my name is red-我的名字叫红-第66章
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freezing Treasury—but they’ll never truly know。 As I turned the pages with my
old fingers numbed from the cold； my trusty mother…of…pearl…handled
magnifying lens and my left eye passed over the pictures like an old stork
traversing the earth； little surprised by the view below； yet still astonished to
see new things。 From these pages withheld from us for years； some of them
legendary； I came to know which artist had learned what from whom； in
which workshop under which shah’s patronage the thing we now call “style”
first took shape； which fabled master had worked for whom； and how； for
example； the curling Chinese clouds I knew had spread throughout Persia from
Herat under Chinese influence were also used in Kazvin。 I would occasionally
allow myself an exhausted “Aha！”； but an agony lurked deeper within me； a
melancholy and regret I can scarcely share with you for the belittled；
tormented； pretty； moon…faced； gazelle…eyed； sapling…thin painters—battered
by masters—who suffered for their art； yet remained full of excitement and
hope； enjoying the affection that developed between them and their masters
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and their shared love of painting； before succumbing to anonymity and
blindness after long years of toil。
It was with such melancholy and regret that I entered this world of fine and
delicate feelings； the possibility of whose depiction my soul had quietly
forgotten over years of rendering wars and celebrations for Our Sultan。 In an
album of collected pictures I saw a red…lipped； thin…waisted Persian boy
holding a book on his lap exactly as I was holding one at that moment； and it
reminded me of what shahs with a weakness for gold and power always forget：
The world’s beauty belongs to Allah。 On the page of another album drawn by
a young master from Isfahan； with tears in my eyes； I beheld two marvelous
youths in love with each other； and was reminded of the love my own
handsome apprentices nourished for painting。 A tiny…footed； transparent…
skinned； weak and girlish youth had bared a delicate forearm； which aroused
in one the desire to kiss it and die； while a cherry…lipped； almond…eyed；
sapling…thin； button…nosed beauty of a maiden gazed with wonder—as though
viewing three lovely flowers—upon the three small； deep marks of passion the
youth had burned onto the inside of that adorable arm to demonstrate the
strength of his love and his attachment to her。
Oddly； my heart began to quicken and pound。 As had happened sixty years
ago in my early apprenticeship； while I was looking at some rather indecent
illustrations of handsome marble…skinned boys and slim small…breasted
maidens drawn in the black…ink style of Tabriz； beads of sweat accumulated on
my forehead。 I recalled the passion for painting I felt and the depth of thought
I experienced when； a few years after I’d married and taken my first steps
toward master status； I saw a lovely angel…faced； almond…eyed； rose…petal…
skinned youth brought in as an apprentice candidate。 For a moment； I had the
strong feeling that painting was not about melancholy and regret but about
this desire I felt and that it was the talent of the master artist that first
transformed this desire into a love of God and then into a love of the world as
God saw it； so strong was this feeling that it caused me to relive with ecstatic
delight all the years I’d spent over the drawing board until my back was
hunched； all the beatings I’d endured while learning my craft； my dedication
to courting blindness through illustration and all the agonies of painting I’d
suffered and made others suffer。 As if running my eyes over something
forbidden； I stared long and silently at this wondrous illustration with the
same delight。 Much later I was still staring。 A teardrop slid from my eye over
my cheek into my beard。
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When I noticed that one of the candlesticks slowly floating through the
Treasury was approaching me； I put the album away and randomly opened
one of the volumes the dwarf had recently set beside me。 This was a special
album prepared for shahs： I saw two deer at the edge of a green copse
enamored of each other； with jackals watching them in hostile envy。 I turned
the page： Chestnut and bay horses that could’ve been the work of only one of
the old masters of Herat—how spectacular they were！ I turned the page： A
confidently seated governmental official greeted me from a seventy…year…old
picture； I couldn’t determine who it was from the face because he looked like
anybody； or so I thought； yet the air of the painting； the seated man’s beard
painted in various hues recalled something。 My heart beat quickly as I
recognized the execution of the magnificent hand in the piece。 My heart knew
before I did； only he could’ve drawn such a splendid hand： This was the work
of Bihzad。 It was as if light were gushing from the painting to my face。
I had seen pictures drawn by the Great Master Bihzad a few times before；
perhaps because I hadn’t looked at them alone； but in a group of former
masters years ago； perhaps because we couldn’t be certain whether it was
indeed the work of the great Bihzad； I hadn’t been as taken as I was now。
The heavy moldy darkness of the Treasury chamber seemed to brighten。
This beautifully drawn hand merged in my mind with that thin； magnificent
arm branded with signs of love； which I’d just now seen。 Again； I praised God
for showing me such spectacular beauty before I went blind。 How do I know
I’ll soon be blind？ I don’t know！ I sensed that I could share this intuition of
mine with Black； who’d sidled up to me holding a candle and was looking at
the page； but something else came out of my mouth。
“Behold the remarkable rendering of the hand；” I said。 “It’s Bihzad。”
My hand went of its own will to hold Black’s； as if it were holding the hand
of one of those soft； velvet…skinned； beautiful apprentice boys； each of whom
I’d loved in my youth。 His hand was smooth and firm； warmer than my own；
delicate and broad； and I was thrilled by the veined side of his wrist。 When I
was young； I would take an apprentice child’s hand into my palm and； before
