按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
entered Heaven after thousands and thousands of years。
335
IT IS I； MASTER OSMAN
They tell a story in Bukhara that dates back to the time of Abdullah Khan。 This
Uzbek Khan was a suspicious ruler； and though he didn’t object to more than
one artist’s brush contributing to the same illustration； he was opposed to
painters copying from one another’s pages—because this made it impossible
to determine which of the artists brazenly copying from one another was to
blame for an error。 More importantly； after a time； instead of pushing
themselves to seek out God’s memories within the darkness； pilfering
miniaturists would lazily seek out whatever they saw over the shoulder of the
artist beside them。 For this reason； the Uzbek Khan joyously weled two
great masters； one from Shiraz in the South； the other from Samarkand in the
East； who’d fled from war and cruel shahs to the shelter of his court； however；
he forbade the two celebrated talents to look at each other’s work； and
separated them by giving them small workrooms on opposite ends of his
palace； as far from each other as possible。 Thus； for exactly thirty…seven years
and four months； as if listening to a legend； these two great masters each
listened to Abdullah Khan recount the magnificence of the other’s never…to…
be…seen work； how it differed from or was oddly similar to the other’s。
Meanwhile； they both lived dying of curiosity about each other’s paintings。
After the Uzbek Khan’s life had run its long tortoiselike course； the two old
artists ran to each other’s rooms to see the paintings。 Later still； sitting upon
either edge of a large cushion； holding each other’s books on their laps and
looking at the pictures that they recognized from Abdullah Khan’s fables； both
the miniaturists were overe with great disappointment because the
illustrations they saw weren’t nearly as spectacular as those they’d anticipated
from the stories they’d heard； but instead appeared； much like all the pictures
they’d seen in recent years； rather ordinary； pale and hazy。 The two great
masters didn’t then realize that the reason for this haziness was the blindness
that had begun to descend upon them； nor did they realize it after both had
gone pletely blind； rather they attributed the haziness to having been
duped by the Khan； and hence they died believing dreams were more beautiful
than pictures。
In the dead of night in the cold Treasury room； as I turned pages with
frozen fingers and gazed upon the pictures in books that I’d dreamed of for
forty years； I knew I was much happier than the artists in this pitiless story
from Bukhara。 It gave me such a thrill to know； before going blind and passing
into the Hereafter； that I was handling the very books whose legends I’d heard
336
about my whole life； and at times I would murmur； “Thank you； God； thank
you” when I saw that one of pages I was turning was even more marvelous
than its legend。
For instance； eighty years ago Shah Ismail crossed the river and by the
sword reconquered Herat and all of Khorasan from the Uzbeks； whereupon he
appointed his brother Sam Mirza governor of Herat； to celebrate this joyous
occasion； his brother； in turn； had a manuscript prepared； an illuminated
version of a book entitled The Convergence of the Stars； which recounted a story
as witnessed by Emir Hüsrev in the palace of Delhi。 According to legend； one
illustration in this book showed the two rulers meeting on the banks of a river
where they celebrated their victory。 Their faces resembled the Sultan of Delhi；
Keykubad； and his father； Bughra Khan； the Ruler of Bengal； who were the
subjects of the book； but they also resembled the faces of Shah Ismail and his
brother Sam Mirza； the men responsible for the book’s creation。 I was
absolutely certain that the heroes of whichever story I conjured while looking
at the page would appear there in the sultan’s tent； and I thanked God for
giving me the chance to see this miraculous page。
In an illustration by Sheikh Muhammad； one of the great masters of the
same legendary era； a poor subject whose awe and affection for his sultan had
reached the level of pure love was desperately hoping； as he watched the sultan
play polo； that the ball would roll toward him so he could grab it and present
it to his sovereign。 After he’d waited long and patiently； the ball did indeed
e to him； and he was depicted handing it to the sultan。 As had been
described to me thousands of times； the love； awe and submission that a poor
subject aptly feels toward a great khan or an exalted monarch； or that a
handsome young apprentice feels toward his master； was rendered here with
such delicacy and deep passion； from the extension of the subject’s fingers
holding the ball to his inability to summon the courage to look at the
sovereign’s face； that while looking at this page； I knew there was no greater
joy in the world than to be apprentice to a great master； and that such
submissiveness verging on servility was no less a pleasure than being master to
a young； pretty and intelligent apprentice—and I grieved for those who would
never know this truth。
I turned the pages； gazing hurriedly but with rapt attention upon
thousands of birds； horses； soldiers； lovers； camels； trees and clouds； while the
Treasury’s happy dwarf； like a shah of elder days given the opportunity to
exhibit his riches and wealth； proudly and undauntedly removed volume after
volume from chests and placed them before me。 From two separate corners of
337
an iron chest stuffed with amazing tomes； mon books and disorderly
albums； there emerged two extraordinary volumes—one bound in the Shiraz
style with a burgundy cover； the other bound in Herat and finished with a
dark lacquer in the Chinese fashion—which contained pages so resembling
each other that at first I thought they were copies。 While I was trying to
determine which book was the original and which the copy； I examined the
names of the calligraphers on the colophons； looked for hidden signatures； and
finally came to the realization； with a shudder； that these two volumes of
Nizami were the legendary books that Master Sheikh Ali of Tabriz had made；
one for the Khan of the Blacksheep； Jihan Shah； and the other for the Khan of
the Whitesheep； Tall Hasan。 After he was blinded by the Blacksheep shah to
prevent him from making another version of the first volume； the great master
artist took refuge with the Whitesheep khan and created a superior copy from
memory。 To see that the pictures in the second of the legendary books； made
when he was blind； were simpler and purer； while the colors in the first
volume were more lively and invigorating； reminded me that the memory of
the blind exposes the merciless simplicity of life but also deadens its vigor。
Since I myself am a genuine great master； so acknowledged by Almighty
Allah； who sees and knows all； I knew that one day I would go blind； but is this
what I wanted now？ Since His presence could be sensed quite nearby in the
exquisite and terrifying darkness of the cluttered Treasury； like a condemned
man who wishes to look upon the world one last time before he is beheaded； I
asked Him： “Allow me to see all these illustrations and have my fill of them。”
As I turned the pages； by the force of God’s inscrutable wisdom； I
frequently came across legends and matters of blindness。 In the famous scene
showing Shirin on a countryside outing falling in love with Hüsrev after seeing
his picture on the branch of a plane tree； Sheikh Ali R？za from Shiraz had
drawn distinctly all the leaves of the tree one by one so they filled the entire
sky。 In answer to a fool who saw the work and mented that the true
subject of the illustration wasn’t the plane tree； Sheikh Ali replied that the true
subject wasn’t the passion of the beautiful young maiden either； it was the
passion of the artist； and to proudly prove his point he attempted to paint the
same plane tree with all its leaves on a grain of rice。 If the signature hidden
beneath the beautiful feet of Shirin’s darling lady attendants hadn’t misled
me； I was of course seeing the magnificent tree made by the blind master on
paper—not the tree made on a grain of rice； which he left half finished； having
gone blind seven years and three months after he started the task。 On another
page； Rüstem blinding Alexander with his forked arrow was depicted in the
manner of artists who knew the Indian style； so vivaciously and colorfully； that