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第108节

my name is red-我的名字叫红-第108节

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quite large if I might add; was awaiting its picture。 Because the objects in the 
background  were  to  be  smaller;  as  in  the  European  style;  he  wanted  me  to 
make the tree smaller。 As the picture developed; it gave the impression of being 
a view of this world from a window; nothing like an illustration at all。 It was 
then I prehended that in a picture made with the perspectival methods of 
the Franks; the borders and gilding took the place of a window frame。” 
“Elegant Effendi was responsible for the borders and the gilding。” 
“If that’s what you’re asking; I already told you I didn’t murder him。” 
“A  murderer  never  admits  to  his  crime;”  he  said  quickly;  then  asked  me 
what I was doing at the coffeehouse during the raid。 
He placed the oil lamp just beside the cushion upon which I was seated; in 
a way that would illuminate my face along with my papers and the pages I was 
388 
 
illuminating。  He  himself  was  scurrying  about  the  room  like  a  shadow  in  the 
dark。 
Besides  telling  him  what  I’ve  told  you;  that  I  actually  was  an  infrequent 
visitor to the coffeehouse and just happened to be passing by; I also repeated 
that I made two of the pictures which were hung on the wall there—although 
I actually disapproved of the goings…on at the coffeehouse。 “Because;” I added; 
“the  art  of  painting  only  ends  up  condemning  and  punishing  itself  when  it 
derives  its  strength  from  the  desire  to  condemn  and  punish  the  evils  of  life 
rather than from the painter’s own skill; love of his art and desire to embrace 
Allah…regardless of whether it’s the preacher from Erzurum or Satan himself 
that’s  denounced。  More  importantly;  if  that  coffeehouse  crowd  hadn’t 
targeted the Erzurumis; it might not have been raided tonight。” 
“Even so; you would go there;” said the wretch。 
“Yes;  because  I  enjoyed  myself  there。”  Had  he  an  inkling  of  how  honest  I 
was being? I added; “Despite knowing how ugly and wrong something is; we 
descendants of Adam might still derive considerable pleasure from it。 And I’m 
embarrassed  to  say  I  was  also  entertained  by  those  cheap  illustrations;  the 
mimicry and those stories about Satan; the gold coin and the dog; which the 
storyteller told crudely without meter or rhyme。” 
“Even so; why would you even step foot in that den of unbelievers?” 
“Fine then;” I said resigning myself to an inner voice; “at times there’s also 
a worm of doubt that gnaws at me: Ever since I was openly recognized as the 
most  talented  and  most  proficient  among  the  masters  of  the  workshop;  not 
only by Master Osman; but by Our Sultan as well; I began to be so terrified of 
the envy of the others that I tried; if only at times; to go where they went; to 
befriend  them  and  to  resemble  them  so  they  wouldn’t  turn  on  me  in  a 
sudden fit of vengeance。 Do you understand? And since they’ve begun labeling 
me  an  ”Erzurumi;“  I’ve  been  going  to  that  den  of  vile  unbelievers  so  others 
might discount this rumor。” 
“Master Osman said you often acted as if apologizing for your talent and 
proficiency。” 
“What else did he say about me?” 
“That you’d paint absurd; minute pictures on grains of rice and fingernails 
so that others would be convinced you’d forsaken life for art。 He said you were 
always trying to please others because you were embarrassed by the great gifts 
Allah had bestowed upon you。” 
389 
 
