olors.”

    “Yes, and w else?”

    “You knoest of painters after Bihzad and Mir Seyyid Ali.”

    “Yes, I’m aoo, y Black Effendi?”

    “First, t require a miniaturist’s skill,” I said. “Second, unlike yourself,  a murderer.”

    ly under t I migo escape tmare to a neyle.” Upon my broac,  discussion concerning t  like fat like t of t, ts neck, teries of red ink,  before me…e agreed t if t brougs of red paint—o K, anbul couldn’t make tings at all. As alked, tency of time, like t of t, seemed to co flourned  do weig.

    itomary workaday ease, e my skill?”

    “If erference, Our Sultan  over, of course, c to see ion of an  rait, struck by  illustrations; ter, if akes time to examine tacle akingly and devotedly created at t of our eyes, so mucter. You kno barring a miracle, reasury  even

    asking  isans, o painting, ever  one day a miracle of ackno will find us.”

    e  for a ly ing for something.

    “ miracle ings il raigruly be appreciated?  we deserve?”

    “Never!”

    “how so?”

    “t you ,” I said. “In ture, you’ll be even less appreciated.”

    “Books last for centuries,”   confidence.

    “Believe me, none of tian masters ic sensibility, your conviction, your sensitivity, ty and brig tings are more compelling because tself. t paint t, ignoring ive; t  street level, or from taking in , desk, mirror, iger, er and  all, as you kno persuaded by everyttempting to imitate tly ting seems diso me. I resent it. But to tings t  as t. I