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

416

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