第82部分(第4/7 頁)

Where’s　that　dwarf　gone　to？”　he　asked　again。

I　was　certain　that　the　wily　dwarf　was　hiding　in　some　niche　watching　us。　As

if　I　were　searching　him　out；　I　turned　my　shoulders　right　and　left；　but　kept　my

eyes　trained　attentively　on　Master　Osman。　Was　he　truly　blind　or　was　he　trying

to convince the world； including himself； that he was blind？ I’d heard that

some　untalented　and　inpetent　old　masters　from　Shiraz　feigned　blindness

in　their　old　age　to　curry　respect　and　to　prevent　others　from　mentioning　their

failures。

“I　would　like　to　die　here；”　he　said。

“My　great　master；　my　dear　sir；”　I　fawned；　“in　this　age　when　value　is　placed

not on painting but on the money one can earn from it； not on the old

masters but on imitators of the Franks； I so well understand what you’re

saying　that　it　brings　tears　to　my　eyes。　Yet　it　is　also　your　duty　to　protect　your

master　illustrators　from　their　enemies。　Please　tell　me；　what　conclusions　have

you　drawn　from　the　”courtesan　method‘？　Who　is　the　miniaturist　who　painted

that　horse？“

“Olive。”

He’d　said　this　with　such　ease　that　I　had　no　chance　to　be　surprised。

He　fell　silent。

“But　I’m　also　certain　that　Olive　wasn’t　the　one　who　murdered　your　Enishte

or　unfortunate　Elegant　Effendi；”　he　said　calmly。　“I　believe　that　Olive　drew　the

horse　because　he’s　the　one　who’s　most　bound　to　the　old　masters；　who　knows

most　intimately　the　legends　and　styles　of　Herat　and　whose　master…apprentice

genealogy　stretches　back　to　Samarkand。　Now　I　know　you　won’t　ask　me；　”Why

haven’t　we　encountered　these　nostrils　in　the　other　horses　that　Olive　drew　over

the　years？“　since　I’ve