ground？” I said apologetically。
“As Jemalettin of Kazvin wrote in his The Illustration of Horses； one can
properly plete a picture of a horse beginning from its hoof only if he
carries the entire horse in his memory。 Obviously； to render a horse through
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excessive thought and recollection； or even more ridiculous； by repeatedly
looking at a real horse； one would have to move from head to neck and then
neck to body。 I hear there are certain Veian illustrators who are happy to
sell tailors and butchers such pictures of your average street packhorse drawn
indecisively by trial and error。 Such an illustration has nothing whatsoever to
do with the meaning of the world or with the beauty of God’s creation。 But
I’m convinced that even mediocre artists must know a genuine illustration
isn’t drawn according to what the eye sees at any particular moment； but
according to what the hand remembers and is accustomed to。 The painter is
always alone before the page。 Solely for this reason he’s always dependent on
memory。 Now； there’s nothing left for us to do but use the ”courtesan
method‘ to uncover the hidden signature borne by our horse； which has been
drawn from memory through the quick and skillful movement of the hand。
Take a careful look here。“
He was ever so slowly moving the magnifying lens over the spectacular
horse as if he were trying to discover the location of a treasure on an old map
meticulously rendered on calfskin。
“Yes；” I said； like a disciple overe by the pressure to make a quick and
brilliant discovery that would impress his master。 “We could pare the
colors and embroidery of the saddle blanket to those in the other pictures。”
“My master miniaturists wouldn’t even deign to lower a brush to these
designs。 Apprentices draw the clothes； carpets and blankets in the pictures。
Perhaps the late Elegant Effendi might’ve done them。 Forget them。”
“What about the ears？” I said in a fluster。 “The ears of the horses…”
“No。 These ears haven’t changed form since the time of Tamerlane； they’re
just like the leaves of reeds； which we well know。”
I was about to say； “What about the braiding of the mane and the
depiction of every strand of its hair；” but I fell silent； not at all amused by this
master…apprentice game。 If I’m the apprentice； I ought to know my place。
“Take a look here；” said Master Osman with the distressed yet attentive air
of a doctor pointing out a plague pustule to a colleague。 “Do you see it？”
He’d moved the magnifying lens over the horse’s head and was slowly
pulling it away from the surface of the picture。 I lowered my head to better see
what was being enlarged through the lens。
The horse’s nose was peculiar： its nostrils。
“Do you see it？” said Master Osman。
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To be certain of what I saw； I thought I should center myself right behind
the lens。 When Master Osman did likewise； we met cheek to cheek just behind
the lens that was now quite a distance from the picture。 It momentarily
alarmed me to feel the harshness of the master’s dry beard and the coolness of
his cheek on my face。
A silence。 It was as if something wondrous were happening within the
picture a handspan away from my weary eyes； and we were witnessing it with
respect and awe。
“What’s wrong with the nose？” I was able to whisper much later。
“He’s drawn the nose oddly；” said Master Osman without taking his eyes
off the page。
“Did his hand slip； perhaps？ Is this a mistake？”
We were still examining the peculiar； unique rendering of the nose。
“Is this the Veian…inspired ”style‘ everyone； the great masters of China
included； has begun talking about？“ asked Master Osman mockingly。
I succumbed to resentment； thinking that he was mocking my late Enishte：
“My Enishte； may he rest in peace； used to say that any fault arising not from
lack of ability or talent； but from the depths of the miniaturist’s soul； ought
not be deemed fault but style。”
However it came about； whether by the miniaturist’s own hand or the
horse itself； there was no clue other than this nose as to the identity of the
blackguard who murdered my Enishte。 For； let alone making out the nostrils；
we were having difficulty identifying the noses of the smudged horses on the
page found with poor Elegant Effendi。
We spent much time searching for horse pictures that Master Osman’s
beloved miniaturists had made for various books in recent years； looking for
the same irregularity in the horse’s nostrils。 Because the Book of Festivities； still
being pleted； depicted the societies and guilds marching on foot before
Our Sultan； there were few horses among its 250 illustrations。 Men were
dispatched to the book…arts workshop； where certain figure books； some
notebooks of standard forms and newly finished volumes were stored； as well
as to the private rooms of the Sultan； and the harem so that they could bring
back any books that hadn’t been securely locked up and hidden in the palace
treasury； all of this； naturally； with the permission of Our Sultan。
In a double…leaf illustration from a Book of Victories found in the quarters of
a young prince； which showed the funeral ceremonies of Sultan Süleyman the
