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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
visited Head Illuminator Master Osman and kissed his hand。 The great master；
he explained； had given him wise words to ponder： “A painter’s quality
bees evident in his discussions of blindness and memory；” he’d said。 So let
it be evident：
Blindness and Memory
Before the art of illumination there was blackness and afterward there will also
be blackness。 Through our colors； paints； art and love； we remember that Allah
had manded us to “See”！ To know is to remember that you’ve seen。 To see
is to know without remembering。 Thus； painting is remembering the
blackness。 The great masters； who shared a love of painting and perceived that
color and sight arose from darkness； longed to return to Allah’s blackness by
means of color。 Artists without memory neither remember Allah nor his
blackness。 All great masters； in their work； seek that profound void within
color and outside time。 Let me explain to you what it means to remember this
darkness； which was revealed in Herat by the great masters of old。
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Three Stories on Blindness and Memory
ALIF
In Lami’i Chelebi’s Turkish translation of the Persian poet Jami’s Gifts of
Intimacy； which addresses the stories of the saints； it is written that in the
bookmaker’s workshop of Jihan Shah； the ruler of the Blacksheep nation； the
renowned master Sheikh Ali Tabrizi had illustrated a magnificent version of
Hüsrev and Shirin。 According to what I’ve heard； in this legendary manuscript；
which took eleven years to plete； the master of master miniaturists；
Sheikh Ali； displayed such talent and skill and painted such wonderful pictures
that only the greatest of the old masters； Bihzad； could have matched him。
Even before the illuminated manuscript was half finished； Jihan Shah knew
that he would soon possess a spectacular book without equal in all the world。
He thus lived in fear and jealousy of young Tall Hasan； the ruler of the
Whitesheep nation； and declared him his archenemy。 Moreover； Jihan Shah
quickly sensed that though his prestige would grow immensely after the book
was pleted； an even better version of the manuscript could be made for
Tall Hasan。 Being one of those truly jealous men who poisoned his own
contentment with the thought “What if others e to know such bliss？”
Jihan Shah sensed at once that if the virtuoso miniaturist made another copy；
or even a better version； it would be for his archenemy Tall Hasan。 Thus； in
order to prevent anyone besides himself from owning this magnificent book；
Jihan Shah decided to have the master miniaturist Sheikh Ali killed after he’d
pleted the book。 But a good…hearted Circassian beauty in his harem
advised him that blinding the master miniaturist would suffice。 Jihan Shah
forthwith adopted this clever idea； which he passed on to his circle of
sycophants； until it ultimately reached the ears of Sheikh Ali。 Even so； Sheikh
Ali didn’t leave the book half finished and flee Tabriz as other； mediocre
illustrators might’ve done。 He didn’t resort to games like slowing down the
progress of the manuscript or making inferior illustrations so it wouldn’t be
“perfect” and thereby forestalling his imminent blinding。 Indeed； he