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brother Sam Mirza； the men responsible for the book’s creation。 I was
absolutely certain that the heroes of whichever story I conjured while looking
at the page would appear there in the sultan’s tent； and I thanked God for
giving me the chance to see this miraculous page。
In an illustration by Sheikh Muhammad； one of the great masters of the
same legendary era； a poor subject whose awe and affection for his sultan had
reached the level of pure love was desperately hoping； as he watched the sultan
play polo； that the ball would roll toward him so he could grab it and present
it to his sovereign。 After he’d waited long and patiently； the ball did indeed
e to him； and he was depicted handing it to the sultan。 As had been
described to me thousands of times； the love； awe and submission that a poor
subject aptly feels toward a great khan or an exalted monarch； or that a
handsome young apprentice feels toward his master； was rendered here with
such delicacy and deep passion； from the extension of the subject’s fingers
holding the ball to his inability to summon the courage to look at the
sovereign’s face； that while looking at this page； I knew there was no greater
joy in the world than to be apprentice to a great master； and that such
submissiveness verging on servility was no less a pleasure than being master to
a young； pretty and intelligent apprentice—and I grieved for those who would
never know this truth。
I turned the pages； gazing hurriedly but with rapt attention upon
thousands of birds； horses； soldiers； lovers； camels； trees and clouds； while the
Treasury’s happy dwarf； like a shah of elder days given the opportunity to
exhibit his riches and wealth； proudly and undauntedly removed volume after
volume from chests and placed them before me。 From two separate corners of
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an iron chest stuffed with amazing tomes； mon books and disorderly
albums； there emerged two extraordinary volumes—one bound in the Shiraz
style with a burgundy cover； the other bound in Herat and finished with a
dark lacquer in the Chinese fashion—which contained pages so resembling
each other that at first I thought they were copies。 While I was trying to
determine which book was the original and which the copy； I examined the
names of the calligraphers on the colophons； looked for hidden signatures； and
finally came to the realization； with a shudder； that these two volumes of
Nizami were the legendary books that Master Sheikh Ali of Tabriz had made；
one for the Khan of the Blacksheep； Jihan Shah； and the other for the Khan of
the Whitesheep； Tall Hasan。 After he was blinded by the Blacksheep shah to
prevent him from making another version of the first volume； the great master
artist took refuge with the Whitesheep khan and created a superior copy from
memory。 To see that the pictures in the second of the legendary books； made
when he was blind； were simpler and purer； while the colors in the first
volume were more lively and invigorating； reminded me that the memory of
the blind exposes the merciless simplicity of life but also deadens its vigor。
Since I myself am a genuine great master； so acknowledged by Almighty
Allah； who sees and knows all； I knew that one day I would go blind； but is this
what I wanted now？ Since His presence could be sensed quite nearby in the
exquisite and terrifying darkness of the cluttered Treasury； like a condemned
man who wishes to look upon the world one last time before he is beheaded； I
asked Him： “Allow me to see all these illustrations and have my fill of them。”
As I turned the pages； by the force of God’s inscrutable wisdom； I
frequently came across legends and matters of blindness。 In the famous scene
showing Shirin on a countryside outing falling in love with Hüsrev after seeing
his picture on the branch of a plane tree； Sheikh Ali R？za from Shiraz had
drawn distinctly all the leaves of the tree one by one so they filled the entire
sky。 In answer to a fool who saw the work and mented that the true
subject of the illustration wasn’t the plane tree； Sheikh Ali replied that the true
subject wasn’t the passion of the beautiful young maiden either； it was the
passion of the artist； and to proudly prove his point he attempted to paint the
same plane tree with all its leaves on a grain of rice。 If the signature hidden
beneath the beautiful feet of Shirin’s darling lady attendants hadn’t misled
me； I was of course seeing the magnificent tree made by the blind master on
paper—not the tree made on a grain of rice； which he left half finished； having
gone blind seven years and three months after he started the task。 On another
page； Rüstem blinding Alexander with his forked arrow was depicted in the
manner of artists who knew the Indian style； so vivaciously and colorfully； that
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blindness； the ageless sorrow and secret desire of the genuine miniaturist；
appeared to the observer as the prologue to a joyous celebration。
My eyes wandered over these pictures and volumes； no less with the
excitement of one who wanted to behold for himself these legends he’d heard
about for years than with the worry of an old man who sensed he would soon
enough never see anything more。 There； in the cold Treasury room suffused
with a dark red that I’d never seen before—caused by the color of the cloth
and dust within the peculiar light of the candles—I would occasionally cry out
in admiration； whereupon Black and the dwarf would rush to my side and
look over my shoulder at the magnificent page before me。 Unable to restrain
myself； I’d begin to explain：
“This color red belongs to the great master Mirza Baba Imami from Tabriz；
the secret of which he took with him to the grave。 He’s used it for the edges of
the carpet； the red of Alevi allegiance on the Persian Shah’s turban； and look；
it’s here on the belly of the lion on this page and on this pretty boy’s caftan。
Allah never directly revealed this fine red except when He let the blood of his
subjects flow。 So that we might wearily strive to find this variety of red that is
