按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
khans and shahs who were fighting among themselves。 With his victorious
Turkmen hordes； he passed through the whole of Persia into the East； finally； at
Astarabad； he defeated Ibrahim； the grandson of Shah Ruh who was
Tamerlane’s son； he then took Gorgan and sent his armies against the fortress
of Herat。 According to the historian from Kirman； this devastation； not only to
Persia； but to the heretofore undefeated power of the House of Tamerlane；
which had ruled over half the world from Hindustan to Byzantium for half a
century； caused such a tempest of destruction that pandemonium reigned
over the men and women in the besieged fortress of Herat。 The historian Abu
Said reminds the reader with perverse pleasure how Jihan Shah of the
Blacksheep mercilessly killed everyone who was a descendant of Tamerlane in
the fortresses he conquered； how he selectively culled women from the harems
of shahs and princes and added them to his own harem； and how he pitilessly
separated miniaturist from miniaturist and cruelly forced most of them to
serve as apprentices to his own master illuminators。 At this point in his
History； he turns his attentions from the shah and his warriors who tried to
repel the enemy from the crenellated towers of the fortress； to the miniaturists
among their pens and paints in the workshop awaiting the terrifying
415
culmination of the siege whose oute was long evident。 He lists the names
of the artists； declaring one after another how they were world…renowned and
would never be forgotten； and these illuminators； all of whom； like the women
of the shah’s harem； have since been forgotten； embraced each other and wept；
unable to do anything but recall their former days of bliss。
We too； like melancholy harem women； reminisced about the gifts of fur…
lined caftans and purses full of money that the Sultan would present to us in
reciprocation for the colorful decorated boxes； mirrors and plates； embellished
ostrich eggs； cut…paper work； single…leaf pictures； amusing albums； playing
cards and books we’d offer him on holidays。 Where were the hardworking；
long…suffering； elderly artists of that day who were satisfied with so little？
They’d never sequester themselves at home and jealously hide their methods
from others； dreading that their moonlighting would be found out； but would
e to the workshop every day without fail。 Where were the old miniaturists
who humbly devoted their entire lives to drawing intricate designs on castle
walls； cypress leaves whose uniqueness was discernible only after close scrutiny
and the seven…leaf steppe grasses used to fill empty spaces？ Where were the
uninspired masters who never grew jealous； having accepted the wisdom and
justice inherent in God’s bestowal of talent and ability upon some artists and
patience and pious resignation upon others？ We recalled these fatherly
masters； some of whom were hunched and perpetually smiling； others dreamy
and drunk and still others intent upon foisting off a spinster daughter； and as
we recollected； we attempted to resurrect the forgotten details of the
workshop as it had been during our apprentice and early mastership years。
Do you remember the limner who stuck his tongue into his cheek when he
ruled pages—to the left side if the line he drew headed right； and to the right
side if the line went left； the small； thin artist who laughed to himself；
chortling and mumbling “patience； patience； patience” when he dribbled
paint； the septuagenarian master gilder who spent hour upon hour talking to
the binder’s apprentices downstairs and claimed that red ink applied to the
forehead stopped aging； the ornery master who relied on an unsuspecting
apprentice or even randomly stopped anyone passing by to test the
consistency of paint upon their fingernails after his own nails were pletely
filled； and the portly artist who made us laugh as he caressed his beard with
the furry rabbit’s foot used to collect the excess flecks of gold dust used in
gilding？ Where were they all？
Where were the burnishing boards which were used so much they became a
part of the apprentices’ bodies and then just tossed aside； and the long paper
416
scissors that the apprentices dulled by playing “swordsman”？ Where were the
writing boards inscribed with the names of the great masters so they wouldn’t
get mixed up； the aroma of China ink and the faint rattle of coffeepots aboil in
the silence？ Where were the various brushes we made of hairs from the necks
and inner ears of kittens born to our tabby cats each summer； and the great
sheaves of Indian paper given to us so； in idle moments； we could practice our
artistry the way calligraphers did？ Where was the ugly steel…handled penknife
ission from the Head Illuminator； thus providing a
deterrent to the entire workshop when we had to scrape away large mistakes；
and what happened to the rituals that surrounded these mistakes？
We also agreed that it was wrong for the Sultan to allow the master
miniaturists to work at home。 We recalled the marvelous warm halva that
came to us from the palace kitchen on early winter evenings after we’d
worked with aching eyes by the light of oil lamps and candles。 Laughing and
with tears in our eyes； we remembered how the elderly and senile master
gilder； who was stricken with chronic trembling and could take up neither pen
nor paper； on his monthly workshop visits brought fried dough…balls in heavy
syrup that his daughter had made for us apprentices。 We talked about the
exquisite pages rendered by the dearly departed Black Memi； Head Illuminator
before Master Osman； discovered in his room； which remained empty for days
after his funeral； within the portfolio found beneath the light mattress he’d
spread out and use for catnaps in