amid cypress and cedar trees； among timid rabbits and anxious swallows；
immersed in lovelorn grief； staring at the ground。 Unknowingly； the three
miniaturists had rendered the same scene exactly as the old masters would
have； yet； the one who wanted to distinguish himself and thereby take
responsibility for the painting’s beauty had hidden his signature among the
narcissus flowers in the most secluded spot in the garden。 And on account of
this brazen act； by which the artist broke with the humility of the old
virtuosos； he was immediately exiled from Kazvin to China。 Thus； the
petition was begun anew between the two remaining miniaturists。 This
time； both painted a picture lovely as a poem； depicting a beautiful maiden
mounted on her horse in a magnificent garden。 But one of the miniaturists—
whether by a slip of his brush or by intent； no one knew—had depicted
strangely the nostrils of the white horse belonging to the maiden with Chinese
eyes and high cheekbones； and this was straightaway perceived as a flaw by the
Shah and his daughter。 True； this miniaturist hadn’t signed his name； but in
his splendid painting； he’d apparently included a masterful variation in the
horse’s nostrils to distinguish the work。 The Shah； declaring that
“Imperfection is the mother of style；” exiled this illustrator to Byzantium。 Yet
there was one last significant event according to the weighty History by
Rashiduddin of Kazvin； which occurred when preparations were being made
for the wedding between the Shah’s daughter and the talented miniaturist；
who painted exactly like the old masters without any signature or variation：
For the entire day before the wedding； the Shah’s daughter gazed grief…stricken
at the painting made by the young and handsome great master who was to
73
bee her husband on the morrow。 As darkness fell that evening； she
presented herself to her father： “It is true； yes； that the old masters； in their
exquisite paintings； would depict beautiful maidens as Chinese； and this is an
unalterable rule e to us from the East；” she said。 “But when they loved
someone； the painters would include an aspect of their beloved in the
rendering of the beautiful maiden’s brow； eye； lip； hair； smile； or even eyelash。
This secret variation in their illustrations would be a sign that could be read by
the lovers and the lovers alone。 I’ve stared at the beautiful maiden mounted
on her horse for the whole day； my dear father； and there’s no trace of me in
her！ This miniaturist is perhaps a great master； he’s young and handsome； but
he does not love me。” Thereupon； the Shah canceled the wedding at once； and
father and daughter lived out the remainder of their lives together。
“Thus； according to this third parable； imperfection gives rise to what we
call ”style；“” said Black quite politely and respectfully。 “And does the fact that
the miniaturist is in love bee apparent from the hidden ”sign‘ in the
image of the beauty’s face； eye or smile？“
“Nay；” I said in a manner that bespoke my confidence and pride。 “What
passes from the maiden； the focus of the master miniaturist’s love； to his
picture is not ultimately imperfection or flaw but a new artistic rule。 Because；
after a time and through imitation； everyone will begin to depict the faces of
maidens just like that particular beautiful maiden’s face。”
We fell silent。 I saw that Black； who’d listened intently to the three parables
I recounted； had now focused his attentions upon the sounds my attractive
wife made as she roamed the hallway and the next room。 I glared at him
menacingly。
“The first story established that ”style‘ is imperfection；“ I said。 ”The second
story established that a perfect picture needs no signature； and the third
marries the ideas of the first and the second； and thus demonstrates that
“signature’ and ”style‘ are but means of being brazenly and stupidly self…
congratulatory about flawed work。“
How much did this man； to whom I’d just given an invaluable lesson；
understand of painting？ I said： “Have you understood who I am from my
stories？”
“Certainly；” he said； without conviction。
74
So you don’t try to discern who I am through his eyes and perceptions；
allow me to tell you directly。 I can do anything。 Like the old masters of Kazvin；
I can draw and color with pleasure and glee。 I say this with a smile： I’m better
than everybody。 I have nothing whatsoever to do with the reason for Black’s
visit； which—if perchance my intuition serves me correctly—is the disappear…
ance of Elegant Effendi the Gilder。
Black asked me about the mixing of marriage and art。
I work a lot and I enjoy my work。 I recently married the most beautiful
