books to which we’d devoted our entire lives would slowly be forgotten—yes； in fact； the whole venture would e to an end； and if the Erzurumis didn’t throttle us and finish us off； the Sultan’s torturers would leave us maimed…But as I cried； sobbed and sighed—even though I continued to listen to the sad patter of the rain—a part of my mind sensed that these were not the things I was actually crying about。 To what extent were the others aware of this？ I felt vaguely guilty for my tears； which were at once genuine and false。 Butterfly came up beside me； placed his arm upon my shoulder； stroked my hair； kissed my cheek and forted me with honeyed words。 This show of friendship made me cry with even more sincerity and guilt。 I couldn’t see his face but； for some reason； I incorrectly thought he too was crying。 We sat down。 We recalled how we’d started our workshop apprenticeships in the same year； the strange sadness of being torn away from our mothers to suddenly begin a new life； the pain of beatings we received from the first day； the joy of the first gifts from the Head Treasurer； and the days we went back home； running the whole way。 At first； only he talked while I listened sorrowfully； but later； when Stork and； sometime afterward； Black—who came to the workshop for a time and left it； during our early apprenticeship years—joined our mournful conversation； I forgot that I’d just been crying and began to talk and laugh freely with them。 We reminisced about winter mornings when we would wake early； light the stove in the largest room of the workshop and mop the floors with hot water。 We recalled an old “master；” may he rest in peace； who was so uninspired and cautious that he could draw only a single leaf of a single tree during the span of a single day and who； when he saw that we were again looking at the lush green leaves of the springtime trees through the open window rather than at the leaf he drew； without striking us； would chastise us for the hundredth time： “Not out there； in here！” We recalled the wailing； which could be heard throughout the entire atelier； of the scrawny apprentice who walked toward the door； satchel in hand； having been sent back home because the intensity of the work caused one of his eyes to wander。 Next； we imagined how we watched （with pleasure because it wasn’t our fault） the slow spread of a deadly red seeping from a bronze inkpot that had cracked over a page three illuminators had labored on for three months （it depicted the Ottoman army 413 on the banks of the K？n？k River en route to Shirvan； overing the threat of starvation by occupying Eresh and filling their stomachs）。 In a refined and respectful manner； we talked about how the three of us together made love to and together fell in love with a Circasian lady； the most beautiful of the wives of a seventy…year…old pasha who—in consideration of his conquests； strength and wealth—wanted ceiling ornamentation in his home made in imitation of the designs in Our Sultan’s hunting lodge。 Then； we longingly recalled how on winter mornings we would have our lentil soup on the threshold of the yawning door so its steam wouldn’t soften the paper。 We also lamented being separated from workshop friends and masters when the latter pelled us to travel to distant places to serve as journeymen。 For a time； the sweetness of my dear Butterfly in his sixteenth year appeared before my eyes： He was burnishing paper to a high gloss by rubbing it quickly with a smooth seashell as the sunlight； ing through an open window on a summer’s day； struck his naked honey…colored forearms。 For a moment he stopped what he was so absentmindedly doing and carefully lowered his face to the page to examine a blemish。 After making a few passes over the offending spot with the burnishing shell using different motions； he returned to his former pattern； moving his hand back and forth as he stared out of the window into the distance； losing himself in daydreams。 I shall never forget how before looking outside again； he briefly gazed into my eyes—as I would later do to others。 This dolorous look has only one meaning； which all apprentices know quite well： Time doesn’t flow if you don’t dream。 414 I WILL BE CALLED A MURDERER You’d forgotten about me； hadn’t you？ Why should I conceal my presence from you any longer？ For speaking in this voice； which is gradually getting stronger and stronger； has bee irresistible for me。 At times； I restrain myself only with great effort； and I’m afraid that the strain in my voice will give me away。 At times； I let myself go pletely unchecked； and that’s when those words； signs of my second character； which you might recognize； spill from my lips； my hands begin to tremble； beads of sweat collect on my forehead and I realize at once that these little whispers of my body； in turn； will furnish new clues。 Yet I’m so very content here！ As we console ourselves with twenty…five years of memories we’re reminded not of the animosities； but of the beauties and the pleasures of painting。 There’s also something in our sitting here with a sense of the impending end of the world； caressing each other with tear…filled eyes as we remember the beauty of bygone days； that recalls harem women。 I’ve taken this parison from Abu Said of Kirman who included the stories of the old masters of Shiraz and Herat in his History of the sons of Tamerlane。 Thirty years ago； Jihan Shah； ruler of the Blacksheep； came to the East where he routed the small armies and ravaged the lands of the Timurid khans and shahs who were fighting among themselves。 With his victorious T