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haired； have a short waist； small nose； small shoulders and a broad flat back； it
should be full…thighed； long…necked； broadchested； with a broad rump and
meaty inner thighs。 The beast should be proud and elegant and when it
saunters； it should move as though it were greeting those on either side。”
“That’s our chestnut horse exactly；” I said； looking at the image of the horse
in astonishment。
“We’ve discovered our horse；” said Master Osman with the same ironic
smile； “but unfortunately this doesn’t do us any good when it es to the
identity of the miniaturist； because I know that no miniaturist in his right
mind would depict a horse using a real horse as a model。 My miniaturists；
naturally； would draw a horse from memory in one motion。 As proof； let me
remind you that most of them begin drawing the outline of the horse from
the tip of one of its hooves。”
“Isn’t this done so the horse can be depicted standing firmly on the
ground？” I said apologetically。
“As Jemalettin of Kazvin wrote in his The Illustration of Horses； one can
properly plete a picture of a horse beginning from its hoof only if he
carries the entire horse in his memory。 Obviously； to render a horse through
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excessive thought and recollection； or even more ridiculous； by repeatedly
looking at a real horse； one would have to move from head to neck and then
neck to body。 I hear there are certain Veian illustrators who are happy to
sell tailors and butchers such pictures of your average street packhorse drawn
indecisively by trial and error。 Such an illustration has nothing whatsoever to
do with the meaning of the world or with the beauty of God’s creation。 But
I’m convinced that even mediocre artists must know a genuine illustration
isn’t drawn according to what the eye sees at any particular moment； but
according to what the hand remembers and is accustomed to。 The painter is
always alone before the page。 Solely for this reason he’s always dependent on
memory。 Now； there’s nothing left for us to do but use the ”courtesan
method‘ to uncover the hidden signature borne by our horse； which has been
drawn from memory through the quick and skillful movement of the hand。
Take a careful look here。“
He was ever so slowly moving the magnifying lens over the spectacular
horse as if he were trying to discover the location of a treasure on an old map
meticulously rendered on calfskin。
“Yes；” I said； like a disciple overe by the pressure to make a quick and
brilliant discovery that would impress his master。 “We could pare the
colors and embroidery of the saddle blanket to those in the other pictures。”
“My master miniaturists wouldn’t even deign to lower a brush to these
designs。 Apprentices draw the clothes； carpets and blankets in the pictures。
Perhaps the late Elegant Effendi might’ve done them。 Forget them。”
“What about the ears？” I said in a fluster。 “The ears of the horses…”
“No。 These ears haven’t changed form since the time of Tamerlane； they’re
just like the leaves of reeds； which we well know。”
I was about to say； “What about the braiding of the mane and the
depiction of every strand of its hair；” but I fell silent； not at all amused by this
master…apprentice game。 If I’m the apprentice； I ought to know my place。
“Take a look here；” said Master Osman with the distressed yet attentive air
of a doctor pointing out a plague pustule to a colleague。 “Do you see it？”
He’d moved the magnifying lens over the horse’s head and was slowly
pulling it away from the surface of the picture。 I lowered my head to better see
what was being enlarged through the lens。
The horse’s nose was peculiar： its nostrils。
“Do you see it？” said Master Osman。
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To be certain of what I saw； I thought I should center myself right behind
the lens。 When Master Osman did likewise； we met cheek to cheek just behind
the lens that was now quite a distance from the picture。 It momentarily
alarmed me to feel the harshness of the master’s dry beard and the coolness of
his cheek on my face。
A silence。 It was as if something wondrous were happening within the
picture a handspan away from my weary eyes； and we were witnessing it with
respect and awe。
“What’s wrong with the nose？” I was able to whisper much later。
“He’s drawn the nose oddly；” said Master Osman without taking his eyes
off the page。
“Did his hand slip； perhaps？ Is this a mistake？”
We were still examining the peculiar； unique rendering of the nose。
“Is this the Veian…inspired ”style‘ everyone； the great masters of China
included； has begun talking about？“ asked Master Osman mockingly。
I succumbed to resentment； thinking that he was mocking my late Enishte：
“My Enishte； may he rest in peace； used to say that any fault arising not from
lack of ability or talent； but from the depths of the miniaturist’s soul； ought
not be deemed fault but style。”
However it came about； whether by the miniaturist’s own hand or the
horse itself； there was no clue other than this nose as to the identity of the
blackguard who murdered my Enishte。 For； let alone making out the nostrils；
we were having difficulty identifying the noses of the smudged horses on the
page found with poor Elegant Effendi。
We spent much time searching for horse pictures that Master Osman’s
beloved miniaturists had made for various books in recent years； looking for
the same irregularity in the horse’s nostrils。 Because the Book of Festivities； still
being pleted； depicted the societies and guilds marching on foot before
Our Sultan； there were few horses among its 250 illustrations。 Men were
dispatched to the book…arts workshop； where certain figure books； some
notebooks of standard forms and newly finished volumes were stored； as wel