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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第88部分

小说: my name is red-我的名字叫红 字数: 每页4000字

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when I was living in the house of my late husband; I heard Hasan’s footsteps 
for  years。  The  children  like  him。  And  he’s  merciless;  that  one。  He  has  a  red 
sword; take care to guard yourself against it。” 
I  saw  something  so  weary  and  so  stern  in  Black’s  eyes  that  I  knew  I 
wouldn’t be able to scare him。 
“Of the two of us; you’re the one with more hope and the one with more 
sadness;”  I  said。  “I’m  just  struggling  not  to  be  unhappy  and  to  protect  my 
children; whereas you’re stubbornly trying to prove yourself。 It’s not because 
you love me。” 
He went on at length about how much he loved me; how he always thought 
only of me in desolate caravansaries; on barren mountains and during snowy 
nights。  If  he  hadn’t  said  these  things;  I  would’ve  awakened  the  children  and 
returned  to  my  former  husband’s  house。  Because  I  had  the  urge;  I  said  the 
following: 
“Sometimes it seems that my former husband might return at any time。 It’s 
not  that  I  fear  being  caught  in  the  middle  of  the  night  with  you  or  being 
caught  by  the  children;  I’m  afraid  that  as  soon  as  we  embrace  he’ll  e 
knocking on the door。” 
We  heard  the  wailing  of  cats  fighting  for  their  lives  just  outside  the 
courtyard  gate。  This  was  followed  by  a  long  silence。  I  thought  I  might  sob。  I 
could  neither  set  my  candle  holder  down  on  the  end  table  nor  turn  around 
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and head to my room to be with my sons。 I told myself that I wouldn’t leave 
this room until I was absolutely convinced that Black had nothing whatsoever 
to do with my father’s death。 
“You belittle us;” I said to Black。 “You’ve grown haughty since you married 
me。 You clearly looked down on us because my husband was missing; and now 
that my father’s been killed you find us even more pitiful。” 
“My respected Shekure;” he said cautiously。 It pleased me that he’d begun 
this  way。  “You  yourself  know  that  none  of  this  is  true。  I’d  do  anything  for 
you。” 
“Then get out of bed; and wait with me on your feet。” 
Why had I said that I was waiting? 
“I  cannot;”  he  said;  and  in  embarrassment;  gestured  to  the  quilt  and  his 
nightgown。 
He  was  right;  but  it  annoyed  me  anyway  that  he  wasn’t  heeding  my 
request。 
“Before my father was murdered; you entered this house cowering like a cat 
who’d spilled milk;” I said。 “But now when you address me as ”My respected 
Shekure‘ it seems empty—as though you want us to know it is。“ 
I was trembling; not out of anger; but because of the icy cold that seized my 
legs; back and neck。 
“Get into bed and be my wife;” he said。 
“How  will  the  villain  who  killed  my  father  ever  be  found?”  I  said。  “If  it’s 
going to take some time before he’s found; it’s not right for me to stay in this 
house with you。” 
“Thanks to you and Esther; Master Osman has focused all his attention on 
the horses。” 
“Master Osman was the sworn enemy of my father; may he rest in peace。 
Now  my  poor  father  can  see  from  above  that  you’re  depending  on  Master 
Osman to find his murderer。 It must be causing him great agony。” 
He abruptly leapt out of bed and came toward me。 I couldn’t even move。 
But contrary to what I expected; he just snuffed out my candle with his hand 
and stood there。 We were in pitch blackness。 
“Your  father  can  no  longer  see  us;” he whispered。  “We’re  both  alone。  Tell 
me now; Shekure: You gave me the impression; when I returned after twelve 
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years; that you’d be able to love me; that you’d be able to make room in your 
heart  for  me。  Then  we  married。  Since  then  you’ve  been  running  away  from 
loving me。” 
“I had to marry you;” I whispered。 
There; in the dark; without pity; I sensed how my words were driving into 
his flesh like nails—as the poet Fuzuli had once put it。 
“If I could love you; I would’ve loved you when I was a child;” I whispered 
again。 
“Tell me then; fair beauty of the darkness;” he said。 “You must’ve spied on 
all those miniaturists who frequented your house and e to know them。 In 
your opinion; which one is the murderer?” 
I was pleased that he could still keep this good humor。 He was; after all; my 
husband。 
“I’m cold。” 
Did I actually say this; I can’t remember。 We began to kiss。 Embracing him 
in the dark; still holding the candle in one hand; I took his velvety tongue into 
my mouth; and my tears; my hair; my nightgown; my trembling and even his 
body  were  full  of  wonder。  Warming  my  nose  against  his  hot  cheek  was  also 
pleasant;  but  this  timid  Shekure  restrained  herself。  As  I  was  kissing  him;  I 
didn’t  let  myself  go  or  drop  the  candle;  but  thought  of  my  father;  who  was 
watching me; and of my former husband; and my children asleep in bed。 
“There’s somebody in the house;” I shouted。 I pushed Black away and went 
out into the hall。 
 
