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magicians： One of them was causing eggs to march down a pole without
dropping them—as if on a broad slab of marble—to the beat of a tambourine
played by another。 In one wagon I saw precisely how Sea…Captain K？l？？ Ali
Pasha had forced the infidels he’d captured at sea to make an “infidels’
mountain” out of clay； he’d then loaded all the slaves into the cart； and when
he was right before the Sultan； he exploded the powder within the
“mountain” to demonstrate how he’d made infidel lands wail and moan with
cannon fire。 I saw clean…shaven butchers wielding cleavers； wearing rose… and
purple…colored uniforms and smiling at the pink carcasses of skinned sheep
hanging from hooks。 The spectators applauded lion tamers who’d brought a
chained lion before Our Sultan； provoking and enraging it until its eyes shone
bloodred with rage； and on the next page； I saw the lion； representing Islam；
chase away a gray…and…pink pig； symbolizing the cunning Christian infidel。 I
indulged my eyes at length on a picture of a barber suspended upside down
from the ceiling of a shop built onto a cart； as he shaved a customer while his
assistant； dressed in red； held a mirror and a silver bowl containing fragrant
soap； waiting for baksheesh； I inquired after the identity of the magnificent
miniaturist responsible for the piece。
“It is indeed important that a painting； through its beauty； summon us
toward life’s abundance； toward passion； toward respect for the colors of
the realm which God created； and toward reflection and faith。 The identity of
the miniaturist is not important。”
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Was Nuri the Miniaturist； who was much more subtle in thought than I’d
assumed； being reserved because he understood that my Enishte sent me here
to investigate； or was he merely parroting Head Illuminator Master Osman？
“Is Elegant the one responsible for all this gilding work？” I asked。 “Who’s
doing the gilding now； in his stead？”
The shouts and screams of children could now be heard through the open
door that faced the inner courtyard。 Below； one of the division heads had
started administering the bastinado to apprentices who’d most likely been
caught with red ink powder in their pockets or gold leaf hidden away in a fold
of paper； probably the two whom I’d seen trembling as they waited in the
cold。 Young painters； seizing an opportunity to mock them； ran to the door to
watch。
“By the time the apprentices paint the ground of the Hippodrome here a
rose color； finishing it off as our Master Osman has dictated；” said Nuri
Effendi cautiously； “our brother Elegant Effendi； God willing； will have
returned from wherever he’s gone and will plete the gilding on these two
pages。 Our master； Osman the Miniaturist； wanted Elegant Effendi to color
the dirt floor of the Hippodrome differently in each scene。 Rose pink； Indian
green； saffron yellow or the color of goose shit。 Whosoever beholds the picture
will realize in the first rendering this is a dirt square and should be earth…
colored； but in the second and third pictures； he’ll want other colors to keep
himself amused。 Embellishing ought to bring merriment to the page。”
I noticed some pictures on a sheet of paper that an assistant left in a corner。
He was working on a single…leaf picture for a Book of Victories； the depiction of
a naval fleet heading off to battle； but it was obvious that the screams of his
friends whose soles were being severely beaten； provoked the illustrator to run
off and watch。 The fleet he made by repeatedly tracing identical ships with a
block pattern didn’t even seem to float in the sea； yet； this artificiality； the lack
of wind in the sails； had less to do with the block pattern than the young
painter’s lack of skill。 I saw with sorrow that the pattern had been cut
violently out of an old book which I couldn’t identify； perhaps a collage album。
Obviously； Master Osman was overlooking quite a lot。
When we came to his own worktable； Nuri Effendi proudly stated that he
finished a gilded royal insignia for Our Sultan； which he’d been working on for
three weeks。 I respectfully admired Nuri Effendi’s gold inlay and the insignia；
which had been made on an empty sheet to ensure that its recipient and the
reason for its being sent would remain secret。 I knew well enough that many
66
impetuous pashas in the East had refrained from rebellion upon seeing the
noble and potent splendor of the Sultan’s royal insignia。
Next； we saw the last masterpieces that Jemal the Calligrapher had
transcribed； pleted and left behind； but we passed over them hastily to
avoid giving credence to opponents of color and decoration who maintained
that true art consisted of calligraphy alone and that decorative illumination
was simply a secondary means of adding emphasis。
Nas？r the Limner was making a mess of a plate he intended to repair from a
version of the Quintet of Nizami dating back to the era of Tamerlane’s sons；
the picture depicted Hüsrev looking at a naked Shirin as she bathed。
A niy…two…year…old former master who was half blind and had nothing
to say besides claiming that sixty years ago he kissed Master Bizhad’s hand in
Tabriz and that the great master of legend was blind and drunk at the time；
showed us with trembling hands the ornamentation on the pen box he would
present as a holiday gift to Our Sultan when it was pleted three months
hence。
Shortly a silence enveloped the whole workshop where close to eighty
painters； students and apprentices worked in the small cells which constituted
the lower floor。 This was a postbeating silence； the likes of which I’d
experienced many times； a silence which would be broken at times by a nerve…
wracking chuckle or a witticism； at times by a few sobs or the suppressed
moan of the beaten boy bef