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brush； if my master miniaturists are forced to draw a horse on a blank sheet of
paper； quickly； without any story in mind。”
“Only； of course； if this is really a slip of the brush and not an actual nose；”
said Our Sultan shrewdly。
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“My Sultan；” said Master Osman； “to this end； if a petition by express
mand of Your Highness were announced tonight； if a guard were to visit
Your miniaturists； requesting them to draw a horse quickly on a blank sheet
for this contest…”
Our Sultan looked at the mander of the Imperial Guard with an
expression that said； “Did you hear that？” Then he said； “Do you know which
of the Poet Nizami’s stories of rivalry I like best of all？”
Some of us said； “We know。” Some said； “Which one？” Some； including
myself； fell silent。
“I’m not fond of the contest of poets or the story about the contest
between Chinese and Western painters and the mirror；” said the handsome
Sultan。 “I like best the contest of doctors who pete to the death。”
After He’d said this； He abruptly took leave of us for His evening prayers。
Later； as the evening azan was being called； in the half dark； after exiting the
gates of the palace； I hurried toward my neighborhood happily imagining
Shekure； the boys and our house； when I recalled with horror the story of the
contest of doctors：
One of the two doctors peting in the presence of their sultan—the one
often depicted in pink—made a poison green pill strong enough to fell an
elephant； which he gave to the other doctor； the one in the navy…blue caftan。
That doctor first swallowed the poisonous pill； and afterward； swallowed a
navy…blue antidote that he’d just made。 As could be understood from his
gentle laughter； nothing at all happened to him。 Furthermore； it was now his
turn to give his rival a whiff of death。 Moving ever so deliberately； savoring the
pleasure of taking his turn； he plucked a pink rose from the garden； and
bringing it to his lips； inaudibly whispered a mysterious poem into its petals。
Next； with gestures that bespoke extreme confidence； he extended the rose to
his rival so he might take in its bouquet。 The force of the whispered poem so
agitated the doctor in pink that upon bringing the flower to his nose； which
bore nothing but its regular scent； he collapsed out of fear and died。
297
I AM CALLED “OLIVE”
Prior to the evening prayers； there came a knock at the door and I opened it
without ceremony： It was one of the mander’s men from the palace； a
clean； handsome； cheerful and being youth。 In addition to paper and a
writing board； he carried an oil lamp in his hand； which cast shadows over his
face rather than illuminating it。 He quickly apprised me of the situation： Our
Sultan had declared a contest among the master miniaturists to see who could
draw the best horse in the shortest time。 I was asked to sit on the floor；
arrange paper on the board and the board on my knees and quickly depict the
world’s most beautiful horse in the space indicated within the borders of the
page。
I invited my guest inside。 I ran and fetched my ink and the finest of my
brushes made from hair clipped from a cat’s ear。 I sat down on the floor and
froze！ Might this contest be a ruse or ploy that I’d end up paying for with my
blood or my head？ Perhaps！ But hadn’t all the legendary illustrations by the
old masters of Herat been drawn with fine lines that ran between death and
beauty？
I was filled with the desire to illustrate； yet I was seemingly afraid to draw
exactly like the old masters； and I restrained myself。
Looking at the blank sheet of paper； I paused so that my soul might rid
itself of apprehension。 I ought to have focused solely on the beautiful horse I
was about to render； I ought to have mustered my strength and concentration。
All the horses I’d ever drawn and seen began to gallop before my eyes。 Yet
one was the most flawless of all。 I was presently going to render this horse
which nobody had been able to draw before。 Decisively； I pictured it in my
mind’s eye。 The world faded away； as if I’d suddenly forgotten myself；
forgotten that I was sitting here； and even that I was about to draw。 My hand
dipped the brush into the inkwell of its own accord； taking up just the right
amount。 e now； my good hand； bring the wonderful horse of my
imagination into this world！ The horse and I had seemingly bee one and
we were about to appear。
Following my intuition； I searched for the appropriate place within the
bordered blank page。 I imagined the horse standing there； and suddenly：
Even before I was able to think； my hand set forth decisively of its own
volition—see how gracefully—curling quickly from the hoof； it rendered that
beautiful thin lower leg； and moved upward。 As it curved with the same
298
decisiveness past the knee and rose quickly to the base of the chest； I grew
elated！ Arching from here； it moved victoriously higher： How beautiful the
animal’s chest was！ The chest tapered to form the neck； exactly like that of the
horse in my mind’s eye。 Without lifting my brush； I came down from the
cheek； reaching the powerful mouth； which I’d left open after a moment’s
thought； I entered the mouth—this is how it’s going to be then； open your
mouth wider now； horsey—and I brought out its tongue。 I slowly turned out
the nose—no room for indecision！ Angling up steadily； I looked momentarily
at the whole image； and when I saw that I’d made my line exactly as I’d
imagined it； I forgot entirely what I was drawing； and the ears and the
magnificent curve of the spectacular neck were rendered by my hand alone。 As
I drew the backside from memory； my hand stopped on its own to let the
bristles of the brush sip from the inkwell。 I was quite content while rendering
the rump； and the forceful and protruding hindquarters； I was pletely
engrossed in the picture。 I seemed to be standing beside the horse I was
drawing as I joyously began the tail。 This was a war steed； a racehorse； making
a knot of its tail and winding it around； I exuberantly moved upward； as I was
drawing the dock and buttocks I felt a pleasant coolness on my own ass and
anus。 Pleased by that feeling； I gleefully pleted the splendid softness of the
rump； the left hind leg that was slightly behind the right； and then the hooves。
I was astonished by the horse I’d drawn and by my hand； which had rendered
the elegant positioning of the left foreleg exactly as I had conceived it。
I lifted my hand from the page and quickly drew the fiery； sorrowful eyes；
with but a moment’s hesitation； I made the nostrils and the saddle blanket。 I
hatched in the mane strand by strand； as if tenderly bing it with my
fingers。 I fitted the beast with stirrups； added a white blaze to his forehead
and finished him off properly by eagerly； measuredly； yet in full proportion
drawing his balls and cock。
When I draw a magnificent horse； I bee that magnificent horse。
299
I AM CALLED “BUTTERFLY”
I believe it was about the time of the evening prayer。 Someone was at the door。
He explained that the Sultan had announced a petition。 As you mand；
my dear Sultan； indeed； who could draw a more beautiful horse than I？
It gave me pause； however； when I learned that the picture was to be made
without color in the black…ink style。 Why no colors？ Because I happen to be
the best in the selection and application of them？ Who would judge which
illustration was best？ I tried to get more information out of the broad…
shouldered； pink…lipped； pretty boy who’d e from the palace； and was able
to infer that Head Illuminator Master Osman was behind this contest。 Master
Osman； without a doubt； knows my talent and likes me the best of all the
masters。
So； as I gazed at the empty page； the stance； look and demeanor of a horse
that would please both the Sultan and Master Osman came to life before my
eyes。 The horse ought to be lively； but serious； like the horses Master Osman
made ten years ago； and it should be rearing； in the way that always pleased
Our Sultan； so that both of them would concur on the horse’s beauty。 How
many gold pieces are they offering； I wonder？ How would Mir Musavvir make
this picture？ How would Bihzad？
Suddenly； the beast entered my thoughts with such speed； that by the time
I understood what it was； my damnable hand grabbed the brush and began to
draw a miraculous horse beyond anyone’s conception； starting from the raised
left foreleg。 After quickly joining the leg to the body； I made two arcs swiftly；
pleasurably and confidently—had you seen them； you would’ve said this artist
is no illu