I AM YOUR BELOVED UNCLE
Asilencefilledtheroomwhenhefessedhe’dmurderedElegantEffendi.Iassumedhe’dkillmeas
well.Myheartquied.Hadheeheretoendmylifeortofessandterrifyme?Didhehimselfknowwhathewanted?Iwasafraid,realizinghowabsolutelyunacquaintedIwaswiththeinnerworldofthismagnifitartistwhosesplendidlinesandmagicaluseofcolorhadbeenfamiliartomeforyears.Icouldsensehimstandingstifflybehihereatthenapeofmyneck,holdingthatlargeinkpotreservedforred,butIdidn’tturntofacehim.Iknewmysilenakehimuneasy.“Thedogshavequieteddown,”Isaid.
Wefellsilentagain.Thistime,Ikhatmydeath,ormysomehowavoidingthismisfortune,woulddependonwhatItoldhim.AllIknewasidefromhisworkwasthathewasquiteintelligent,andifyougrantthatanillustratormustneverrevealhissoulinhiswork,intelligenceis,ofcourse,a.Howhadheeredmeathomewhennooneelsewashere?Myagedmindwasfuriouslypreoccupiedwiththisquestion,butIwastoofusedtoseemyselfoutofthisgame.WherewasShekure?
“Youkwasme,didn’tyou?”heasked.
Ihadn’tknownatall,notuntilhetoldme.Inthebaind,Iwasevenwwhetherhehadn’tdonewellbykilliEffendi,andthatthelateminiaturistmight’veactuallysuccumbedtohisaiesandmadetroublefortherestofus.
Iwaseversoslightlygratefultothismurderer,withwhomIwasaloheemptyhouse.
“I’mnotsurprisedyoukilledhim,”Isaid.Menlikeuswholivewithbooksaernallyoftheirpagesfearonlyohinginthisworld.What’smore,we’restrugglingwithsomethingmoreforbiddenanddangerous;thatis,we’restrugglingtomakepicturesinaMuslimcity.AswithSheikhMuhammadofIsfahan,weminiaturistsareinedtofeelguiltyaful,we’rethefirsttoblameourselvesbeforeothersdo,tobeashamedandbegpardonofGodandtheunity.Wemakeourbooksilikeshamefulsinners.Iknowtoowellhowsubmissiontotheetacksofhojas,preachers,judgesandmysticswhoaccuseusofblasphemy,howtheendlessguiltbothdeadensandnourishestheartist’simagination.““Youdon’tfaultmeformurderingthatidiotiiaturist,doyouthen?”
“Whatattractsustowriting,illustratingandpaintingisboundupinthisfearofretribution.It’snotonlyformoneyandfavorthatwekneelbeforeourworkfrtoevening,tinuingbydlelightthroughthenighttothepointofblindnessandsacrificeourselvesforpicturesandbooks,it’stoescapetheprattleofothers,toescapetheunity,butintrasttothispassiontocreate,wealsowantthosewe’veforsakentoseeandappreciatetheinspiredpictureswe’vemade—andiftheyshouldcallussinners?Oh,thesufferingthisbringsupontheillustrateale,genuinepaintingishiddenintheagonynooneseesandnooes.It’staihepicture,whifirstsight,they’llsayisbad,inplete,blasphemousorheretical.Agenuineminiaturistknowshemustreachthatpoihesametime,hefearsthelonelihatawaitshimthere.Whowouldaccedetosuchafrightful,nerve-wragexistence?Byblaminghimselfbeforeanyoneelsedoes,theartistbelieves
he’llbesparedwhathe’sfearedforyears.Otherslistentohimandbelievehimonlywhenheadmitshisguilt,forwhichheisthenoburheillustratorofIsfahanlitthesehellfireshimself.”
“Butyou’renotaminiaturist,”hesaid.“Ididn’tkillhimoutoffear.”
“Youmurderedhimbecauseyouwaopaintasyouwished,withoutfear.”
Forthefirsttimeinalongwhile,theminiaturistiredtobemymurderersaidsomethingquiteintelligent:“Iknowyou’reexplainingallthistodistractme,todupeme,togetyourselfoutofthissituation,”andheadded,“butwhatyou’vejustsaidisthetruth.Iwantyoutouand,listentome.”
Ilookedintohiseyes.He’dpletelyfottentheformalityarybetweenusashespoke:He’dbeencarriedawaybyhisownthoughts.Buttowhere?
“Neverfear,Iwon’toffendyourhonor,”hesaid.Helaughedbitterlyashecircledaroundtofaceme.“Evennow,”hesaid,“asI’mdoingthis,itdoesobeme.It’sasifthere’ssomethingwrithingwithinmepelliodoitsevilbiddiIhatthingheless.It’sthatwaywithpainting,too.”
“Theseareoldwives’talesabouttheDevil.”
“YouthinkI’mlying,then?”
Hedidn’thaveenoughcetomurderme,sohewaehim.“Nay,you’renotlyingbutyou’renotaowledgingwhatyoufeeleither.”
“IaowledgeverywellwhatIfeel.I’msufferiormentsofthegravewithouthavingdied.Unawares,we’vesunktoournesinbecauseofyou,andnowyou’repreag”morece.“You’retheonewho’smademeamurderer.Hoja’srabidhenwillkillusall.”
Thelessfidenthebecame,themoreheraisedhisvoidthemorefiercelyhegrippedtheinkpot.Wouldsomebodypassingdownthesnowystreethearhisshoutingaerthehouse?
“Howdidyoukillhim?”Iasked,moretobuytimethanoutofcuriosity.“Howdidyoueetatthemouthofthatwell?”
“ThenightElegantEffeyourhouse,hecametome,”hesaid,withanueddesiretofess.“Hesaidhe’dseenthefinaldouble-leafpainting.Itriedatlengthtodissuadehimfrommakinganissueoutofit.Igothimtowalkovertothearearavagedbythefire.ItoldhimIhadmoneyburiedhewell.Whehat,hebelievedme…Whatbetterproofthatanillustratorismotivatedbygreedalohat’sanotherreasonI’mnotsorry.Hewasatalented,butmediocreartist.Thegreedyoaf
wasreadytodigintothefrozehwithhisfingernails.Yousee,ifItrulyhadgoldpiecesburiedbesidethatwell,Iwouldn’thavehadtodoawaywithhim.Yes,youhiredyourselfquiteamiserablewretchtodilding.Thedearlydepartedhadfihischoiceofcolorandapplicationwasordinary,andhisilluminationswereuninspired.Ididn’tleaveatrace…Tellme,then,whatistheessenceof”style“?Today,boththeFranksandtheesetalkaboutthecharacterofapaialent,whattheycall”style.“Shouldstyledistinguishagoodartistfromothersornot?”
