on hour talking to
the binder’s apprentices downstairs and claimed that red ink applied to the
forehead stopped aging； the ornery master who relied on an unsuspecting
apprentice or even randomly stopped anyone passing by to test the
consistency of paint upon their fingernails after his own nails were pletely
filled； and the portly artist who made us laugh as he caressed his beard with
the furry rabbit’s foot used to collect the excess flecks of gold dust used in
gilding？ Where were they all？
Where were the burnishing boards which were used so much they became a
part of the apprentices’ bodies and then just tossed aside； and the long paper
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scissors that the apprentices dulled by playing “swordsman”？ Where were the
writing boards inscribed with the names of the great masters so they wouldn’t
get mixed up； the aroma of China ink and the faint rattle of coffeepots aboil in
the silence？ Where were the various brushes we made of hairs from the necks
and inner ears of kittens born to our tabby cats each summer； and the great
sheaves of Indian paper given to us so； in idle moments； we could practice our
artistry the way calligraphers did？ Where was the ugly steel…handled penknife
ission from the Head Illuminator； thus providing a
deterrent to the entire workshop when we had to scrape away large mistakes；
and what happened to the rituals that surrounded these mistakes？
We also agreed that it was wrong for the Sultan to allow the master
miniaturists to work at home。 We recalled the marvelous warm halva that
came to us from the p