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“Jezmi Agha；” I said； “we later depicted in the Chronicle of Sultan Selim the
gifts that Shah Tahmasp’s Persian ambassadors； who also presented this book；
brought with them twenty…five years ago…”
He swiftly located the Chronicle of Sultan Selim and placed it in front of me。
Paired with the vibrantly colored page that showed the ambassadors
presenting the Book of Kings along with the other gifts to Sultan Selim； my eyes
found； among the gifts which were listed one by one； what I’d long ago read
but had forgotten because it was so incredible：
The turquoise…and…mother…of…pearl…handled golden plume needle which the
Venerated Talent of Herat； Master of Master Illuminators Bihzad； used in the act of
blinding his exalted self。
I asked the dwarf where he found the Chronicle of Sultan Selim。 I followed
him through the dusty darkness of the Treasury； meandering between chests；
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piles of cloth and carpet； cabis and beneath stairways。 I noticed how our
shadows； now shrinking； now enlarging； slipped over shields； elephant tusks
and tiger skins。 In one of the adjoining rooms； this one also suffused with the
same strange redness of cloth and velvet； beside the iron chest whence
emerged the Book of Kings； amid other volumes； cloth sheets embroidered with
silver and gold wire； raw and unpolished Ceylon stone； and ruby…studded
daggers； I saw some of the other gifts that Shah Tahmasp had sent： silk carpets
from Isfahan； an ivory chess set and an object that immediately caught my
attention—a pen case decorated with Chinese dragons and branches with a
mother…of…pearl…inlaid rosette obviously from the time of Tamerlane。 I opened
the case and out came the subtle scent of burned paper and rosewater； within
rested the turquoise…and mother…of…pearl…handled golden needle used to
fasten plumes to turbans。 I took up the needle and returned to my spot like a
specter。
Alone again； I placed the needle that Master Bihzad had used to blind
himself upon the open page of the Book of Kings and gazed at it。 It wasn’t the
needle he’d blinded himself with that made me shudder； but seeing an object
he’d taken into his miraculous hands。
Why did Shah Tahmasp send this terrifying needle with the book he’d
presented to Sultan Selim？ Was it because this Shah； who as a child was a
student of Bihzad’s and a patron of artists in his youth； had changed in his old
age； distancing poets and artists from his inner circle and giving himself over
entirely to faith and worship？ Was this the reason he was willing to relinquish
this exquisite book； which the greatest of masters had labored over for ten
years？ Had he sent this needle so all would know that the great artist was
blinded of his own volition or； as was rumored for a time； to make the
statement that whosoever beheld the pages of this book even once would no
longer wish to see anything else in this world？ In any event； this volume was
no longer considered a masterpiece by the Shah； who felt poignant regret；
afraid that he’d mitted a sacrilege through his youthful love of illustrating；
as happened with many rulers in their old age。
I was reminded of stories told by spiteful illuminators who’d grown old to
find their dreams unfulfilled： As the armies of the Blacksheep ruler； Jihan
Shah； were poised to enter Shiraz； Ibn Hüsam； the city’s legendary Head
Illuminator； declared； “I refuse to paint in any other way；” and had his
apprentice blind him with a hot iron。 Among the miniaturists that the armies
of Sultan Selim the Grim brought back to Istanbul after the defeat of Shah
Ismail； the capture of Tabriz and the plunder of the Seven Heavens Palace was
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an old Persian master who it was rumored blinded himself with medicines
because he believed he could never bring himself to paint in the Ottoman
style—not as the result of an illness he’d had on the road as some claimed。 To
set an example for them； I used to tell my illuminators in their moments of
frustration how Bihzad had blinded himself。
Was there no other recourse？ If a master miniaturist made use of the new
methods here and there in out…of…the…way places； couldn’t he then； if only a
little； save the entire workshop and the styles of the old masters？
There was a dark stain on the extremely sharp point of the elegantly tapered
plume needle； yet my weary eyes couldn’t determine whether it was blood or
not。 Lowering the magnifying lens； as if beholding a melancholy depiction of
love with a matching sense of melancholy； I looked at the needle for a long
time。 I tried to imagine how Bihzad could’ve done it。 I’d heard that one
doesn’t go blind immediately； the velvety darkness descends slowly； sometimes
after days； sometimes after months； as with old men who go blind naturally。
I’d caught sight of it while passing into the next room； I stood and looked；
yes； there it was： an ivory mirror with a twisted handle and thick ebony frame；
its length nicely embellished with script。 I sat down again and gazed at my
own eyes。 How beautifully the flame of the candle danced in my pupils—
which had witnessed my hand paint for sixty years。
“How had Master Bihzad done it？” I asked myself once more。
Never once taking my eyes off the mirror； with the practiced movements of
a woman applying kohl to her eyelids； my hand found the needle on its own。
Without hesitation； as if making a hole at the end of an ostrich egg soon to be
embellished； I bravely； calmly and firmly pressed the needle into the pupil of
my right eye。 My innards sank； not because I felt what I was doing； but because
I saw what I was doing。 I pushed the needle into my eye to the depth of a
quarter the length of a finger； then removed it。
In the couplet worked into the frame of the mirror； the poet had