Orhan Pamuk - My Name is Red

As he spoke, Master Osman looked now at the book and now at us, as if he could see only those things he conjured in his mind’s eye.

“Besides horses with clipped noses and Chinese painting, the devils in this book are another thing brought with the Mongol hordes to Persia and thence all the way here to Istanbul. You’ve probably heard how these demons are ambassadors of evil dispatched by dark forces from deep beneath the ground to snatch away human lives and whatever we deem valuable and how they’re bent on carrying us off to their underworld of blackness and death. In this underground realm everything, whether cloud, tree, object, dog or book, has a soul and speaks.”

“Quite so,” said the elderly dwarf. “As Allah is my witness, some nights when I’m locked in here, not only the spirits of the clocks, the Chinese plates and the crystal bowls that chime constantly anyway, but the spirits of all the rifles, swords, shields and bloody helmets grow restless and begin to converse in such a ruckus that the Treasury becomes the swarming field of an apocalyptic battle.”

“The Kalenderi dervishes, whose pictures we’ve seen, brought this belief from Khorasan to Persia, and later all the way to Istanbul,” said Master Osman. “As Sultan Selim the Grim was plundering the Seven Heavens Palace after defeating Shah Ismail, Bediüzzaman Mirza-a descendant of Tamerlane-betrayed Shah Ismail and together with the Kalenderis that constituted his followers, joined the Ottomans. In the train of the Denizen of Paradise, Sultan Selim, as he returned through winter cold and snow to Istanbul, were two wives of Shah Ismail, whom he’d routed at Chaldiran. They were lovely women with white skin and slanting almond eyes, and with them came all the books preserved in the Seven Heavens Palace library, books left by the former masters of Tabriz, the Mongols, the Inkhanids, the Jelayirids and the Blacksheep, and taken as plunder by the defeated shah from the Uzbeks, the Persians and the Timurids. I shall stare at these books until Our Sultan and the Head Treasurer remove me from here.”

Yet by now his eyes showed the same lack of direction that one sees in the blind. He held his mother-of-pearl-handled magnifying glass more out of habit than to see. We fell silent. Master Osman requested that the dwarf, who listened to his entire account as though to some bitter tale, once again locate and bring him a volume whose binding he described in detail. Once the dwarf had gone away, I naively asked my master:

“So then, who’s responsible for the horse illustration in my Enishte’s book?”

“Both the horses in question have clipped nostrils,” he said, “regardless of whether it was done in Samarkand or, as I said, in Transoxiana, the one you’ve found in this album is rendered in the Chinese style. As for the beautiful horse of Enishte’s book, that was made in the Persian style like the wondrous horses drawn by the masters of Herat. Indeed, it is an elegant illustration whose equal would be difficult to find anywhere! It’s a horse of artistry, not a Mongol horse.”

“But its nostrils are cut open like a genuine Mongol horse,” I whispered.

“It’s apparent that two hundred years ago when the Mongols retreated and the reign of Tamerlane and his descendants began, one of the old masters in Herat drew an exquisite horse whose nostrils were indeed cut open-influenced either by a Mongol horse that he’d seen or by another miniaturist who’d made a Mongol horse with clipped nostrils. No one knows for certain on which page in which book and for which shah it was made. But I’m sure that the book and picture were greatly admired and praised-who knows, maybe by the sultan’s favorite in the harem-and that they were legendary for a time! I’m also convinced that for this very reason all the mediocre miniaturists, muttering enviously to themselves, imitated this horse and multiplied its image. In this fashion, the wonderful horse with its nostrils gradually became a model of form ingrained in the minds of the artists in that workshop. Years later, after their rulers were defeated in battle, these painters, like somber women headed to other harems, found new shahs and princes to work for in new countries, and carried with them, stowed in their memories, the image of horses whose nostrils were elegantly cut open. Perhaps under the influence of different styles and different masters in different workshops, many of the artists never made use of and eventually forgot this unusual image which nonetheless remained preserved in a corner of their minds. Others, however, in the new workshops they joined, not only drew elegant clipped-nosed horses, they also taught their pretty apprentices to do the same with the encouragement that ”this is how the old masters used to do it.“ So then, in this manner, even after the Mongols and their hardy horses retreated from the lands of the Persians and Arabs, even centuries after new lives had begun in ravaged and burned cities, some painters continued drawing horses this way, believing it was a standard form. I’m also sure that others still, completely unaware of the conquering Mongol cavalry and the clipped noses of their steeds, draw horses the way we do in our workshop, insisting that this too is ”a standard form.“”

“My dear master,” I said, overwhelmed with awe, “as we hoped, your ”courtesan method“ truly did produce an answer. It seems that each artist also bears his own hidden signature.”

“Not each artist, but each workshop,” he said with pride. “And not even each workshop. In certain miserable workshops, as in certain miserable families, everyone speaks in a different voice for years without acknowledging that happiness is born of harmony, and that as a matter of course, harmony becomes happiness. Some painters try to illustrate like the Chinese, some like the Turkmen and some like they do in Shiraz, fighting for years on end, never attaining a happy union-like a discontented husband and wife.”

I saw that pride quite definitely ruled his face; the cross expression of a man who wanted to be all powerful had now replaced the look of the morose, pitiable old man that I’d seen him wear for so long.

“My dear master,” I said, “over a period of twenty years here in Istanbul, you’ve united various artists from the four corners of the world, men of all natures and temperaments, in such harmony that you’ve ended up creating and defining the Ottoman style.”

Why did the awe that I’d felt wholeheartedly only a short time ago give way 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 become 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 comfortable 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.