“Fearnot,”Isaid,“ayledoesn’tspringfromaminiaturist’sowndesire.Aprincedies,ashahlosesabattle,aseeminglynever-endingeraends,aworkshopisclosedanditsmembersdisband,seargforotherhomesandotherbibliophilestobeetheirpatrons.Oneday,apassioanwillassembletheseexiles,thesebewilderedbuttalentedrefugeeminiaturistsandcalligraphers,inhisoworpaladbegiablishhisownbook-artsworkshop.Eveniftheseartists,unacedtooher,tifirstintheirrespectivepaintingstyles,overtime,aswithchildrenwhograduallybeefriendsbyroughhousingoreet,they’llquarrel,bond,struggleandpromise.Thebirthofayleistheresultofyearsofdisagreements,jealousies,rivalriesandstudiesincolorandpainting.Generally,it’llbethemostgiftedmemberoftheworkshopwhofathersthisform.Let’salsocallhimthemostfortuherestoftheminiaturistsfallsthesingulardutyofperfegandrefiningthisstylethroughperpetualimitation.”
Uolookmestraightintheeye,heassumedanuedgentlemanner,andbeggingmypassionasmuchasmyhoy,heaskedme,tremblinglikeamaiden:
“DoIhaveastyleofmyown?”
Ithoughttearswouldflowfrommyeyes.Withallthegentleness,sympathyandkindnessIuster,IhasteellhimwhatIbelievedtobethetruth:
“Youarethemosttalented,divinelyinspiredartistwiththemostentedtoudeyefordetailthatI’veseeninallmysixtyyears.Ifyouputapaintingbeforemewhichhadseenthebinedworkofathousandminiaturists,I’dstillbeabletantlytheGod-givenmagnificeofyourpen.”
“Agreed,butIknowyou’renotwiseenoughtoappreciatethemysteryofmyskill,”hesaid.“You’relying,now,becauseyou’reafraidofme.Describe,onceagain,thecharaethods.”
“Yourpeherightlineseeminglyofitsownaccord,asifwithoutyourtouch.Whatyourpendrawsishertruthfulnorfrivolous!Whenyouportrayacrowdedgathering,thetensionemergingfromtheglaweenfigures,theirpositioningonthepageandthemeaningofthetextmetamorphoseintoaeternalwhisper.Ireturntoyourpaintingsagainandagaihatwhisper,aime,Irealizewithasmilethatthemeaninghasged,andhoutit,Ibegihepaintinganew.Whentheselayersofmeaniakeher,adepthemergesthatsurpasseseventheperspectivismoftheEuropeanmasters.”
“Fineandwell.FetabouttheEuropeanmasters.Startfromthebeginning.”
“Youhavesuchatrulymagnifitandforcefullihattheobserverbelievesinwhatyou’vepaiherthayitself.Andjustasyourtalentcouldcreateapicturethatwouldforcethemostdevoutmantorenouncehisfaith,itcouldalsthemosthopeless,uantunbelievertoAllah’spath.”
“True,butI’mnotsurethatamountstopraise.Tryagain.”
“There’snominiaturistwhoknowsthesistencyofpaintanditssecretsaswellasyoudo.Youalrepareandapplytheglossiest,mostvibrant,mostgenuinecolors.”
“Yes,andwhatelse?”
“Youknowyou’rethegreatestofpaintersafterBihzadandMirSeyyidAli.”
“Yes,I’mawareofthis.Ifyouaretoo,whyareyoumakingthebookwiththatmodelofmediocrityBlackEffendi?”
“First,theworkhedoesdoesn’trequireaminiaturist’sskill,”Isaid.“Sed,unlikeyourself,he’snotamurderer.”
Hesmiledsweetlyuheinfluenyjoke.Withthis,IthoughtImightbeabletoescapethisnightmarethankstoanewexpression—thisword“style.”Uponmybroagthesubject,webeganapleasantdiscussioningthebronzeMongolinkpotheheld,notlikefatherandson,butliketwocuriousandexperienen.Theweightofthebrohebalaheinkpot,thedepthofitshelengthofoldcalligraphyreedpensaeriesofredink,whosesistencyhecouldfeelashegentlyswungtheinkpotbeforeme…WeagreedthatiftheMongolshadn’tbroughtthesecretsofredpaint—whichthey’dlearnedfromesemasters—toKhorasan,Bukharaa,weinIstanbulcouldn’tmakethesepaintingsatall.Aswetalked,thesistene,likethatofthepaint,seemedtoge,toflowevermorequickly.InaerofmymindIwaswwhynoonehadyetreturnedhome.Ifonlyhe’dputdownthatweightyobject.
Withouraryworkadayease,heaskedme,“Whenyourbookisfinished,willthosewhoseemyreciatemyskill?”
“Ifwe,Godwilling,finishthisbookwithoutinterference,OurSultanwilllookitover,ofcourse,chegfirsttoseewhetherweusedenoughgoldleafintheappropriateplaces.Then,asifreadingadescriptionofHimself,asanysultanwould,He’llstareathisownportrait,struckbyHisownlikenessratherthanbynifitillustrations;thereafter,ifHetakesthetimetoexamihespectaclewe’vepainstakinglyaedlycreatedattheexpehelightofoureyes,somuchthebetter.Youknow,aswellasI,thatbarringamiracle,He’lllockthebookawayinHistreasurywithouteven
askingwhomadetheframeildedilluminations,whopaihismanorthathorse—andlikeallskillfulartisans,we’llgobacktopainting,everhopefulthatonedayamiracleofaowledgmentwillfindus.”
Weweresilentforawhile,asifpatientlywaitingforsomething.
“Whenwillthatmiraclehappen?”heasked.“Whenwillallthosepaintingswe’veworkedonuntilwecouldnolongerseestraighttrulybeappreciated?Whenwilltheygiveme,giveus,therespectwedeserve?”
“Never!”
“Howso?”
“They’llnevergiveyouwhatyouwant,”Isaid.“Iure,you’llbeevenlessappreciated.”
“Bookslastforturies,”hesaidproudlybutwithoutfidence.
“Believeme,heVeianmastershaveyourpoetisibility,yourvi,yoursensitivity,thepurityandbrightnessofyourcolors,yettheirpaintingsaremorepellingbecausetheymorecloselyresemblelifeitself.Theydon’tpainttheworldasseenfromthebali,ignwhattheycallperspective;theydepictwhat’sseenatstreetlevel,orfromtheinsideofaprince’sroom,takinginhisbed,quilt,desk,mirror,histiger,hisdaughterandhiss.Theyincludeitall,asyouknow.I’mnotpersuadedbyeverythingtheydo.Attemptingtoimitatetheworlddirectlythroughpaintingseemsdishonorabletome.Iresentit.Butthere’sanundeniablealluretothepaintingstheymakebythosehods.Theydepictwhattheeyeseesjustastheeyeseesit.Iheypaintwhattheysee,whereaswepaintwhatwelookat.Beholdingtheirwork,oneestorealizethattheonlywaytohaveone’sfaceimmortalizedisthroughtheFrankishstyle.Andit’snotonlytheinhabitantsofVenicewhoarecapturedbythisnotion,butallthetailors,butchers,soldiers,priestsandgrocersinalltheFrankishlands…Theyallhavetheirportraitsmadethisway.Justaglahosepaintingsandyoutoowouldwanttoseeyourselfthisway,you’dwanttobelievethatyou’redifferentfromallothers,aunique,specialandparticuliarhumanbeing.Paintingpeople,notastheyareperceivedbythemind,butastheyareactuallyseenbythenakedeye,paintinginthehod,allowsforthispossibility.Onedayeveryonewillpaintastheydo.When”painting“ismentioheworldwillthinkoftheirwork!Evenapoorfoolishtailorwhouandsnothingofillustratingwillwantsuchaportraitsohemightbevinced,upoheuniquecurveofhishathe’snotanordinarysimpleton,butaraordinaryman.”
