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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。
344
“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。
345
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 find myself observing