After the evening prayers I intended to go to the coffeehouse, but they told me there was a visitor at the door. Good tidings, I hoped. I went to discover a messenger from the palace. He described the Sultan’s contest. Fine, the world’s most beautiful horse. You tell me how much you’ll offer for each, and I’ll quickly draw you five or six of them.

Rather than say any such thing, I maintained my reserve, and simply invited the boy waiting at the door inside. I thought for a moment: The world’s most beautiful horse doesn’t even exist that I might draw it. I can draw war steeds, large Mongolian horses, noble Arabians, heroic, writhing chargers covered in blood, or even luckless packhorses pulling a cartfull of stone to a building site, but no one would call any of them the world’s most beautiful horse. Naturally, by “the world’s most beautiful horse,” I knew that Our Sultan meant the most splendid of the horses that had been depicted thousands of times in Persia, in keeping with all of the formulas, models and poses of yore. But why?

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