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