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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第75节

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devoid of any skill whatsoever。 But it wasn’t that the illustration was informed 
by  two  different  worldviews  so  much  as  the  lack  of  skill  that  incurred  my 
wrath。 
I felt the same way as I looked at the other pictures; at the perfect dream 
horse and the woman with the bowed head。 The choice of subject matter also 
273 
 
iritated  me;  whether  it  was  the  two  wandering  dervishes  or  Satan。  It  was 
obvious that my illustrators had coyly inserted these inferior pictures into Our 
Sultan’s  illuminated  manuscript。  I  felt  renewed  awe  at  exalted  Allah’s 
judgment in taking Enishte’s life before the book had been finished。 Needless 
to say; I had no desire whatsoever to plete this manuscript。 
Who  wouldn’t  be  annoyed  by  this  dog;  drawn  from  above  but  staring  at 
me from just beneath my nose as if it were my brother? On the one hand; I 
was  astounded  by  the  plainness  of  the  dog’s  positioning;  the  beauty  of  its 
threatening  sidelong  glance;  head  lowered  to  the  ground;  and  the  violent 
whiteness  of  its  teeth;  in  short;  by  the  talent  of  the  miniaturists  who’d 
depicted it (I was on the verge of determining precisely who’d worked on the 
picture);  on  the  other  hand;  I  couldn’t  forgive  the  way  this  talent  had  been 
harnessed  by  the  absurd  logic  of  an  inscrutable  will。  Neither  the  desire  to 
imitate  the  Europeans  nor  the  excuse  that  the  book  Our  Sultan  had 
missioned  as  a  present  for  the  Doge  ought  to  make  use  of  techniques 
familiar  to  the  Veians  was  adequate  to  explain  the  fawning  pretension  in 
these pictures。 
I  was  terrified  by  the  passion  of  red  in  one  bustling  picture;  wherein  I  at 
once recognized the touch of each of my master miniaturists in each corner。 
An  artist’s  hand  that  I  couldn’t  identify  had  applied  a  peculiar  red  to  the 
painting under the guidance of an arcane logic; and the entire world revealed 
by  the  illustration  was  slowly  suffused  by  this  color。  I  spent  some  time 
hunched  over  this  crowded  picture  pointing  out  to  Black  which  of  my 
miniaturists  had  drawn  the  plane  tree  (Stork);  the  ships  and  houses  (Olive); 
and the kite and flowers (Butterfly)。 
“Of course; a great master miniaturist like yourself; who’s been head of a 
book…arts  division  for  years;  could  distinguish  the  craft  of  each  of  his 
illustrators; the disposition of their lines and the temperament of their brush 
strokes;” Black said。 “But when an eccentric book lover like my Enishte forces 
these same illustrators to paint with new and untried techniques; how can you 
determine the artists responsible for each design with such certainty?” 
I  decided  to  answer  with  a  parable:  “Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  shah 
who ruled over Isfahan; he was a lover of book arts; and lived all alone in his 
castle。 He was a strong and mighty; intelligent; but merciless shah; and he had 
love only for two things: the illustrated manuscripts he missioned and his 
daughter。  So  devoted  was  this  shah  to  his  daughter  that  his  enemies  could 
hardly be faulted for claiming he was in love with her—for he was proud and 
jealous enough to declare war on neighboring princes and shahs in the event 
274 
 
