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 him； on the contrary； I tried to frighten him。
For I believed that fear was appropriate to the 。
“As in those pictures；” I said； “one ought to be able to situate oneself at the
center of the world。 One of my illustrators brilliantly depicted Death for me。
Behold。”