ubject　matter　which　no　one　else　can　see？”　said　the　sure…handed；

stunning…eyed；　brilliant　illustrator；　and　although　he　himself　knew　the　answer

to　this　question；　he　remained　quite　reserved。

“The Veians measure a miniaturist’s prowess by his ability to discover

novel subject matter and techniques that have never before been used；”

insisted　the　old　man　arrogantly。

“Veians die like Veians；” said the illustrator who would soon draw

me。

“All　our　deaths　resemble　one　another；”　said　the　old　man。

“Legends and paintings recount how men are distinct from one another；

not how everybody resembles one another；” said the wise illustrator。 “The

master miniaturist earns his mastery by depicting unique legends as if we

were　already　familiar　with　them。”

In this manner； the conversation turned to the differences between the

deaths　of　Veians　and　Ottomans；　to　the　Angel　of　Death　and　the　other　angels

of Allah； and how they could never be appropriated by the artistry of the

infidels。 The young master who is presently staring at me with his beautiful

eyes　in　our　dear　coffeehouse　was　disturbed　by　these　weighty　words；　his　hands

grew　impatient；　he　longed　to　depict　me；　yet　he　had　no　idea　what　kind　of　entity

I　was。

The　sly　and　calculating　old　man　who　wanted　to　beguile　the　young　master

caught　the　scent　of　the　young　man’s　eagerness。　In　the　shadowy　room；　the　old

man　bore　his　eyes；　which　glowed　in　the　light　of　the　idly　burning　oil　lamp；　into

the　miracle…handed　young　master。

140

“Death；　whom　the　Veians　depict　in　human　form；　is　to　us　an　angel