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apprentice or even randomly stopped anyone passing by to test the

consistency of paint upon their fingernails after his own nails were completely

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

whose use required permission 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 commemorated 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 sorrowful lips inquire after the meaning 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 come 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, commander 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 chamber! As a last resort, saying that he wants to perform his

prayers, Hüsrev sends the servant boy attending him to fetch water, soap, clean

clothes and his prayer rug; the naive boy, without understanding that his

master has sent him for help, goes to gather the requested items. Once alone

with Hüsrev, the murderer’s first task is to lock the door from the inside. In

this scene at the end of the Book of Kings, the man whom the conspirators

found to enact the murder is described by Firdusi with disgust: He is foul

smelling, hairy and pot-bellied.

I paced to and fro, my head swarmed with words, but as in a dream, my

voice would not take.

Just then I sensed that the others were whispering among themselves,

maligning me.

They were so quick to take out my legs that the four of us collapsed to the

floor. There was a struggle and fight on the ground, but it was brief. I lay

faceup on the floor beneath the three of them.

One of them sat on my knees. Another on my right arm.

Black pressed a knee into each of my shoulders; he firmly situated his

weight between my stomach and chest, and sat on me. I was completely

immobilized. All of us were stunned and breathing hard. This is what I

remembered:

My late uncle had a rogue son two years older than me—I hope he’s been

caught in the act of raiding caravans and has long since been beheaded. This

jealous beast, realizing I knew more than he and was also more intelligent and

refined, would find any excuse to pick a fight, or else he’d insist that we

wrestle, and after quickly pinning me, he’d hold me down with his knees on

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my shoulders in this same way; he’d stare into my eyes, the way Black was

now doing, and let a string of saliva hang down, slowly directing it toward my

eyes as it gained mass, and he’d be greatly entertained as I tried to avoid it by

turning my head to the right and to the left.

Black told me not to hide anything. Where was the last picture? Confess!

I felt suffocating regret and anger for two reasons: First, I’d said everything I

had for naught, unaware that they’d come to an agreement beforehand;

secondly, I hadn’t fled, unable to imagine that their envy would reach this

level.

Black threatened to cut my throat if I didn’t produce the last picture.

How very ridiculous. I firmly closed my lips, as if the truth would escape if I

opened my mouth. Part of me also thought that there was nothing left for me

to do. If they came to an agreement among themselves and turned me over to

the Head Treasurer as the murderer, they’d end up saving their own hides. My

only hope lay with Master Osman, who might point out another suspect or

another clue; but then, could I be certain what Black said about him was

correct? He could kill me here and now, and later place the onus on me,

couldn’t he?

They rested the dagger against my throat, and I saw at once how this gave

Black a pleasure that he could not conceal. They slapped me. Was the dagger

cutting my skin? They slapped me again.

I was able to work through the following logic: If I held my peace, nothing

would happen! This gave me strength. They could no longer hide the fact that

since the days of our apprenticeships they’d been jealous of me; I, who quite

evidently applied paint in the best manner, drew the steadiest line and made

the best illuminations. I loved them for their extreme envy. I smiled upon my

beloved brethren.

One of them, I don’t want you to know which of them was responsible for

this disgrace, passionately kissed me as if he were kissing the beloved he’d long

desired. The others watched by the light of the oil lamp that they brought near

to us. I could not but respond in kind to this kiss from my beloved brother. If

we’re nearing the end of everything, let it be known that I do the best

illuminating. Find my pages and see for yourselves.

He began to beat me angrily, as if I’d enraged him by answering his kiss

with a kiss. But the others restrained him. They experienced a moment of

indecision. Black was upset that there was a scuffle among them. It was as if

they weren’t angry with me, but with the direction in which their lives were

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headed, and as a result, they wanted to take their revenge against the entire

world.

Black removed an object from his sash: a needle with a sharpened point. In

an instant, he brought it to my face and made a gesture as if to plunge it into

my eyes.

“Eighty years ago, the great Bihzad, master of masters, understood that

everything was coming to an end with the fall of Herat, and honorably blinded

himself so nobody would force him to paint in another way,” he said. “A short

while after he deliberately inserted this plume needle into his own eye and

removed it, God’s exquisite darkness slowly descended over His beloved

servant, this artist with the miraculous hand. This needle which came from

Herat to Tabriz with the now drunk and blind Bihzad, was sent as a present by

Shah Tahmasp to Our Sultan’s father, along with that legendary Book of Kings.

At first, Master Osman was unable to determine why this object was sent. But

today, he was able to see the ill will and just logic behind this cruel present.

After Master Osman understood that Our Sultan wanted to have His own

portrait made in the style of the European masters and that you all, whom he

loved more than his own children, had betrayed him, he stuck this needle into

each of his eyes last night in the Treasury—in imitation of Bihzad. Now, if I

were to blind you, the accursed man responsible for bringing to ruin the

workshop Master Osman established at the expense of his entire life, what of

it?”

“Whether or not you blind me, in the end, we’ll no longer be able to find a

place for ourselves here,” I said. “If Master Osman truly goes blind, or passes

away, and we paint the way we feel like painting, embracing our faults and

individuality under the influence of the Franks so we might possess a style, we

might resemble ourselves, but we won’t be ourselves. No, even if we were to

agree to paint like the old masters, reasoning that only in this way could we be

ourselves, Our Sultan, who’s turned His back even on Master Osman, will find

others to replace us. No one will look at us anymore, we shall only incur pity.

The raiding of the coffeehouse merely rubs salt into our wounds, because half

the blame for this incident will fall to us miniaturists, who’ve slandered the

respected preacher.”

Although I tried at length to persuade them that it would work quite