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religious schools where he taught； was ill…tempered； angry and had a weakness
for drink。 Black was six years old at the time； he’d cry when his mother cried；
quiet down when his mother fell silent and regarded me； his Enishte； with
apprehension。
It pleases me to see him before me now； a determined； mature and
respectful nephew。 The respect he shows me； the care with which he kisses my
hand and presses it to his forehead； the way； for example； he said； “Purely for
red；” when he presented me with the Mongol inkpot as a gift； and his polite
and demure habit of sitting before me with his knees mindfully together； all of
this not only announces that he is the sensible grown man he aspires to be；
but it reminds me that I am indeed the venerable elder I aspire to be。
He shares a likeness with his father； whom I’ve seen once or twice： He’s tall
and thin； and makes slightly nervous yet being gestures with his arms and
hands。 His custom of placing his hands on his knees or of staring deeply and
intently into my eyes as if to say； “I understand； I’m listening to you with
reverence” when I tell him something of import； or the way he nods his head
with a subtle rhythm matching the measure of my words are all quite
appropriate。 Now that I’ve reached this age； I know that true respect arises not
from the heart； but from discrete rules and deference。
During the years Black’s mother brought him frequently to our house
under every pretense because she anticipated a future for him here； I
understood that books pleased him； and this brought us together。 As those in
the house used to put it； he would serve as my “apprentice。” I explained to
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him how miniaturists in Shiraz had created a new style by raising the horizon
line clear to the top of the border； and that while everyone depicted Mejnun
in a wretched state in the desert； crazed with love for his Leyla； the great
master Bihzad was better able to convey Mejnun’s loneliness by portraying
him walking among groups of women cooking； attempting to ignite logs by
blowing on them or walking between tents。 I remarked how absurd it was that
most of the illustrators who depicted the moment when Hüsrev spied the
naked Shirin bathing in a lake at midnight had whimsically colored the lovers’
horses and clothes without having read Nizami’s poem； my point being that a
miniaturist who took up a brush without the care and diligence to read the
text he was illustrating was motivated by nothing more than greed。
I’m delighted now to see that Black has acquired another essential virtue：
To avoid disappointment in art； one mustn’t treat it as a career。 Despite
whatever great artistic sense and talent a man might possess； he ought to seek
money and power elsewhere to avoid forsaking his art when he fails to receive
proper pensation for his gifts and efforts。
Black recounted how he’d met one by one all of the master illustrators and
calligraphers of Tabriz by making books for pashas； wealthy Istanbulites and
patrons in the provinces。 All these artists； I learned； were impoverished and
overe by the futility of their lot。 Not only in Tabriz； but in Mashhad and
Aleppo； many miniaturists had abandoned working on books and begun
making odd single…leaf pictures—curiosities that would please European
travelers—even obscene drawings。 Rumor has it that the illuminated
manuscript Shah Abbas presented to Our Sultan during the Tabriz peace treaty
has already been taken apart so its pages could be used for another book。
Supposedly； the Emperor of Hindustan； Akbar； was throwing so much money
around for a large new book that the most gifted illustrators of Tabriz and
Kazvin quit what they were doing and flocked to his palace。
As he told me all of this； he pleasantly interjected other stories as well； for
example； he described with a smile the entertaining story of a Mehdi forgery
or the frenzy that erupted among the Uzbeks when the idiot prince sent to
them by the Safavids as a hostage to peace fell feverishly ill and dropped dead
within three days。 Even so； I could tell from the shadow that fell across his face
that the dilemma to which neither of us referred； but which troubled us both；
had yet to be resolved。
Naturally； Black； like every young man who frequented our house or heard
what others had to say about us； or who knew about my beautiful daughter；
Shekure； from hearsay； had fallen in love with her。 Perhaps I didn’t consider it
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dangerous enough to warrant my attention back then； but everyone—
including many who’d never laid eyes on her—fell in love with my daughter；
that belle of belles。 Black’s affliction was the overwhelming passion of an ill…
fated youth who had free access to our house； who was accepted and well liked
in our home and who had the opportunity actually to see Shekure。 He did not
bury his love； as I hoped he would； but made the mistake of revealing his
extreme passion to my daughter。
As a result； he pletely。
I assumed that Black now also knew how three years after he’d left
Istanbul； my daughter married a spahi cavalryman； at the height of her
loveliness； and that this soldier； having fathered two boys but still bereft of any
mon sense； had gone off on a campaign never to return again。 No one had
heard from the cavalryman in four years。 I gathered he was aware of this； not
only because such gossip spreads fast in Istanbul； but because during the
silences that passed between us； I felt he’d learned the whole story long ago；
judging by the way he looked into my eyes。 Even at this moment； as he casts
an eye at the Book of the Soul； which stands open on the folding X…shaped
reading stand； I know he’s listening for the sounds of her children running
through the house； I know he’s aware that my daughter