end； if a petition by express
mand of Your Highness were announced tonight； if a guard were to visit
Your miniaturists； requesting them to draw a horse quickly on a blank sheet
for this contest…”
Our Sultan looked at the mander of the Imperial Guard with an
expression that said； “Did you hear that？” Then he said； “Do you know which
of the Poet Nizami’s stories of rivalry I like best of all？”
Some of us said； “We know。” Some said； “Which one？” Some； including
myself； fell silent。
“I’m not fond of the contest of poets or the story about the contest
between Chinese and Western painters and the mirror；” said the handsome
Sultan。 “I like best the contest of doctors who pete to the death。”
After He’d said this； He abruptly took leave of us for His evening prayers。
Later； as the evening azan was being called； in the half dark； after exiting the
gates of the palace； I hurried toward my neighborhood happily imagining
Shekure； the boys and our house； when I recalled with horror the story of the
contest of doctors：
One of the two doctors peting in the presence of their sultan—the one
often depicted in pink—made a poison green pill strong enough to fell an
elephant； which he gave to the other doctor； the one in the navy…blue caftan。
That doctor first swallowed the poisonous pill； and afterward； swallowed a
navy…blue antidote that he’d just made。 As could be understood from his
gentle laughter； nothing at all happened to him。 Furthermore； it was now his
turn to give his rival a whiff of death。 Moving ever so deliberately； savoring the