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第102节

my name is red-我的名字叫红-第102节

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the sky in this matchless moment。 The old masters of Herat; who knew that 
God’s velvet blackness was lowering over their eyes like a curtain; also knew 
that if they went blind while staring motionless at such an illustration for days 
365 
 
and  weeks  on  end;  their  souls  would  at  last  mingle  with  the  eternity  of  the 
picture。” 
At  the  time  of  the  evening  prayer;  when  the  portal  of  the  Treasury  was 
opened  with  the  same  ceremony  and  under  the  gaze  of  the  same  throng; 
Master  Osman  was  still  staring  intently  at  the  page  before  him;  at  the  bird 
that floated motionless in the sky。 But if you noticed the paleness in his pupils 
you’d  also  realize  that  he  stared  at  the  page  quite  oddly;  as  blind  men 
sometimes incorrectly orient themselves to the food before them。 
The officers of the Treasury detail; learning that Master Osman would stay 
inside and that Jezmi Agha was at the door; neglected to search me thoroughly 
and never found the plume needle I hid in my undergarment。 When I emerged 
onto  the  streets  of  Istanbul  from  the  palace  courtyard;  I  slipped  into  a 
passageway  and  removed  the  terrifying  object;  with  which  the  legendary 
Bihzad  had  blinded  himself;  from  where  it  was;  and  stuck  it  into  my  sash。  I 
practically ran through the streets。 
The  cold  of  the  Treasury  chambers  had  so  perated  my  bones  that  it 
seemed as though the gentle weather of an early spring had settled over the 
city streets。 As I passed the grocer; barber; herbalist; fruit and vegetable shop 
and firewood shop of the Old Caravansary Bazaar; which were shutting down 
one by one for the night; I slowed my pace and carefully examined the casks; 
cloth sheets; carrots and jars in the warm shops lit by oil lamps。 
My  Enishte’s  street  (I  still  couldn’t  say  “Shekure’s  street”  let  alone  “my 
street”)  appeared  even  stranger  and  more  distant  after  my  two…day  absence。 
But  the  joy  of  being  reunited  safe  and  sound  with  my  Shekure;  and  the 
thought  that  I’d  be  able  to  enter  my  beloved’s  bed  tonight—since  the 
murderer  was  as  good  as  caught—made  me  feel  so  intimate  with  the  whole 
world  that  upon  seeing  the  pomegranate  tree  and  the  repaired  and  closed 
shutters;  I  had  to  restrain  myself  from  shouting  like  a  farmer  hollering  to 
someone across a stream。 When I saw Shekure; I wanted the first words out of 
my mouth to be; “We know who the wretched murderer is!” 
I opened the courtyard gate。 I’m not sure if it was from the squeak of the 
gate;  the  carefree  way  the  sparrow  drank  water  from  the  well  bucket;  or  the 
darkness of the house; but with the wolflike prescience of a man who’d lived 
alone  for  twelve  years;  I  understood  at  once  that  nobody  was  home。  Even 
bitterly realizing that one’s been left to his own devices; one will still open and 
close all of the doors; the cabis and even lift the lids of pots; and that’s just 
what I did。 I even looked inside the chests。 
366 
 
In this silence; the only sound I heard was the thudding of my own racing 
heart。 Like an old man who’s done everything he will ever do; I felt consoled 
when I abruptly girded my sword; which I’d kept hidden at the bottom of the 
most  out  of  the  way  chest。  It  was  this  ivory…handled  sword  which  always 
provided  me  with  inner  peace  and  balance  during  all  those  years  I  worked 
with the pen。 Books; which we mistake for consolation; only add depth to our 
sorrow。 
I  went  down  to  the  courtyard。  The  sparrow  had  flown  away。  As  if 
abandoning  a  sinking  ship;  I  left  the  house  to  the  silence  of  an  impending 
darkness。 
My heart; now more confident; told me to run and find them。 I ran; but I 
slowed through crowded places and the mosque courtyards where dogs picked 
up my trail and joyously followed; anticipating some kind of amusement。 
 
 
   
