would impress his master。 “We could pare the
colors and embroidery of the saddle blanket to those in the other pictures。”
“My master miniaturists wouldn’t even deign to lower a brush to these
designs。 Apprentices draw the clothes； carpets and blankets in the pictures。
Perhaps the late Elegant Effendi might’ve done them。 Forget them。”
“What about the ears？” I said in a fluster。 “The ears of the horses…”
“No。 These ears haven’t changed form since the time of Tamerlane； they’re
just like the leaves of reeds； which we well know。”
I was about to say； “What about the braiding of the mane and the
depiction of every strand of its hair；” but I fell silent； not at all amused by this
master…apprentice game。 If I’m the apprentice； I ought to know my place。
“Take a look here；” said Master Osman with the distressed yet attentive air
of a doctor pointing out a plague pustule to a colleague。 “Do you see it？”
He’d moved the magnifying lens over the horse’s head and was slowly
pulling it away from the surface of the picture。 I lowered my head to better see
what was being enlarged through the lens。
The horse’s nose was peculiar： its nostrils。
“Do you see it？” said Master Osman。
292
To be certain of what I saw； I thought I should center myself right behind
the lens。 When Master Osman did likewise； we met cheek to cheek just behind
the lens that was now quite a distance from the picture。 It momentarily
alarmed me to feel the harshness of the master’s dry beard and the coolness of
his cheek on my face。
A silence。 It was as if something wondrous were happe