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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第36部分

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And he has a dagger with a ruby…studded handle。 Are you the one who killed 
my father?” 
131 
 
I nodded indicating neither “yes” nor “no。” “How do you know that your 
father is dead?” 
“My mother said so yesterday。 He won’t be returning。 She saw him in her 
dream。” 
If presented with the opportunity; we would choose to do in the name of a 
greater goal whatever awful thing we’ve already prepared to do for the sake of 
our own miserable gains; for the lust that burns within us or for the love that 
breaks our hearts; and so; I resolved once more to bee the father of these 
forsaken children; and; when I returned to the house; I listened more intently 
to Shevket’s grandfather as he described the book whose text and illustrations 
I had to plete。 
Let  me  begin  with  the  illustrations  that  my  Enishte  had  shown  me;  the 
horse  for  example。  On  this  page  there  were  no  human  figures  and  the  area 
around  the  horse  was  empty;  even  so;  I  couldn’t  say  it  was  simply  and 
exclusively the painting of a horse。 Yes; the horse was there; yet it was apparent 
that the rider had stepped off to the side; or who knows; perhaps he was on 
the  verge  of  emerging  from  behind  the  bush  drawn  in  the  Kazvin  style。  This 
was  immediately  apparent  from  the  saddle  upon  the  horse;  which  bore  the 
marks  and  embellishments  of  nobility:  Maybe;  a  man  with  his  sword  at  the 
ready was about to appear beside the steed。 
It  was  obvious  that  Enishte  missioned  this  horse  from  a  master 
illustrator  whom  he’d  secretly  summoned  from  the  workshop。  Because  the 
illustrator; arriving at night; could draw a horse—ingrained in his mind like a 
stencil—only if it were the extension of a story; that’s exactly how he’d begin: 
by rote。 As he was drawing the horse; which he’d seen thousands of times in 
scenes of love and war; my Enishte; inspired by the methods of the Veian 
masters;  had  probably  instructed  the  illustrator;  for  example;  he  might  have 
said; “Forget about the rider; draw a tree there。 But draw it in the background; 
on a smaller scale。” 
The illustrator; who came at night; would sit before his work desk together 
with  my  Enishte;  eagerly  drawing  by  candlelight  an  odd;  unconventional 
picture  that  didn’t  resemble  any  of  the  usual  scenes  to  which  he  was 
accustomed and had memorized。 Of course; my Enishte paid him handsomely 
for  each  drawing;  but  frankly;  this  peculiar  method  of  drawing  also  had  its 
charms。  However;  as  with  my  Enishte;  after  a  while;  the  illustrator  could  no 
longer  determine  which  story  the  illustration  was  intended  to  enhance  and 
plete。  What  my  Enishte  expected  of  me  was  that  I  examine  these 
illustrations  made  in  half…Veian;  half…Persian  mode  and  write  a  story 
132 
 
suitable to acpany them on the opposite page。 If I hoped to get Shekure; I 
absolutely  had  to  write  these  stories;  but  all  that  came  to  mind  were  the 
stories the storyteller told at the coffeehouse。 
 
 
   
