alace kitchen on early winter evenings after we’d

worked　with　aching　eyes　by　the　light　of　oil　lamps　and　candles。　Laughing　and

with tears in our eyes； we remembered how the elderly and senile master

gilder；　who　was　stricken　with　chronic　trembling　and　could　take　up　neither　pen

nor　paper；　on　his　monthly　workshop　visits　brought　fried　dough…balls　in　heavy

syrup that his daughter had made for us apprentices。 We talked about the

exquisite　pages　rendered　by　the　dearly　departed　Black　Memi；　Head　Illuminator

before　Master　Osman；　discovered　in　his　room；　which　remained　empty　for　days

after his funeral； within the portfolio found beneath the light mattress he’d

spread　out　and　use　for　catnaps　in　the　afternoons。

We　talked　about　and　named　the　pages　we　took　pride　in　and　would　want　to

take　out　and　look　at　now　and　again　if　we　had　copies　of　them；　the　way　Master

Black　Memi　had。　They　explained　how　the　sky　on　the　upper　half　of　the　palace

picture　made　for　the　Book　of　Skills；　illuminated　with　gold　wash；　foreshadowed

the　end　of　the　world；　not　due　to　the　gold　itself；　but　due　to　its　tone　between

towers； domes and cypresses—the way gold ought to be used in a polite

rendition。

They described a portrayal of Our Exalted Prophet’s bewilderment and

ticklishness； as angels seized him by his underarms during his ascension to

Heaven from the top of a minaret； a picture of such grave colors that even

children； upon seeing the blessed scene； would first tremble with pious awe

and　then　laugh　respectfully　as　if　they　themselves　were　being　tickled。　I　explained

how