such　a　frightful；　nerve…wracking　existence？　By　blaming　himself　before　anyone

else　does；　the　artist　believes　he’ll　be　spared　what　he’s　feared　for　years。　Others

listen　to　him　and　believe　him　only　when　he　admits　his　guilt；　for　which　he　is

then　condemned　to　burn　in　Hell—the　illustrator　of　Isfahan　lit　these　hellfires

himself。”

“But　you’re　not　a　miniaturist；”　he　said。　“I　didn’t　kill　him　out　of　fear。”

“You　murdered　him　because　you　wanted　to　paint　as　you　wished；　without

fear。”

For the first time in a long while； the miniaturist who aspired to be my

murderer　said　something　quite　intelligent：　“I　know　you’re　explaining　all　this

to distract me； to dupe me； to get yourself out of this situation；” and he

added； “but what you’ve just said is the truth。 I want you to understand；

listen　to　me。”

I　looked　into　his　eyes。　He’d　pletely　forgotten　the　formality　customary

between　us　as　he　spoke：　He’d　been　carried　away　by　his　own　thoughts。　But　to

where？

“Never　fear；　I　won’t　offend　your　honor；”　he　said。　He　laughed　bitterly　as　he

circled　around　to　face　me。　“Even　now；”　he　said；　“as　I’m　doing　this；　it　doesn’t

seem　to　be　me。　It’s　as　if　there’s　something　writhing　within　me　pelling　me

to do its evil bidding。 Yet I need that thing noheless。 It’s that way with

painting；　too。”

“These　are　old　wives’　tales　abou