magnifying lens over the horse。 He bent down so far；
bringing his eye to the lens and picture； that his nose nearly touched the page。
I couldn’t stand the silence。 “As you can see； this isn’t a horse made in the
style and method of the horse drawn for my Enishte’s book；” I said； “but the
nose is the same。 The artist attempted to see the world the way the Chinese
do。” I fell quiet。 “It’s a wedding procession。 It resembles a Chinese picture； but
the figures aren’t Chinese； they’re our people。”
The master’s lens seemed to be flat against the page； and his nose was flat
against the lens。 In order to see； he made use of not only his eyes； but his head；
the muscles of his neck； his aged back and his shoulders with all his might。
Silence。
“The nostrils of the horse are cut open；” he said later； breathless。
I leaned my head against his。 Cheek to cheek we stared at the nostrils for a
long long time。 I sadly realized that not only were the horse’s nostrils cut； but
Master Osman was having difficulty seeing them。
“You do see it； don’t you？”
“Only very little；” he said。 “Describe the picture。”
“If you ask me； this is a melancholy bride；” I said mournfully。 “She’s
mounted on a gray horse with its nostrils cut open； she’s on her way to be
wed； with her panions and an escort of guards who are strangers to her。
The faces of the guards； their harsh expressions； intimidating black beards；
furrowed eyebrows； long thick mustaches； heavy frames； robes of simple thin
cloth； thin shoes； headdresses of bear fur； their battle…axes and scimitars
indicate that they belong to the Whitesheep Turkmen of Transoxiana。 Perhaps
the pretty bride—who appears to be on a long journey to judge by the fact
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she’s traveling with her bridesmaid at night by the light of oil lamps and
torches—is a melancholy Chinese princess。”
“Or perhaps we only think the bride is Chinese now； because the
miniaturist； to emphasize her flawless beauty； whitened her face as the
Chinese do and painted her with slanted eyes；” said Master Osman。
“Whoever she might be； my heart aches for this sad beauty； traveling the
steppe in the middle of the night acpanied by grim…faced foreign guards；
heading to a strange land and a husband she’s never seen；” I said。 Then I
immediately added； “How shall we determine who our miniaturist is from the
clipped nostrils of the horse she rides？”
“Turn the pages of the album and tell me what you see；” said Master
Osman。
Just then； we were joined by the dwarf whom I’d seen sitting on the
chamber pot as I was running to bring the volume to Master Osman； the
three of us looked at the pages together。
We saw strikingly beautiful Chinese maidens depicted in the style of our
melancholy bride gathered together in a garden playing a peculiar…looking lute。
We saw Chinese houses； morose…looking caravans heading out on long
journeys； vistas of the steppes as beautiful as old memories。 We saw gnarled
trees rendered in the Chinese style； their spring blossoms in full bloom； and
nightingales tipsy with elation perched on their branches。 We saw princes in
the Khorasan style seated in their tents holding forth on poetry； wine and love；
spectacular gardens； and handsome nobles； with magnificent falcons clutching
their forearms； hunting bolt upright astride their exquisite horses。 Then； it was
as if the Devil had passed into the pages； we could sense that the evil in the
illustrations was most often reason itself。 Had the miniaturist added an ironic
touch to the actions of the heroic prince who slew the dragon with his gigantic
lance？ Had he gloated at the poverty of the unfortunate peasants expecting
fort from the sheikh in their midst？ Was it more pleasurable for him to
draw the sad； empty eyes of dogs locked in coitus or to apply a devilish red to
the open mouths of the women laughing scornfully at the poor beasts？ Then
we saw the miniaturist’s devils themselves： These weird creatures resembled
the jinns and giants the old masters of Herat and the artists of the Book of
Kings drew frequently； yet the sardonic talent of the miniaturist made them
more sinister； aggressive and human in form。 We laughed watching these
terrifying devils； the size of a man yet with misshapen bodies； branching horns
and feline tails。 As I turned the pages； these naked devils with bushy brows；
round faces； bulging eyes； pointed teeth； sharp nails and the dark wrinkled
356
skin of old men began to beat each other and wrestle； to steal a great horse
and sacrifice it to their gods； to leap and play； to cut down trees； to spirit away
beautiful princesses in their palanquins and to capture dragons and sack
treasuries。 I mentioned that in this volume； which had seen the touch of many
different brushes； the miniaturist known as Black Pen； who’d made the devils；
also drew Kalenderi dervishes with shaved heads； ragged clothes； iron chains
and staffs； and Master Osman had me one by one repeat their similarities；
listening closely to what I said。
“Cutting open the nostrils of horses so they might breathe easier and travel
farther is a centuries…old Mongol custom；” he said later。 “Hulagu Khan’s
armies conquered all of Arabia； Persia and China with their horses。 When they
entered Baghdad； put its inhabitants to the sword； plundered it and tossed all
its books into the Tigris； as we know； the famous calligrapher； and later；
illuminator Ibn Shakir fled the city and the slaughter； heading north on the
road by which the Mongol horsemen had e； instead of south along with
everyone else。 At that time； no one made illustrations because the Koran
forbade them； and painters weren’t taken seriously。 We owe the greatest
secrets of our noble occupation to Ibn Shakir； the patron saint and master of
all miniaturists： the vision of the world from a minaret； the persistence of a
horizon line visible or invisible； and the depiction of all things from clouds to
insects the way the Chinese envisaged them； in curling； lively and optimistic
colors。 I’ve heard that he studied the nostrils of horses in order to keep himself
moving northward during that legendary journey into the heartland of the
Mongol hordes。 However； as far as I’ve seen and heard； none of the horses he
drew in Samarkand； which he reached after a year’s travel on foot undaunted
by snow and severe weather； had clipped nostrils。 For him； perfect dream
horses were not the sturdy； powerful； victorious horses of the Mongols that he
came to know in his adulthood； they were the elegant Arab horses that he’d
sorrowfully left behind in his happy youth。 This is why for me the strange nose
of the horse made for Enishte’s book brought to mind neither Mongol horses
nor this custom the Mongols spread to Khorasan and Samarkand。”
As he spoke； Master Osman looked now at the book and now at us； as if he
could see only those things he conjured in his mind’s eye。
“Besides horses with clipped noses and Chinese painting； the devils in this
book are another thing brought with the Mongol hordes to Persia and thence
all the way here to Istanbul。 You’ve probably heard how these demons are
ambassadors of evil dispatched by dark forces from deep beneath the ground
to snatch away human lives and whatever we deem valuable and how they’re
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bent on carrying us off to their underworld of blackness and death。 In this
underground realm everything； whether cloud； tree； object； dog or book； has a
soul and speaks。”
“Quite so；” said the elderly dwarf。 “As Allah is my witness； some nights
when I’m locked in here； not only the spirits of the clocks； the Chinese plates
and the crystal bowls that chime constantly anyway； but the spirits of all the
rifles； swords； shields and bloody helmets grow restless and begin