《my name is red-我的名字叫红》我的名字叫红-第173章

khans and shahs who were fighting among themselves。 With his victorious　
Turkmen　hordes；　he　passed　through　the　whole　of　Persia　into　the　East；　finally；　at　
Astarabad； he defeated Ibrahim； the grandson of Shah Ruh who was　
Tamerlane’s　son；　he　then　took　Gorgan　and　sent　his　armies　against　the　fortress　
of　Herat。　According　to　the　historian　from　Kirman；　this　devastation；　not　only　to　
Persia； but to the heretofore undefeated power of the House of Tamerlane；　
which　had　ruled　over　half　the　world　from　Hindustan　to　Byzantium　for　half　a　
century； caused such a tempest of destruction that pandemonium reigned　
over　the　men　and　women　in　the　besieged　fortress　of　Herat。　The　historian　Abu　
Said reminds the reader with perverse pleasure how Jihan Shah of the　
Blacksheep　mercilessly　killed　everyone　who　was　a　descendant　of　Tamerlane　in　
the　fortresses　he　conquered；　how　he　selectively　culled　women　from　the　harems　
of　shahs　and　princes　and　added　them　to　his　own　harem；　and　how　he　pitilessly　
separated miniaturist from miniaturist and cruelly forced most of them to　
serve as apprentices to his own master illuminators。 At this point in his　
History；　he　turns　his　attentions　from　the　shah　and　his　warriors　who　tried　to　
repel　the　enemy　from　the　crenellated　towers　of　the　fortress；　to　the　miniaturists　
among their pens and paints in the workshop awaiting the terrifying　
415　
culmination　of　the　siege　whose　oute　was　long　evident。　He　lists　the　names　
of　the　artists；　declaring　one　after　another　how　they　were　world…renowned　and　
would　never　be　forgotten；　and　these　illuminators；　all　of　whom；　like　the　women　
of　the　shah’s　harem；　have　since　been　forgotten；　embraced　each　other　and　wept；　
unable　to　do　anything　but　recall　their　former　days　of　bliss。　
We　too；　like　melancholy　harem　women；　reminisced　about　the　gifts　of　fur…
lined　caftans　and　purses　full　of　money　that　the　Sultan　would　present　to　us　in　
reciprocation　for　the　colorful　decorated　boxes；　mirrors　and　plates；　embellished　
ostrich eggs； cut…paper work； single…leaf pictures； amusing albums； playing　
cards and books we’d offer him on holidays。 Where were the hardworking；　
long…suffering； elderly artists of that day who were satisfied with so little？　
They’d　never　sequester　themselves　at　home　and　jealously　hide　their　methods　
from　others；　dreading　that　their　moonlighting　would　be　found　out；　but　would　
e　to　the　workshop　every　day　without　fail。　Where　were　the　old　miniaturists　
who humbly devoted their entire lives to drawing intricate designs on castle　
walls；　cypress　leaves　whose　uniqueness　was　discernible　only　after　close　scrutiny　
and the seven…leaf steppe grasses used to fill empty spaces？ Where were the　
uninspired　masters　who　never　grew　jealous；　having　accepted　the　wisdom　and　
justice　inherent　in　God’s　bestowal　of　talent　and　ability　upon　some　artists　and　
patience and pious resignation upon others？ We recalled these fatherly　
masters；　some　of　whom　were　hunched　and　perpetually　smiling；　others　dreamy　
and　drunk　and　still　others　intent　upon　foisting　off　a　spinster　daughter；　and　as　
we recollected； we attempted to resurrect the forgotten details of the　
workshop　as　it　had　been　during　our　apprentice　and　early　mastership　years。　
Do　you　remember　the　limner　who　stuck　his　tongue　into　his　cheek　when　he　
ruled　pages—to　the　left　side　if　the　line　he　drew　headed　right；　and　to　the　right　
side if the line went left； the small； thin artist who laughed to himself；　
chortling and mumbling “patience； patience； patience” when he dribbled　
paint；　the　septuagenarian　master　gilder　who　spent　hour　upon　hour　talking　to　
the binder’s apprentices downstairs and claimed that red ink applied to the　
forehead stopped aging； the ornery master who relied on an unsuspecting　
apprentice or even randomly stopped anyone passing by to test the　
consistency　of　paint　upon　their　fingernails　after　his　own　nails　were　pletely　
filled；　and　the　portly　artist　who　made　us　laugh　as　he　caressed　his　beard　with　
the furry rabbit’s foot used to collect the excess flecks of gold dust used in　
gilding？　Where　were　they　all？　
Where　were　the　burnishing　boards　which　were　used　so　much　they　became　a　
part　of　the　apprentices’　bodies　and　then　just　tossed　aside；　and　the　long　paper　
416　
scissors　that　the　apprentices　dulled　by　playing　“swordsman”？　Where　were　the　
writing　boards　inscribed　with　the　names　of　the　great　masters　so　they　wouldn’t　
get　mixed　up；　the　aroma　of　China　ink　and　the　faint　rattle　of　coffeepots　aboil　in　
the　silence？　Where　were　the　various　brushes　we　made　of　hairs　from　the　necks　
and　inner　ears　of　kittens　born　to　our　tabby　cats　each　summer；　and　the　great　
sheaves　of　Indian　paper　given　to　us　so；　in　idle　moments；　we　could　practice　our　
artistry　the　way　calligraphers　did？　Where　was　the　ugly　steel…handled　penknife　
ission from the Head Illuminator； thus providing a　
deterrent　to　the　entire　workshop　when　we　had　to　scrape　away　large　mistakes；　
and　what　happened　to　the　rituals　that　surrounded　these　mistakes？　
We also agreed that it was wrong for the Sultan to allow the master　
miniaturists to work at home。 We recalled the marvelous warm halva that　
came to us from the palace kitchen on early winter evenings after we’d　
worked　with　aching　eyes　by　the　light　of　oil　lamps　and　candles。　Laughing　and　
with tears in our eyes； we remembered how the elderly and senile master　
gilder；　who　was　stricken　with　chronic　trembling　and　could　take　up　neither　pen　
nor　paper；　on　his　monthly　workshop　visits　brought　fried　dough…balls　in　heavy　
syrup that his daughter had made for us apprentices。 We talked about the　
exquisite　pages　rendered　by　the　dearly　departed　Black　Memi；　Head　Illuminator　
before　Master　Osman；　discovered　in　his　room；　which　remained　empty　for　days　
after his funeral； within the portfolio found beneath the light mattress he’d　
spread　out　and　use　for　catnaps　in