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to hypocrisy as I voiced my feelings？ For our praise of a man； whose talent and
mastery genuinely astounds us； to be sincere； must he lose most of his
authority and influence and bee slightly pathetic？
“Now then； where’s that dwarf hiding？” he said。
He said this the way powerful men who are pleased by flattery and praise
but recollect vaguely that they ought not be would—as though he wished to
change the subject。
“Despite being a great master of Persian legends and styles； you’ve created a
distinct world of illustration worthy of Ottoman glory and strength；” I
whispered。 “You’re the one who brought to art the power of the Ottoman
sword； the optimistic colors of Ottoman victory； the interest in and attention
to objects and implements； and the freedom of a fortable lifestyle。 My
dear master； it’s been the greatest honor of my life to look at these
masterpieces by the old legendary masters with you…”
For a long time I whispered on in this manner。 Within the icy darkness and
cluttered disarray of the Treasury； which resembled a recently abandoned
battlefield； our bodies were so close that my whispering became an expression
of intimacy。
Later； as with certain blind men who can’t control their facial expressions；
Master Osman’s eyes assumed the look of an old man lost in pleasure。 I
praised the old master at length； now with heartfelt emotion； now shuddering
with the inner revulsion I felt toward the blind。
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He held my hand with his cold fingers； caressed my forearm and touched
my face。 His strength and age seemed to pass through his fingers into me。 I；
again； thought of Shekure who awaited me at home。
Standing still that way for a time； pages opened before us； it was as if my
lavish praise and his self…admiration and self…pity had so fatigued us that we
were resting。 We’d bee embarrassed of each other。
“Where’s that dwarf gone to？” he asked again。
I was certain that the wily dwarf was hiding in some niche watching us。 As
if I were searching him out； I turned my shoulders right and left； but kept my
eyes trained attentively on Master Osman。 Was he truly blind or was he trying
to convince the world； including himself； that he was blind？ I’d heard that
some untalented and inpetent old masters from Shiraz feigned blindness
in their old age to curry respect and to prevent others from mentioning their
failures。
“I would like to die here；” he said。
“My great master； my dear sir；” I fawned； “in this age when value is placed
not on painting but on the money one can earn from it； not on the old
masters but on imitators of the Franks； I so well understand what you’re
saying that it brings tears to my eyes。 Yet it is also your duty to protect your
master illustrators from their enemies。 Please tell me； what conclusions have
you drawn from the ”courtesan method‘？ Who is the miniaturist who painted
that horse？“
“Olive。”
He’d said this with such ease that I had no chance to be surprised。
He fell silent。
“But I’m also certain that Olive wasn’t the one who murdered your Enishte
or unfortunate Elegant Effendi；” he said calmly。 “I believe that Olive drew the
horse because he’s the one who’s most bound to the old masters； who knows
most intimately the legends and styles of Herat and whose master…apprentice
genealogy stretches back to Samarkand。 Now I know you won’t ask me； ”Why
haven’t we encountered these nostrils in the other horses that Olive drew over
the years？“ since I’ve already mentioned how at times a detail—the wing of a
bird； the way a leaf is attached to a tree—can be preserved in memory for
generations； passing from master to apprentice； and yet might not manifest on
the page due to the influence of a moody or rigid master or on account of the
particular tastes and whims of a particular workshop or sultan。 So then； this is
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the horse that dear Olive； in his childhood； learned directly from the Persian
masters without ever being able to forget it。 The fact that the horse suddenly
appeared for the sake of Enishte’s book is a cruel trick of Allah’s。 Hadn’t all of
us taken the old masters of Herat as our models？ Just like the Turkmen
illustrators for whom the face of a beautiful woman meant one with Chinese
features； didn’t we think exclusively of the masterpieces of Herat when we
thought of well…executed pictures？ We are all their devoted admirers。
Nourishing all great art is the Herat of Bihzad； and supporting this Herat are
the Mongol horsemen and the Chinese。 Why should Olive； thoroughly bound
to the legends of Herat； murder poor Elegant Effendi； who was even more
bound—even blindly devoted—to the same old methods？”
“Who then？” I said。 “Butterfly？”
“Stork！” he said。 “This is what I know in my heart of hearts； for I am well
acquainted with his greed and fury。 Listen； in all probability while gilding for
your Enishte； who foolishly and clumsily imitated Frankish methods； poor
Elegant Effendi came to believe that this venture might somehow be
dangerous。 Since he was enough of a dolt to listen earnestly to the drivel of
that foolish preacher from Erzurum—unfortunately； masters of gilding；
though closer to God than painters； are also boring and stupid—and
moreover； because he knew your silly Enishte’s book was an important project
of the Sultan； his fears and doubts clashed： Should he believe in his Sultan or
in the preacher from Erzurum？ Any other time this unfortunate child； whom I
knew like the back of my hand； would’ve e to me about a dilemma that
was eating away at him。 But even he； with his bird brain； knew very well that
the act of gilding for your Enishte； that mimic of the Franks； amounted to a
betrayal of me and our guild； and so he sought another confidant。 He confided
in the wily and ambitious Stork and made the mistake of letting himself be
awed by the in