“This　is　by　Bihzad；”　the　aging　master　said　twenty　years　ago　as　we　examined

the book I held in my trembling hands。 His face was illuminated not by the

nearby　candle；　but　by　the　pleasure　of　observation　itself。　“This　is　so　Bihzad　that

there’s　no　need　for　a　signature。”

Bihzad was so well aware of this fact that he didn’t hide his signature

anywhere in the painting。 And according to the elderly master； there was a

sense　of　embarrassment　and　a　feeling　of　shame　in　this　decision　of　his。　Where

there　is　true　art　and　genuine　virtuosity　the　artist　can　paint　an　inparable

masterpiece　without　leaving　even　a　trace　of　his　identity。

Fearing　for　my　life；　I　murdered　my　unfortunate　victim　in　an　ordinary　and

crude manner。 As I returned to this fire…ravaged area night after night to

ascertain　whether　I’d　left　behind　any　traces　that　might　betray　me；　questions　of

style　increasingly　arose　in　my　head。　What　was　venerated　as　style　was　nothing

more　than　an　imperfection　or　flaw　that　revealed　the　guilty　hand。

I　could’ve　located　this　place　even　without　the　brilliance　of　the　falling　snow；

for　this　spot；　razed　by　fire；　was　where　I’d　ended　the　life　of　my　panion　of

twenty…five　years。　Now；　snow　covered　and　erased　all　the　clues　that　might　have

been interpreted as signature； proving that Allah concurred with Bihzad and

me on