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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第17部分

小说: my name is red-我的名字叫红 字数: 每页4000字

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Scenes of bat or fucking are quite mon。 The price for a bustling battle 
has  fallen  to  three  hundred  silver  coins;  and  there  are  hardly  any  interested 
clients。  To  sell  pieces  on  the  cheap  and  to  better  lure  a  buyer;  some  simply 
draw  in  black  ink  on  nonsized;  unfinished  paper  with  nary  a  brushstroke  of 
color。” 
“There  was  a  gilder  of  mine  who  was  content  as  content  could  be  and 
talented as talent would allow;” said Master Osman。 “He saw to his work with 
such  elegance  that  we  referred  to  him  as  ”Elegant  Effendi。“  But  he  has 
abandoned  us。  It’s  been  six  days;  and  he’s  not  to  be  found  anywhere。  He’s 
plain disappeared。” 
“How could anyone quit such a workshop as this; such a joyous hearth?” I 
said。 
“Butterfly;  Olive;  Stork  and  Elegant;  the  four  young  masters  whom  I’ve 
trained  since  they  were  apprentices;  now  work  at  home  at  Our  Sultan’s 
behest;” said Master Osman。 
This  apparently  came  about  so  they  could  work  more  fortably  on  the 
Book of Festivities with which the entire workshop was involved。 This time; the 
Sultan hadn’t arranged for a special workspace for His master miniaturists in 
the palace courtyard; rather; He decreed that they work on this special book at 
home。 When it occurred to me that this order was probably issued for the sake 
of my Enishte’s book; I fell silent。 To what degree was Master Osman making 
insinuations? 
“Nuri  Effendi;”  he  called  to  a  pale  and  hunched  painter;  “present  Our 
Master Black with a ”survey‘ of the workshop!“ 
The  “survey”  was  a  regular  ritual  of  Our  Sultan’s  bimonthly  visits  to  the 
miniaturists’ atelier during that exciting time when His Excellency had intently 
followed what transpired at the workshop。 Under the auspices of Haz?m; the 
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Head Treasurer; Lokman; the Head Poetic Chronicler and Master Osman; the 
Head  Illuminator;  Our  Sultan  would  be  apprised  of  which  pages  in  which 
books  the  masters  were  working  on  at  any  given  moment:  who  did  which 
gilding;  who  colored  which  picture;  and  one  by  one;  how  the  colorists;  the 
page  rulers;  the  gilders  and  the  master  miniaturists;  whose  talent  allowed 
them  to  acplish  miracles;  were  engaged。  It  saddened  me  that  they  were 
holding  a  fake  ceremony  in  place  of  the  one  that  was  no  longer  performed 
because age and ill health bound the Head Poetic Chronicler Lokman Effendi; 
who  wrote  most  of  the  books  which  were  illustrated;  to  his  home;  because 
Master Osman often disappeared in a cloud of indignation and wrath; because 
the four masters known as Butterfly; Olive; Stork and Elegant worked at home; 
and  because  Our  Sultan  no  longer  waxed  enthusiastic  like  a  child  in  the 
workshop。 As happened to many miniaturists; Nuri Effendi had grown old in 
vain; without having fully experienced life or bee a master of his art。 Not 
in  vain;  however;  did  he  spend  those  years  over  his  worktable  being 
hunchbacked:  He  always  paid  close  attention  to  what  happened  in  the 
workshop; to who made which exquisite page。 
And so I eagerly beheld for the first time the legendary pages of the Book of 
Festivities;  which  recounted  the  circumcision  ceremonies  of  Our  Sultan’s 
prince。  When  I  was  still  in  Persia;  I  heard  stories  about  this  fifty…two…day 
circumcision ceremony wherein people from all occupations and all guilds; all 
of   Istanbul;   had   participated;   indeed   at   a   time   when   the   book   that 
memorialized the great event was yet being prepared。 
In  the  first  picture  placed  before  me;  fixed  in  the  royal  enclosure  of  late 
Ibrahim Pasha’s palace; Our Sultan; the Refuge of the World; gazed upon the 
festivities in the Hippodrome below with a look that bespoke His satisfaction。 
His face; even though not so detailed as to permit one to distinguish Him from 
others  by  features  alone;  was  drawn  adeptly  and  with  reverence。  As  for  the 
right side of the double…leaf picture showing Our Sultan on the left; there were 
viziers; pashas; Persian; Tatar; Frankish and Veian ambassadors standing in 
the arched colonnades and windows。 Because they were not sultans; their eyes 
were drawn hastily and carelessly and focused on nothing in particular besides 
the general motion in the square。 Later; I noticed in other pictures that the 