only visible to the naked eye on man…made cloth and in the pictures of the
greatest of masters； God did； however； consign its secret to the rarest of insects
living beneath stones；” I said and added； “Thanks be to Him who has now
revealed it to us。”
“Look at this；” I said much later； once again unable to refrain from showing
them a masterpiece—this one could’ve belonged in any collection of ghazals；
which spoke of love； friendship； spring and happiness。 We looked at the trees
of springtime blooming in an array of color； the cypresses in a garden
reminiscent of Heaven and the elation of the beloveds reclining in that garden
as they drank wine and recited poetry； it was as if we in the moldy； dusty and
icy Treasury could also smell those spring blossoms and the delicately scented
skin of the joyous revelers。 “Notice how the same artist who rendered the
forearms of the lovers； their beautiful naked feet； the elegance of their stances
and the lazy delight of the birds fluttering about them with such sincerity； also
made the crude shape of the cypress in the background！” I said； “This is the
work of Lütfi of Bukhara whose ill…temper and belligerence caused him to leave
each of his illustrations half finished； he fought with every shah and khan
claiming that they understood nothing of painting； and he never remained in
one city for long。 This great master went from one shah’s palace to another；
from city to city； quarreling all the way； never able to find a ruler whose book
was deserving of his talents； until he ended up in the workshop of an
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inconsequential chieftain who ruled over nothing but bare mountaintops。
Claiming that ”the khan’s dominions might be small but he knows painting；“
he spent the remaining twenty…five years of his life there。 Whether he ever
knew that this inconsequential lord was blind remains； even today； a subject of
conjecture and a source of humor。”
“Do you see this page？” I said well into the night； and this time they both
rushed to my side； candlesticks aloft。 “From the time of Tamerlane’s
grandchildren to the present； this volume has seen ten owners on its way here
from Herat over a span of one hundred fifty years。” Using my magnifying lens；
the three of us read the signatures； dedications； historical information and
names of sultans—who’d strangled one another—filling every corner of the
colophon page； pinched together； between and on top of each other： “This
volume was pleted in Herat； with the help of God； by the hand of
Calligrapher Sultan Veli； son of Muzaffer of Herat； in the year of the Hegira
849 for Ismet…üd Dünya； the wife of Muhammad Juki the victorious brother of
the Ruler of the World； Baysungur。” Later still； we read that the book had
passed into the possession of the Whitesheep Sultan Halil； thence to his son
Yakup Bey； and thence to the Uzbek sultans in the North； each of whom
happily amused himself with the book for a time； removing or adding one or
two pictures； beginning with the first owner； they added the faces of their
beautiful wives to the illustrations and appended their names proudly to the
colophon page； afterward； it passed to Sam Mirza who’d conquered Herat；
and he made a present of it； with a separate dedication； for his elder brother；
Shah Ismail； who in turn brought it to Tabriz and had it prepared as a gift with
yet another dedication。 When the denizen of paradise Sultan Selim the Grim
defeated Shah Ismail at Chaldiran and plundered the Seven Heavens Palace in
Tabriz； the book ended up here in this Treasury in Istanbul； after traveling
across deserts； mountains and rivers along with the victorious sultan’s
soldiers。
How much of an aging master’s interest and excitement did Black and the
dwarf share？ As I opened new volumes and turned their pages； I sensed the
profound sorrow of thousands of illustrators from hundreds of cities large and
small； each with a distinctive temperament； each painting under the patronage
of a different cruel shah； khan or chieftain； each displaying his talent and
succumbing to blindness。 I felt the pain of the beatings we all received during
our long apprenticeships； the blows inflicted with rulers； until our cheeks
turned bright red； or with marble polishing stones upon our shaven heads； as I
flipped—with humiliation—through the pages of a primitive book that
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displayed methods and implements of torture。 I had no idea what this
miserable book was doing in the Ottoman Treasury： Instead of seeing torture
as a necessary practice administered before the supervision of a judge to
ensure Allah’s justice in the world； infidel travelers would convince their
coreligionists of our cruelty and evil…heartedness by having dishonorable
miniaturists abase themselves and dash off these pictures in exchange for a few
gold pieces。 I was embarrassed at the obvious depraved pleasure with which
this miniaturist had drawn pictures of bastinados； beatings； crucifixions；
hangings by the neck or the feet； hookings； impalings； firings from cannon；
nailings； stranglings； the cutting of throats； feedings to hungry dogs；
whippings； baggings； pressings； soakings in cold water； the plucking of hair； the
breaking of fingers； the delicate flayings； the cutting off of noses and the
removal of eyes。 Only true artists like us who’d suffered throughout our
apprenticeships merciless bastinados； random pummelings and fists so that
the irritable master who drew a line incorrectly might feel better—not to
mention hours of blows from sticks and rulers so that the devil within us
would perish to be reborn as the jinn of inspiration—only we could feel such
extreme joy by depicting bastinados and tortures； only we could color these
implements with the gaiety of coloring a child’s kite。
Hundreds of years hence； men looking at our world through the
illustrations we’ve made won’t understand anything。 Desiring to take a closer
look； yet lacking the patience； they might feel the embarrassment； the joy； the
deep pain and pleasure of observation I now feel as I examine pictures in this
freezing Treasury—but they’ll never truly know。 As I turned the pages with my
old fingers numbed from the cold；