“So?Wemakethatportrait,aswell,”quippedthewittyassassin.
“Wewon’t!”Ireplied.“Haven’tyoulearnedfromyourvictim,thelateElegantEffendi,howafraidweareofbeinglabeledimitatorsoftheFranks?Eveurebravelytopaintlikethem,it’llamount
tothesamething.Intheend,ourmethodswilldieout,ourcolorswillfade.Noonewillcareaboutourbooksandourpaintings,andthosewhodoexpressiwillaskwithasneer,withnouandingwhatsoever,whythere’snoperspective—orelsetheywon’tbeabletofindthemanuscriptsatall.Indiffereimeanddisasterwilldestroyourart.TheArabianglueusedinthebindingstainsfish,honeyandbone,andthepagesaresizedandpolishedwithafinishmadefromeggwhiteandstarch.Greedy,shamelessmicewillnibblethesepagesaway;termites,wormsandathousandvarietiesofiwillgnawourmanuscriptsoutofexistence.Bindingswillfallapartandpageswilldropout.Womenlightioves,thieves,indifferentservantsandchildrenwillthoughtlesslytearoutthepagesandpictures.Childprinceswillscrawlovertheillustrationswithtoypens.They’llblapeople’seyes,wipetheirrunnyhepages,doodleinthemarginswithblak.Andreligioussorswillblaoutwhateverisleft.They’lltearandcutupourpaintings,perhapsusethemtomakeotherpicturesamesandsutertai.Whilemothersdestroytheillustrationstheysiderobse,fathersandolderbrotherswilljackoffontothepicturesofwomenandthepageswillsticktogether,notonlybecauseofthis,butalsoduetobeingsmearedwithmud,water,badglue,spitandallmanneroffilthandfood.Stainsofmoldanddirtwillblossomlikeflowerswherethepageshavestucktogether.Rain,leakyroofs,floodsanddirtwillruinourbooks.Ofcourse,togetherwiththetattered,fadedandunreadablepages,whichwater,humidity,bugsandwillhavereducedtopulp,theovolumeteintact,likeamiracle,fromthebottomofabone-drychestwillalsoonedaydisappear,swallowedupintheflamesofamercilessfire.IsthereaneighborhoodinIstanbulthathasn’tbeenburhegroundatleastonceeverytwehatwemightexpectsuchabooktosurvive?Inthiscity,whereeverythreeyearsmorebooksandlibrariesdisappearthanthosetheMongolsburnedandplunderedinBaghdad,aintercouldpossiblyimagihismasterpiecemightlastmorethaury,orthatonedayhispicturesmightbeseen,andhereveredlikeBihzad?Notonlyourownart,buteverysingleworkmadeinthisworldovertheyearswillvanishinfires,bedestroyedbywormsorbelostoutof:ShirinproudlywatgHüsrevfromawindow;HüsrevdelightfullyspyingonShirinasshebathesbymoonlight;lazingateachotherwithgradsubtlety;Rüstem’swrestlingawhitedemohatthebottomofawell;theanguishedstateofalovelornMejnunbefriendingawhitetigerandamountaingoatinthedesert;thecaptureandhangingofadeceitfulshepherddogwhopresentsasheepfromhisflocktotheshe-wolfhemateswitheaight;theflel,leafytwig,birdandteardropborderilluminations;theluteplayersthatembellishHafiz’senigmatis;thewallorionsthathaveruiheeyesofthousands,naytensofthousandsofminiaturistapprehesmallplaqueshungabovedoorsandonwalls;thecoupletssecretlywritteweentheembeddedbordersofillustrations;thehumblesignatureshiddenatthebasesofwalls,iners,infacadeembellishments,uhesolesoffeet,behshrubberyaweenrocks;theflower-coveredquiltsclovers;theseveredinfidelheadspatientlyawaitingOurSultan’slategrandfatherashevictoriouslymarchesuponanenemyfortress;theon,gunsahateveninyouryouthyouhelpedillustrateandthatappearedinthebackgroundastheambassadoroftheinfidelskissedthefeetofOurSultan’sgreat-grandfather;thedevils,withandwithouthorns,withandwithouttails,withpoieethandwithpointednails;thethousandsofvarietiesofbirdsincludingSolomon’swisehoopoe,thejumpingswallow,thedodoandthesingingnightiheseresalessdogs;fast-movingclouds;thesmallcharmingbladesofgrassreproduthousandsofpictures;theamateurishshadowsfallingacrossrodtensofthousandsofcypress,planeandpomegrareeswhoseleavesweredrawerahthepatienceofJob;thepalaces—and
theirhundredsofthousandsofbricks—whichweremodeledonpalacesfromthetimeofTamerlaneorShahTahmaspbutapaoriesfrommuchearliereras;thetensofthousandsofmelancholyprinceslisteningtomusicplayedbybeautifulwomenandboyssittingonmagnifitcarpetsinfieldsofflowersahfltrees;theextraordinarypicturesofceramidcarpetsthatowetheirperfetothethousandsofapprenticeillustratorsfromSamarkandtoIslambolbeatentothepointoftearsoverthelastonehundredfiftyyears;thesublimegardensandthesblackkitesthatyoustilldepictwithyouroldenthusiasm,yourastoundingsesofdeathandwar,yracefulhuntingsultans,andwiththesamefinesse,yourstartledfleeinggazelles,yourdyingshahs,yourprisonersofwar,yourinfidelgalleonsandyourrivalcities,yourshinydarknightsthatglimmerasifnightitselfhadflowedfromyourpen,yourstars,yhostlikecypresses,yourred-tintedpicturesofloveah,yoursandalltherest,allofitwillvanish…”
Raisingtheinkpot,hestruckmeontheheadwithallhisstrength.
Itotteredforwarduheforceoftheblow.IfeltahorriblepainthatIcouldnevereveodescribe.Theentireworldwasedinmypainandfadedtoyelloortionofmymindassumedthatthisattackwasiional;yet,alongwiththeblow—orperhapsbecauseofit—another,falteringpartofmymind,inasadshowofgoodwill,waosaytothemadmaniredtobemymurderer:“Havemercy,you’veattackedmeinerror.”
Heraisedtheinkpotagainandbroughtitdownuponmyhead.
Thistime,eveeringpartofmyminduoodthatthiswasnomistake,butmadnessandwraththatmightverywellendih.IwassoterrifiedbythisstateofaffairsthatIbegantoraisemyvoice,howlingwithallmystrengthandsuffering.Thecolorofthishowlwouldbeverdigris,andintheblaessofeveningoystreets,noonewouldbeabletohearitshue;IknewIwasallalone.
