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Islamic Caliph Our Exalted Sultan； in the thousandth year of the Hegira。 He
requested that I prepare the illuminated manuscript in utmost secrecy；
primarily to conceal its purpose as an olive branch extended to the Veians；
but also to avoid aggravating workshop jealousies。 And in a state of great
elation and sworn to secrecy； I embarked upon this venture。”
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I AM YOUR BELOVED UNCLE
And so it was on that Friday morning； I began to describe the book that would
contain Our Sultan’s portrait painted in the Veian style。 I broached the
topic to Black by recounting how I’d brought it up with Our Sultan and how
I’d persuaded him to fund the book。 My hidden purpose was to have Black
write the stories—which I hadn’t even begun—that were meant to
acpany the illustrations。
I told him I’d pleted most of the book’s illustrations and that the last
picture was nearly finished。 “There’s a depiction of Death；” I said； “and I had
the most clever of miniaturists； Stork； illustrate the tree representing the
peacefulness of Our Sultan’s worldly realm。 There’s a picture of Satan and a
horse meant to spirit us far far away。 There’s a dog； always cunning and wily；
and also a gold coin…I had the master miniaturists depict these things with
such beauty；” I told Black； “that if you saw them but once； you’d know
straightaway what the corresponding text ought to be。 Poetry and painting；
words and color； these things are brothers to each other； as you well know。”
For a while； I pondered whether I should tell him I might marry off my
daughter to him。 Would he live together with us in this house？ I told myself
not to be taken in by his rapt attention and his childlike expression。 I knew he
was scheming to elope with my Shekure。 Still； I could rely on nobody else to
finish my book。
Returning together from the Friday prayers； we discussed “shadow；” the
greatest of innovations manifest in the paintings of the Veian masters。 “If；”
I said； “we intend to make our paintings from the perspective of pedestrians
exchanging pleasantries and regarding their world； that is； if we intend to
illustrate from the street； we ought to learn how to account for—as the Franks
do—what is； in fact； most prevalent there： shadows。”
“How does one depict shadow？” asked Black。
From time to time； as my nephew listened； I perceived impatience in him。
He’d begin to fiddle with the Mongol inkpot he’d given me as a present。 At
times； he’d take up the iron poker and stoke the fire in the stove。 Now and
then I imagined that he wanted to lower that poker onto my head and kill me
because I dared to move the art of illustrating away from Allah’s perspective；
because I would betray the dreams of the masters of Herat and their entire
tradition of painting； because I’d duped Our Sultan into already doing so。
Occasionally； Black would sit dead still for long stretches and fix his eyes deeply
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into mine。 I could imagine what he was thinking： “I’ll be your slave until I can
have your daughter。” Once； as I would do when he was a child； I took him out
into the yard and tried to explain to him； as a father might； about the trees；
about the light falling onto the leaves； about the melting snow and why the
houses seemed to shrink as we moved away from them。 But this was a
mistake： It proved only that our former filial relationship had long since
collapsed。 Now patient sufferance of the rantings of a demented old man had
taken the place of Black’s childhood curiosity and passion for knowledge。 I was
just an old man whose daughter was the object of Black’s love。 The influence
and experience of the countries and cities that my nephew had traveled
through for a dozen years had been fully absorbed by his soul。 He was tired of
me； and I pitied him。 And he was angry； I assumed； not only because I hadn’t
allowed him to marry Shekure twelve years ago—after all； there was no other
choice then—but because I dreamed of paintings whose style transgressed the
precepts of the masters of Herat。 Furthermore； because I raved about this
nonsense with such conviction； I imagined my death at his hands。
I was not； however； afraid of him； on the contrary； I tried to frighten him。
For I believed that fear was appropriate to the 。
“As in those pictures；” I said； “one ought to be able to situate oneself at the
center of the world。 One of my illustrators brilliantly depicted Death for me。
Behold。”
Thus I began to show him the paintings I’d secretly missioned from the
master miniaturists over the last year。 At first； he was a tad shy； even
frightened。 When he understood that the depiction of Death was inspired by
familiar scenes that could be found in many Book of Kings volumes—from the
scene of Afrasiyab’s decapitation of Siyavush； for example； or Rüstem’s murder
of Suhrab without realizing this e interested in
the subject。 Among the pictures that depicted the funeral of the late Sultan
Süleyman was one I’d made with bold but sad colors； bining a
positional sensibility inspired by the Franks with my own attempt at
shading—which I’d added later。 I pointed out the diabolic depth evoked by
the interplay of cloud and horizon。 I reminded him that Death was unique；
just like the portraits of infidels I had seen hanging in Veian palazzos； all of
them desperately yearned to be rendered distinctly。 “They want to be so
distinct and different； and they want this with such passion that；” I said；
“look； look into the eyes of Death。 See how men do not fear Death； but rather
the violence implicit in the desire to be one…of…a…kind； unique and exceptional。
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Look at this illustration and write an account of it。 Give voice to Death。 Here’s
paper and pen。 I shall give what you write to the calligrapher straightaway。”
He stared at the picture in silence。 “Who painted this？” he asked later。
“Butterfly。 He’s the most talented of the lot。 Master Osman had been in
love with and awed by him for years。”
“I’ve seen rougher versions of this depiction of a dog at the coffeehouse
where the storyteller performs；” Black said。
“My illustrators； most of whom are spiritually bound to Master Osman
and the workshop； take a dim view of the labors performed for my book。
When they leave here at night I imagine they have their vulgar fun over these
illustrations which they draw for money and ridicule me at the coffeehouse。
And who among them will ever forget the time Our Sultan had the young
Veian artist； whom He’d invited from the embassy at my behest； paint His
portrait。 Thereafter； He had Master Osman make a copy of that oil painting。
Forced to imitate the Veian painter； Master Osman held me responsible for
this unseem