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corpses sliced in two; the clash of opposing armies; the soldiers of the
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miserable infidels quaking before our cannon; the troops defending the
crenellated towers of besieged castles; rebels being decapitated and the fury of
horses attacking at full gallop。 I mit everything I behold to memory: a new
coffee grinder; a style of window grating that I’ve never seen before; a cannon;
the trigger of a new style of Frankish rifle; who wore what color robe during a
feast; who ate what; who placed his hand where and how…”
“What are the morals of the three stories you’ve told?” asked Black in a
manner that summed everything up and ever so slightly called me to account。
“Alif;” I said。 “The first story with the minaret demonstrates that no matter
how talented a miniaturist might be; it is time that makes a picture ”perfect。“
”Ba;“ the second story with the harem and the library; reveals that the only
way to escape time is through skill and illustrating。 As for the third story; you
proceed to tell me; then。”
“Djim!” said Black confidently; “the third story about the one…hundred…
and…nieen…year…old miniaturist unites ”Alif‘ and “Ba’ to reveal how time
ends for the one who forsakes the perfect life and perfect illuminating; leaving
nothing but death。 Indeed; this is what it demonstrates。”
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I AM CALLED “OLIVE”
After the midday prayers; I was ever so swiftly yet pleasurably drawing the
darling faces of boys when I heard a knock at the door。 My hand jerked in
surprise。 I put down my brush。 I carefully placed the work…board that was on
my knees off to the side。 Rushing like the wind; I said a prayer before opening
the door。 I won’t withhold anything from you; because you; who can hear me
from within this book; are much nearer to Allah than we in this filthy and
miserable world of ours。 Akbar Khan; the Emperor of Hindustan and the
world’s richest shah; is preparing what will one day bee a legendary book。
To plete his project; he sent word to the four corners of Islamdom inviting
the world’s greatest artists to join him。 The men he’d sent to Istanbul visited
me yesterday; inviting me to Hindustan。 This time; I opened the door to find;
in their place; my childhood acquaintance Black; about whom I’d forgotten
entirely。 Back then he wasn’t able to keep our pany; he was jealous of us。
“Yes?”
He said he’d e to converse; to pay a friendly visit; to have a look at my
illustrations。 I weled him so he might see it all。 I learned he’d just today
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