按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
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 strange
and terrifying。 I knew it to be that illumined realm； the Land of the Dead； to
which Azrael beckoned me； and I was frightened。 Even so； I knew I couldn’t
long remain in this world that caused me to writhe and howl in agony。 In this
land of frightful pain and torment； there was no place for me to take solace。 To
stay； I’d have to resign myself to this unbearable torment and this was
impossible in my elderly condition。
Just before I died； I actually longed for my death； and at the same time； I
understood the answer to the question that I’d spent my entire life pondering；
the answer I couldn’t find in books： How was it that everybody； without
exception； succeeded in dying？ It was precisely through this simple desire to
pass on。 I also understood that death would make me a wiser man。
Noheless； I was overe with the indecision of a man about to take a
long journey and unable to refrain from taking one last glance at his room； at
his belongings and his home。 In a panic I wished to see my daughter one last
time。 I wanted this so badly I was prepared to grit my teeth for a while longer
and endure the pain and my increasing thirst； to wait for Shekure’s return。
And thus； the deathly and gentle light before me faded somewhat； and my
mind opened itself up to the sounds and noises of the world in which I lay
dying。 I could hear my murderer roaming around the room； opening the
cabi； rifling through my papers and searching intently for the last picture。
When he came up empty…handed； I heard him pry open my paint set and kick
the chests； boxes； inkpots and folding worktable。 I sensed that I was groaning
now and then and making odd twitching gestures with my old arms and tired
legs。 And I waited。
My pain was not abating in the least。 I grew increasingly silent and could no
longer stand to grit my teeth； but again； I held on； waiting。
Then it occurred to me； if Shekure came home； she might encounter my
ruthless murderer。 I didn’t want to even think about this。 At that instant； I
sensed that my murderer had exited the room。 He’d probably found the last
painting。
I’d bee excessively thirsty but still I waited。 e now； dear daughter；
my pretty Shekure； show yourself。
She did not e。
192
I no longer had strength to withstand the suffering。 I knew I would die
without seeing her。 This seemed so bitter I wanted to die of misery。 Afterward；
a face I’d never seen before appeared to my left； and smiling all the while； he
kindly offered me a glass of water。
Forgetting all else； I greedily reached for the water。
He pulled the glass back： “Denounce the Prophet Muhammad as a liar；” he
said。 “Deny all that he has said。”
It was Satan。 I didn’t answer； I wasn’t even afraid of him。 Since I never once
believed that painting amounted to being duped by him； I waited confidently。
I dreamed of the endless journey that awaited me and of my future。
Meanwhile； as I was approached by the illuminated angel whom I’d just
seen； Satan vanished。 Part of me knew that this glowing angel who had caused
Satan to flee was Azrael。 But another rebellious part of my mind remembered
that in the Book of the Apocalypse it was written that Azrael was an angel with
one thousand wings spanning East and West and that he held the whole world
in his hands。
As I grew more confused； the angel bathed in light approached as if ing
to my aid； and yes； just as Gazzali had stated in Pearls of Magnificence； he
sweetly said：
“Open your mouth so that your soul might leave。”
“Nothing but the besmele prayer ever leaves my mouth；” I answered him。
This was just one last excuse however。 I knew I could no longer resist； that
my time had now e。 For a moment I was embarrassed at having to leave
my bloodied and ugly body in this miserable condition for my daughter；
whom I’d never see again。 But I wanted to lea