along　one　edge　of　a　page　I’d　memorated　the　previous　Grand　Vizier’s

suppression of rebels who’d taken to the mountains by delicately and

respectfully　arranging　the　heads　he’d　severed；　tastefully　drawing　each　one；　not

as an ordinary corpse’s head； but as an individual and unique face in the

417

manner　of　a　Frankish　portraitist；　furrowing　their　brows　before　death；　dabbing

red　onto　their　necks；　making　their　sorroeaning　of

life； opening their nostrils to one final； desperate breath； and shutting their

eyes　to　this　world；　and　thus；　I’d　imbued　the　painting　with　a　terrifying　aura　of

mystery。

As if they were our own unforgettable and unattainable memories； we

wistfully discussed our favorite scenes of love and war； recalling their most

magnificent wonders and tear…inducing subtleties。 Isolated and mysterious

gardens　where　lovers　met　on　starry　nights　passed　before　our　eyes：　spring　trees；

fantastic birds； frozen time…We imagined bloody battles as immediate and

alarming as our own nightmares； bodies torn in two； chargers with blood…

spattered armor； beautiful men stabbing each other with daggers； the small…

mouthed； small…handed； slanted…eye； bowed women watching events from

barely open windows…We recalled pretty boys who were haughty and

conceited；　and　handsome　shahs　and　khans；　their　power　and　palaces　long　lost

to history。 Just like the women who wept together in the harems of those

shahs； we now knew we were passing from life into memory； but were we

passing from history into legend as they