My Name is Red

I AM A HORSE

Ignore the fact that I’m standing here placid and still; if truth be told, I’ve been galloping for centuries; I’ve passed over plains, fought in battles, carried off the melancholy daughters of shahs to be wed; I’ve galloped tirelessly page by page from story to history, from history to legend and from book to book; I’ve appeared in countless stories, fables, books and battles; I’ve accompanied invincible heroes, legendary lovers and fantastic armies; I’ve galloped from campaign to campaign with our victorious sultans, and as a result, I’ve appeared in countless illustrations.

How does it feel, you ask, to be painted so often?

Of course, I’m proud of myself. Yet, I also question whether, indeed, it is I being depicted in all cases. It is evident from these pictures that I’m perceived differently by everyone. Still, I have the strong sense that there’s a commonality, a unity to the illustrations.

My miniaturist friends were recounting a story recently, and from it, I learned the following: The king of the Frankish infidels was considering marriage to the daughter of the Venetian Doge. He was considering it, but then he was plagued with the thought, “What if this Venetian is poor and his daughter ugly?” To reassure himself, he ordered his best artist to paint the Venetian Doge’s daughter, possessions, property and belongings. The Venetians could care less about gross indecency: They’ll expose not only their daughters to the prying eyes of the artist, but their horses and palazzos, as well. The gifted infidel artist could depict a maiden or a horse in such a way that you’d be able to pick either out of a crowd. Back in his courtyard, as the Frankish king examined the pictures from Venice, pondering whether he should take the maiden as his wife, his stallion, suddenly aroused, attempted to mount the attractive mare in the painting, and the horse grooms were hard pressed to bring the ferocious animal under control before he destroyed the picture and its frame with his huge member.

They say that it wasn’t the beauty of the Venetian mare that had aroused the Frankish stallion-though she was indeed striking-but the act of taking a particular mare and painting a picture in her exact likeness. Now, the question arises: Is it sinful to be depicted as that mare had been, that is, like a real mare? In my case, as you can see, there is very little difference between my image and other pictures of horses.

Actually, those of you who pay particular attention to the grace of my midsection, the length of my legs and the pride of my bearing will understand that I am indeed unique. But these excellent features point to the uniqueness of the miniaturist who illustrated me, not to my uniqueness as a horse. Everyone knows that there’s no horse exactly like me. I’m simply the rendering of a horse that exists in a miniaturist’s imagination.

Looking at me, observers frequently say, “Good God, what a gorgeous horse!” But they’re actually praising the artist, not me. All horses are in fact distinct, and the miniaturist, above all, ought to know this.

Take a close look, even a given stallion’s organ doesn’t resemble another’s. Don’t be afraid, you can examine it up close, and even take it in your hands: My God-given marvel has a shape and curve all its own.

Now then, all miniaturists illustrate all horses from memory in the same way, even though we’ve each been uniquely created by Allah, Greatest of all Creators. Why do they take pride in simply rendering thousands and tens of thousands of horses in the same way without ever truly looking at us? I’ll tell you why: Because they’re attempting to depict the world that God perceives, not the world that they see. Doesn’t that amount to challenging God’s unity, that is-Allah forbid-isn’t it saying that I could do the work of God? Artists who are discontent with what they see with their own eyes, artists who draw the same horse a thousand times asserting that what rests in their imagination is God’s horse, artists who claim that the best horse is what blind miniaturists draw from memory, aren’t they all committing the sin of competing with Allah?

The new styles of the Frankish masters aren’t blasphemous, quite the opposite, they’re the most in keeping with our faith. I pray that my Erzurumi brethren don’t misunderstand me. It displeases me that Frankish infidels parade their women around half naked, indifferent to pious modesties, that they don’t understand the pleasures of coffee and handsome boys, and that they roam about with clean-shaven faces, yet with hair as long as women’s, claiming that Jesus is also the Lord God-Allah protect us. I become so aggravated by these Franks that if I ever came across one, I’d give him a good mule kick.

Still, I’m sick of being incorrectly depicted by miniaturists who sit around the house like ladies and never go off to war. They’ll depict me at a gallop with both of my forelegs extended at the same time. There isn’t a horse in this world that runs like a rabbit. If one of my forelegs is forward, the other is aft. Contrary to what’s depicted in battle illustrations, there isn’t a horse in this world that extends one foreleg like a curious dog, leaving the other firmly planted on the ground. There is no spahi cavalry division in existence whose horses saunter in unison, as if traced with an identical stencil twenty times back to back. We horses scrounge for and eat the green grass at our feet when nobody is looking. We never assume a statuesque stance and wait around elegantly, the way we’re shown in paintings. Why is everybody so embarrassed about our eating, drinking, shitting and sleeping? Why are they afraid to depict this wondrous God-given and unique implement of mine? On the sly, women and children, in particular, love to stare at it, and what’s the harm in this? Is the Hoja from Erzurum against this as well?

They say that once upon a time there was a feeble and nervous shah in Shiraz. He was in mortal fear that his enemies would have him deposed so his son could assume the throne; rather than sending the prince to Isfahan as provincial governor, he imprisoned him in the most out of the way room of his palace. The prince grew up and lived in this makeshift cell, which looked onto neither courtyard nor garden, for thirty-one years. After his father’s allotted time on Earth ran out, the prince, who’d lived alone with his books, ascended the throne and declared: “I command that you bring me a horse. I’ve always seen pictures of them in books, and am curious about them.” They brought him the most beautiful gray steed in the palace, but when the new king saw that the horse had nostrils like mine-shafts, a shameless ass, a coat duller than in the illustrations and a brutish rump, he was so disenchanted that he had all the horses in his kingdom massacred. After this brutal slaughter, which lasted forty days, all the kingdom’s rivers flowed a somber red. But Exalted Allah did not refrain from meting out His justice: The king now had no cavalry whatsoever, and when faced with the army of his archenemy, the Turkmen Bey of the Blacksheep clan, he was routed and, in the end, hacked apart. Let there be no doubt: As all the histories will reveal, the nation of horses had taken its revenge.