that  one  sent  ambassadors  to  ask  for  her  hand。  Naturally;  there  was  no 
husband  worthy  of  his  daughter;  and  he  confined  her  to  a  room;  accessible 
only  through  forty  locked  doors。  In  keeping  with  a  monly  held  belief  in 
Isfahan;  he  thought  that  his  daughter’s  beauty  would  fade  if  other  men  laid 
eyes  on  her。  One  day;  after  an  edition  of  Hüsrev  and  Shirin  that  he’d 
missioned was inscribed and illustrated in the Herat style; a rumor began 
to  circulate  in  Isfahan:  The  pale…faced  beauty  who  appeared  in  one  bustling 
picture was none other than the jealous shah’s daughter! Even before hearing 
the  rumors;  the  shah;  suspicious  of  this  mysterious  illustration;  opened  the 
pages of the book with trembling hands and in a flood of tears saw that his 
daughter’s beauty had indeed been captured on the page。 As the story goes; it 
wasn’t  actually  the  shah’s  daughter;  protected  by  forty  locked  doors;  who 
emerged  to  be  portrayed  one  night;  but  her  beauty  which  escaped  from  her 
room  like  a  ghost  stifled  by  boredom;  reflecting  off  a  series  of  mirrors  and 
passing  beneath  doors  and  through  keyholes  like  a  ray  of  light  or  wisp  of 
smoke  to  reach  the  eyes  of  an  illustrator  working  through  the  night。  The 
masterful young miniaturist; unable to restrain himself; depicted the beauty; 
which  he  couldn’t  bear  to  behold;  in  the  illustration  he  was  in  the  midst  of 
pleting。  It  was  the  scene  that  showed  Shirin  gazing  upon  a  picture  of 
Hüsrev  and  falling  in  love  with  him  during  the  course  of  a  countryside 
outing。” 
“My beloved master; my good sir; this is quite a coincidence;” said Black。 “I; 
too; am quite fond of that scene from Hüsrev and Shirin。” 
“These aren’t fables; but events that actually happened;” I said。 “Listen; the 
miniaturist  didn’t  depict  the  shah’s  beautiful  daughter  as  Shirin;  but  as  a 
courtesan playing the lute or setting the table; because that was the figure he 
was in the midst of illustrating at the time。 As a result; Shirin’s beauty paled 
beside the extraordinary beauty of the courtesan standing off to the side; thus 
disrupting  the  painting’s  balance。  After  the  shah  saw  his  daughter  in  the 
painting; he wanted to locate the gifted miniaturist who’d depicted her。 But 
the  crafty  miniaturist;  fearing  the  shah’s  wrath;  had  rendered  both  the 
courtesan and Shirin; not in his own style; but in a new way so as to conceal 
his  identity。  The  skillful  brush  strokes  of  quite  a  few  other  miniaturists  had 
gone into the work as well。” 
“How  had  the  shah  discovered  the  identity  of  the  miniaturist  who 
portrayed his daughter?” 
“From the ears!” 
275 
 
“Whose ears? The ears of the daughter or her picture?” 
“Actually;  neither。  Following  his  intuition;  he  first  laid  out  all  the  books; 
pages and illustrations that his own miniaturists had made and inspected all 
the ears therein。 He saw what he’d known for years in a new light: Regardless 
of  the  level  of  talent;  each  of  the  miniaturists  made  ears  in  his  own  style。  It 
didn’t  matter  if  the  face  they  depicted  was  the  face  of  a  sultan;  a  child;  a 
warrior; or even; God forbid; the partially veiled face of Our Exalted Prophet; 
or even; God forbid again; the face of the Devil。 Each miniaturist; in each case; 
always drew the ears the same way; as if this were a secret signature。” 
“Why?” 
“When  the  masters  illustrated  a  face;  they  focused  on  approaching  its 
exalted beauty; on the dictates of the old models of form; on the expression; or 
on whether it should resemble somebody real。 But when it came time to make 
the ears; they neither stole from others; imitated a model nor studied a real 
ear。 For the ears; they didn’t think; didn’t aspire to anything; didn’t even stop 
to  consider  what  they  were  doing。  They  simply  guided  their  brushes  from 
memory。” 
“But didn’t the great masters also create their masterpieces from memory 
without ever even looking at real horses; trees or people?” said Black。 
“True;”  I  said;  “but  those  are  memories  acquired  after  years  of  thought; 
contemplation  and  reflection。  Having  seen  plenty  of  horses;  illustrated  and 
actual; over their lifetimes; they know that the last flesh…and…blood horse they 
see before them will only mar the perfect horse they hold in their thoughts。 
The  horse  that  a  master  miniaturist  has  drawn  tens  of  thousands  of  times 
eventually  es  close  to  God’s  vision  of  a  horse;  and  the  artist  knows  this 
through experience and deep in his soul。 The horse that his hand draws quickly 
from  memory  is  rendered  with  talent;  great  effort;  and  insight;  and  it  is  a 
horse that approaches Allah’s horse。 However; the ear that is drawn before the 
hand  has  accumulated  any  knowledge;  before  the  artist  has  weighed  and 
considered  what  it  is  doing;  or  before  paying  attention  to  the  ears  of  the 
shah’s  daughter;  will  always  be  a  flaw。  Precisely  because  it  is  a  flaw;  or 
imperfection; it will vary from miniaturist to miniaturist。 That is; it amounts 
to a signature。” 
There was a motion。 The mander’s men were bringing into the old 
workshop the pages they’d collected from the homes of the miniaturists and 
the calligraphers。 
276 
 
“Besides; ears are actually a human flaw;” I said; hoping Black would smile。 
“They’re at once distinct and mon to everyone: a perfect manifestation of 
ugliness。” 
“What happened to the miniaturist who’d been caught by the authorities 
through his style of painting ears?” 
I  refr

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