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 w