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and colophons； he could determine who’d taken what from whom。 He’d flip
through certain books exhaustively in hope of finding a series of pictures。 Long
silences passed wherein nothing but the faint susurrus of turning pages could
be heard。 Occasionally； Master Osman would cry out “Aha！” but I kept my
peace； unable to understand what had excited him。 At times he would remind
me that we’d already encountered the page position or arrangement of
trees and mounted soldiers of a particular illustration in other books； in
different scenes of pletely different stories； and he’d point out these
pictures again to jog my memory。 He pared a picture in a version of
Nizami’s Quintet from the time of Tamerlane’s son Shah R？za—that is； from
nearly two hundred years ago—with another picture he said was made in
Tabriz seventy or eighty years earlier； and then go on to ask me what we could
learn from the fact that two miniaturists had created the same picture without
having seen each other’s work。 He ansself：
“To paint is to remember。”
Opening and shutting old illuminated manuscripts； Master Osman would
sink his face with sorrow into the wondrous artwork （because nobody could
paint this way anymore） and then bee animated with joy before poorly
executed pieces （for all miniaturists were brethren！）—and he’d show me what
the artist had remembered； that is； old pictures of trees； angels； parasols； tigers；
tents； dragons and melancholy princes； and in the process； what he hinted at
was this： There was a time when Allah looked upon the world in all its
uniqueness； and believing in the beauty of what he saw； bequeathed his
creation to us； his servants。 The duty of illustrators and of those who； loving
art； gaze upon the world； is to remember the magnificence that Allah beheld
and left to us。 The greatest masters in each generation of painters； expending
their lives and toiling until blind； strove with great effort and inspiration to
attain and record the wondrous dream that Allah manded us to see。 Their
work resembled Mankind recalling his own golden memories from the very
beginning。 Unfortunately； even the greatest masters； just like tired old men or
great miniaturists gone blind from their labors； were only vaguely able to
recollect random parts of that magnificent vision。 This was the mysterious
wisdom behind the phenomenon of old masters who miraculously drew a
tree； a bird； the pose of a prince washing himself in the public baths or a sad
young woman at a window in exactly the same way despite never having seen
each other’s work and despite the hundreds of years that separated them。
Long afterward； once the red light of the Treasury had dimmed and it
became evident that the cabi contained none of the gift books that Shah
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Tahmasp had sent to Our Sultan’s grandfather； Master Osman revisited the
same logic：
“At times； a bird’s wing； the way a leaf holds to a tree； the curves of eaves；
the way a cloud floats or the laugh of a woman is preserved for centuries by
passing from master to disciple and being shown； taught and memorized over
generations。 Having learned this detail from his master； the miniaturist
believes it to be a perfect form； and is as convinced of its immutability as he is
of the glorious Koran’s； and just as he memorizes the Koran； he’ll never forget
this detail indelibly painted in his memory。 However； never forgetting does not
mean the master artist will always use this detail。 The customs of the
workshop wherein he extinguishes the light of his eyes； the habits and taste for
color of the ornery master beside him or the whims of his sultan will； at times；
prevent him from painting that detail； and he’ll draw a bird’s wing； or the way
a woman laughs—”
“Or the nostrils of a horse。”
“—or the nostrils of a horse；” said a stone…faced Master Osman； “not the
way it’s been ingrained in the depths of his soul； but according to the custom
of the workshop where he presently finds himself； just like the others there。
Do you understand me？”
From a page in Nizami’s Hüsrev and Shirin； quite a few versions of which
we’d thumbed through already； in a picture depicting Shirin seated on her
throne； Master Osman read aloud an inscription engraved on two stone plates
above the palace walls： EXALTED ALLAH PRESERVE THE POWER OF THE
VICTORIOUS SON OF TAMERLANE KHAN； OUR NOBLE SULTAN； OUR JUST
KHAN； PROTECT HIS SOVEREIGNTY AND DOMAINS SO HE MAY FOREVER BE
CONTENTED （the leftmost stone read） AND WEALTHY （the rightmost stone
read）。
Later； I asked； “Where might we find illustrations wherein the miniaturist
has rendered a horse’s nostrils in the same way they were etched upon his
memory？”
“We must locate the legendary Book of Kings volume that Shah Tahmasp
sent as a gift；” said Master Osman。 “We must revisit those glorious old days of
legend； when Allah had a hand in the painting of miniatures。 We have many
more books yet to examine。”
It crossed my mind that； just perhaps； Master Osman’s main goal was not
to find horses with peculiarly drawn noses； but to scrutinize as much as
possible these spectacular pictures that had slept quietly for years in this
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Treasury safe from prying eyes。 I grew so impatient to find the clues that
would unite me with Shekure； who awaited me at the house； that I’d been
loath to believe that the great master might want to stay in the icy Treasury as
long as possible。
Thus did we persist in opening other cabis； other chests shown us by the
aged dwarf； to examine the pictures therein。 Periodically； I’d get fed up with
the pictures； which all looked alike； and wish never again to watch Hüsrev visit
Shirin under the castle window； I’d leave the master’s side—without even a
glance at the nostrils of the horse Hüsrev rode—and try to warm myself at the
brazier or I’d walk respectfully and awestruck among the heaps of cloth； gold；
weapons； armor and plunder in the adjacent rooms of the Treasury。 At times；
prompted by an abrupt cry and hand gesture by Master Osman； I’d imagine
that a new masterpiece had been found or； yes； at last a horse with a curious
nose； and running to his side； I’d look at the picture the master was holding
with his hand slightly atremble as he sat curled up on an Ushak carpet dating
from the time of Sultan Mehmed the Conqueror； only to encounter an
illustration； the likes of which I’d never before seen； depicting； say； Satan slyly
boarding Noah’s ark。
We watched as hundreds of shahs； kings； sultans and khans—who’d ruled
from the thrones of various kingdoms and empires from the time of Tamerlane
to Sultan Süleyman the Magnificent—happily and excitedly hunted gazelles；
lions and rabbits。 We saw how even the Devil bit his finger and recoiled in
embarrassment at the shameless man who stood upon scraps of wood tied to
the back legs of a camel so he could violate the poor animal。 In an Arabic book
that had e by way of Baghdad； we watched the flight of the merchant who
clung to the feet of a mythical bird as he spanned the seas。 In the next volume；
which opened by itself to the first page； we saw the scene that Shekure and I
loved the most； in which Shirin beheld Hüsrev’s picture hanging from a branch
and fell in love with him。 Then； looking at an illustration that brought to life
the inner workings of a plicated clock made from bobbins and metal balls；
birds and Arabic statuettes seated on the back of an elephant； we remembered
time。
I don’t know how much more time we spent examining book after book
and illustration after illustration in this manner。 It was as if the unchanging；
frozen golden time revealed in the pictures and stories we viewed had
thoroughly mingled with the damp and moldy time we experienced in the
Treasury。 It seemed that these illuminated pages； created over the centuries by
the lavish expenditure of eyesight in the workshops of countless shahs； khans
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and sultans； would e to life； as would the objects that seemed to besiege
us： The helmets； scimitars； daggers with diamond…studded handles； armor；
porcelain cups from China； dusty and delicate lutes； and the pearl…embellished
cushions and kilims—the likes of which we’d seen in countless illustrations。
“I now understand that by furtively and gradually re…creating the same
pictures for hundreds and hundreds of years； thousands of artists had
cunningly depicted the gradual transformation of their world into another。”
I’ll be first to admit that I didn’t pletely understand what the great
master meant。 But the close attention my master had shown to the thousands
of pictures made over the last t