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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 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 y 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