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Magnificent who’d died during the siege of Szegetvar； we first examined the
chestnut horse with a white blaze； the gazelle…eyed gray pulling the funeral
carriage and the other melancholy horses fitted with spectacular saddle
blankets and gold embroidered saddles。 Butterfly； Olive and Stork had
illustrated all these horses。 Whether the horses were pulling the large…wheeled
funeral carriage or standing at attention with watery eyes trained on their
master’s body covered with a red cloth； all stood with the same elegant stance
borrowed from the old masters of Herat； that is； with one foreleg proudly
extended and the other firmly planted on the ground beside it。 All their necks
were long and curved； their tails bound up and their manes trimmed and
bed； but none of the noses had the peculiarity we sought。 Neither was this
peculiarity evident in any of the hundreds of horses that bore manders；
scholars and hojas； who’d participated in the funeral ceremony and now
stood at attention on the surrounding hilltops in honor of the late Sultan
Süleyman。
Something of the sadness of this melancholy funeral passed to us as well。 It
upset us to see that this illustrated manuscript； upon which Master Osman
and his miniaturists labored so much； had been ill…treated； and that women of
the harem； playing games with princes； had scribbled and marked various
places on the pages。 Beside a tree under which Our Sultan’s grandfather
hunted； written in a bad hand were the words； “My Exalted Effendi； I love you
and am waiting for you with the patience of this tree。” So； it was with our
hearts full of defeat and sorrow that we pored over the legendary books；
whose creation I’d heard about； but none of which I’d ever seen。
In the second volume of the Book of Skills； which had seen the brush strokes
of all three master miniaturists； we saw； behind the roaring cannon and the
foot soldiers； hundreds of horses of every hue including chestnuts； grays and
blues； clattering along in mail and full panoply； bearing their glorious
scimitar…wielding spahi cavalrymen； as they crossed over pink hilltops in an
orderly advance； but none of their noses was flawed。 “And what is a flaw after
all！” Master Osman said later； while examining a page in the same book；
which depicted the Royal Outer Gate and the parade ground where we
happened to be at that very moment。 We also failed to discover the mark we
were searching for on the noses of the horses of various hues mounted by
guards； heralds and Secretaries of the Divan Council of State in this
illustration； which depicted the hospital off to the right； the Sultan’s Royal
Audience Hall； and the trees in the courtyard on a scale small enough to fit
into the frame yet grand enough to match their importance in our minds。 We
watched Our Sultan’s great…grandfather Sultan Selim the Grim； during the
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time he declared war on the ruler of the Dhulkadirids； erect the imperial tent
along the banks of the Küskün river and hunt scurrying red…tailed black
greyhounds； gazelle fawns with rumps in the air and frightened rabbits； before
leaving a leopard lying in a pool of red blood； its spots blooming like flowers。
Neither the Sultan’s chestnut horse with the white blaze nor the horses upon
which the falconers waited； their birds at the ready on their forearms； had the
mark we were looking for。
Till dusk； we pored over hundreds of horses that had issued from the
brushes of Olive； Butterfly and Stork over the last four or five years： the
Crimean Khan Mehmet Giray’s elegant…eared chestnut palomino； black and
golden horses； pinkish and gray…colored horses whose heads and necks alone
could be seen behind a hilltop during battle； the horses of Haydar Pasha who
recaptured the Halkul…Vad fortress from the Spanish infidels in Tunisia and the
Spaniards’ reddish…chestnut and pistachio…green horses； one of which had
tumbled headlong； as they fled from him； a black horse that caused Master
Osman to remark； “I overlooked this one。 I wonder who did such careless
work？”； a red horse who politely turned his ears to the lute that a royal
pageboy was strumming under a tree； Shirin’s horse； Shebdiz； as bashful and
elegant as she； waiting for her while she bathed in a lake by moonlight； the
lively horses used in javelin jousts； the tempestlike horse and its beautiful
groom that for some reason caused Master Osman to remark； “I loved him
dearly in my youth； I’m very tired”； the sun…colored； golden； winged horse
which Allah sent to the prophet Elijah to protect him from an attack by the
pagans—whose wings had been mistakenly drawn on Elijah； Sultan Süleyman
the Magnificent’s gray thoroughbred with the small head and large body；
which stared sorrowfully at the young and lovable prince； enraged horses；
horses at full gallop； weary horses； beautiful horses； horses that nobody
noticed； horses that would never leave these pages； and horses that leapt over
gilded borders escaping their confinement。
Not one of them bore the signature we were looking for。
Even so； we were able to maintain a persistent excitement in the face of the
weariness and melancholy that descended upon us： A couple of times we
forgot abou