133 
 
I WILL BE CALLED A MURDERER 
 
Ticking away; my windup clock told me it was evening。 The prayers had yet to 
be  called;  but  long  before;  I’d  lit  the  candle  resting  beside  my  folding 
pleted  drawing  an  opium  addict  from  memory; 
having dipped my reed pen into black Hasan Pasha ink and skated it over well…
burnished and beautifully sized paper; when I heard that voice calling me out 
to the street as it did every night。 I resisted。 I was so determined not to go; but 
to stay at home and work; I even tried nailing my door shut for a time。 
This  book  I  was  hastily  pleting  was  missioned  by  an  Armenian 
who’d  e  all  the  way  from  Galata;  knocking  on  my  door  this  morning 
before  anyone  had  risen。  The  man;  an  interpreter  and  guide;  though  he 
stuttered;  hunted  me  down  whenever  a  Frank  or  Veian  traveler  wanted  a 
“book of costumes” and engaged me in a bout of vicious bargaining。 Having 
agreed  that  morning  upon  a  lesser…quality  book  of  costumes  for  a  price  of 
twenty  silver  pieces;  I  proceeded  to  illustrate  a  dozen  Istanbulites  in  a  single 
sitting  around  the  time  of  the  evening  prayer;  paying  particular  attention  to 
the detail of their outfits。 I drew a Sheikhulislam; a palace porter; a preacher; a 
Janissary;  a  dervish;  a  cavalryman;  a  judge;  a  liver  seller;  an  executioner—
executioners in the act of torture sold quite well—a beggar; a woman bound 
for the hamam; and an opium addict。 I’d done so many of these books just to 
earn a few extra silver pieces that I began to invent games for myself to fight 
off  boredom  while  I  drew;  for  example;  I  forced  myself  to  draw  the  judge 
without lifting my pen off the page or to draw the beggar with my eyes closed。 
All  brigands;  poets  and  men  of  constant  sorrow  know  that  when  the 
evening prayer is called the jinns and demons within them will grow agitated 
and  rebellious;  urging  in  unision:  “Out!  Outside!”  This  restless  inner  voice 
demands; “Seek the pany of others; seek blackness; misery and disgrace。” 
I’ve  spent  my  time  appeasing  these  jinns  and  demons。  I’ve  painted  pictures; 
which many regard as miracles that have issued from my hands; with the help 
of these evil spirits。 But for seven days now after dusk; since I murdered that 
disgrace; I’m no longer able to control the jinns and demons within me。 They 
rage with such violence that I tell myself they might calm down if I go out for 
a while。 
After  saying  so;  as  always  without  knowing  how;  I  found  myself  roaming 
through the night。 I walked briskly; advancing through snowy streets; muddy 
passages;  icy  slopes  and  deserted  sidewalks  as  if  I  would  never  stop。  As  I 
walked;  descending  into  the  dark  of  night;  into  the  most  remote  and 
134 
 
abandoned parts of the city; I’d ever so gradually leave my soul behind; and 
walking along the narrow streets; my footsteps echoing off the walls of stone 
inns; schools and mosques; my fears would subside。 
Of their own accord; my feet brought me to the abandoned streets of this 
neighborhood on the outskirts of the city; where I came each night and where 
even specters and jinns would shudder to roam。 I heard tell that half the men 
in  this  neighborhood  had  perished  in  the  wars  with  Persia  and  that  the  rest 
had  fled;  declaring  it  ill…omened;  but  I  don’t  believe  such  superstition。  The 
only tragedy that has befallen this good quarter on account of the Safavid wars 
was the closing of the Kalenderi dervish house forty years ago because it was 
suspected of harboring the enemy。 
I meandered behind the mulberry bushes and the bay…leaf trees; which had 
a   pleasant   aroma   even   in   the   coldest   weather;   and   with   my   usual 
fastidiousness;  I  straightened  up  the  wall  boards  between  the  collapsed 
chimney and the window with its dilapidated shutters。 I entered and drew the 
lingering scent of one…hundred…year…old incense and mold deep into my lungs。 
It made me so blissful to be here; I thought tears would fall from my eyes。 
If I haven’t already said so; I’d like to say that I fear nothing but Allah and 
the  punishment  meted  out  in  this  world  has  no  import  whatsoever  in  my 
opinion。 What I fear are the various torments that murderers like myself will 
have to endure on Judgment Day; as is clearly described in the Glorious Koran; 
in  the  “Criterion”  chapter;  for  example。  In  the  ancient  books;  that  I  quite 
rarely lay hold of; whenever I see this punishment in all its colors and violence; 
recalling the simple; childish; yet terrifying scenes of Hell illustrated on calfskin 
by the old Arab miniaturists; or; for whatever reason; the torments of demons 
depicted  by  Chinese  and  Mongol  master  artists;  I  can’t  keep  myself  from 
drawing  this  analogy  and  heeding  its  logic:  What  does  “The  Night  Journey” 
chapter  state  in  its  thirty…third  verse?  Is  it  not  written  that  one  should  not; 
without justification; take the life of another whose murder God forbids? All 
right then: The miscreant I’ve sent to Hell was not a believer; whose murder 
God had forbidden; and besides; I had excellent justification for shattering his 
skull。 
This man had slandered those of us who’d worked on that book Our Sultan 
had secretly missioned。 If I hadn’t silenced him; he would’ve denounced 
as  unbelievers  Enishte  Effendi;  all  the  miniaturists  and  even  Master  Osman; 
letting the rabid followers of the Hoja of Erzurum have their way with them。 If 
someone  succeeded  in  announcing  that  the  miniaturists  were  mitting 
blasphemy;  these  followers  of  Ezurumi—who  are  looking  for  any  excuse  to 
135 
 
exercise  their  strength—wouldn’t  just  be  satisfied  with  doing  away  with  the 
master  miniaturists;  they’d  destroy  the  entire  workshop  and  Our  Sultan 
would be helpless to do anything but watch with

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