Hewasstartledbymywailaated.Wemomentarilycameeyetoeye.Icouldtellfromhispupilsthat,despitehishorrorandembarrassment,he’dresignedhimselftowhathewasdoing.HewasnolohemasterminiaturistIknew,butanunfamiliarandill-willedstrangerwhodidn’tspeakmylanguage,andthissensationprotractedmymomentaryisolationforturies.Iwaoholdhishand,asiftoembracethisworld;itwasofnouse.Ibegged,orthoughtIdid:“Mychild,mydearchild,pleasedonotendmylife.”Asifinadream,heseemednottohear.
Heloweredtheinkpotontomyheadagain.
Mythoughts,whatIsaw,mymemories,myeyes,allofit,mergingtogether,becamefear.Icouldseenoonecolorandrealizedthatallcolorshadbeered.WhatIthoughtwasmybloodwasredink;whatIthoughtwasinkonhishandswasmyflowingblood.
Howunjust,cruel,andmercilessIfoundittobedyingatthatinstahiswastheclusionthat
myagedandbloodyheadwasslowlyingto.ThenIsawit.Myrecolleswerestarkwhite,likethesnowoutside.Myheartachedasitthrobbedasifwithinmymouth.
Ishallnowdescribemydeath.Perhapsyou’veuoodthislongago:Deathisnottheend,thisiscertain.However,asitiswritteneverywhereinbooks,deathissomethingpainfulbeyondprehension.Itwasasifnotonlymyshatteredskullandbrainbuteverypartofme,mergingtogether,wasburningandrackedwithtorment.Withstandingthisboundlesssufferingwassodifficultthataportionofmymied—asifthiswereitsonlyoption—byfettingtheagonyandseekilesleep.
BeforeIdied,IrememberedtheAssyriahatIheardasanadolest.Anoldman,livingalone,risesfromhisbedinthemiddleofthenightanddrinksaglassofwater.Heplacestheglassupoabletodiscoverthedlethathadbeenthereismissing.Wherehaditgone?Afihreadoflightisfilteringfromwithin.Hefollowsthelight,retraghisstepsbacktohisbedroomtofindthatsomebodyislyinginhisbedholdingthedle.“Whomightyoube?”heasks.“IamDeath,”saysthestraheoldmanisoverebyamysterioussilehenhesays,“So,you’vee.”“Yes,”respohhaughtily.“No,”theoldmansaysfirmly,“you’rebutanunfinisheddreamofmiheoldmanabruptlyblowsoutthedleiranger’shandahingvanishesinblaess.Theoldmaershisowybed,goestosleepandlivesforawentyyears.
Ikhiswasnottobemyfate.Hebroughttheinkpotdownontomyheadonceagain.IwasinsuchastateofprofoundtormentthatIcouldonlyvaguelydistheimpact.He,theinkpotandtheroomilluminatedfaintlybythedlehadalreadybeguntofade.
Yet,Iwasstillalive.Mydesiretogtothisworld,torunawayandescapehim,theflailingofmyhandsandarmsinaoprotectmyfadbloodyhead,theway,Ibelieve,Ibithiswristatoime,andtheinkpotstrikingmyfacemademeawareofthis.
Westruggledforawhile,ifyoucallitthat.Hewasverystrongandveryagitated.Helaidmeoutflatonmyback.Pressinghiskomyshoulders,hepracticallyothegroundwhileheravedoninaverydisrespectfultone,accostingme,adyingoldman.PerhapsbecauseIcouldheruandnorlistentohim,perhapsbecauseItooknopleasureinlookingintohisbloodshoteyes,hestruckmyheadoncemore.Hisfadhisentirebodyhadbeebrightredfromtheinksplatteringoutoftheinkpot,andIsuppose,fromthebloodsplatteringoutofme.
SaddehatthelastthingI’deverseeinthisworldwasthismanwhowouldbemyenemy,Iyeyes.Thereupon,Isawasoft,gentlelight.ThelightwasassweetaigasthesleepIthoughtwouldstraightawayeaseallmypains.Isawafigurewithinthelightandasachildmight,Iasked,“Whoareyou?”
“ItisI,Azrael,theAngelofDeath,”hesaid.“Iamtheonewhoendsman’sjourhisworld.Iamtheonewhoseparateschildrenfromtheirmothers,wivesfromtheirhusbands,loversfromeachother
andfathersfromtheirdaughters.Nomortalinthisworldavoidsmeetingme.”
WhenIkhwasunavoidable,Iwept.
Mytearsmademeprofoundlythirsty.Ontheonehandtherewasthestupefyingagonyofmyfadeyesdrenchedinblood;oherhandtherewastheplacewherefrenzyandcrueltyceased,yetthatplacewasstraerrifying.Ikobethatilluminedrealm,theLandoftheDead,towhichAzraelbee,andIwasfrightened.Evenso,IknewIcouldn’tlongremaininthisworldthatcausedmetowritheandhowlinagony.Inthislandhtfulpainandtorment,therelaetotakesolace.Tostay,I’dhavetothisunbearabletormentandthisossibleinmyelderlydition.
JustbeforeIdied,Iactuallylongedformydeath,andatthesametime,IuoodtheahequestionthatI’dspeirelifep,theanswerIcouldn’tfindinbooks:Howwasitthateverybody,withoutexception,succeededindying?Itreciselythroughthissimpledesiretopasson.Ialsouoodthatdeathwouldmakemeawiserman.
heless,Iwasoverewiththeindecisionofamanabouttotakealongjourneyanduorefrainfromtakiglahisroom,athisbelongingsandhishome.InapanicIwishedtoseemydaughterotime.IwahissobadlyIreparedtogritmyteethforawhilelongerandehepainandmyincreasingthirst,towaitforShekure’sreturn.
Andthus,thedeathlyalelightbeforemefadedsomewhat,andmymindopeselfuptothesoundsandheworldinwhichIlaydying.Icouldhearmymurdererroamingaroundtheroom,openingtheet,riflingthroughmypapersandseargilyforthelastpicture.Whenhecameupempty-handed,Iheardhimpryopenmypaiandkickthechests,boxes,inkpotsandfoldingworktable.IsehatIwasgroaningnowandthenandmakingoddtwitggestureswithmyoldarmsandtiredlegs.AndIwaited.
Mypainwasnotabatingintheleast.Igrewincreasinglysilentandcouldnoloandtogritmyteeth,butagain,Iheldon,waiting.
Thenitoccurredtome,ifShekurecamehome,shemightentermyruthlessmurderer.Ididn’twahinkaboutthis.Atthatinstant,Isehatmymurdererhadexitedtheroom.He’dprobablyfoupainting.
I’dbeeexcessivelythirstybutstillIwaited.enow,deardaughter,myprettyShekure,showyourself.
Shedidnote.
Inolongerhadstrengthtowithstandthesuffering.IknewIwoulddiewithoutseeihisseemed
sobitterIwaodieofmisery.Afterward,afaceI’dneverseenbeforeappearedtomyleft,andsmilingallthewhile,hekindlyofferedmeaglassofwater.