same  arrangement  and  page  position  repeated—even  though  the  wall 
ornamentation;  the  trees  and  terra…cotta  shingles  were  depicted  in  different 
styles  and  colors。  Once  the  text  was  written  out  by  scribes;  the  illustrations 
pleted  and  the  book  bound;  the  reader;  turning  pages;  would  each  time 
see  pletely  different  activities  in  pletely  different  colors  in  the 
Hippodrome which remained under the same watchful gazes of the Sultan and 
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His crowd of guests—who always stood identically; forever gazing at the same 
area below。 
There before me I saw people scrambling for hundreds of bowls of pilaf that 
were placed in the Hippodrome; I saw the live rabbits and birds emerge out of 
the  roast  ox  and  startle  the  crowd  that  had  descended  upon  it。  I  saw  the 
master  coppersmiths’  guild  riding  in  a  wheeled  cart  before  Our  Sultan;  its 
members hammering away at copper but never striking the one among them 
lying  in  the  cart  with  the  anvil  balanced  on  his  bare  chest。  I  saw  glaziers 
embellishing glass with carnations and cypresses as they paraded before Our 
Sultan  in  a  wagon;  confectioners  reciting  sweet  poems  as  they  drove  camels 
laden with sacks of sugar and displayed cages holding sugar…parrots; and aged 
locksmiths  who  showed  off  a  variety  of  hanging  locks;  padlocks;  dead  bolts 
and  gearlocks  as  they  plained  of  the  evils  of  new  times  and  new  doors。 
Butterfly;  Stork  and  Olive  had  worked  on  the  picture  that  depicted  the 
magicians:  One  of  them  was  causing  eggs  to  march  down  a  pole  without 
dropping them—as if on a broad slab of marble—to the beat of a tambourine 
played  by  another。  In  one  wagon  I  saw  precisely  how  Sea…Captain  K?l??  Ali 
Pasha  had  forced  the  infidels  he’d  captured  at  sea  to  make  an  “infidels’ 
mountain” out of clay; he’d then loaded all the slaves into the cart; and when 
he   was   right   before   the   Sultan;   he   exploded   the   powder   within   the 
“mountain” to demonstrate how he’d made infidel lands wail and moan with 
cannon fire。 I saw clean…shaven butchers wielding cleavers; wearing rose… and 
purple…colored  uniforms  and  smiling  at  the  pink  carcasses  of  skinned  sheep 
hanging from hooks。 The spectators applauded lion tamers who’d brought a 
chained lion before Our Sultan; provoking and enraging it until its eyes shone 
bloodred with rage; and on the next page; I saw the lion; representing Islam; 
chase  away  a  gray…and…pink  pig;  symbolizing  the  cunning  Christian  infidel。  I 
indulged my eyes at length on a picture of a barber suspended upside down 
from the ceiling of a shop built onto a cart; as he shaved a customer while his 
assistant;  dressed  in  red;  held  a  mirror  and  a  silver  bowl  containing  fragrant 
soap;  waiting  for  baksheesh;  I  inquired  after  the  identity  of  the  magnificent 
miniaturist responsible for the piece。 
“It  is  indeed  important  that  a  painting;  through  its  beauty;  summon  us 
toward life’s abundance; toward passion; toward respect for the colors of 
the realm which God created; and toward reflection and faith。 The identity of 
the miniaturist is not important。” 
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Was Nuri the Miniaturist; who was much more subtle in thought than I’d 
assumed; being reserved because he understood that my Enishte sent me here 
to investigate; or was he merely parroting Head Illuminator Master Osman? 
“Is Elegant the one responsible for all this gilding work?” I asked。 “Who’s 
doing the gilding now; in his stead?” 
The shouts and screams of children could now be heard through the open 
door  that  faced  the  inner  courtyard。  Below;  one  of  the  division  heads  had 
started  administering  the  bastinado  to  apprentices  who’d  most  likely  been 
caught with red ink powder in their pockets or gold leaf hidden away in a fold 
of  paper;  probably  the  two  whom  I’d  seen  trembling  as  they  waited  in  the 
cold。 Young painters; seizing an opportunity to mock them; ran to the door to 
watch。 
“By the time the apprentices paint the ground of the Hippodrome here  a 
rose  color;  finishing  it  off  as  our  Master  Osman  has  dictated;”  said  Nuri 
Effendi  cautiously;  “our  brother  Elegant  Effendi;  God  willing;  will  have 
returned from wherever he’s gone and will plete the gilding on these two 
pages。  Our  master;  Osman  the  Miniaturist;  wanted  Elegant  Effendi  to  color 
the dirt floor of the Hippodrome differently in each scene。 Rose pink; Indian 
green; saffron yellow or the color of goos

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