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 417 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？ 418 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