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- Herausgeber: Pushkin Children's Books
- Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
'Beautiful' THE TIMES, Children's Book of the Week 'Lyrical, magical, tender and true, and deeply mysterious' MICHAEL MORPURGO 'Unforgettable' PHILLIP PULLMAN __________ Long, long ago, a boy lies confined by sickness to his windowless bedchambers. He can never breathe fresh air or feel the warmth of the sun on his skin, so his doting father summons a painter to embellish his rooms with beautiful murals. Before long, the walls come alive with a vibrant world—a kaleidoscope of sherherds and lovers, criss-crossed by armies and pirate ships. Can the artist show this child the richness and beauty of life with nothing but paints and brushes?
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To my son Michele, who gives me the idea of love
Contents
1
In the Turkish city of Malatya lived a painter named Sakumat, who was neither young nor even old. He was the age at which wise men know how to be their own friend without risking their friendships with others.
Though the rocky valley of Malatya didn’t shine with great beauty, Sakumat painted wonderful landscapes and invented others, arranging shapes and colours just as—had they been real—a fine Creator would have done.
Many wealthy cattle owners, horse traders and textile merchants would summon Sakumat to their homes to have him embellish a corner, the back of a portico, or broaden the light on a windowsill by painting his colourful flowers. Yet even if no one had requested his artwork, Sakumat would have painted all the same, because to him brushes were like fingers and with each brushstroke he tenderly offered a drop of his life’s blood.
As for the landscapes he imagined, who knows where he’d seen them. Not even he knew. Perhaps they didn’t exist anywhere in the world or in any human dream. Yet looking at them, they were like real lands that one could smell and touch. The more a person looked at them, the more their body would slip away through their eyes and journey, whole and alive, to colourful realms full of peace.
2
One day a big, strong man knocked on Sakumat’s door. He wore a low turban typical of the valleys to the north of Malatya. “You are Sakumat, the painter?” he asked.
“And this is my home, man from the mountains. Who are you? And why have you come looking for me?”
“I am Kumdy, sceptre-bearer of the burban, Ganuan, lord of the land of Nactumal. On his command I have come to ask that you travel to our valley, to his palace, because he wishes to speak with you and commission from you a painting.”
Sakumat had never been to the northern valleys, but he had heard of them. He knew they were rugged, secluded lands, so he replied that he was very busy and could not accept the honour of the invitation.
“Ganuan, my lord the burban,” the emissary said, “imagined you would find the journey inconvenient. He gives you a gift of the horse you see tied to mine and wishes me to say that the work he would like to entrust to you is of great value, and just as great will be your payment.”
His eyes delighting in the beauty of the horse that pawed the ground behind the messenger, Sakumat reflected. More than the burban’s generosity and the promise of riches, he was curious as to why one of the proud, powerful lords of the mountains would insist in such a manner and tone. And so he objected no further, telling the messenger he wouldn’t accept the horse, since he had one that was old yet could still handle the journey. Then he asked Kumdy for a day to prepare his things and to bid his friends farewell.
The next day, having loaded his painting supplies onto the horse Lord Ganuan had offered him, Sakumat mounted his own old, black horse, which had been spending the later years of its life grazing peacefully at the edge of town.
The little caravan left behind the dale of Malatya, having crossed its flatland to the north, and began to climb the side of the broad northern valley. When the city had disappeared from sight behind them, they crossed a barren, parched region. A few stunted trees, like dying guardians of a conquered forest, stood out in the dull basin, which was covered with long tracts of rose-grey gravel. Brown lizards darted over the rocks as the horses neared. Occasionally, the swiftly moving shadow of a falcon frightened off the few wild goats.
After a whole day of travelling, just after sunset, Sakumat and his guide reached the edge of a vast plateau, a sort of suspended valley surrounded by grim, grey peaks. However, the scenery suddenly changed. The land stretching out before them was less arid than below, with patches of pastures and even small vineyards.
In the centre, nestled away in the distance, a village of white stone enjoyed the refreshing coolness of a cedar grove that rose up behind it like a gift from God. Between village and grove, even whiter than the other buildings, stood a huge palace, one as large as the greatest palace in Malatya, perhaps even larger.
Having crossed the farmlands and village streets, Sakumat was ushered into the palace. He admired the rich silence that reigned within, the cedar doors with gold decorations and the servants’ pearly velvet jackets.
