Occasionally；　Black　would　sit　dead　still　for　long　stretches　and　fix　his　eyes　deeply

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into　mine。　I　could　imagine　what　he　was　thinking：　“I’ll　be　your　slave　until　I　can

have　your　daughter。”　Once；　as　I　would　do　when　he　was　a　child；　I　took　him　out

into　the　yard　and　tried　to　explain　to　him；　as　a　father　might；　about　the　trees；

about　the　light　falling　onto　the　leaves；　about　the　melting　snow　and　why　the

houses seemed to shrink as we moved away from them。 But this was a

mistake： It proved only that our former filial relationship had long since

collapsed。　Now　patient　sufferance　of　the　rantings　of　a　demented　old　man　had

taken　the　place　of　Black’s　childhood　curiosity　and　passion　for　knowledge。　I　was

just　an　old　man　whose　daughter　was　the　object　of　Black’s　love。　The　influence

and experience of the countries and cities that my nephew had traveled

through　for　a　dozen　years　had　been　fully　absorbed　by　his　soul。　He　was　tired　of

me；　and　I　pitied　him。　And　he　was　angry；　I　assumed；　not　only　because　I　hadn’t

allowed　him　to　marry　Shekure　twelve　years　ago—after　all；　there　was　no　other

choice　then—but　because　I　dreamed　of　paintings　whose　style　transgressed　the

precepts of the masters of Herat。 Furthermore； because I raved about this

nonsense　with　such　conviction；　I　imagined　my　death　at　his　hands。

I　was　not；　however；　afraid　of