第67部分(第3/7 頁)

　end；　if　a　petition　by　express

mand　of　Your　Highness　were　announced　tonight；　if　a　guard　were　to　visit

Your　miniaturists；　requesting　them　to　draw　a　horse　quickly　on　a　blank　sheet

for　this　contest…”

Our Sultan looked at the mander of the Imperial Guard with an

expression　that　said；　“Did　you　hear　that？”　Then　he　said；　“Do　you　know　which

of　the　Poet　Nizami’s　stories　of　rivalry　I　like　best　of　all？”

Some of us said； “We know。” Some said； “Which one？” Some； including

myself；　fell　silent。

“I’m not fond of the contest of poets or the story about the contest

between Chinese and Western painters and the mirror；” said the handsome

Sultan。　“I　like　best　the　contest　of　doctors　who　pete　to　the　death。”

After　He’d　said　this；　He　abruptly　took　leave　of　us　for　His　evening　prayers。

Later；　as　the　evening　azan　was　being　called；　in　the　half　dark；　after　exiting　the

gates of the palace； I hurried toward my neighborhood happily imagining

Shekure；　the　boys　and　our　house；　when　I　recalled　with　horror　the　story　of　the

contest　of　doctors：

One　of　the　two　doctors　peting　in　the　presence　of　their　sultan—the　one

often depicted in pink—made a poison green pill strong enough to fell an

elephant；　which　he　gave　to　the　other　doctor；　the　one　in　the　navy…blue　caftan。

That doctor first swallowed the poisonous pill； and afterward； swallowed a

navy…blue antidote that he’d just made。 As could be understood from his

gentle　laughter；　nothing　at　all　happened　to　him。　Furthermore；　it　was　now　his

turn　to　give　his　rival　a　whiff　of　death。　Moving　ever　so　deliberately；　savoring　the