第81部分(第1/7 頁)

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