Fettingallelse,Igreedilyreachedforthewater.
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well.Myheartquied.Hadheeheretoendmylifeortofessandterrifyme?Didhehimselfknowwhathewanted?Iwasafraid,realizinghowabsolutelyunacquaintedIwaswiththeinnerworldofthismagnifitartistwhosesplendidlinesandmagicaluseofcolorhadbeenfamiliartomeforyears.Icouldsensehimstandingstifflybehihereatthenapeofmyneck,holdingthatlargeinkpotreservedforred,butIdidn’tturntofacehim.Iknewmysilenakehimuneasy.“Thedogshavequieteddown,”Isaid.
Wefellsilentagain.Thistime,Ikhatmydeath,ormysomehowavoidingthismisfortune,woulddependonwhatItoldhim.AllIknewasidefromhisworkwasthathewasquiteintelligent,andifyougrantthatanillustratormustneverrevealhissoulinhiswork,intelligenceis,ofcourse,a.Howhadheeredmeathomewhennooneelsewashere?Myagedmindwasfuriouslypreoccupiedwiththisquestion,butIwastoofusedtoseemyselfoutofthisgame.WherewasShekure?
“Youkwasme,didn’tyou?”heasked.
Ihadn’tknownatall,notuntilhetoldme.Inthebaind,Iwasevenwwhetherhehadn’tdonewellbykilliEffendi,andthatthelateminiaturistmight’veactuallysuccumbedtohisaiesandmadetroublefortherestofus.
Iwaseversoslightlygratefultothismurderer,withwhomIwasaloheemptyhouse.
“I’mnotsurprisedyoukilledhim,”Isaid.Menlikeuswholivewithbooksaernallyoftheirpagesfearonlyohinginthisworld.What’smore,we’restrugglingwithsomethingmoreforbiddenanddangerous;thatis,we’restrugglingtomakepicturesinaMuslimcity.AswithSheikhMuhammadofIsfahan,weminiaturistsareinedtofeelguiltyaful,we’rethefirsttoblameourselvesbeforeothersdo,tobeashamedandbegpardonofGodandtheunity.Wemakeourbooksilikeshamefulsinners.Iknowtoowellhowsubmissiontotheetacksofhojas,preachers,judgesandmysticswhoaccuseusofblasphemy,howtheendlessguiltbothdeadensandnourishestheartist’simagination.““Youdon’tfaultmeformurderingthatidiotiiaturist,doyouthen?”
“Whatattractsustowriting,illustratingandpaintingisboundupinthisfearofretribution.It’snotonlyformoneyandfavorthatwekneelbeforeourworkfrtoevening,tinuingbydlelightthroughthenighttothepointofblindnessandsacrificeourselvesforpicturesandbooks,it’stoescapetheprattleofothers,toescapetheunity,butintrasttothispassiontocreate,wealsowantthosewe’veforsakentoseeandappreciatetheinspiredpictureswe’vemade—andiftheyshouldcallussinners?Oh,thesufferingthisbringsupontheillustrateale,genuinepaintingishiddenintheagonynooneseesandnooes.It’staihepicture,whifirstsight,they’llsayisbad,inplete,blasphemousorheretical.Agenuineminiaturistknowshemustreachthatpoihesametime,hefearsthelonelihatawaitshimthere.Whowouldaccedetosuchafrightful,nerve-wragexistence?Byblaminghimselfbeforeanyoneelsedoes,theartistbelieves
he’llbesparedwhathe’sfearedforyears.Otherslistentohimandbelievehimonlywhenheadmitshisguilt,forwhichheisthenoburheillustratorofIsfahanlitthesehellfireshimself.”
“Butyou’renotaminiaturist,”hesaid.“Ididn’tkillhimoutoffear.”
“Youmurderedhimbecauseyouwaopaintasyouwished,withoutfear.”
Forthefirsttimeinalongwhile,theminiaturistiredtobemymurderersaidsomethingquiteintelligent:“Iknowyou’reexplainingallthistodistractme,todupeme,togetyourselfoutofthissituation,”andheadded,“butwhatyou’vejustsaidisthetruth.Iwantyoutouand,listentome.”
Ilookedintohiseyes.He’dpletelyfottentheformalityarybetweenusashespoke:He’dbeencarriedawaybyhisownthoughts.Buttowhere?
“Neverfear,Iwon’toffendyourhonor,”hesaid.Helaughedbitterlyashecircledaroundtofaceme.“Evennow,”hesaid,“asI’mdoingthis,itdoesobeme.It’sasifthere’ssomethingwrithingwithinmepelliodoitsevilbiddiIhatthingheless.It’sthatwaywithpainting,too.”
“Theseareoldwives’talesabouttheDevil.”
“YouthinkI’mlying,then?”
Hedidn’thaveenoughcetomurderme,sohewaehim.“Nay,you’renotlyingbutyou’renotaowledgingwhatyoufeeleither.”
“IaowledgeverywellwhatIfeel.I’msufferiormentsofthegravewithouthavingdied.Unawares,we’vesunktoournesinbecauseofyou,andnowyou’repreag”morece.“You’retheonewho’smademeamurderer.Hoja’srabidhenwillkillusall.”
Thelessfidenthebecame,themoreheraisedhisvoidthemorefiercelyhegrippedtheinkpot.Wouldsomebodypassingdownthesnowystreethearhisshoutingaerthehouse?
“Howdidyoukillhim?”Iasked,moretobuytimethanoutofcuriosity.“Howdidyoueetatthemouthofthatwell?”
“ThenightElegantEffeyourhouse,hecametome,”hesaid,withanueddesiretofess.“Hesaidhe’dseenthefinaldouble-leafpainting.Itriedatlengthtodissuadehimfrommakinganissueoutofit.Igothimtowalkovertothearearavagedbythefire.ItoldhimIhadmoneyburiedhewell.Whehat,hebelievedme…Whatbetterproofthatanillustratorismotivatedbygreedalohat’sanotherreasonI’mnotsorry.Hewasatalented,butmediocreartist.Thegreedyoaf
wasreadytodigintothefrozehwithhisfingernails.Yousee,ifItrulyhadgoldpiecesburiedbesidethatwell,Iwouldn’thavehadtodoawaywithhim.Yes,youhiredyourselfquiteamiserablewretchtodilding.Thedearlydepartedhadfihischoiceofcolorandapplicationwasordinary,andhisilluminationswereuninspired.Ididn’tleaveatrace…Tellme,then,whatistheessenceof”style“?Today,boththeFranksandtheesetalkaboutthecharacterofapaialent,whattheycall”style.“Shouldstyledistinguishagoodartistfromothersornot?”
