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hatched in the mane strand by strand； as if tenderly bing 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 bee that magnificent horse。
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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 petition。 As you mand；
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 e 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 plete。 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 ing
into being； with a robust； rounded body not unlike my own： Everyone will be
stunned by this horse。 I thought about the sweet ments Our Sultan would
make when I won the prize； He’d present me with a purse of gold coins； and I
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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 overe 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 bee 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 bee a great master of old drawing
that horse。
301
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 purse of gold。 If
they’d told me to draw your average horse； it’s mon knowledge that
nobody’s picture could pete 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
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counterfeit Veian 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。
I removed one of the notebooks of forms that I kept hidden from the eyes
of the world。 This is where I secretly made copies of the most beautiful
illustrations that I’d seen over the years。 Not to mention the copies that the
chief of the dwarfs；