My Name is Red

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 competition. As you command, 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 come 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 complete. 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 coming into being, with a robust, rounded body not unlike my own: Everyone will be stunned by this horse. I thought about the sweet comments Our Sultan would make when I won the prize; He’d present me with a purse of gold coins; and I 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 overcome 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 become 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 become a great master of old drawing that horse.