by Orhan Pamuk
Till dusk, we pored over hundreds of horses that had issued from the brushes of Olive, Butterfly and Stork over the last four or five years: the Crimean Khan Mehmet Giray’s elegant-eared chestnut palomino; black and golden horses; pinkish and gray-colored horses whose heads and necks alone could be seen behind a hilltop during battle; the horses of Haydar Pasha who recaptured the Halkul-Vad fortress from the Spanish infidels in Tunisia and the Spaniards’ reddish-chestnut and pistachio-green horses, one of which had tumbled headlong, as they fled from him; a black horse that caused Master Osman to remark, “I overlooked this one. I wonder who did such careless work?”; a red horse who politely turned his ears to the lute that a royal pageboy was strumming under a tree; Shirin’s horse, Shebdiz, as bashful and elegant as she, waiting for her while she bathed in a lake by moonlight; the lively horses used in javelin jousts; the tempestlike horse and its beautiful groom that for some reason caused Master Osman to remark, “I loved him dearly in my youth, I’m very tired”; the sun-colored, golden, winged horse which Allah sent to the prophet Elijah to protect him from an attack by the pagans — whose wings had been mistakenly drawn on Elijah; Sultan Süleyman the Magnificent’s gray thoroughbred with the small head and large body, which stared sorrowfully at the young and lovable prince; enraged horses; horses at full gallop; weary horses; beautiful horses; horses that nobody noticed; horses that would never leave these pages; and horses that leapt over gilded borders escaping their confinement.
Not one of them bore the signature we were looking for.
Even so, we were able to maintain a persistent excitement in the face of the weariness and melancholy that descended upon us: A couple of times we forgot about the horse and lost ourselves to the beauty of a picture, to colors that forced a momentary surrender. Master Osman always looked at the pictures — most of which he himself had created, supervised or ornamented — more out of nostalgic enthusiasm than wonder. “These are by Kasim from the Kasim Pasha district!” he said once, pointing out the little purple flowers at the base of the red war tent of Our Sultan’s grandfather Sultan Süleyman. “He was by no means a master, but for forty years he filled the dead space of pictures with these five-leaf, single-blossom flowers, before he unexpectedly died two years ago. I always assigned him to draw this small flower because he could do it better than anyone.” He fell silent for a moment, then exclaimed, “It’s a pity, a pity!” With all my soul, I sensed that these words signified the end of an era.
Darkness had nearly overtaken us, when a light flooded the room. There was a commotion. My heart, which had begun to beat like a drum, comprehended immediately: The Ruler of the World, His Excellency Our Sultan had abruptly entered. I threw myself at His feet. I kissed the hem of His robe. My head spun. I couldn’t look Him in the eye.
He’d long since begun speaking with Head Illuminator Master Osman anyway. It filled me with fiery pride to witness Him speak to the man with whom I’d only moments ago been sitting knee to knee looking at pictures. Unbelievable; His Excellency Our Sultan was now sitting where I’d been earlier and He was listening attentively to what my master was explaining, as I had done. The Head Treasurer, who was at his side and the Agha of the Falconers and a few others whose identities I couldn’t make out were keeping close guard over Him and gazing at the open pages of books with rapt attention. I gathered all my courage and looked at length at the face and eyes of the Sovereign Ruler of the World, albeit with a sidelong glance. How handsome He was! How upright and proper! My heart no longer beat excitedly. At that moment, our eyes met.
“How much I loved your Enishte, may he rest in peace,” He said. Yes, He was speaking to me. In my excitement, I missed some of what He was saying.
“…I was quite aggrieved. However, it’s quite a comfort to see that each of these pictures he made is a masterpiece. When the Venetian giaour sees these, he will be stunned and fear my wisdom. You shall determine who the accursed miniaturist is by this horse’s nose. Otherwise, however merciless, it’ll be necessary to torture all the master miniaturists.”
“Sovereign Refuge of the World Your Excellency My Sultan,” said Master Osman. “Perhaps we can better catch the man responsible for this slip of the 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.
“My Sultan,” said Master Osman, “to this end, if a competition by express command 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 Commander 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 compete 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 competing 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.
FOURTY-THREE
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 Commander’s men from the palace, a clean, handsome, cheerful and becoming 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 ho
rse 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. Come now, my good hand, bring the wonderful horse of my imagination into this world! The horse and I had seemingly become 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 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 completely 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 completed 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 combing 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 become that magnificent horse.
