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consistency of paint upon their fingernails after his own nails were pletely
filled； and the portly artist who made us laugh as he caressed his beard with
the furry rabbit’s foot used to collect the excess flecks of gold dust used in
gilding？ Where were they all？
Where were the burnishing boards which were used so much they became a
part of the apprentices’ bodies and then just tossed aside； and the long paper
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scissors that the apprentices dulled by playing “swordsman”？ Where were the
writing boards inscribed with the names of the great masters so they wouldn’t
get mixed up； the aroma of China ink and the faint rattle of coffeepots aboil in
the silence？ Where were the various brushes we made of hairs from the necks
and inner ears of kittens born to our tabby cats each summer； and the great
sheaves of Indian paper given to us so； in idle moments； we could practice our
artistry the way calligraphers did？ Where was the ugly steel…handled penknife
ission from the Head Illuminator； thus providing a
deterrent to the entire workshop when we had to scrape away large mistakes；
and what happened to the rituals that surrounded these mistakes？
We also agreed that it was wrong for the Sultan to allow the master
miniaturists to work at home。 We recalled the marvelous warm halva that
came to us from the palace kitchen on early winter evenings after we’d
worked with aching eyes by the light of oil lamps and candles。 Laughing and
with tears in our eyes； we remembered how the elderly and senile master
gilder； who was stricken with chronic trembling and could take up neither pen
nor paper； on his monthly workshop visits brought fried dough…balls in heavy
syrup that his daughter had made for us apprentices。 We talked about the
exquisite pages rendered by the dearly departed Black Memi； Head Illuminator
before Master Osman； discovered in his room； which remained empty for days
after his funeral； within the portfolio found beneath the light mattress he’d
spread out and use for catnaps in the afternoons。
We talked about and named the pages we took pride in and would want to
take out and look at now and again if we had copies of them； the way Master
Black Memi had。 They explained how the sky on the upper half of the palace
picture made for the Book of Skills； illuminated with gold wash； foreshadowed
the end of the world； not due to the gold itself； but due to its tone between
towers； domes and cypresses—the way gold ought to be used in a polite
rendition。
They described a portrayal of Our Exalted Prophet’s bewilderment and
ticklishness； as angels seized him by his underarms during his ascension to
Heaven from the top of a minaret； a picture of such grave colors that even
children； upon seeing the blessed scene； would first tremble with pious awe
and then laugh respectfully as if they themselves were being tickled。 I explained
how along one edge of a page I’d memorated the previous Grand Vizier’s
suppression of rebels who’d taken to the mountains by delicately and
respectfully arranging the heads he’d severed； tastefully drawing each one； not
as an ordinary corpse’s head； but as an individual and unique face in the
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manner of a Frankish portraitist； furrowing their brows before death； dabbing
red onto their necks； making their sorroeaning of
life； opening their nostrils to one final； desperate breath； and shutting their
eyes to this world； and thus； I’d imbued the painting with a terrifying aura of
mystery。
As if they were our own unforgettable and unattainable memories； we
wistfully discussed our favorite scenes of love and war； recalling their most
magnificent wonders and tear…inducing subtleties。 Isolated and mysterious
gardens where lovers met on starry nights passed before our eyes： spring trees；
fantastic birds； frozen time…We imagined bloody battles as immediate and
alarming as our own nightmares； bodies torn in two； chargers with blood…
spattered armor； beautiful men stabbing each other with daggers； the small…
mouthed； small…handed； slanted…eye； bowed women watching events from
barely open windows…We recalled pretty boys who were haughty and
conceited； and handsome shahs and khans； their power and palaces long lost
to history。 Just like the women who wept together in the harems of those
shahs； we now knew we were passing from life into memory； but were we
passing from history into legend as they had？ To avoid being drawn further
into a realm of horror by the lengthening shadows of the fear of being
forgotten—even more terrifying than the fear of dying—we asked each other
about our favorite scenes of death。
The first thing to e to mind was the way Satan duped Dehhak into
killing his father。 At the time of that legend； which is described in the
beginning of the Book of Kings； the world had been newly created； and
everything was so basic that nothing needed explanation。 If you wanted milk；
you simply milked a goat and drank； you’d say “horse；” then mount it and
ride away； you’d contemplate “evil” and Satan would appear and convince
you of the beauty of murdering your own father。 Dehhak’s murder of Merdas；
his father of Arab descent； was beautiful； both because it was unprovoked and
because it occurred at night in a magnificent palace garden while golden stars
gently illuminated cypresses and colorful spring flowers。
Next； we recalled legendary Rüstem； who unknowingly killed his son
Suhrab； mander of the enemy army that Rüstem had battled for three
days。 There was something that touched us all in the way Rüstem beat his
breast in tearful anguish when he saw the armband he had given the boy’s
mother years ago and recognized as his own son the enemy whose chest he’d
ravished with thrusts of the sword。
What was that something？
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The rain continued its patter on the roof of the dervish lodge and I paced
back and forth。 Suddenly I said the following：
“Either our father； Master Osman； will betray and kill us； or we shall betray
and kill him。”
We were stricken with horror because what I said rang absolutely true； we
fell silent。 Still pacing； and panicked by the thought that everything would
revert to its former state； I told myself the following： “Tell the story of
Afrasiyab’s murder of Siyavush to change the subject。 But that’s a betrayal
such as fails to frighten me。 Recount the death of Hüsrev。” All right then； but
should it be the version told by Firdusi in the Book of Kings or the one told by
Nizami in Hüsrev and Shirin？ The pathos of the account in the Book of Kings
rests in Hüsrev’s tearful realization of the identity of the murderer intruding in
his bedroom