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I couldn’t stand the silence。 “As you can see; this isn’t a horse made in the
style and method of the horse drawn for my Enishte’s book;” I said; “but the
nose is the same。 The artist attempted to see the world the way the Chinese
do。” I fell quiet。 “It’s a wedding procession。 It resembles a Chinese picture; but
the figures aren’t Chinese; they’re our people。”
The master’s lens seemed to be flat against the page; and his nose was flat
against the lens。 In order to see; he made use of not only his eyes; but his head;
the muscles of his neck; his aged back and his shoulders with all his might。
Silence。
“The nostrils of the horse are cut open;” he said later; breathless。
I leaned my head against his。 Cheek to cheek we stared at the nostrils for a
long long time。 I sadly realized that not only were the horse’s nostrils cut; but
Master Osman was having difficulty seeing them。
“You do see it; don’t you?”
“Only very little;” he said。 “Describe the picture。”
“If you ask me; this is a melancholy bride;” I said mournfully。 “She’s
mounted on a gray horse with its nostrils cut open; she’s on her way to be
wed; with her panions and an escort of guards who are strangers to her。
The faces of the guards; their harsh expressions; intimidating black beards;
furrowed eyebrows; long thick mustaches; heavy frames; robes of simple thin
cloth; thin shoes; headdresses of bear fur; their battle…axes and scimitars
indicate that they belong to the Whitesheep Turkmen of Transoxiana。 Perhaps
the pretty bride—who appears to be on a long journey to judge by the fact
355
she’s traveling with her bridesmaid at night by the light of oil lamps and
torches—is a melancholy Chinese princess。”
“Or perhaps we only think the bride is Chinese now; because the
miniaturist; to emphasize her flawless beauty; whitened her face as the
Chinese do and painted her with slanted eyes;” said Master Osman。
“Whoever she might be; my heart aches for this sad beauty; traveling the
steppe in the middle of the night acpanied by grim…faced foreign guards;
heading to a strange land and a husband she’s never seen;” I said。 Then I
immediately added; “How shall we determine who our miniaturist is from the
clipped nostrils of the horse she rides?”
“Turn the pages of the album and tell me what you see;” said Master
Osman。
Just then; we were joined by the dwarf whom I’d seen sitting on the
chamber pot as I was running to bring the volume to Master Osman; the
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