“Fearnot,”Isaid,“ayledoesn’tspringfromaminiaturist’sowndesire.Aprincedies,ashahlosesabattle,aseeminglynever-endingeraends,aworkshopisclosedanditsmembersdisband,seargforotherhomesandotherbibliophilestobeetheirpatrons.Oneday,apassioanwillassembletheseexiles,thesebewilderedbuttalentedrefugeeminiaturistsandcalligraphers,inhisoworpaladbegiablishhisownbook-artsworkshop.Eveniftheseartists,unacedtooher,tifirstintheirrespectivepaintingstyles,overtime,aswithchildrenwhograduallybeefriendsbyroughhousingoreet,they’llquarrel,bond,struggleandpromise.Thebirthofayleistheresultofyearsofdisagreements,jealousies,rivalriesandstudiesincolorandpainting.Generally,it’llbethemostgiftedmemberoftheworkshopwhofathersthisform.Let’salsocallhimthemostfortuherestoftheminiaturistsfallsthesingulardutyofperfegandrefiningthisstylethroughperpetualimitation.”
Uolookmestraightintheeye,heassumedanuedgentlemanner,andbeggingmypassionasmuchasmyhoy,heaskedme,tremblinglikeamaiden:
“DoIhaveastyleofmyown?”
Ithoughttearswouldflowfrommyeyes.Withallthegentleness,sympathyandkindnessIuster,IhasteellhimwhatIbelievedtobethetruth:
“Youarethemosttalented,divinelyinspiredartistwiththemostentedtoudeyefordetailthatI’veseeninallmysixtyyears.Ifyouputapaintingbeforemewhichhadseenthebinedworkofathousandminiaturists,I’dstillbeabletantlytheGod-givenmagnificeofyourpen.”
“Agreed,butIknowyou’renotwiseenoughtoappreciatethemysteryofmyskill,”hesaid.“You’relying,now,becauseyou’reafraidofme.Describe,onceagain,thecharaethods.”
“Yourpeherightlineseeminglyofitsownaccord,asifwithoutyourtouch.Whatyourpendrawsishertruthfulnorfrivolous!Whenyouportrayacrowdedgathering,thetensionemergingfromtheglaweenfigures,theirpositioningonthepageandthemeaningofthetextmetamorphoseintoaeternalwhisper.Ireturntoyourpaintingsagainandagaihatwhisper,aime,Irealizewithasmilethatthemeaninghasged,andhoutit,Ibegihepaintinganew.Whentheselayersofmeaniakeher,adepthemergesthatsurpasseseventheperspectivismoftheEuropeanmasters.”
“Fineandwell.FetabouttheEuropeanmasters.Startfromthebeginning.”
“Youhavesuchatrulymagnifitandforcefullihattheobserverbelievesinwhatyou’vepaiherthayitself.Andjustasyourtalentcouldcreateapicturethatwouldforcethemostdevoutmantorenouncehisfaith,itcouldalsthemosthopeless,uantunbelievertoAllah’spath.”
“True,butI’mnotsurethatamountstopraise.Tryagain.”
“There’snominiaturistwhoknowsthesistencyofpaintanditssecretsaswellasyoudo.Youalrepareandapplytheglossiest,mostvibrant,mostgenuinecolors.”
“Yes,andwhatelse?”
“Youknowyou’rethegreatestofpaintersafterBihzadandMirSeyyidAli.”
“Yes,I’mawareofthis.Ifyouaretoo,whyareyoumakingthebookwiththatmodelofmediocrityBlackEffendi?”
“First,theworkhedoesdoesn’trequireaminiaturist’sskill,”Isaid.“Sed,unlikeyourself,he’snotamurderer.”
Hesmiledsweetlyuheinfluenyjoke.Withthis,IthoughtImightbeabletoescapethisnightmarethankstoanewexpression—thisword“style.”Uponmybroagthesubject,webeganapleasantdiscussioningthebronzeMongolinkpotheheld,notlikefatherandson,butliketwocuriousandexperienen.Theweightofthebrohebalaheinkpot,thedepthofitshelengthofoldcalligraphyreedpensaeriesofredink,whosesistencyhecouldfeelashegentlyswungtheinkpotbeforeme…WeagreedthatiftheMongolshadn’tbroughtthesecretsofredpaint—whichthey’dlearnedfromesemasters—toKhorasan,Bukharaa,weinIstanbulcouldn’tmakethesepaintingsatall.Aswetalked,thesistene,likethatofthepaint,seemedtoge,toflowevermorequickly.InaerofmymindIwaswwhynoonehadyetreturnedhome.Ifonlyhe’dputdownthatweightyobject.
Withouraryworkadayease,heaskedme,“Whenyourbookisfinished,willthosewhoseemyreciatemyskill?”
“Ifwe,Godwilling,finishthisbookwithoutinterference,OurSultanwilllookitover,ofcourse,chegfirsttoseewhetherweusedenoughgoldleafintheappropriateplaces.Then,asifreadingadescriptionofHimself,asanysultanwould,He’llstareathisownportrait,struckbyHisownlikenessratherthanbynifitillustrations;thereafter,ifHetakesthetimetoexamihespectaclewe’vepainstakinglyaedlycreatedattheexpehelightofoureyes,somuchthebetter.Youknow,aswellasI,thatbarringamiracle,He’lllockthebookawayinHistreasurywithouteven
askingwhomadetheframeildedilluminations,whopaihismanorthathorse—andlikeallskillfulartisans,we’llgobacktopainting,everhopefulthatonedayamiracleofaowledgmentwillfindus.”
Weweresilentforawhile,asifpatientlywaitingforsomething.
“Whenwillthatmiraclehappen?”heasked.“Whenwillallthosepaintingswe’veworkedonuntilwecouldnolongerseestraighttrulybeappreciated?Whenwilltheygiveme,giveus,therespectwedeserve?”
“Never!”
“Howso?”
“They’llnevergiveyouwhatyouwant,”Isaid.“Iure,you’llbeevenlessappreciated.”
“Bookslastforturies,”hesaidproudlybutwithoutfidence.
“Believeme,heVeianmastershaveyourpoetisibility,yourvi,yoursensitivity,thepurityandbrightnessofyourcolors,yettheirpaintingsaremorepellingbecausetheymorecloselyresemblelifeitself.Theydon’tpainttheworldasseenfromthebali,ignwhattheycallperspective;theydepictwhat’sseenatstreetlevel,orfromtheinsideofaprince’sroom,takinginhisbed,quilt,desk,mirror,histiger,hisdaughterandhiss.Theyincludeitall,asyouknow.I’mnotpersuadedbyeverythingtheydo.Attemptingtoimitatetheworlddirectlythroughpaintingseemsdishonorabletome.Iresentit.Butthere’sanundeniablealluretothepaintingstheymakebythosehods.Theydepictwhattheeyeseesjustastheeyeseesit.Iheypaintwhattheysee,whereaswepaintwhatwelookat.Beholdingtheirwork,oneestorealizethattheonlywaytohaveone’sfaceimmortalizedisthroughtheFrankishstyle.Andit’snotonlytheinhabitantsofVenicewhoarecapturedbythisnotion,butallthetailors,butchers,soldiers,priestsandgrocersinalltheFrankishlands…Theyallhavetheirportraitsmadethisway.Justaglahosepaintingsandyoutoowouldwanttoseeyourselfthisway,you’dwanttobelievethatyou’redifferentfromallothers,aunique,specialandparticuliarhumanbeing.Paintingpeople,notastheyareperceivedbythemind,butastheyareactuallyseenbythenakedeye,paintinginthehod,allowsforthispossibility.Onedayeveryonewillpaintastheydo.When”painting“ismentioheworldwillthinkoftheirwork!Evenapoorfoolishtailorwhouandsnothingofillustratingwillwantsuchaportraitsohemightbevinced,upoheuniquecurveofhishathe’snotanordinarysimpleton,butaraordinaryman.”