“Master Osman is on Bihzad’s level;” I said with sincerity。 “What else?” 
“He listed your faults without the slightest hesitation;” said the wretch。 
“Let’s hear my faults then。” 
“He said that despite your prodigious talent; you painted not for the love of 
art  but  to  ingratiate  yourself。  Supposedly;  what  most  motivated  you  while 
painting  was  imagining  the  pleasure  an  observer  would  feel;  whereas;  you 
should’ve painted for the pleasure of painting itself。” 
It  singed  my  heart  that  Master  Osman  so  brazenly  revealed  what  he 
thought about me to a man of such diminished spirit; one who devoted his 
life; not to art; but to being a clerk; writing letters and hollow flattery。 Black 
continued: 
“The  great  masters  of  old;  Master  Osman  claimed;  would  never  renounce 
the styles and methods they cultivated through self…sacrifice to art just for the 
sake of a new shah’s authority; the whims of a new prince or the tastes of a 
new age; thus; to avoid being forced to alter their styles and methods; they’d 
heroically    blind    themselves。    Meanwhile;    you’ve    enthusiastically    and 
dishonorably  imitated  the  European  masters  for  the  pages  of  my  Enishte’s 
book; with the excuse that it’s the will of Our Sultan。” 
“The great Head Illuminator Master Osman most certainly meant no evil by 
this;” I said。 “Allow me to put some linden tea on the boil for you; my dear 
guest。” 
I  passed  into  the  adjoining  room。  My  beloved  tossed  over  my  head  the 
nightgown  of  Chinese  silk  she  was  wearing;  which  she’d  purchased  from 
Esther  the  clothier;  then  mockingly  parroted  me;  “Allow  me  to  put  some 
linden  tea  on  the  boil  for  you;  my  dear  guest;”  and  placed  her  hand  on  my 
cock。 
I  took  out  the  agate…handled  sword  hidden  among  rose…scented  sheets  at 
the bottom of the chest on the floor nearest our roll…up mattress; which she’d 
hopefully  spread  out;  and  drew  the  weapon  from  its  sheath。  Its  edge  was  so 
sharp that if you tossed a silk handkerchief over it; the sword would easily cut 
through it; if you placed a sheet of gold leaf upon it; the edges of the resulting 
pieces would be as straight as any cut with a ruler。 
Concealing the sword as best I could; I returned to my atelier。 Black Effendi 
was so pleased with his interrogation of me that he was still circling the red 
cushion; dagger in hand。 I placed a half…finished illustration upon the cushion。 
390 
 
“Take a look at this;” I said。 He knelt out of curiosity; trying to understand the 
picture。 
I stepped behind him; drew my sword and in one motion lowered him to 
the ground; pinning him with my weight。 His dagger fell away。 Grabbing him 
by the hair; I pushed his head against the ground and pressed my sword to his 
neck  from  below。  I  flattened  out  Black’s  delicate  body  and  pressed  him 
facedown beneath my heavy body; using my chin and one free hand to push 
his head so it nearly touched the sharp point of the sword。 My one hand was 
full of his dirty hair; the other held the sword to the delicate skin of his throat。 
Wisely;  he  didn’t  move  at  all;  because  I  could  have  finished  him  then  and 
there。  Being  this  close  to  his  curly  hair;  to  the  nape  of  his  neck—which 
might’ve  invited  an  insulting  slap  at  another  time—and  to  his  ugly  ears 
enraged me all the more。 “I’m using all my restraint to keep from doing away 
with you this instant;” I whispered into his ear as if divulging a secret。 
That  he  listened  to  me  like  an  obedient  child  without  making  a  peep 
pleased me: “You’ll recognize this legend from the Book of Kings;” I whispered。 
“Feridun Shah; in error; bequeaths the worst of his lands to his two older sons 
and  the  best;  Persia;  to  Iraj;  the  youngest。  Tur;  bent  on  revenge;  dupes  his 
younger  brother;  Iraj;  of  whom  he  is  jealous;  before  he  cuts  Iraj’s  throat;  he 
grabs  his  hair  just  as  I  am  doing  now  and  lies  on  top  of  him  with  all  his 
weight。 Do you feel the weight of my body?” 
He gave no answer; but from his eyes; which stared blankly like those of a 
sacrificial  lamb;  I  could  tell  that  he  was  listening;  and  I  was  struck  with 
inspiration: “I’m not only faithful to Persian styles and methods in painting; 
but also in beheadings。 I’ve also seen another version of this much loved scene 
that describes Shah Siyavush’s death。” 
I explained to Black; who listened silently; how Siyavush made preparations 
for  avenging  his  brothers;  how  he  burned  down  his  entire  palace;  all  his 
belongings  and  property;  how  he  forgivingly  parted  from  his  wife;  mounted 
his steed and went to war; how he lost the battle and was dragged by his hair 
along the ground before being laid out facedown “just as you are now;” and 
how  a  knife  was  pressed  against  his  throat;  how  there  erupted  an  argument 
between his friends and enemies over whether they should kill him or let him 
free  and  how  the  defeated  king;  his  face  in  the  dirt;  listened  to  his  captors。 
Then I asked him; “Are you fond of that illustration? Geruy es up behind 
Siyavush; as I have to you; gets on top of him; rests his sword against his neck; 
grabs a fistful of hair and cuts his throat。 Your red blood; soon to flow; makes 
black dust rise from the dry earth; where later still; a flower will bloom。” 
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I fell quiet and from distant streets we could hear the Erzurumis screaming 
as they ran。 The terror outside at once brought the two of us

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