“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 the issue of style and signature。 If we actually mitted an
unpardonable sin by illustrating that book—as that half…wit had maintained
four days ago—even if we had done so unawares； Allah wouldn’t have
bestowed this favor upon us miniaturists。