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extracted with lightning inspiration from the depths of my soul？ Not at all。
Why？ Because； though you’ve spent three years seated at the foot of a hoja
who gives lessons in an out…of…the…way neighborhood religious school for
twenty silver coins a day—today you can buy twenty loaves of bread with that
amount—you still wouldn’t know who the hell Bihzad was。 It was obvious
that the twenty…coin Hoja Effendi didn’t know who Bihzad was either。 All
right then； let me explain。 I said：
“I’ve painted everything； absolutely everything： Our Prophet at the mosque
before the green prayer niche seated together with his four caliphs； in another
book； the Apostle and Prophet of God ascending the seven heavens on the
night of the Ascension； Alexander on his way to China banging on the drum of
a seaside temple to scare off a monster stirring up the ocean with storms； a
masturbating sultan spying on the beauties of his harem swimming naked in
his pool while listening to a lute； a young wrestler sure of victory after
learning all his mentor’s moves； only to be defeated in the presence of the
Sultan at the hands of his mentor who had yet one last trick up his sleeve；
Leyla and Mejnun as children kneeling in a schoolroom with exquisitely
decorated walls； falling in love while reciting the Glorious Koran； the inability
of lovers； from the most embarrassed to the most crass； to look at each other；
the stone by stone construction of palaces； the punishment by torture of the
guilty； the flight of eagles； playful rabbits； treacherous tigers； cypress and plane
trees that held magpies； Death； peting poets； feasts to memorate
victory； and men like you who see nothing but the soup before them。”
The reserved clerk was no longer afraid； he even found me entertaining and
was smiling。
“Your Hoja Effendi must’ve had you read this； you’ll know it；” I continued。
“There’s a story I love from Sadi’s Garden。 You know the one； King Darius
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bees separated from the crowd during a hunt and goes off to roam the
hills。 Unexpectedly； a dangerous…looking stranger with a goatee appears before
him。 The king falls into a panic and reaches for the bow on his horse；
whereupon the man begs； ”My king； hold off from shooting your arrow。 How
is it that you haven’t recognized me？ Am I not the loyal groom to whom
you’ve entrusted a hundred horses and foals？ How many times have we seen
each other？ I know each of your hundred horses by temperament and
disposition； nay； by color even。 So then； how is it you pay no attention to us；
the servants under your mand； even those like myself whom you
encounter with such frequency？“”
When I depict this scene； I render the black； chestnut and white horses—so
tenderly cared for by the groom in a heavenly green pasture covered with
flowers of every imaginable color—with such happiness and calm that even
the dullest of readers would understand the moral of Sadi’s story： The beauty
and mystery of this world only emerges through affection； attention； interest
and passion； if you want to live in that paradise where happy mares and
stallions live； open your eyes wide and actually see this world by attending to
its colors； details and irony。
This progeny of the twenty…coin hoja was at once entertained and
frightened by me。 He wanted to drop his spoon and flee； but I didn’t give him
the chance。
“This is how the master of masters Bihzad depicted the king； his groom and
the horses in that picture；” I said。 “For a hundred years miniaturists haven’t
stopped imitating those horses。 Each horse rendered out of Bihzad’s
imagination and heart has bee a model of form。 Hundreds of miniaturists；
including myself； can draw those horses from memory。 Have you ever seen a
picture of a horse？”
“I once saw a winged horse in an enchanting book that a great teacher； a
scholar of scholars； had presented to my late hoja。”
I didn’t know whether I should push the head of this clown into his soup；
who； along with his teacher； had taken Strange Creatures seriously； and drown
him or leave him to describe in glowing terms the only horse picture he’d ever
seen in his life—in who knows how poor a manuscript copy。 I came up with a
third alternative； and that was to drop my spoon and quit the shop。 After
walking for a long while I entered the abandoned dervish lodge； where I was
overe with a sense of peace。 I tidied up and without doing anything else； I
listened to the silence。
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Later； I removed the mirror from where I kept it hidden and set it upon the
low worktable。 Next； I placed the two…page illustration and the drawing board
on my lap。 When I could see my face in the mirror from where I sat； I
attempted to draw my portrait in charcoal。 I drew for a long time； patiently。
Much later； when I saw that once again the face on the page didn’t resemble
my face in the mirror； I was filled with such misery that tears welled in my
eyes。 How did the Veian painters that Enishte described with such flourish
do it？ I then imagined myself to be one of them； thinking that if I illustrated in
that state of mind； I could perhaps make a convincing self…portrait。
Later still； I cursed the European painters and Enishte both； erased what I’d
done and began looking into the mirror anew to begin another drawing。
Ultimately； I found myself wandering the streets again； and then； here； at
this despicable coffeehouse。 I wasn’t even sure how I happened to e here。
As I entered； I felt such embarrassment about mingling with these miserable
miniaturists and calligraphers that sweat accumulated on my forehead。
I sensed that they were watching me； alerting each other of my presence
with their elbows； and laughing—all right； I could plainly see them doing it。 I
seated myself in the corner； trying to behave naturally。 At the same time my
eyes sought the other masters； my dear brethren with whom； at one time； I’d
served as Master Osman’s apprentice。 I was certain each of them was also
asked to draw a horse this evening and that they’d each expended great
desperate efforts； taking the contest arranged by these idiots quite seriously。
The storyteller effendi hadn’t yet begun his performance。 The picture
hadn’t even been hung up yet。 I was forced to socialize with the coffeehouse
crowd。
So be it then； let me be frank with you： Like everyone else I； too； made
jokes； told indecent stories； kissed my panions on the cheeks with
exaggerated gestures； spoke in double entendres； innuendos and puns； asked
how the young assistant masters were doing； and like everybody else；
mercilessly needled our mon enemies； and after I really warmed up； I went
so far as to roughhouse and kiss men on the neck。 Yet； knowing that a part of
my soul remained mercilessly silent when I involved myself in such behavior
caused me unbearable torment。
Noheless； before long； I not only succeeded in using figurative language
to pare my own cock； and those of others that were much…talked about； to
brushes； reeds； coffeehouse pillars； flutes； newel posts； door knockers； leeks；
minarets； lady fingers in heavy syrup； pine trees； and twice； to the world itself；
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I was equally successful in paring the asses of much…discussed pretty boys
to oranges； figs； small haycocklike pastries； pillows and also to tiny anthills。
Meanwhile； the most conceited of the calligraphers my age was only able to
pare his oateurishly and without any self…confidence I
might add—to a ship’s mast and a porter’s pole。 Furthermore； I made
allusions to old miniaturists’ dicks that would no longer rise； the cherry…
colored lips of new apprentices； master calligraphe