367 
 
I AM ESTHER 
 
I was putting lentil soup on the boil for our evening meal when Nesim said; 
“There’s a visitor at the door。” I replied; “Make sure the soup doesn’t burn;” 
handing  him  the  spoon  and  giving  it  a  couple  of  turns  in  the  pot  while 
holding his aged hand。 If you don’t show them; they’ll stand there for hours 
idly holding the spoon in the pot。 
When I saw Black at the door I felt nothing but pity for him。 There was such 
an expression on his face I was afraid to ask what had happened。 
“Don’t  bother  to  e  inside;”  I  said;  “I’ll  be  out  as  soon  as  I  change 
clothes。” 
I  donned  the  pink  and  yellow  garments  that  I  wear  when  I’m  invited  to 
Ramadan festivities; wealthy banquets and lengthy weddings; and took up my 
holiday satchel。 “I’ll have my soup when I get back;” I said to poor Nesim。 
Black and I had crossed one street in my little Jewish neighborhood whose 
chimneys labor to expel their smoke; the way our kettles force out their steam; 
and I said: 
“Shekure’s former husband is back。” 
Black fell silent and stayed that way until we left the neighborhood。 His face 
was ashen; the color of the waning day。 
“Where are they?” he asked sometime later。 
From  this  question  I  guessed  that  Shekure  and  her  children  weren’t  at 
home。  “They’re  at  their  house;”  I  said。  Because  I  meant  Shekure’s  previous 
home; and knew at once that this would singe Black’s heart; I opened a door 
of  hope  for  him  by  tacking  the  word  “probably”  onto  the  end  of  my 
statement。 
“Have you seen her newly returned husband?” he asked me; looking deep 
into my eyes。 
“I haven’t seen him; neither did I see Shekure’s flight from the house。” 
“How did you know they’d left?” 
“From your face。” 
“Tell me everything;” he said decisively。 
Black was so troubled he didn’t understand that Esther—her eye eternally 
at the window; her ear eternally to the ground—could never “tell everything” 
368 
 
if she wanted to continue to be the Esther who found husbands for so many 
dreamy maidens and knocked on the doors of so many unhappy homes。 
“What I’ve heard;” I said; “is that the brother of Shekure’s former husband; 
Hasan;  visited  your  house”—it  heartened  him  when  I  said  “your  house”—
“and  told  Shevket  that  his  father  was  on  his  way  home  from  war;  that  he 
would  arrive  around  midafternoon;  and  that  if  he  didn’t  find  Shevket’s 
mother  and  brother  in  their  rightful  home;  he’d  be  very  upset。  Shevket  told 
this  to  his  mother;  who  acted  cautiously;  but  couldn’t  e  to  a  decision。 
Toward midafternoon; Shevket left the house to be with his Uncle Hasan and 
his grandfather。” 
“Where did you learn these things?” 
“Hasn’t Shekure told you about Hasan’s schemes over the last two years to 
get her back to his house? There was a time when Hasan sent letters to Shekure 
through me。” 
“Did she ever respond to them?” 
“I know all the varieties of women in Istanbul;” I said proudly; “there’s no 
one who’s as bound to her house; her husband and her honor as Shekure is。” 
“But I am her husband now。” 
His  voice  bore  that  typically  male  uncertainty  that  always  depressed  me。 
Amazingly; to whichever side Shekure fled; the other side went to pieces。 
“Hasan wrote a note and gave it to me to deliver to Shekure。 It described 
how Shevket had e home to await the return of his father; how Shekure 
had been married in an illegitimate ceremony; how Shevket was very unhappy 
on account of the false husband who was supposed to be his new father and 
how he was never going back。” 
“How did Shekure respond?” 
“She waited for you all through the night with poor Orhan。” 
“What about Hayriye?” 
“Hayriye’s  been  waiting  for  years  for  the  opportunity  to  drown  your 
beautiful  wife  in  a  spoonful  of  water。  This  was  why  she  began  sleeping  with 
your  Enishte;  may  he  rest  in  peace。  When  Hasan  saw  that  Shekure  was 
spending  the  night  alone  in  fear  of  murderers  and  ghosts;  he  sent  along 
another note through me。” 
“What did he write?” 
369 
 
Thanks be to God that your unfortunate Esther can’t read or write; because 
when  irate  Effendis  and  irritable  fathers  ask  this  question;  she  can  say:  “I 
couldn’t  read  the  letter;  only  the  face  of  the  beautiful  maiden  reading  the 
letter。” 
“What did you read in Shekure’s face?” 
“Helplessness。” 
For a long time we didn’t speak。 Awaiting nightfall; an owl was perched on 
the dome of a small Greek church; runny…nosed neighborhood kids laughed at 
my  clothes  and  bundle;  and  a  mangy  dog  happily  scratching  himself  loped 
down from the cemetery lined with cypresses to greet the night。 
“Slow  down!”  I  shouted  at  Black  later;  “I  can’t  get  up  these  hills  the  way 
you can。 Where are you taking me with my satchel like this?” 
“Before you bring me to Hasan’s house; I’m taking you to some generous 
and brave young men so you can spread out your bundle and se

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