telling him how to hold the brush； I’d gaze with affection into his sweet；
frightened eyes。 That’s how I looked at Black。 Reflected in his pupils； I saw the
flame of the candle he held aloft。 “We miniaturists are brethren；” I said； “but
now everything is ing to an end。”
“How do you mean？”
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I said； “Everything is ing to an end” like a great master who longs for
blindness； having devoted his years to a lord or a prince； having created
masterpieces in his workshop in the style of the ancients； having even ensured
that this workshop had its own style； a great master who knows； whenever his
patron lord loses his last battle； that new lords will e in the wake of the
plundering enemy； disband the workshop； tear apart bound volumes leaving
the pages in disarray and belittle and destroy what remains； including the fine
details that he long believed in； that were of his own discovery and that he
loved like his own children。 But I needed to explain this to Black differently。
“This illustration is of the great Poet Abdullah Hatifi；” I said。 “Hatifi was
such a great poet that he simply stayed home while everybody else rushed out
and toadied up to Shah Ismail after the king took Herat。 In response； Shah
Ismail personally went all the way to his house on the outskirts of the city to
see him。 We know this is Hatifi； not from Bihzad’s rendering of Hatifi’s face；
but from the writing beneath the illustration； don’t we？”
Black looked at me； indicating “yes” with his pretty eyes。 “When we look at
the face of the poet in the painting；” I said； “we see that it could be a face like
any other face。 If Abdullah Hatifi were here； God rest his soul； we could never
hope to recognize him from the face in this picture。 However； we could do so
relying on the illustration in its entirety： There’s something in the manner of
the position； in Hatifi’s pose； in the colors； the gilding and the stunning
hand rendered by Master Bihzad that at once indicates the picture is of a poet。
Meaning precedes form in the world of our art。 As we begin to paint in
imitation of the Frankish and Veian masters； as in the book that Our Sultan
had missioned from your Enishte； the domain of meaning ends and the
domain of form begins。 However； with the Veian methods…”
“My Enishte； may he rest in eternal peace； was murdered；” Black said
rudely。
I caressed Black’s hand； which rested within my own； as if respectfully
stroking the tiny hand of a young apprentice who might one day indeed
illustrate masterpieces。 Quietly and reverently we looked at Bihzad’s
masterpiece for a time。 Later； Black withdrew his hand from mine。
“We passed quickly over the chestnut horses on the previous page without
examining their noses；” he said。
“There’s nothing to them；” I said； and turned back to the previous page so
he might see for himself： There was nothing extraordinary about the nostrils of
the horses。
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“When shall we find the horses with peculiar noses？” Black asked like a
child。
But； in the middle of the night； toward morning； when we found Shah
Tahmasp’s legendary Book of Kings in an iron chest beneath piles of various
shades of green watered silk and drew it forth； Black was curled up fast asleep
on a red Ushak carpet； with his well…formed head lying on a velvet pillow
embroidered with pearls。 Meanwhile； as soon as I laid eyes upon the legendary
tome again after so many years； I quickly understood that the day had only
just begun for me。
The legendary volume I’d seen only from afar twenty…five years ago was so
large and heavy that Jezmi Agha and I had difficulty lifting and carrying it。
When I touched the binding； I knew there was wood within the leather。
Twenty…five years ago； upon the death of Sultan Süleyman the Magnificent；
Shah Tahmasp was so elated to be finally rid of this sultan who’d occupied
Tabriz three times； that along with the gift…laden camels he sent to Süleyman’s
successor； Sultan Selim； he included a spectacular Koran and this volume； the
most beautiful of the books in his treasury。 First； a Persian ambassadorial
delegation three hundred strong took the tome to Edirne where the new
sultan spent the winter hunting； after it arrived here in Istanbul along with
the other presents carried on camels and mules； Head Illuminator Black Memi
and we three young masters went to see the book before it was locked up in
the Treasury。 Just like the Istanbulites who would rush to see an elephant
brought from Hindustan or a giraffe from Africa； we hurried to the palace
where I learned from Master Black Memi that the great Master Bihzad； who’d
left Herat for Tabriz in his old age； hadn’t contributed to this book because
he’d gone blind。
For Ottoman miniaturists like us who were astonished by ordinary books
with seven or eight illustrations； looking through this volume； which
contained 250 large illustrations； was like roaming through an exquisite palace
while its inhabitants slept。 We stared at the incredibly rich pages with a quiet
pious reverence as if beholding the Gardens of Paradise that had appeared
miraculously for a fleeting moment。 And for the following twenty…five years we
discussed this book which remained locked in the Treasury。
I silently opened the thick cover of the Book of Kings as if opening a huge
palace door。 As I turned the pages； each of which made a pleasant rustle； I was
overe by melancholy more than awe。
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1。 Mindful of the stories suggesting that all the master miniaturists of
Istanbul had stolen images from the pages of this book； I couldn’t give my full
attention to the pictures。
2。 Thinking that I might chance upon a hand drawn by Bihzad in some
corner； I couldn’t devote myself wholeheartedly to the masterpieces that
appeared in one of every five or six pictures （how decisively and with what
grace did Tahmuras lower his mace upon the heads of the demons and giants；
who later； in a time of peace； would teach him the alphabet； Greek and various
other languages！）。
3。 The noses of horses and the presence of Black and the dwarf prevented
me from surrendering myself to what I saw。
Naturally； I was disappointed to