maiden in the neighborhood。 When I’m not illuminating； we make love like
mad。 Then I set to working again。 That’s not how I answered。 “It’s a serious
issue；” I said。 “If masterpieces issue from the brush of a miniaturist； when it
es to issuing it to his wife； he’ll be at a loss to bestir the same joy；” I said。
“The opposite holds true as well： If a man’s reed satisfies the wife； his reed of
artistry will pale in parison；” I added。 Like everyone who envies the talent
of the miniaturist； Black； too； believed these lies and was heartened。
He said he wanted to see the last pages I’d illustrated。 I seated him at my
worktable； among the paints； inkwells； burnishing stones； brushes； pens and
reed…cutting boards。 Black was examining the double…leaf painting I was in the
process of pleting for the Book of Festivities； which portrayed Our Prince’s
circumcision ceremony； and I sat beside him on the red cushion whose
warmth reminded me that my beautiful wife with her gorgeous thighs had
been sitting here recently； indeed； I had used my reed pen to draw the sorrow
of the unfortunate prisoners before Our Sultan； as my intelligent wife clung to
the reed of my manhood。
The two…page scene I was painting depicted the deliverance of condemned
and imprisoned debtors and their families by the grace of Our Sultan。 I’d
situated the Sultan on the corner of a carpet covered in bags full of silver
coins； as I’d personally witnessed during such ceremonies。 Behind Him； I’d
located the Head Treasurer holding and reading out of the debt ledger。 I’d
portrayed the condemned debtors； chained to each other by the iron shackles
around their necks； in their misery and pain with knit brows； long faces and
some with teary eyes。 I’d painted the lute players in shades of red with beatific
faces as they acpanied the joyous prayers and poems that followed the
Sultan’s presentation of His benevolent gift： sparing the condemned from
prison。 To emphasize deliverance from the pain and embarrassment of debt—
though I had no such plan at the outset—beside the last of the miserable
prisoners； I’d included his wife； wearing a purple dress in the wretchedness of
destitution； along with his longhaired daughter； sorrowful yet beautiful； clad
75
in a crimson mantle。 So that this man Black； with his furrowed brows； might
understand how illustrating equaled love…of…life； I was going to explain why
the chained gang of debtors was extended across two pages； I was going to tell
him about the hidden logic of red within the picture； I was going to elucidate
the things my wife and I had laughingly discussed while admiring the piece；
such as how I’d lovingly colored—something the old masters never did—the
dog resting off to the side in precisely the same hue as the Sultan’s caftan of
atlas silk； but he asked me a very rude； discourteous question：
Would I； perchance； have any idea where unfortunate Elegant Effendi might
be？
What did he mean “unfortunate”！ I didn’t say that Elegant Effendi was a
worthless plagiarist； a fool who did his gilding for money alone with nary a
hint of inspiration。 “Nay；” I said； “I do not know。”
Had I ever considered that the aggressive and fanatical followers of the
preacher from Erzurum might’ve done Elegant Effendi harm？
I maintained my posure and refrained from responding that Elegant
Effendi himself was no doubt one of their lot。 “Nay；” I said。 “Why？”
The poverty； plague； immorality and scandal we are slave to in this city of
Istanbul can only be attributed to our having distanced ourselves from the
Islam of the time of Our Prophet； Apostle of God； to adopting new and vile
customs and to allowing Frankish； European sensibilities to flourish in our
midst。 This is all that the Preacher Erzurumi is saying； but his enemies attempt
to persuade the Sultan otherwise by claiming that the Erzurumis are attacking
dervish lodges where music is played； and that they’re defacing the tombs of
saints。 They know I don’t share their animosity toward His Excellency
Erzurumi； so they’re making polite insinuations： “Are you the one who has
taken care of our brother Elegant Effendi？”
It suddenly dawned on me that these rumors had long been spreading
among the miniaturists。 That group of uninspired； untalented inpetents
was gleefully alleging that I was nothing but a beastly murderer。 I felt like
lowering an inkpot onto the Circassian skull of this buffoon Black purely
because he took the slander of this jealous group of miniaturists seriously。
Black was examining my workshop； mitting everything he saw to
memory。 He was intently observing my long paper scissors； ceramic bowls
filled with yellow pigment； bowls of