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e face…to…face occasionally with one of our most pure and innocent
religious countrymen； and a strange notion suddenly enters my head： If I think
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about the fact that I’m a murderer； the man before me will read it on my face。
Therefore； I force myself to think of different things； just as I forced myself；
writhing in embarrassment； to banish thoughts of women when performing
prayers as an adolescent。 But unlike those days of youthful fits when I couldn’t
get the act of copulation out of my thoughts； now； I can indeed forget the
murder that I’ve mitted。
You realize； in fact； that I’m explaining all these things because they relate
to my predicament。 But if I were to divulge even one detail related to the
killing itself； you’d figure it all out and this would relieve me from being a
nameless； faceless murderer roaming among you like an apparition and
relegate me to the status of an ordinary； confessed criminal who has given
himself up； soon to pay for his crime with his head。 Give me the license not to
dwell on every single detail； allow me to keep some clues to myself： Try to
discover who I am from my choice of words and colors； as attentive people like
yourselves might examine footprints to catch a thief。 This； in turn； brings us to
the issue of “style；” which is now of widespread interest： Does a miniaturist；
ought a miniaturist； have his own personal style？ A use of color； a voice all his
own？
Let’s consider a piece by Bihzad； the master of masters； patron saint of all
miniaturists。 I happened across this masterpiece； which also nicely pertains to
my situation because it’s a depiction of murder； among the pages of a flawless
niy…year…old book of the Herat school。 It emerged from the library of a
Persian prince killed in a merciless battle of succession and recounts the story
of Hüsrev and Shirin。 You； of course； know the fate of Hüsrev and Shirin； I refer
to Nizami’s version； not Firdusi’s：
The two lovers finally marry after a host of trials and tribulations； however；
the young and diabolical Shiruye； Hüsrev’s son by his previous wife； won’t give
them any peace。 The prince has his eye on not only his father’s throne but also
his father’s young wife； Shirin。 Shiruye； of whom Nizami writes； “His breath
had the stench of a lion’s mouth；” by hook or crook imprisons his father and
succeeds to the throne。 One night； entering the bedchamber of his father and
Shirin； he feels his way in the dark； and on finding the pair in bed； stabs his
father in the chest with his dagger。 Thus； the father’s blood flows till dawn and
he slowly dies in the bed that he shares with the beautiful Shirin； who remains
sleeping peacefully beside him。
This picture by the great master Bihzad； as much as the tale itself； addresses
a grave fear I’ve carried within me for years： The horror of waking in the black
of night to realize there’s a stranger making faint sounds as he creeps about
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the blackness of the room！ Imagine that the intruder wields a dagger in one
hand as he strangles you with the other。 Every detail； the finely wrought wall；
window and frame ornamentation； the curves and circular designs in the red
rug； the color of the silent scream emanating from your clamped throat and
the yellow and purple flowers embroidered with incredible finesse and vigor
on the magnificent quilt upon which the bare and vile foot of your murderer
mercilessly steps as he ends your life； all of these details serve the same
purpose： While augmenting the beauty of the painting； they remind you just
ho in which you will soon die and the world you will
soon leave。 The indifference of the painting’s beauty and of the world to your
death； the fact of your being totally alone in death despite the presence of your
wife； this is the inescapable meaning that strikes you。
“This is by Bihzad；” the aging master said twenty years ago as we examined
the book I held in my trembling hands。 His face was illuminated not by the
nearby candle； but by the pleasure of observation itself。 “This is so Bihzad that
there’s no need for a signature。”
Bihzad was so well aware of this fact that he didn’t hide his signature
anywhere in the painting。 And according to the elderly master； there was a
sense of embarrassment and a feeling of shame in this decision of his。 Where
there is true art and genuine virtuosity the artist can paint an inparable
masterpiece without leaving even a trace of his identity。
Fearing for my life； I murdered my unfortunate victim in an ordinary and
crude manner。 As I returned to this fire…ravaged area night after night to
ascertain whether I’d left behind any traces that might betray me； questions of
style increasingly arose in my head。 What was venerated as style was nothing
more than an imperfection or flaw that revealed the guilty hand。
I could’ve located this place even without the brilliance of the falling snow；
for this spot； razed by fire； was where I’d ended the life of my panion of
twenty…five years。 Now； snow covered and erased all the clues that might have
been interpreted as signature； proving that Allah concurred with Bihzad and
me on the issue of style and signature。 If we actually mitted an
unpardonable sin by illustrating that book—as that half…wit had maintained
four days ago—even if we had done so unawares； Allah wouldn’t have
bestowed this favor upon us miniaturists。
That night； when Elegant Effendi and I came here； the snow hadn’t yet
begun to fall。 We could hear the howling of mongrels echo in the distance。
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“Pray； for what reason have we e here？” the unfortunate one had asked。
“What do you plan to show me out here at this late hour？”
“Just ahead lies a well； twelve paces beyond which I’ve buried the money
I’ve been saving for years；” I said。 “If you keep everything I’ve explained to you
secret； Enishte Effendi and I will see that you are happily rewarded。”
“Am I to understand that you admit you knew what you were doing from
the beginning？” he said in agitation。
“I admit it；” I lied obligingly。
“You acknowledge the picture you’ve made is in fact a desecration； don’t
you？” he said innocently。 “It’s heresy； a sacrilege that no decent man would
have the gall to mit。 You’re going to burn in the pits of Hell。 Your
suffering and pain will never diminish—and you’ve made me an acplice。”
As I listened to him； I sensed with horror how his words had such strength
and gravity that； willingly or not； people would heed them； hoping that they
would prove true about miserable creatures other than themselves。 Many
rumors like this about Enishte Effendi had begun to fly due to the secrecy of
the book he was making and the money he was willing to pay—and because
Master Osman； the Head Illuminator； despised him。 It occurred to me that
perhaps my brother gilder； Elegant； had with sly intent used these facts to
buttress his false accusations。 To what degree was he being honest？
I had him repeat the claims that pitted us against each other； and as he
spoke； he didn’t mince his words。 He seemed to be provoking me to cover up a
mistake； as during our apprentice years； when the goal was to avoid a beating
by Master Osman。 Back then； I found his sincerity convincing。 As an
apprentice； his eyes would widen as they did now； but back then they hadn’t
yet dimmed from the labor of embellishing。 But finally I hardened my heart；
he was prepared to confess everything to everyone。
“Do listen to me；” I said with forced exasperation。 “We make illuminations；
create border designs； draw frames onto pages； we brightly ornament page
after page with lovely tones of gold； we make the greatest of paintings； we
adorn armoires and boxes。 We’ve done nothing else for years