 
   
320 
 
I AM CALLED BLACK 
 
Silent  and  unseen;  under  cover  of  early  morning  darkness;  I  left  like  a  guilty 
houseguest and walked tirelessly through the muddy backstreets。 At Bayazid; I 
performed  my  ablution  in  the  courtyard;  entered  the  mosque  and  prayed。 
Inside;  there  was  no  one  but  the  Imam  Effendi  and  an  old  man  who  could 
sleep  as  he  prayed—a  talent  only  rarely  achieved  after  a  lifetime  of  practice。 
You  know  how  there  are  moments  in  our  sleepy  dreams  and  sad  memories 
when  we  feel  Allah  has  taken  notice  of  us  and  we  pray  with  the  hopeful 
anticipation  of  one  who’s  managed  to  thrust  a  petition  into  the  Sultan’s 
hand:  Thus  did  I  beg  Allah  to  grant  me  a  cheerful  home  filled  with  loving 
people。 
When I’d reached Master Osman’s house; I knew that within a week’s time 
he’d gradually usurped my late Enishte’s place in my thoughts。 He was more 
contrary and more distant; but his belief in manuscript illumination was more 
profound。 He resembled an introspective elderly dervish more than the great 
master   who’d   kicked   up   tempests   of   fear;   awe   and   love   among   the 
miniaturists for so many years。 
As  we  traveled  from  the  master’s  house  to  the  palace—he  mounted  on  a 
horse  and  hunched  slightly;  I  on  foot  and  likewise  hunched  forward—we 
must’ve  recalled  the  elderly  dervish  and  aspiring  disciple  in  those  cheap 
illustrations that acpany old fables。 
At the palace; we found the mander of the Imperial Guard and his men 
even  more  eager  and  ready  than  we。  Our  Sultan  was  certain  that  once  we’d 
looked at the three masters’ horse drawings this morning we could; in a trice; 
determine who among them was the accursed murderer; and so; He’d ordered 
that  the  criminal  be  quickly  put  to  torture  without  even  allowing  him  to 
answer the accusation。 We were taken not to the executioners’ fountain where 
everyone could see and take warning; but to that small slapdash house in the 
sheltered  seclusion  of  the  Sultan’s  Private  Garden;  which  was  preferred  for 
interrogation; torture and strangling。 
A youth; who seemed too elegant and polite to be one of the mander’s 
men; authoritatively placed three sheets of paper on a worktable。 
Master Osman took out his magnifying lens and my heart began to pound。 
Like  an  eagle  gliding  elegantly  over  a  tract  of  land;  his  eye;  which  he 
maintained at a constant distance from the lens; passed ever so slowly over the 
three  marvelous  horse  illustrations。  And  like  that  eagle  catching  sight  of  the 
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baby gazelle which would be its prey; he slowed over each of the horses’ noses 
and focused on it intently and calmly。 
“It’s not here;” he said coldly after a time。 
“What isn’t here?” asked the mander。 
I’d  assumed  the  great  master  would  work  with  deliberation;  scrutinizing 
every aspect of the horses from mane to hoof。 
“The damned painter hasn’t left a single trace;” said Master Osman。 “We 
won’t  be  able  to  determine  who  illustrated  the  chestnut  horse  from  these 
pictures。” 
Taking  up  the  magnifying  lens  he’d  put  aside;  I  looked  at  the  horses’ 
nostrils:  The  master  was  correct;  there  was  nothing  in  the  three  horses 
resembling the peculiar nostrils of the chestnut horse drawn for my Enishte’s 
manuscript。  Just  then;  my  attention  turned  to  the  torturers  waiting  outside 
with  an  implement  whose  purpose  I  couldn’t  fathom。  As  I  was  trying  to 
observe  them  through  the  half…opened  door;  I  saw  somebody  scuttle  quickly 
backward as if possessed by a jinn; seeking shelter behind one of the mulberry 
trees。 
At that moment; like an ethereal light that illuminated the leaden morning; 
His Excellency Our Sultan; the Foundation of the World; entered the room。 
Master  Osman  confessed  to  Him  that  he  hadn’t  been  able  to  determine 
anything from the illustrations。 Nevertheless; he couldn’t refrain from drawing 
Our Sultan’s att

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