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determine who had worked on them。 You all know how disgusted I was when
I first laid eyes on the paintings prepared for Enishte Effendi’s book； and how
Black had given them to the Head Treasurer Haz？m Agha to clear his name。
Granted； there must be something to those pages for them to arouse such
violent disgust and hatred in a miniaturist like myself who’s devoted his life to
artistry； merely bad art wouldn’t provoke such a reaction。 So； with newfound
curiosity； I began to reexamine the nine pages that the deceased fool had
missioned from the miniaturists who came to him under cover of night。
I saw a tree in the middle of a blank page； situated within poor Elegant’s
border design and gilding work； which gracefully framed every page。 I tried to
conjure the scene and story to which the tree belonged。 If I had told my
illustrators to draw a tree； dear Butterfly； wise Stork and wily Olive would have
begun by conceiving of this tree as part of a story so they might draw the
image with confidence。 If I were then to scrutinize that tree； I’d be able to
determine which tale the illustrator had in mind based on its branches and
leaves。 This； however； was a miserable； solitary tree； behind it； there was a quite
high horizon line that hearkened back to the style of the oldest masters of
Shiraz and accentuated the feeling of isolation。 There was nothing at all；
however； filling the area created by raising the horizon。 The desire to depict a
tree simply as such； as the Veian masters did； was here bined with the
Persian way of seeing the world from above； and the result was a miserable
painting that was neither Veian nor Persian。 This was how a tree at the edge
of the world would look。 Attempting to bine two separate styles； my
miniaturists and the barren mind of that deceased clown had created a work
devoid of any skill whatsoever。 But it wasn’t that the illustration was informed
by two different worldviews so much as the lack of skill that incurred my
wrath。
I felt the same way as I looked at the other pictures； at the perfect dream
horse and the woman with the bowed head。 The choice of subject matter also
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iritated me； whether it was the two wandering dervishes or Satan。 It was
obvious that my illustrators had coyly inserted these inferior pictures into Our
Sultan’s illuminated manuscript。 I felt renewed awe at exalted Allah’s
judgment in taking Enishte’s life before the book had been finished。 Needless
to say； I had no desire whatsoever to plete this manuscript。
Who wouldn’t be annoyed by this dog； drawn from above but staring at
me from just beneath my nose as if it were my brother？ On the one hand； I
was astounded by the plainness of the dog’s positioning； the beauty of its
threatening sidelong glance； head lowered to the ground； and the violent
whiteness of its teeth； in short； by the talent of the miniaturists who’d
depicted it （I was on the verge of determining precisely who’d worked on the
picture）； on the other hand； I couldn’t forgive the way this talent had been
harnessed by the absurd logic of an inscrutable will。 Neither the desire to
imitate the Europeans nor the excuse that the book Our Sultan had
missioned as a present for the Doge ought to make use of techniques
familiar to the Veians was adequate to explain the fawning pretension in
these pictures。
I was terrified by the passion of red in one bustling picture； wherein I at
once recognized the touch of each of my master miniaturists in each corner。
An artist’s hand that I couldn’t identify had applied a peculiar red to the
painting under the guidance of an arcane logic； and the entire world revealed
by the illustration was slowly suffused by this color。 I spent some time
hunched over this crowded picture pointing out to Black which of my
miniaturists had drawn the plane tree （Stork）； the ships and houses （Olive）；
and the kite and flowers （Butterfly）。
“Of course； a great master miniaturist like yourself； who’s been head of a
book…arts division for years； could distinguish the craft of each of his
illustrators； the disposition of their lines and the temperament of their brush
strokes；” Black said。 “But when an eccentric book lover like my Enishte forces
these same illustrators to paint with new and untried techniques； how can you
determine the artists responsible for each design with such certainty？”
I decided to answer with a parable： “Once upon a time there was a shah
who ruled over Isfahan； he was a lover of book arts； and lived all alone in his
castle。 He was a strong and mighty； intelligent； but merciless shah； and he had
love only for two things： the illustrated manuscripts he missioned and his
daughter。 So devoted was this shah to his daughter that his enemies could
hardly be faulted for claiming he was in love with her—for he was proud and
jealous enough to declare war on neighboring princes and shahs in the event
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that one sent ambassadors to ask for her hand。 Naturally； there was no
husband worthy of his daughter； and he confined her to a room； accessible
only through forty locked doors。 In keeping with a monly held belief in
Isfahan； he thought that his daughter’s beauty would fade if other men laid
eyes on her。 One day； after an edition of Hüsrev and Shirin that he’d
missioned was inscribed and illustrated in the Herat style； a rumor began
to circulate in Isfahan： The pale…faced beauty who appeared in one bustling
picture was none other than the jealous shah’s daughter！ Even before hearing
the rumors； the shah； suspicious of this mysterious illustration； opened the
pages of the book with trembling hands and in a flood of tears saw that his
daughter’s beauty had indeed been captured on the page。 As the story goes； it
wasn’t actually the shah’s daughter； protected by forty locked doors； who
emerged to be portrayed one night； but her beauty which escaped from her
room like a ghost stifled by boredom； reflecting off a series of mirrors and
passing beneath doors and through keyholes like a ray of light or wisp of
smoke to reach the eyes of an illustrator working through the night。 The
masterful young miniaturist； unable to restrain himself； depicted the beauty；
which he couldn’t bear to behold； in the illustration he was in the midst of
pleting。 It was the scene that showed Shirin gazing upon a picture of
Hüsrev and falling in love with him during the course of a countryside
outing。”
“My beloved master； my good sir； this is quite a coincidence；” said Black。 “I；
too； am quite fond of that scene from Hüsrev and Shirin。”
“These aren’t fables； but events that actually happened；” I said。 “Listen； the
miniaturist didn’t depict the shah’s beautiful daughter as Shirin； but as a
courtesan playing the lute or setting the table； because that was the figure he
was in the midst of illustrating at the time。 As a result； Shirin’s beauty paled
beside the extraordinary beauty of the courtesan standing off to the side； thus
disrupting the painting’s balance。 After the shah saw his daughter in the
painting； he wanted to locate the gifted miniaturist who’d depicted her。 But
the crafty miniaturist； fearing the shah’s wrath； had rendered both the
courtesan and Shirin； not in his own style； but in a new way so as to conceal
his identity。 The skillful brush strokes of quite a few other miniaturists had
gone into the work as well。”
“How had the shah discovered the identity of the miniaturist who
portrayed his daughter？”
“From the e