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feet； beneath shrubbery and between rocks； the flower…covered quilts covering
lovers； the severed infidel heads patiently awaiting Our Sultan’s late
grandfather as he victoriously marches upon an enemy fortress； the cannon；
guns and tents that even in your youth you helped illustrate and that appeared
in the background as the ambassador of the infidels kissed the feet of Our
Sultan’s great…grandfather； the devils； with and without horns； with and
without tails； with pointed teeth and with pointed nails； the thousands of
varieties of birds including Solomon’s wise hoopoe； the jumping swallow； the
dodo and the singing nightingale； the serene cats and restless dogs； fast…
moving clouds； the small charming blades of grass reproduced in thousands of
pictures； the amateurish shadows falling across rocks and tens of thousands of
cypress； plane and pomegranate trees whose leaves were drawn one after
another with the patience of Job； the palaces—and their hundreds of
thousands of bricks—which were modeled on palaces from the time of
Tamerlane or Shah Tahmasp but acpanied stories from much earlier eras；
the tens of thousands of melancholy princes listening to music played by
beautiful women and boys sitting on magnificent carpets in fields of flowers
and beneath flowering trees； the extraordinary pictures of ceramics and
carpets that owe their perfection to the thousands of apprentice illustrators
from Samarkand to Islambol beaten to the point of tears over the last one
hundred fifty years； the sublime gardens and the soaring black kites that you
still depict with your old enthusiasm； your astounding scenes of death and
war； your graceful hunting sultans； and with the same finesse； your startled
fleeing gazelles； your dying shahs； your prisoners of war； your infidel galleons
and your rival cities； your shiny dark nights that glimmer as if night itself had
flowed from your pen； your stars； your ghostlike cypresses； your red…tinted
pictures of love and death； yours and all the rest； all of it will vanish…”
Raising the inkpot； he struck me on the head with all his strength。
I tottered forward under the force of the blow。 I felt a horrible pain that I
could never even hope to describe。 The entire world was wrapped in my pain
189
and faded to yellow。 A large portion of my mind assumed that this attack was
intentional； yet； along with the blow—or perhaps because of it—another；
faltering part of my mind； in a sad show of goodwill； wanted to say to the
madman who aspired to be my murderer： “Have mercy； you’ve attacked me in
error。”
He raised the inkpot again and brought it down upon my head。
This time； even the faltering part of my mind understood that this was no
mistake； but madness and wrath that might very well end in my death。 I was
so terrified by this state of affairs that I began to raise my voice； howling with
all my strength and suffering。 The color of this howl would be verdigris； and in
the blackness of evening on the empty streets； no one would be able to hear its
hue； I knew I was all alone。
He was startled by my wail and hesitated。 We momentarily came eye to
eye。 I could tell from his pupils that； despite his horror and embarrassment；
he’d resigned himself to what he was doing。 He was no longer the master
miniaturist I knew； but an unfamiliar and ill…willed stranger who didn’t speak
my language； and this sensation protracted my momentary isolation for
centuries。 I wanted to hold his hand； as if to embrace this world； it was of no
use。 I begged； or thought I did： “My child； my dear child； please do not end my
life。” As if in a dream； he seemed not to hear。
He lowered the inkpot onto my head again。
My thoughts； what I saw； my memories； my eyes； all of it； merging together；
became fear。 I could see no one color and realized that all colors had bee
red。 What I thought was my blood was red ink； what I thought was ink on his
hands was my flowing blood。
How unjust； cruel； and merciless I found it to be dying at that instant。 Yet；
this was the conclusion that my aged and bloody head was slowly ing to。
Then I saw it。 My recollections were stark white； like the snow outside。 My
heart ached as it throbbed as if within my mouth。
I shall now describe my death。 Perhaps you’ve understood this long ago：
Death is not the end； this is certain。 However； as it is written everywhere in
books； death is something painful beyond prehension。 It was as if not only
my shattered skull and brain but every part of me； merging together； was
burning and racked with torment。 Withstanding this boundless suffering was
so difficult that a portion of my mind reacted—as if this were its only
option—by forgetting the agony and seeking a gentle sleep。
190
Before I died； I remembered the Assyrian legend that I heard as an
adolescent。 An old man； living alone； rises from his bed in the middle of the
night and drinks a glass of water。 He places the glass upon the end table to
discover the candle that had been there is missing。 Where had it gone？ A fine
thread of light is filtering from within。 He follows the light； retracing his steps
back to his bedroom to find that somebody is lying in his bed holding the
candle。 “Who might you be？” he asks。 “I am Death；” says the stranger。 The old
man is overe by a mysterious silence。 Then he says； “So； you’ve e。”
“Yes；” responds Death haughtily。 “No；” the old man says firmly； “you’re but an
unfinished dream of mine。” The old man abruptly blows out the candle in the
stranger’s hand and everything vanishes in blackness。 The old man enters his
own empty bed； goes to sleep and lives for another twenty years。
I knew this was not to be my fate。 He brought the inkpot down onto my
head once again。 I was in such a state of profound torment that I could only
vaguely discern the impact。 He； the inkpot and the room illuminated faintly by
the candle had already begun to fade。
Yet； I was still alive。 My desire to cling to this world； to run away and escape
him； the flailing of my hands and arms in an attempt to protect my face and
bloody head； the way； I believe； I bit his wrist at one time； and the inkpot
striking my face made me aware of this。
We struggled for a while； if you can call it that。 He was very strong and very
agitated。 He laid me out flat on my back。 Pressing his knees onto my
shoulders； he practically nailed me to the ground while he raved on in a very
disrespectful tone； accosting me； a dying old man。 Perhaps because I could
neither understand nor listen to him； perhaps because I took no pleasure in
looking into his bloodshot eyes； he struck my head once more。 His face and his
entire body had bee bright red from the ink splattering out of the inkpot；
and I suppose； from the blood splattering out of me。
Saddened that the last thing I’d ever see in this world was this man who
would be my enemy； I closed my eyes。 Thereupon； I saw a soft； gentle light。 The
light was as sweet and enticing as the sleep I thought would straightaway ease
all my pains。 I saw a figure within the light and as a child might； I asked； “Who
are you？”
“It is I； Azrael； the Angel of Death；” he said。 “I am the one who ends man’s
journey in this world。 I am the one who separates children from their
mothers； wives from their husbands； lovers from each other and fathers from
their daughters。 No mortal in this world avoids meeting me。”
191
When I knew death was unavoidable； I wept。
My tears made me profoundly thirsty。 On the one hand there was the
stupefying agony of my face and eyes drenched in blood； on the other hand
there was the place where frenzy and cruelty ceased； yet that place was stra