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lemon juice； then quietly entered my father’s pany as he was reading the
Book of the Soul； and like a spirit myself； placed it before him without making
my presence known； as he preferred。
“Is it snowing？” he asked in such a faint and melancholy voice that I
understood at once this would be the last snowfall my poor father would ever
see。
53
I AM A TREE
I am a tree and I am quite lonely。 I weep in the rain。 For the sake of Allah；
listen to what I have to say。 Drink down your coffee so your sleep abandons
you and your eyes open wide。 Stare at me as you would at jinns and let me
explain to you why I’m so alone。
1。 They allege that I’ve been hastily sketched onto nonsized； rough paper so
the picture of a tree might hang behind the master storyteller。 True enough。 At
this moment； there are no other slender trees beside me； no seven…leaf steppe
plants； no dark billowing rock formations which at times resemble Satan or a
man and no coiling Chinese clouds。 Just the ground； the sky； myself and the
horizon。 But my story is much more plicated。
2。 As a tree； I need not be part of a book。 As the picture of a tree； however；
I’m disturbed that I’m not a page within some manuscript。 Since I’m not
representing something in a book； what es to mind is that my picture will
be nailed to a wall and the likes of pagans and infidels will prostrate
themselves before me in worship。 May the followers of Erzurumi Hoja not
hear that I secretly take pride in this thought—but then I’m overe with
the utmost fear and embarrassment。
3。 The essential reason for my loneliness is that I don’t even know where I
belong。 I was supposed to be part of a story； but I fell from there like a leaf in
autumn。 Let me tell you about it：
Falling from My Story Like a Leaf Falls in Fall
Forty years ago； the Persian Shah Tahmasp； who was the archenemy of the
Ottomans as well as the world’s greatest patron…king of the art of painting；
began to grow senile and lost his enthusiasm for wine； music； poetry and
painting； furthermore； he quit drinking coffee； and naturally； his brain
stopped working。 Full of the suspicions of a long…faced； dark…spirited old
geezer； he transferred his capital from Tabriz； which was then Persian territory；
to Kazvin so it would be farther from the Ottoman armies。 One day when he
had grown even older； he was possessed by a jinn； had a nervous fit； and
begging God’s forgiveness； pletely swore off wine； handsome young boys
54
and painting； which is proof enough that after this great shah lost his taste for
coffee； he also lost his mind。
This was why the divinely inspired bookbinders； calligraphers； gilders and
miniaturists； who created the greatest masterpieces in the world over a
twenty…year period in Tabriz； scattered like a covey of partridges to other cities。
Shah Tahmasp’s nephew and son…in…law； Sultan Ibrahim Mirza； invited the
most gifted among them to Mashhad； where he served as provincial governor；
and settled them in his miniaturists’ workshop to copy out a marvelous
illuminated and illustrated manuscript of all seven fables of the Seven Thrones
of Jami—the greatest poet in Herat during the reign of Tamerlane。 Shah
Tahmasp； who both admired and envied his intelligent and handsome nephew；
and regretted having given his daughter to him； was consumed by jealousy
when he heard about this magnificent book and angrily ousted his nephew
from the post of Governor of Mashhad； banishing him to the city of Kain；
before sending him off to the smaller town of Sebzivar in a renewed fit of
anger。 The calligraphers and illuminators of Mashhad thereupon dispersed to
other cities and regions； to the book…arts workshops of other sultans and
princes。
Miraculously； however； Sultan Ibrahim Mirza’s marvelous volume did not
remain unfinished； for in his service he had a devoted librarian。 This man
would travel on horseback all the way to Shiraz where the best master gilders
lived； then he’d take a couple pages to Isfahan seeking the most elegant
calligraphers of Nestalik script； afterward he’d cross great mountains till he’d
made it all the way to Bukhara where he’d arrange the picture’s position
and have the figures drawn by the great master painter who worked under the
Uzbek Khan； next he’d go down to Herat to mission one of its half…blind
old masters to paint from memory the sinuous curves of plants and leaves；
visiting another calligrapher in Herat； he’d direct him to inscribe； in gold Rika
script； the sign above a door within the picture； finally； he’d be off again to the
south； to Kain； where displaying the half…page he had finished during his six
months of traveling； he’d receive the praises of Sultan Ibrahim Mirza。
At this pace； it was clear that the book would never be pleted； so
mounted Tatar couriers were hired。 In addition to the manuscript leaf； which
was to receive artwork and scripted text； each horseman was given a letter
describing the desired work in question to the artist。 Thus； messengers
carrying manuscript pages passed over the roads of Persia； Khorasan； the Uzbek
territory and Transoxania。 The creation of the book sped up with the fleet
messengers。 At times； on a snowy night； Chapter 11 and 29； for example；
55
would cross paths in a caravansary wherein the howlings of wolves could be
heard； and as they struck up a friendly conversation； they’d discover that they
were working on the same book project and would try to determine between
themselves where and in which fable the prospective pages； retrieved from
their rooms for this purpose； actually belonged。
I was meant to be among the pages of this illustrated manuscript that I
sadly heard was pleted today。 Unfortunately； on a cold winter’s day； the
Tatar courier who was carrying me as he crossed a rocky mountain pass was
ambushed by thieves。 First they beat the poor Tatar； then they robbed him and
raped him in a manner befitting thieves before mercilessly killing him。 As a
result； I know nothing about the page I’ve fallen from。 My request is that you
look at me and ask： “Were you perhaps meant to provide shade for Mejnun
disguised as a shepherd as he visited Leyla in her tent？” or “Were you meant to
fade into the night； representing the darkness in the soul of a wretched and
hopeless man？” How I would’ve wanted to plement the happiness of two
lovers who fled from the whole world； traversing oceans to find solace on an
island rich with birds and fruit！ I would’ve wanted to shade Alexander during
the final moments of his life on his campaign to conquer Hindustan as he died
from a persistent nosebleed brought on by sunstroke。 Or was I meant to
symbolize the strength and wisdom of a father offering advice on love and life
to his son？ Ah； to which story was I meant to add meaning and grace？
Among the brigands who’d killed the messenger and taken me with them；
dragging me headlong from mountain to mountain and city to city； there was
a thief who occasionally understood my worth； and had the refinement to
realize that looking at the drawing of a tree is more pleasant than looking at a
tree； but because he didn’t know to which story I belonged； he quickly tired of
me。 After dragging me from city to city； this rogue didn’t tear me apart and
dispose of me as I’d feared he might； but sold me to a cultivated man in a
caravansary for a jug of wine。 Sometimes at night this unfortunate delicate…
spirited man would stare at me by candlelight and cry。 In time； he died of grief
and they sold his belongings。 Thanks to the master storyteller who purchased
me； I’ve e all the way to Istanbul。 N