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“Jezmi Agha；” I said； “we later depicted in the Chronicle of Sultan Selim the
gifts that Shah Tahmasp’s Persian ambassadors； who also presented this book；
brought with them twenty…five years ago…”
He swiftly located the Chronicle of Sultan Selim and placed it in front of me。
Paired with the vibrantly colored page that showed the ambassadors
presenting the Book of Kings along with the other gifts to Sultan Selim； my eyes
found； among the gifts which were listed one by one； what I’d long ago read
but had forgotten because it was so incredible：
The turquoise…and…mother…of…pearl…handled golden plume needle which the
Venerated Talent of Herat； Master of Master Illuminators Bihzad； used in the act of
blinding his exalted self。
I asked the dwarf where he found the Chronicle of Sultan Selim。 I followed
him through the dusty darkness of the Treasury； meandering between chests；
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piles of cloth and carpet； cabis and beneath stairways。 I noticed how our
shadows； now shrinking； now enlarging； slipped over shields； elephant tusks
and tiger skins。 In one of the adjoining rooms； this one also suffused with the
same strange redness of cloth and velvet； beside the iron chest whence
emerged the Book of Kings； amid other volumes； cloth sheets embroidered with
silver and gold wire； raw and unpolished Ceylon stone； and ruby…studded
daggers； I saw some of the other gifts that Shah Tahmasp had sent： silk carpets
from Isfahan； an ivory chess set and an object that immediately caught my
attention—a pen case decorated with Chinese dragons and branches with a
mother…of…pearl…inlaid rosette obviously from the time of Tamerlane。 I opened
the case and out came the subtle scent of burned paper and rosewater； within
rested the turquoise…and mother…of…pearl…handled golden needle used to
fasten plumes to turbans。 I took up the needle and returned to my spot like a
specter。
Alone again； I placed the needle that Master Bihzad had used to blind
himself upon the open page of the Book of Kings and gazed at it。 It wasn’t the
needle he’d blinded himself with that made me shudder； but seeing an object
he’d taken into his miraculous hands。
Why did Shah Tahmasp send this terrifying needle with the book he’d
presented to Sultan Selim？ Was it because this Shah； who as a child was a
student of Bihzad’s and a patron of artists in his youth； had changed in his old
age； distancing poets and artists from his inner circle and giving himself over
entirely to faith and worship？ Was this the reason he was willing to relinquish
this exquisite book； which the greatest of masters had labored over for ten
years？ Had he sent this needle so all would know that the great artist was
blinded of his own volition or； as was rumored for a time； to make the
statement that whosoever beheld the pages of this book even once would no
longer wish to see anything else in this world？ In any event； this volume was
no longer considered a masterpiece by the Shah； who felt poignant regret；
afraid that he’d mitted a sacrilege through his youthful love of illustrating；
as happened with many rulers in their old age。
I was reminded of stories told by spiteful illuminators who’d grown old to
find their dreams unfulfilled： As the armies of the Blacksheep ruler； Jihan
Shah； were poised to enter Shiraz； Ibn Hüsam； the city’s legendary Head
Illuminator； declared； “I refuse to paint in any other way；” and had his
apprentice blind him with a hot iron。 Among the miniaturists that the armies
of Sultan Selim the Grim brought back to Istanbul after the defeat of Shah
Ismail； the capture of Tabriz and the plunder of the Seven Heavens Palace was
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an old Persian master who it was rumored blinded himself with medicines
because he believed he could never bring himself to paint in the Ottoman
style—not as the result of an illness he’d had on the road as some claimed。 To
set an example for them； I used to tell my illuminators in their moments of
frustration how Bihzad had blinded himself。
Was there no other recourse？ If a master miniaturist made use of the new
methods here and there in out…of…the…way places； couldn’t he then； if only a
little； save the entire workshop and the styles of the old masters？
There was a dark stain on the extremely sharp point of the elegantly tapered
plume needle； yet my weary eyes couldn’t determine whether it was blood or
not。 Lowering the magnifying lens； as if beholding a melancholy depiction of
love with a matching sense of melancholy； I looked at the needle for a long
time。 I tried to imagine how Bihzad could’ve done it。 I’d heard that one
doesn’t go blind immediately； the velvety darkness descends slowly； sometimes
after days； sometimes after months； as with old men who go blind naturally。
I’d caught sight of it while passing into the next room； I stood and looked；
yes； there it was： an ivory mirror with a twisted handle and thick ebony frame；
its length nicely embellished with script。 I sat down again and gazed at my
own eyes。 How beautifully the flame of the candle danced in my pupils—
which had witnessed my hand paint for sixty years。
“How had Master Bihzad done it？” I asked myself once more。
Never once taking my eyes off the mirror； with the practiced movements of
a woman applying kohl to her eyelids； my hand found the needle on its own。
Without hesitation； as if making a hole at the end of an ostrich egg soon to be
embellished； I bravely； calmly and firmly pressed the needle into the pupil of
my right eye。 My innards sank； not because I felt what I was doing； but because
I saw what I was doing。 I pushed the needle into my eye to the depth of a
quarter the length of a finger； then removed it。