“So?Wemakethatportrait,aswell,”quippedthewittyassassin.
“Wewon’t!”Ireplied.“Haven’tyoulearnedfromyourvictim,thelateElegantEffendi,howafraidweareofbeinglabeledimitatorsoftheFranks?Eveurebravelytopaintlikethem,it’llamount
tothesamething.Intheend,ourmethodswilldieout,ourcolorswillfade.Noonewillcareaboutourbooksandourpaintings,andthosewhodoexpressiwillaskwithasneer,withnouandingwhatsoever,whythere’snoperspective—orelsetheywon’tbeabletofindthemanuscriptsatall.Indiffereimeanddisasterwilldestroyourart.TheArabianglueusedinthebindingstainsfish,honeyandbone,andthepagesaresizedandpolishedwithafinishmadefromeggwhiteandstarch.Greedy,shamelessmicewillnibblethesepagesaway;termites,wormsandathousandvarietiesofiwillgnawourmanuscriptsoutofexistence.Bindingswillfallapartandpageswilldropout.Womenlightioves,thieves,indifferentservantsandchildrenwillthoughtlesslytearoutthepagesandpictures.Childprinceswillscrawlovertheillustrationswithtoypens.They’llblapeople’seyes,wipetheirrunnyhepages,doodleinthemarginswithblak.Andreligioussorswillblaoutwhateverisleft.They’lltearandcutupourpaintings,perhapsusethemtomakeotherpicturesamesandsutertai.Whilemothersdestroytheillustrationstheysiderobse,fathersandolderbrotherswilljackoffontothepicturesofwomenandthepageswillsticktogether,notonlybecauseofthis,butalsoduetobeingsmearedwithmud,water,badglue,spitandallmanneroffilthandfood.Stainsofmoldanddirtwillblossomlikeflowerswherethepageshavestucktogether.Rain,leakyroofs,floodsanddirtwillruinourbooks.Ofcourse,togetherwiththetattered,fadedandunreadablepages,whichwater,humidity,bugsandwillhavereducedtopulp,theovolumeteintact,likeamiracle,fromthebottomofabone-drychestwillalsoonedaydisappear,swallowedupintheflamesofamercilessfire.IsthereaneighborhoodinIstanbulthathasn’tbeenburhegroundatleastonceeverytwehatwemightexpectsuchabooktosurvive?Inthiscity,whereeverythreeyearsmorebooksandlibrariesdisappearthanthosetheMongolsburnedandplunderedinBaghdad,aintercouldpossiblyimagihismasterpiecemightlastmorethaury,orthatonedayhispicturesmightbeseen,andhereveredlikeBihzad?Notonlyourownart,buteverysingleworkmadeinthisworldovertheyearswillvanishinfires,bedestroyedbywormsorbelostoutof:ShirinproudlywatgHüsrevfromawindow;HüsrevdelightfullyspyingonShirinasshebathesbymoonlight;lazingateachotherwithgradsubtlety;Rüstem’swrestlingawhitedemohatthebottomofawell;theanguishedstateofalovelornMejnunbefriendingawhitetigerandamountaingoatinthedesert;thecaptureandhangingofadeceitfulshepherddogwhopresentsasheepfromhisflocktotheshe-wolfhemateswitheaight;theflel,leafytwig,birdandteardropborderilluminations;theluteplayersthatembellishHafiz’senigmatis;thewallorionsthathaveruiheeyesofthousands,naytensofthousandsofminiaturistapprehesmallplaqueshungabovedoorsandonwalls;thecoupletssecretlywritteweentheembeddedbordersofillustrations;thehumblesignatureshiddenatthebasesofwalls,iners,infacadeembellishments,uhesolesoffeet,behshrubberyaweenrocks;theflower-coveredquiltsclovers;theseveredinfidelheadspatientlyawaitingOurSultan’slategrandfatherashevictoriouslymarchesuponanenemyfortress;theon,gunsahateveninyouryouthyouhelpedillustrateandthatappearedinthebackgroundastheambassadoroftheinfidelskissedthefeetofOurSultan’sgreat-grandfather;thedevils,withandwithouthorns,withandwithouttails,withpoieethandwithpointednails;thethousandsofvarietiesofbirdsincludingSolomon’swisehoopoe,thejumpingswallow,thedodoandthesingingnightiheseresalessdogs;fast-movingclouds;thesmallcharmingbladesofgrassreproduthousandsofpictures;theamateurishshadowsfallingacrossrodtensofthousandsofcypress,planeandpomegrareeswhoseleavesweredrawerahthepatienceofJob;thepalaces—and
theirhundredsofthousandsofbricks—whichweremodeledonpalacesfromthetimeofTamerlaneorShahTahmaspbutapaoriesfrommuchearliereras;thetensofthousandsofmelancholyprinceslisteningtomusicplayedbybeautifulwomenandboyssittingonmagnifitcarpetsinfieldsofflowersahfltrees;theextraordinarypicturesofceramidcarpetsthatowetheirperfetothethousandsofapprenticeillustratorsfromSamarkandtoIslambolbeatentothepointoftearsoverthelastonehundredfiftyyears;thesublimegardensandthesblackkitesthatyoustilldepictwithyouroldenthusiasm,yourastoundingsesofdeathandwar,yracefulhuntingsultans,andwiththesamefinesse,yourstartledfleeinggazelles,yourdyingshahs,yourprisonersofwar,yourinfidelgalleonsandyourrivalcities,yourshinydarknightsthatglimmerasifnightitselfhadflowedfromyourpen,yourstars,yhostlikecypresses,yourred-tintedpicturesofloveah,yoursandalltherest,allofitwillvanish…”
Raisingtheinkpot,hestruckmeontheheadwithallhisstrength.
Itotteredforwarduheforceoftheblow.IfeltahorriblepainthatIcouldnevereveodescribe.Theentireworldwasedinmypainandfadedtoyelloortionofmymindassumedthatthisattackwasiional;yet,alongwiththeblow—orperhapsbecauseofit—another,falteringpartofmymind,inasadshowofgoodwill,waosaytothemadmaniredtobemymurderer:“Havemercy,you’veattackedmeinerror.”
Heraisedtheinkpotagainandbroughtitdownuponmyhead.
Thistime,eveeringpartofmyminduoodthatthiswasnomistake,butmadnessandwraththatmightverywellendih.IwassoterrifiedbythisstateofaffairsthatIbegantoraisemyvoice,howlingwithallmystrengthandsuffering.Thecolorofthishowlwouldbeverdigris,andintheblaessofeveningoystreets,noonewouldbeabletohearitshue;IknewIwasallalone.