FOURTY-FOUR
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 competition. As you command, 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 come 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 illustrator, but a calligrapher. I was gazing at my hand with awe, while it moved as if it belonged to another. These spectacular arcs became the horse’s ample stomach, solid chest and swanlike neck. The illustration might’ve been considered complete. Oh, the talent of which I am possessed! Meanwhile, I looked to see that my hand had traced out the nose and open mouth of the strong and joyful horse and laid down the intelligent forehead and ears. Next, once again, look Mother, how beautiful, I merrily drew another arc as if scripting a letter, and I was moved to the verge of laughter. I swooped down in a perfect arc from the neck of my rearing horse to its saddle. My hand occupied itself with the saddle as I proudly regarded my horse, now coming into being, with a robust, rounded body not unlike my own: Everyone will be stunned by this horse. I thought about the sweet comments Our Sultan would make when I won the prize; He’d present me with a purse of gold coins; and I had the urge to laugh again as I imagined how I’d count them at home. Just then, my hand, which I gazed at out of the corner of my eye, finished with the saddle and took my brush to the inkwell and back before I began the horse’s rump with a chuckle as though I’d told a joke. I briskly outlined the tail. How gentle and curvaceous I made the rear end, lovingly wishing to cup it in my hands like the gentle butt of a boy I was about to violate. As I smiled, my clever hand finished with the hind legs, and my brush stopped: This was the finest rearing horse the world had ever known. I was overcome with joy, happily thinking about how much they would like my horse, how they would declare me the most talented of miniaturists and even how they would announce at once that I was to become Head Illuminator; but then I considered what else those idiots would say: “How quickly and joyfully he’s drawn this!” For this reason alone, I was worried they wouldn’t take my wonderful illustration seriously. Therefore, I meticulously rendered the mane, nostrils, teeth, strands of horsetail and saddle blanket in minute detail so there would be no doubt that I had indeed labored over the illustration. From this position, that is, the rear lateral view, the horse’s testicles should’ve been visible, but I left them out because they might unduly preoccupy the women. Proudly, I studied my horse: rearing, moving like a tempest, strong and powerful! It was as if a wind had kicked up and set elliptical brush strokes in motion, like the letters in a line of script, yet the animal was also poised. They’d praise the magnificent miniaturist who drew this illustration as if praising a Bihzad or a Mir Musavvir, and then, I, too, would be like them.
When I draw a magnificent horse, I become a great master of old drawing that horse.
FOURTY-FIVE
I AM CALLED “STORK”
After the evening prayers I intended to go to the coffeehouse, but they told me there was a visitor at the door. Good tidings, I hoped. I went to discover a messenger from the palace. He described the Sultan’s contest. Fine, the world’s most beautiful horse. You tell me how much you’ll offer for each, and I’ll quickly draw you five or six of them.
Rather than say any such thing, I maintained my reserve, and simply invited the boy waiting at the door inside. I thought for a moment: The world’s most beautiful horse doesn’t even exist that I might draw it. I can draw war steeds, large Mongolian horses, noble Arabians, heroic, writhing chargers covered in blood, or even luckless packhorses pulling a cartfull of stone to a building site, but no one would call any of them the world’s most beautiful horse. Naturally, by “the world’s most beautiful horse,” I knew that Our Sultan meant the most splendid of the horses that had been depicted thousands of times in Persia, in keeping with all of the formulas, models and poses of yore. But why?
Of course, there were those who didn’t want me to win the purs
e of gold. If they’d told me to draw your average horse, it’s common knowledge that nobody’s picture could compete with mine. Who was it that had duped Our Sultan? Our Sovereign, despite the endless gossip of all of those jealous artists, knows full well that I am the most talented of His miniaturists. He admires my illustrations.
My hand abruptly and angrily sprang to action as if wanting to rise above all of these vexing considerations, and in one concentrated effort, I drew a true horse beginning from the tip of its hoof. You might see one like this on the street or in battle. Weary, but controlled…Next, in the same fit of anger, I dashed off a spahi cavalryman’s horse, and this one was even better. None of the miniaturists of the book arts workshop could draw such beautiful animals. I was about to draw another from memory when the boy from the palace said, “One is enough.”
He was about to grab the sheet and leave, but I restrained him because I knew full well, as I know my own name, that these scoundrels would be giving up a purse of gold coins for these horses.
If I illustrate the way I want to, they won’t give me the gold! If I can’t win the gold, my name will be tarnished forever. I stopped to think. “Just wait,” I said to the boy. I went inside and returned with two incredibly shiny counterfeit Venetian gold pieces, which I proceeded to give to the boy: He was afraid, his eyes widened. “You’re as brave as a lion,” I said.