小说园

第41部分（第4页）

“True；　but　I’m　not　sure　that　amounts　to　praise。　Try　again。”

“There’s　no　miniaturist　who　knows　the　consistency　of　paint　and　its　secrets

as　　well　　as　　you　　do。　　You　　always　　prepare　　and　　apply　　the　　glossiest；　　most　　vibrant；

most　genuine　colors。”

“Yes；　and　what　else？”

“You　know　you’re　the　greatest　of　painters　after　Bihzad　and　Mir　Seyyid　Ali。”

“Yes；　I’m　aware　of　this。　If　you　are　too；　why　are　you　making　the　book　with

that　model　of　mediocrity　Black　Effendi？”

“First；　　the　　work　　he　　does　　doesn’t　　require　　a　　miniaturist’s　　skill；”　　I　　said。

“Second；　unlike　yourself；　he’s　not　a　murderer。”

He　　smiled　　sweetly　　under　　the　　influence　　of　　my　　joke。　　With　　this；　　I　　thought　　I

might　be　able　to　escape　this　nightmare　thanks　to　a　new　expression—this　word

“style。”　　Upon　　my　　broaching　　the　　subject；　　we　　began　　a　　pleasant　　discussion

concerning　the　bronze　Mongol　inkpot　he　held；　not　like　father　and　son；　but　like

two　curious　and　experienced　old　men。　The　weight　of　the　bronze；　the　balance　of

the　inkpot；　the　depth　of　its　neck；　the　length　of　old　calligraphy　reed　pens　and

the　mysteries　of　red　ink；　whose　consistency　he　could　feel　as　he　gently　swung

the　　inkpot　　before　　me…We　　agreed　　that　　if　　the　　Mongols　　hadn’t　　brought　　the

secrets　　　of　　　red　　　paint—which　　　they’d　　　learned　　　from　　　Chinese　　　masters—to

Khorasan；　Bukhara　and　Herat；　we　in　Istanbul　couldn’t　make　these　paintings　at

all。　　As　　we　　talked；　　the　　consistency　　of　　time；　　like　　that　　of　　the　　paint；　　seemed　　to

change；　to　flow　ever　more　quickly。　In　a　corner　of　my　mind　I　was　wondering

why　no　one　had　yet　returned　home。　If　only　he’d　put　down　that　weighty　object。

With　　our　　customary　　workaday　　ease；　　he　　asked　　me；　　“When　　your　　book　　is

finished；　will　those　who　see　my　work　appreciate　my　skill？”

“If　we　can；　God　willing；　finish　this　book　without　interference；　Our　Sultan

will　look　it　over；　of　course；　checking　first　to　see　whether　we　used　enough　gold

leaf　in　the　appropriate　places。　Then；　as　if　reading　a　description　of　Himself；　as

any　sultan　would；　He’ll　stare　at　his　own　portrait；　struck　by　His　own　likeness

rather　than　by　our　magnificent　illustrations；　thereafter；　if　He　takes　the　time　to

examine　　the　　spectacle　　we’ve　　painstakingly　　and　　devotedly　　created　　at　　the

expense　of　the　light　of　our　eyes；　so　much　the　better。　You　know；　as　well　as　I；　that

barring　a　miracle；　He’ll　lock　the　book　away　in　His　treasury　without　even　asking