In the couplet worked into the frame of the mirror； the poet had wished
the observer eternal beauty and wisdom—and eternal life to the mirror itself。
Smiling； I did the same to my other eye。
For a long while I didn’t move。 I stared at the world—at everything。
As I’d surmised； the colors of the world did not darken； but seemed to
bleed ever so gently into one another。 I could still more or less see。
The pale light of the sun fell over the red and oxblood cloth of the Treasury。
In the accustomed ceremony； the Head Treasurer and his men broke the seal
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and opened the lock and the door。 Jezmi Agha changed the chamber pots；
lamps and brazier； brought in fresh bread and dried mulberries and
announced to the others that we would continue searching for the horses with
oddly drawn nostrils within Our Sultan’s books。 What could be more
exquisite than looking at the world’s most beautiful pictures while trying to
recollect God’s vision of the world？
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I AM CALLED BLACK
When the Head Treasurer and the chief officers opened the portal with great
ceremony my eyes were so accustomed to the velvety red aura of the Treasury
rooms that the early morning winter sunlight filtering in from the courtyard
of the Royal Private Quarters of the Enderun seemed terrifying。 I stood dead
still； as did Master Osman himself： If I moved； it seemed； the clues we sought
in the moldy； dusty and tangible air of the Treasury might escape。
With curious amazement； as if seeing some magnificent object for the first
time； Master Osman stared at the light cascading toward us between the
heads of the Treasury chiefs lined up in rows on either side of the open portal。
The night before； I watched him as he turned the pages of the Book of Kings。
I noticed this same expression of astonishment pass over his face as his
shadow； cast upon the wall； trembled faintly； his head carefully sank down
toward his magnifying lens； and his lips first contorted delicately； as if
preparing to reveal a pleasant secret； then twitched as he gazed in awe at an
illustration。
After the portal was shut again； I wandered impatiently between rooms
ever more restless； I thought nervously that we wouldn’t have time to cull
enough information from the books in the Treasury。 I sensed that Master
Osman couldn’t focus adequately on his task； and I confessed my misgivings
to him。
Like a genuine master grown accustomed to caressing his apprentices； he
held my hand in a pleasing way。 “Men like us have no choice but to try to see
the world the way God does and to resign ourselves to His justice；” he said。
“And here； among these pictures and possessions； I have the strong sensation
that these two things are beginning to converge： As we approach God’s vision
of the world； His justice approaches us。 See here； the needle Master Bihzad
blinded himself with…”
Master Osman callously told the story of the needle； and I scrutinized the
extremely sharp point of this disagreeable object beneath the magnifying glass
which he lowered so I might better see； a pinkish film covered its tip。
“The old masters；” Master Osman said； “would suffer pangs of conscience
about changing their talent； colors and methods。 They’d consider it
dishonorable to see the world one day as an Eastern shah manded； the
next； as a Western ruler did—which is what the artists of our day do。”
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His eyes were neither trained on mine nor upon the pages in front of him。
It seemed as though he were gazing at a distant unattainable whiteness。 In a
page of the Book of Kings lying open before him； Persian and Turanian armies
clashed with all their force。 As horses fought shoulder to shoulder； enraged
heroic warriors drew their swords and slaughtered one another with the color
and joy of a festival； their armor pierced by the lances of the cavalry； their
heads and arms severed； their bodies hacked apart or cloven in two； strewn all
over the field。
“When the great masters of old were forced to adopt the styles of victors
and imitate their miniaturists； they preserved their honor by using a needle to
heroically bring on the blindness that the labors of painting would’ve caused
in time。 Yes； before the pureness of God’s darkness fell over their eyes like a
divine reward； they’d stare at a masterpiece ceaselessly for hours or even days；
and because they stubbornly stared out of bowed heads； the meaning and
world of those pictures—spotted with blood dripping from their eyes—would
take the place of all the evil they suffered； and as their eyes ever so slowly
clouded over they’d approach blindness in peace。 Do you have any idea which
illustration I’d want to stare at till I’d attained the divine blackness of the
blind？”
Like a man trying to recall a childhood memory； he fixed his eyes； whose
pupils seemed to shrink as their whites expanded； on a distant place beyond
the walls of the Treasury。
“The scene； rendered in the style of the old masters of Herat； wherein
Hüsrev； burning madly with love； rides his horse to the foot of Shirin’s
summer palace and waits！”
Perhaps he’d now go on to describe that picture as if reciting a melancholy
poem eulogizing the blindness of the old masters。 “My great master； my dear
sire；” on a strange impulse； I interrupted him； “what I want to stare at for all
eternity is my beloved’s delicate face。 It’s been three days since we wed。 I’ve
thought of her longingly for twelve years。 The scene wherein Shirin falls in love
with Hüsrev after seeing his picture reminds me of none other than her。”
There was a wealth of expression on Master Osman’s face； curiosity
perhaps； but it had to do neither with my story nor with the bloody battle
scene before