of the world； His justice approaches us。 See here； the needle Master Bihzad
blinded himself with…”
Master Osman callously told the story of the needle； and I scrutinized the
extremely sharp point of this disagreeable object beneath the magnifying glass
which he lowered so I might better see； a pinkish film covered its tip。
“The old masters；” Master Osman said； “would suffer pangs of conscience
about changing their talent； colors and methods。 They’d consider it
dishonorable to see the world one day as an Eastern shah manded； the
next； as a Western ruler did—which is what the artists of our day do。”
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His eyes were neither trained on mine nor upon the pages in front of him。
It seemed as though he were gazing at a distant unattainable whiteness。 In a
page of the Book of Kings lying open before him； Persian and Turanian armies
clashed with all their force。 As horses fought shoulder to shoulder； enraged
heroic warriors drew their swords and slaughtered one another with the color
and joy of a festival； their armor pierced by the lances of the cavalry； their
heads and arms severed； their bodies hacked apart or cloven in two； strewn all
over the field。
“When the great masters of old were forced to adopt the styles of victors
and imitate their miniaturists； they preserved their honor by using a needle to
heroically bring on the blindness that the labors of painting would’ve caused
in time。 Yes； before the pureness of God’s darkness fell over their eyes like a
divine reward； they’d stare at a masterpiece ceaselessly for hours or even days；
and because they stubbornly stared out of bowed heads； the meaning and
world of those pictures—spotted with blood dripping from their eyes—would
take the place of all the evil they suffered； and as their eyes ever so slowly
clouded over they’d approach blindness in peace。 Do you have any idea which
illustration I’d want to stare at till I’d attained the divine blackness of the
blind？”
Like a man trying to recall a childhood memory； he fixed his eyes； whose
pupils seemed to shrink as their whites expanded； on a distant place beyond
the walls of the Treasury。
“The scene； rendered in the style of the old masters of Herat； wherein
Hüsrev； burning madly with love； rides his horse to the foot of Shirin’s
summer palace and waits！”
Perhaps he’d now go on to describe that picture as if reciting a melancholy
poem eulogizing the blindness of the old masters。 “My great master； my dear
sire；” on a strange impulse； I interrupted him； “what I want to stare at for all
eternity is my beloved’s delicate face。 It’s been three days since we wed。 I’ve
thought of her longingly for twelve years。 The scene wherein Shirin falls in love
with Hüsrev after seeing his picture reminds me of none other than her。”
There was a wealth of expression on Master Osman’s face； curiosity
perhaps； but it had to do neither with my story nor with the bloody battle
scene before him。 He seemed to be expecting good news in which he could
gradually take fort。 When I was sure he wasn’t looking at me； I abruptly
grabbed the plume needle and walked away。
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In a dark part of the third of the Treasury rooms； the one abutting the
baths； there was a corner cluttered with hundreds of strange clocks sent as
presents from Frankish kings and sovereigns； when they stopped working； as
they usually did within a short time； they were set aside here。 Withdrawing to
this room； I carefully scrutinized the needle that Master Osman claimed
Bihzad had used to blind himself。
By the red daylight filtering inside； reflecting off the casings； crystal faces
and diamonds of the dusty and broken clocks； the golden tip of the needle；
coated with a pinkish liquid； occasionally shimmered。 Had the legendary
Master Bihzad actually blinded himself with this implement？ Had Master
Osman done the same terrible thing to himself？ The expression of an impish
Moroccan； the size of a finger and colorfully painted； attached to the
mechanism of one of the large clocks seemed to say “Yes！” Evidently； when the
clock was working； this man in the Ottoman turban would merrily nod his
head as the hour tolled—a small joke on the part of the Hapsburg king who
sent it； and his skillful clock…maker； for the amusement of Our Sultan and the
women of His harem。
I looked through quite a few very mediocre books： As the dwarf confirmed；
these were among the effects of pashas whose properties and belongings were
confiscated after they were beheaded。 So many pashas had been executed that
these volumes were without number。 With a pitiless joy； the dwarf declared
that any pasha so intoxicated by his own wealth and power as to forget he was
a subject of the Sultan and to have a book made in his own honor； illuminated
with gold leaf as if he were a monarch or a shah； well deserved to be executed
and have his possessions expropriated。 Even in these volumes； some of which
were albums； illuminated manuscripts or illustrated collections of poetry；
whenever I came across a version of Shirin falling in love with Hüsrev’s picture；
I stopped and stared。
The picture within a picture； that is； the picture of Hüsrev which Shirin
encountered during her countryside outing； was never rendered in detail； not
because miniaturists couldn’t adequately depict something so small—many
had the dexterity and finesse to paint upon fingernails； grains of rice or even
strands of hair。 Why then hadn’t they drawn the face and features of Hüsrev—
the object of Shirin’s love—in enough detail so that he might be recognized？
Sometime in the afternoon； perhaps to forget my hopelessness； and thinking；
as I leafed through a disorderly album I’d chanced upon； that I’d broach such
questions to Master Osman； I was struck by the image of a horse in a picture
of a bridal procession painted on cloth。 My heart skipped a beat。
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There before me was a horse with peculiar nostrils carrying a coquettish
bride。 The beast was looking at me out of the picture。 It was as though the
magical horse were on the verge of whispering a secret to me。 As if in a dream；
I wanted to shout； but my voice was silent。
In one continuous movement； I collected up the volume and ran among the
objects and chests to Master Osman； laying the page open before him。
He looked down at the picture。
When no spark of recognition appeared on his face； I grew impatient。 “The
nostrils of the horse are exactly like those made for my Enishte’s book；” I
exclaimed。
He lowered his magnifying lens over the horse。 He bent down so far；
bringing his eye to the lens and picture； that his nose nearly touched the page。
I couldn’t stand the silence。 “As you can see； this isn’t a horse made in the
style and method of the horse drawn for my Enishte’s book；” I said； “but the
nose is the same。 The artist attempted to see the world the way the Chinese
do。” I fell quiet。 “It’s a wedding procession。 It resembles a Chinese picture； but
the figures aren’t Chinese； they’re our people。”
The master’s lens seemed to be flat against the page； and his nose was flat
against the lens。 In order to see； he made use of not only his eyes； but his head；
the muscles of his neck； his aged back and his shoulders with all his might。
Silence。
“The nostrils of the horse are cut open；” he said later； breathless。
I leaned my head against his。 Cheek to cheek we stared at the nostrils for a
long long time。 I sadly realized that not only were the horse’s nostrils cut； but
Master Osman was having difficulty seeing them。
“You do see it； don’t you？”
“Only very little；” he said。 “Describe the picture。”
“If you ask me； this is a melancholy bride；” I said mournfully。 “She’s
mounted on a gray horse with its nostrils cut open； she’s on her way to be
wed； with her panions and an escort of guards who are strangers to her。
The faces of the guards； their harsh expressions； intimidating black beards；
furrowed eyebrows； long thick mustaches； heavy frames； robes of simple thin
cloth； thin shoes； headdresses of bear fur； their battle…axes and scimitars
indicate that they belong to the Whitesheep Turkmen of Transoxiana。 Perhaps
the pretty bride—who appears to be on a long journey to judge by the fact
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she’s traveling with her bridesmaid at night by the light of oil lamps and
torches—is a melancholy Chinese princess。”
“Or perhaps we only think the bride is Chinese now； because the
miniaturist； to emphasize her flawless beauty； whitened her face as the
Chinese do and painted her with slanted eyes；” said Master Osman。
“Whoever she