。　He　let　it　boil　for　as　long　as　it　took　to　drink　an　excellent　cup　of　coffee。　As

he enjoyed his coffee； I grew as impatient as a child about to be born。 The

coffee had cleared the master’s mind and given him the eyes of a jinn。 He

sprinkled the red powder into the kettle and carefully mixed the concoction

with　one　of　the　thin；　clean　sticks　reserved　for　this　task。　I　was　ready　to　bee

genuine　red；　but　the　issue　of　my　consistency　was　of　utmost　importance：　The

liquid　shouldn’t　be　permitted　to　just　boil　away。　He　drew　the　tip　of　his　stirring

stick across the nail of his thumb （any other finger was absolutely

unacceptable）。 Oh； how exquisite it is to be red！ I gracefully painted that

thumbnail without running off the side in watery haste。 In short； I was the

right　consistency；　but　I　still　contained　sediment。　He　took　the　pot　off　the　stove

and strained me through a clean piece of cheesecloth； purifying me even

further。　Next；　he　heated　me　up　again；　bringing　me　to　a　frothy　boil　twice　more。

After　adding　a　pinch　of　crushed　alum；　he　left　me　to　cool。

A　few　days　passed　and　I　sat　there　quietly　in　the　pan。　In　the　anticipation　of

being applied to pages； of being spread everywhere and onto everything；

205

sitting still like that broke my heart and spirit。 It was during this period of

silence　that　I　meditated　upon　what　it　meant　to　be　red。

Once；　in　a　Persian　city；　as　I　was　being　applied　by　the　brush　of　an　apprentice

to　the　embroidery　on　the　saddle　cloth　of　a　horse　that　a　blind　miniaturist　had

drawn　by　heart；　I　overheard　two　blind