out new shoots.
When I woke, the envelope of banknotes was lying unopened at the side of my bed. I dressed and hurried to the Syrian’s bar.
‘Your story moved me,’ I told him. ‘It was my fault that you lost your money. I carry the guilt.’
‘Well, maybe,’ said the Syrian.
‘Here, take this envelope. Give me the scrolls.’
The Syrian saw the thickness of the envelope and did not haggle. He promised me free tea at his bar ‘until the angels take you up to Paradise in recognition of your kindness and your honesty’. He put the envelope into his safe and hung the key on a gold chain at his throat. He put his finger to his lips. ‘Say nothing,’ he told me. ‘This is between friends.’
N OW THE Minister has his exhibits and I am working to contribute just one genuine piece of my own. My last work of calligraphy, the work which was intended to be sealed in a tube of bamboo and burned at my funeral, is now to go instead to Vienna and Paris and Chicago. It is my Sins and Virtues.
I sit at my desks, intimate and scholarly, plaiting knots of Kufic script, the stems foliated, the heads floriated. I curve patterns of letters, leaves and tendrils.Tightly disciplined parades of vertical strokes march across the parchment to come to attention at undergrowth concealing fabulous animals. Blooms and blossoms fall amongst keywords in plain geometric patterns.
I have divided the paper into four squares and there in each square is a virtue embracing a vice. I plead guilty to Lust, but I name Virginity in mitigation. I admit to Selfishness but call upon Self-Awareness in my defence. I decorate with half-palmettes the verticles of Misanthropy and list the names of those I failed to help. But I claim, too, the virtue of Tolerance and display an empty nameless list of those I ever intentionally harmed. My greatest virtue has been the virtue of Talent. I inscribe it large and plain. Simplicity is the mark of the craftsman. Talent shares its box with Deceit, the same word in Siddilic for Forgery, ‘ALL THIS WORK IS FALSE ’, I have written and decorated in gold. Now my Sins and Virtues are complete. I leave the manuscript unsigned…
T HE M INISTER’S man tried to persuade me to follow my exhibition to all the galleries in the world, to give talks and interviews, to be present at the great auction. But I explained that I was too frail for travel and the aide-de-camp was not insistent.
The Minister is very pleased. He came to compliment me on my exertion and to repeat his promise ofluxuries in my old age. He enquired about the possibility of more works. But I explained to him Supply and Demand. Flood the market, I told him, and the price goes down.
‘You are famous worldwide,’ he said, sitting at the end of my bed, watching the gecko in the folds of my bed sheet. ‘Our country is now highly regarded. Art is important in Europe and America.’
He rose to leave. ‘One small point,’ he said. ‘There is one parchment which is unsigned…’
‘Does it matter?’
‘For the price, the value, that’s all. Art buyers like to know that they are buying the genuine article. If there is no signature…’
‘Sell that one cheaply, then,’ I suggested. ‘That is good practice in business, too, to have something cheap amongst the more expensive.’
‘Excellent,’ said the Minister, ‘You are more worldly than I had imagined.’
I HAVE left instructions with the Syrian and with Duni, the ironmonger, and all those that know me in the market, that when I die they should burn my body and take my ashes in a vase to the village of my uncles. There they should bury me beneath the acacia. Duni asked me about my Sins and Virtues, but I explained that I had lived such a solitary life that I had none.
‘What, not even a little minor failing once in a while?’ he asked.
‘No, nothing,’ I said. ‘My conscience is clean.’ The sin-lister, I reminded him, must be free from sin. It is the custom and the regulation.
I
When I woke, the envelope of banknotes was lying unopened at the side of my bed. I dressed and hurried to the Syrian’s bar.
‘Your story moved me,’ I told him. ‘It was my fault that you lost your money. I carry the guilt.’
‘Well, maybe,’ said the Syrian.
‘Here, take this envelope. Give me the scrolls.’
The Syrian saw the thickness of the envelope and did not haggle. He promised me free tea at his bar ‘until the angels take you up to Paradise in recognition of your kindness and your honesty’. He put the envelope into his safe and hung the key on a gold chain at his throat. He put his finger to his lips. ‘Say nothing,’ he told me. ‘This is between friends.’
N OW THE Minister has his exhibits and I am working to contribute just one genuine piece of my own. My last work of calligraphy, the work which was intended to be sealed in a tube of bamboo and burned at my funeral, is now to go instead to Vienna and Paris and Chicago. It is my Sins and Virtues.
I sit at my desks, intimate and scholarly, plaiting knots of Kufic script, the stems foliated, the heads floriated. I curve patterns of letters, leaves and tendrils.Tightly disciplined parades of vertical strokes march across the parchment to come to attention at undergrowth concealing fabulous animals. Blooms and blossoms fall amongst keywords in plain geometric patterns.
I have divided the paper into four squares and there in each square is a virtue embracing a vice. I plead guilty to Lust, but I name Virginity in mitigation. I admit to Selfishness but call upon Self-Awareness in my defence. I decorate with half-palmettes the verticles of Misanthropy and list the names of those I failed to help. But I claim, too, the virtue of Tolerance and display an empty nameless list of those I ever intentionally harmed. My greatest virtue has been the virtue of Talent. I inscribe it large and plain. Simplicity is the mark of the craftsman. Talent shares its box with Deceit, the same word in Siddilic for Forgery, ‘ALL THIS WORK IS FALSE ’, I have written and decorated in gold. Now my Sins and Virtues are complete. I leave the manuscript unsigned…
T HE M INISTER’S man tried to persuade me to follow my exhibition to all the galleries in the world, to give talks and interviews, to be present at the great auction. But I explained that I was too frail for travel and the aide-de-camp was not insistent.
The Minister is very pleased. He came to compliment me on my exertion and to repeat his promise ofluxuries in my old age. He enquired about the possibility of more works. But I explained to him Supply and Demand. Flood the market, I told him, and the price goes down.
‘You are famous worldwide,’ he said, sitting at the end of my bed, watching the gecko in the folds of my bed sheet. ‘Our country is now highly regarded. Art is important in Europe and America.’
He rose to leave. ‘One small point,’ he said. ‘There is one parchment which is unsigned…’
‘Does it matter?’
‘For the price, the value, that’s all. Art buyers like to know that they are buying the genuine article. If there is no signature…’
‘Sell that one cheaply, then,’ I suggested. ‘That is good practice in business, too, to have something cheap amongst the more expensive.’
‘Excellent,’ said the Minister, ‘You are more worldly than I had imagined.’
I HAVE left instructions with the Syrian and with Duni, the ironmonger, and all those that know me in the market, that when I die they should burn my body and take my ashes in a vase to the village of my uncles. There they should bury me beneath the acacia. Duni asked me about my Sins and Virtues, but I explained that I had lived such a solitary life that I had none.
‘What, not even a little minor failing once in a while?’ he asked.
‘No, nothing,’ I said. ‘My conscience is clean.’ The sin-lister, I reminded him, must be free from sin. It is the custom and the regulation.
I
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