Then he was led into a cool, spacious room with a large window that looked out over the palace wall, beyond the village. It offered, at a single glance, a view of the entire plateau, all the way back to the mountains encircling it.
The lord of Nactumal was announced. In walked a tall man who looked the same age as the painter but had short, greying hair. A dark, bushy moustache grew from his face like the crop from a past planting season.
“You are welcome in my land and my home,” said the burban. “Thank you for giving in to my messenger’s insistence and accepting my invitation. If I were a good host, as I should be, I would let you rest this evening and all night long, thinking only of your wellbeing. I would let this conversation wait until tomorrow morning. But anxiousness stirs in my breast, and like a strong young horse, the question I must ask you refuses to be still. I believe it will prance within my heart all night unless it is fed the hay that is your answer.”
Sakumat smiled and bowed slightly. “Your hospitality is perfect, sire,” he said. “As for your question, it will have an honest answer from me. And if it’s simply impossible for me to give you one right away, then I’ll have tonight to consider it, and so we’ll have saved time. Now make your request, sire, because from all I’ve heard so far, it seems different from those I normally receive, and this has made me quite curious.”
The burban also smiled, and he sat down on the room’s carpet, which was as big as one to be found in a mosque. Sakumat sat down facing him.
“I have only one child, a young son named Madurer,” the burban said slowly. “He suffers from a strange illness: every trace of sunshine and dust is harmful to him: his eyes swell, he grows short of breath, a rash and even sores form on his skin. He cannot go outdoors, and run and play in the palace gardens as my servants’ children do. Furthermore, he cannot live in a room like this, with a window that lets the mountain air and sunlight enter freely and abundantly. All the doctors in Turkey who boast science and knowledge have visited this palace. All have explained to me, each with great skill, the mysterious, incurable nature of his illness. Some have heard of similar cases in other lands or other times. Some speak of harmful substances that my son’s body absorbs from the air, which the sunlight makes even more harmful. Yet what these substances are and how my child can be protected from them, they cannot say. They all strongly recommended that Madurer live in the most sheltered, innermost area of the palace. He can only breathe air filtered through layers of damp gauze, and he can have neither windows nor direct sunlight, only illumination from covered skylights. And so it has been. For over five years now, since his affliction first appeared, my son has never left this palace, nor has he ever been allowed to stand at a window and enjoy the sunlight or a view of the valley. No plants or flowers or even vine clippings are permitted in his quarters as decoration, since soil, pollen and leaves are harmful to him.”
Having said this while looking Sakumat in the eye, the burban hung his head and fell silent for a long moment. The painter also sat in silence, waiting.
Ganuan looked up and said, “I would like my son’s rooms to be decorated with pictures and colours. I heard passing merchants and hunters speak of your work. This is why I summoned you. You will have no cause to complain about my hospitality or your reward when you leave. I beg you to accept.” Again the burban looked into Sakumat’s eyes and sighed deeply. His right hand, strong and dark, gripped his studded leather belt as one would grip the reins of a rebellious horse.
“May I ask a question, sire?” said the painter.
“All my attention is yours, and I will answer with all the truth within me,” the burban said.
“What do you wish me to paint in your son’s rooms?”
“Of that I have given no thought,” the burban said. “Your art and imagination may decide.”
“Here is another question. What is your son’s spirit like? Does his situation, so difficult for a child, make him unhappy? And are his face and body, as one might imagine, stunted and frail, like plants given no sunlight?”
For a moment the burban half closed his eyes. His grip on his belt relaxed. “These questions I will not answer, my friend,” he said, “not because I do not wish to, but because a father’s words are never those that best describe his child. Upon hearing them, you would be bound to wonder how great is my illusion and how deceitful my affection. But given that, unless I am mistaken, you have generously granted my wish, you will have your answer directly from the body and face and spirit of my beloved son. In the morning you will see for yourself.”
3
Madurer was a pale boy but not an unhappy one. He was almost eleven, yet his life of seclusion had slowed the growth of his body, and his features were those of a nine-year-old child. There was nothing stunted or frail about him though: his face was bright and graceful, his eyes steady and dark, his hair thick and raven-black. His complexion was as fair as his father’s. The linen robes he wore were embroidered with threads of a hundred colours, the result of the excellent craftsmanship of the elderly women who looked after him and kept the rooms in which he lived spotlessly clean.
When the burban took Sakumat to see him, the boy kissed his father’s hands and greeted the stranger with a little bow, looking at him with curiosity.
