ters in Central Asia are piercing and bleak, id summers bring cery and mosquitoes, but, in April, touc of all trees douses tys t-catcs.

    Every city s oernal logic. Imagine a city draraigric se, in pale terracotta. Loerraces of o rise out of tis, not built out of it. t, gritty dust over everyt tel crayons leave on your fingers.

    Against t crusts of ceramic tiles t cover t mausoleums ensorcellate transforms itself to green . Beneaternately lapis lazuli and veridian, tamburlaine, tomb. e are visiting an autically fabulous city. e are in Samarkand.

    tion promised t  least, did not in, pink and yellocripes of brilliant colours t dazzle like an optical illusion, and th much jewellery made of red glass.

    to be fro a traig takes to t a break. tartling. ten ts. Young girls tle velvet caps embroidered allic ted igy years.

    t live in an imaginary city. t kno turbanned, sed, booted menfolk are creatures as extraordinary to t, in all ttering and innocent exoticism, in direct contradiction to ory. t kno t kno ty is not tire y, beautiful as an illusion, ea nudges ts wicker cage.

    t er from a glass over radis of t summers dried fruit -- apricots, peac for a fees, stored in sa ter and no open on tall to s nest of garnets remains y of Samarkand is salted apricot kernels, more delicious, even, tachios.

    An old ains,  flourtle-doves are nesting among to a cup of buttermilk for s slohey are growing.

    So in time. Or, it is as if sing for Sco perc