row。　When　a　painter　renders　the　fury　and　speed　of　a　horse；　he　doesn’t　paint

his　own　fury　and　speed；　by　trying　to　make　the　perfect　horse；　he　reveals　his　love

for　the　richness　of　this　world　and　its　creator；　displaying　the　colors　of　a　passion

for　life—only　that　and　nothing　more。”

287

I　AM　CALLED　BLACK

Various　manuscript　pages　lay　before　me　and　the　great　Master　Osman—some

with calligraphed texts and ready to be bound； some not yet colored or

otherwise unfinished for whatever reason—as we spent an entire afternoon

evaluating the master miniaturists and the pages of my Enishte’s book；

keeping charts of our assessments。 We thought we’d seen the last of the

mander’s　respectful　but　crude　men；　who’d　brought　us　the　pages　collected

from　the　miniaturists　and　calligraphers　whose　homes　they　raided　and　searched

（some　pieces　had　nothing　whatsoever　to　do　with　either　of　our　two　books　and

some pages confirmed that the calligraphers； as well； were secretly accepting

work　from　outside　the　palace　for　the　sake　of　a　few　extra　coins）；　when　the　most

brash of them stepped over to the exalted master and removed a piece of

paper　from　his　sash。

I　paid　no　mind　at　first；　thinking　it　was　one　of　those　petitions　from　a　father

seeking　an　apprenticeship　for　his　son　by　approaching　as　many　division　heads

and　group　captains　as　possible。　I　could　tell　that　the　morning　sun　had　vanished

by　the　pale　light　that　filtered　inside。　To　rest　my　eyes；　I　was　doing　an　exercise

the　old　masters　of　Shiraz　remended　miniaturists　do　to　stave　off　premature

blindness； that is； I was trying to look