ck　at　the　door　and　I　opened　it

without ceremony： It was one of the mander’s men from the palace； a

clean； handsome； cheerful and being youth。 In addition to paper and a

writing　board；　he　carried　an　oil　lamp　in　his　hand；　which　cast　shadows　over　his

face　rather　than　illuminating　it。　He　quickly　apprised　me　of　the　situation：　Our

Sultan　had　declared　a　contest　among　the　master　miniaturists　to　see　who　could

draw the best horse in the shortest time。 I was asked to sit on the floor；

arrange　paper　on　the　board　and　the　board　on　my　knees　and　quickly　depict　the

world’s　most　beautiful　horse　in　the　space　indicated　within　the　borders　of　the

page。

I invited my guest inside。 I ran and fetched my ink and the finest of my

brushes　made　from　hair　clipped　from　a　cat’s　ear。　I　sat　down　on　the　floor　and

froze！　Might　this　contest　be　a　ruse　or　ploy　that　I’d　end　up　paying　for　with　my

blood　or　my　head？　Perhaps！　But　hadn’t　all　the　legendary　illustrations　by　the

old　masters　of　Herat　been　drawn　with　fine　lines　that　ran　between　death　and

beauty？

I　was　filled　with　the　desire　to　illustrate；　yet　I　was　seemingly　afraid　to　draw

exactly　like　the　old　masters；　and　I　restrained　myself。

Looking at the blank sheet of paper； I paused so that my soul might rid

itself　of　apprehension。　I　ought　to　have　focused　solely　on　the　beau