Hewasstartledbymywailaated.Wemomentarilycameeyetoeye.Icouldtellfromhispupilsthat,despitehishorrorandembarrassment,he’dresignedhimselftowhathewasdoing.HewasnolohemasterminiaturistIknew,butanunfamiliarandill-willedstrangerwhodidn’tspeakmylanguage,andthissensationprotractedmymomentaryisolationforturies.Iwaoholdhishand,asiftoembracethisworld;itwasofnouse.Ibegged,orthoughtIdid:“Mychild,mydearchild,pleasedonotendmylife.”Asifinadream,heseemednottohear.
Heloweredtheinkpotontomyheadagain.
Mythoughts,whatIsaw,mymemories,myeyes,allofit,mergingtogether,becamefear.Icouldseenoonecolorandrealizedthatallcolorshadbeered.WhatIthoughtwasmybloodwasredink;whatIthoughtwasinkonhishandswasmyflowingblood.
Howunjust,cruel,andmercilessIfoundittobedyingatthatinstahiswastheclusionthat
myagedandbloodyheadwasslowlyingto.ThenIsawit.Myrecolleswerestarkwhite,likethesnowoutside.Myheartachedasitthrobbedasifwithinmymouth.
Ishallnowdescribemydeath.Perhapsyou’veuoodthislongago:Deathisnottheend,thisiscertain.However,asitiswritteneverywhereinbooks,deathissomethingpainfulbeyondprehension.Itwasasifnotonlymyshatteredskullandbrainbuteverypartofme,mergingtogether,wasburningandrackedwithtorment.Withstandingthisboundlesssufferingwassodifficultthataportionofmymied—asifthiswereitsonlyoption—byfettingtheagonyandseekilesleep.
BeforeIdied,IrememberedtheAssyriahatIheardasanadolest.Anoldman,livingalone,risesfromhisbedinthemiddleofthenightanddrinksaglassofwater.Heplacestheglassupoabletodiscoverthedlethathadbeenthereismissing.Wherehaditgone?Afihreadoflightisfilteringfromwithin.Hefollowsthelight,retraghisstepsbacktohisbedroomtofindthatsomebodyislyinginhisbedholdingthedle.“Whomightyoube?”heasks.“IamDeath,”saysthestraheoldmanisoverebyamysterioussilehenhesays,“So,you’vee.”“Yes,”respohhaughtily.“No,”theoldmansaysfirmly,“you’rebutanunfinisheddreamofmiheoldmanabruptlyblowsoutthedleiranger’shandahingvanishesinblaess.Theoldmaershisowybed,goestosleepandlivesforawentyyears.
Ikhiswasnottobemyfate.Hebroughttheinkpotdownontomyheadonceagain.IwasinsuchastateofprofoundtormentthatIcouldonlyvaguelydistheimpact.He,theinkpotandtheroomilluminatedfaintlybythedlehadalreadybeguntofade.
Yet,Iwasstillalive.Mydesiretogtothisworld,torunawayandescapehim,theflailingofmyhandsandarmsinaoprotectmyfadbloodyhead,theway,Ibelieve,Ibithiswristatoime,andtheinkpotstrikingmyfacemademeawareofthis.
Westruggledforawhile,ifyoucallitthat.Hewasverystrongandveryagitated.Helaidmeoutflatonmyback.Pressinghiskomyshoulders,hepracticallyothegroundwhileheravedoninaverydisrespectfultone,accostingme,adyingoldman.PerhapsbecauseIcouldheruandnorlistentohim,perhapsbecauseItooknopleasureinlookingintohisbloodshoteyes,hestruckmyheadoncemore.Hisfadhisentirebodyhadbeebrightredfromtheinksplatteringoutoftheinkpot,andIsuppose,fromthebloodsplatteringoutofme.
SaddehatthelastthingI’deverseeinthisworldwasthismanwhowouldbemyenemy,Iyeyes.Thereupon,Isawasoft,gentlelight.ThelightwasassweetaigasthesleepIthoughtwouldstraightawayeaseallmypains.Isawafigurewithinthelightandasachildmight,Iasked,“Whoareyou?”
“ItisI,Azrael,theAngelofDeath,”hesaid.“Iamtheonewhoendsman’sjourhisworld.Iamtheonewhoseparateschildrenfromtheirmothers,wivesfromtheirhusbands,loversfromeachother
andfathersfromtheirdaughters.Nomortalinthisworldavoidsmeetingme.”
WhenIkhwasunavoidable,Iwept.
Mytearsmademeprofoundlythirsty.Ontheonehandtherewasthestupefyingagonyofmyfadeyesdrenchedinblood;oherhandtherewastheplacewherefrenzyandcrueltyceased,yetthatplacewasstraerrifying.Ikobethatilluminedrealm,theLandoftheDead,towhichAzraelbee,andIwasfrightened.Evenso,IknewIcouldn’tlongremaininthisworldthatcausedmetowritheandhowlinagony.Inthislandhtfulpainandtorment,therelaetotakesolace.Tostay,I’dhavetothisunbearabletormentandthisossibleinmyelderlydition.
JustbeforeIdied,Iactuallylongedformydeath,andatthesametime,IuoodtheahequestionthatI’dspeirelifep,theanswerIcouldn’tfindinbooks:Howwasitthateverybody,withoutexception,succeededindying?Itreciselythroughthissimpledesiretopasson.Ialsouoodthatdeathwouldmakemeawiserman.
heless,Iwasoverewiththeindecisionofamanabouttotakealongjourneyanduorefrainfromtakiglahisroom,athisbelongingsandhishome.InapanicIwishedtoseemydaughterotime.IwahissobadlyIreparedtogritmyteethforawhilelongerandehepainandmyincreasingthirst,towaitforShekure’sreturn.
Andthus,thedeathlyalelightbeforemefadedsomewhat,andmymindopeselfuptothesoundsandheworldinwhichIlaydying.Icouldhearmymurdererroamingaroundtheroom,openingtheet,riflingthroughmypapersandseargilyforthelastpicture.Whenhecameupempty-handed,Iheardhimpryopenmypaiandkickthechests,boxes,inkpotsandfoldingworktable.IsehatIwasgroaningnowandthenandmakingoddtwitggestureswithmyoldarmsandtiredlegs.AndIwaited.
Mypainwasnotabatingintheleast.Igrewincreasinglysilentandcouldnoloandtogritmyteeth,butagain,Iheldon,waiting.
Thenitoccurredtome,ifShekurecamehome,shemightentermyruthlessmurderer.Ididn’twahinkaboutthis.Atthatinstant,Isehatmymurdererhadexitedtheroom.He’dprobablyfoupainting.
I’dbeeexcessivelythirstybutstillIwaited.enow,deardaughter,myprettyShekure,showyourself.
Shedidnote.
Inolongerhadstrengthtowithstandthesuffering.IknewIwoulddiewithoutseeihisseemed
sobitterIwaodieofmisery.Afterward,afaceI’dneverseenbeforeappearedtomyleft,andsmilingallthewhile,hekindlyofferedmeaglassofwater.
Fettingallelse,Igreedilyreachedforthewater.
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