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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第12节

小说: my name is red-我的名字叫红 字数: 每页4000字

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and Shirin fall in love。 One day Shirin embarks on a countryside outing with 
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her  ladies  of  the  court;  when  she  sees  a  picture  of  Hüsrev  that  Shapur  has 
secretly  hung  from  the  branch  of  one  of  the  trees  beneath  which  the  outing 
party has stopped to rest。 Beholding this picture of the handsome Hüsrev in 
that  beautiful  garden;  Shirin  is  stricken  by  love。  Many  paintings  depict  this 
moment—or “scene” as the miniaturists would have it—consisting of Shirin’s 
look  of  adoration  and  bewilderment  as  she  gazes  upon  the  image  of  Hüsrev。 
While  Black  was  working  with  my  father;  he’d  seen  this  picture  many  times 
and  had  twice  made  exact  copies  by  eyeing  the  original  as  he  painted。  After 
falling in love with me; he made a copy for himself。 But this time in place of 
Hüsrev  and  Shirin;  he  portrayed  himself  and  me;  Black  and  Shekure。  If  it 
weren’t for the captions beneath the figures; only I would’ve known who the 
man and maiden in the picture were; because sometimes when we were joking 
around; he’d depict us in the same manner and color: I all in blue; he all in 
red。  And  if  this  weren’t  indication  enough;  he’d  also  written  our  names 
beneath the figures。 He’d left the painting where I would find it and run off。 
He watched me to see what my reaction to his position would be。 
I  was  well  aware  that  I  wouldn’t  be  able  to  love  him  like  a  Shirin;  so  I 
feigned ignorance。 On the evening of that summer’s day when Black gave me 
his  painting;  during  which  we’d  tried  to  cool  ourselves  with  sour…cherry 
sherbets  made  with  ice  said  to  have  been  brought  all  the  way  from  snow…
capped Mount Ulu; I told my father that he’d made a declaration of love。 At 
that  time;  Black  had  just  graduated  from  the  religious  school。  He  taught  in 
remote neighborhoods and; more out of my father’s insistence than his own 
desire;  Black  was  attempting  to  obtain  the  patronage  of  the  powerful  and 
esteemed  Naim  Pasha。  But  according  to  my  father;  Black  didn’t  yet  have  his 
wits  about  him。  My  father;  who’d  taken  great  pains  to  win  Black  a  place  in 
Naim  Pasha’s  circle;  at  least  as  a  clerk  to  begin;  plained  that  he  wasn’t 
doing  much  to  further  his  own  cause;  in  other  words;  Black  was  being  an 
ignoramus。  And  that  very  night  in  reference  to  Black  and  me;  my  father 
declared; “I think he’s set his sights very high; this impoverished nephew;” and 
without regard for my mother’s presence; he added; “he’s smarter than we’d 
supposed。” 
I remember with misery what my father did in the following days; how I 
kept my distance from Black and how he ceased to visit our house; but I won’t 
explain all of this for fear that you’ll dislike my father and me。 I swear to you; 
we had no other choice。 You know how in such situations reasonable people 
immediately   sense   that   love   without   hope   is   simply   hopeless;   and 
understanding the limits of the illogical realm of the heart; make a quick end 
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of it by politely declaring; “They didn’t find us suitably matched。 That’s just 
the way it is。” But; I’ll have you know that my mother said several times; “At 
least  don’t  break  the  boy’s  heart。”  Black;  whom  my  mother  referred  to  as  a 
“boy;” was twenty…four; and I was half his age。 Because my father considered 
Black’s  declaration  of  love  an  act  of  insolence;  he  wouldn’t  humor  my 
mother’s wishes。 
Though we hadn’t forgotten him altogether by the time we received news 
that  he’d  left  Istanbul;  we’d  let  him  slip  pletely  out  of  our  affections。 
Because we hadn’t received news about him from any city for years; I deemed 
it appropriate to save the picture he’d made and shown me; as a token of our 
childhood  memories  and  friendship。  To  prevent  my  father;  and  later  my 
soldier…husband;  from  discovering  the  picture  and  getting  upset  or  jealous;  I 
expertly  concealed  the  names  “Shekure”  and  “Black”  beneath  the  figures  by 
making it appear as if someone had dribbled my father’s Hasan Pasha ink onto 
them; in an accident later to be disguised as flowers。 Since I’ve returned that 
picture to him today; maybe those among you inclined to take a dim view of 
how I revealed myself to him at the window will feel ashamed and reconsider 
your prejudices somewhat。 
Having exposed my face to him; I remained for a while there at the window; 
showered  in  the  crimson  hue  of  the  evening  sun;  and  gazed  in  awe  at  the 
garden bathed in reddish…orange light; until I felt the chill of the evening air。 
There was no breeze。 I didn’t care what someone passing in the street would’ve 
said  upon  seeing  me  at  the  open  window。  One  of  Ziver  Pasha’s  daughters; 
Mesrure; who always laughed and enjoyed herself saying the most surprising 
things at the most inopportune times when we went merrily and playfully to 
the public baths each week; once told me that a person never knows exactly 
what she herself is thinking。 This is what I know: Sometimes I’ll say something 
and realize upon uttering it that it is of my own thinking; but no sooner do I 
arrive at that realization than I’m convinced the very opposite is true。 
I  was  sorry  when  poor  Elegant  Effendi;  one  of  the  miniaturists  my  father 
often  invited  to  the  house—and  I  won’t  pretend  I  haven’t  spied  on  each  of 
them—went missing; much like my unfortunate husband。 “Elegant” was the 
ugliest among them and the most impoverished of spirit。 
I closed the shutters; left the room and went down to the kitchen。 
“Mother;  Shevket  didn’t  listen  to  you;”  Orhan  said。  “While  Black  was 
taking his horse out of the stable; Shevket left the kitchen and spied on him 
from the peephole。” 
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“What  of  it!”  Shevket  said;  waving  his  hand  in  the  air。  “Mother  spied  on 
him from the hole in the closet。” 
“Hayriye;”  I  said。  “Fry  some  bread  in  a  little  butter  and  serve  it  to  them 
with marzipan and sugar。” 
Orhan jumped up and down with joy though Shevket was silent。 But as I 
walked  back  upstairs;  they  both  caught  up  to  me;  screaming;  pushing  and 
shoving  by  me  excitedly。  “Be  slow;  slow  down;”  I  said  with  a  laugh。  “You 
rascals。” I patted them on their delicate backs。 
How wonderful it is to be home with children as evening approaches! My 
father had quietly given himself over to a book。 
“Your guest has departed;” I said。 “I hope he didn’t trouble you much?” 
“On the contrary;” he said。 “He entertained me。 He’s as respectful as ever 
of his Enishte。” 
“Good。” 
“But now he’s also measured and calculating。” 
He’d  said  that  less  to  observe  my  reaction  than  to  close  the  subject  in  a 
manner that made light of Black。 On any other occasion; I would’ve answered 
him with a sharp tongue; as I am wont to do。 This time; though; I just thought 
of Black making ground on his white horse; and I shuddered。 
I’m not sure how it happened; but later in the room with the closet; Orhan 
and I found ourselves hugging each other。 Shevket joined us; there was a brief 
skirmish  between  them。  As  they  tussled  we  all  rolled  over  onto  the  floor。  I 
kissed them on the backs of their necks and their hair; I pressed them to my 
bosom and felt their weight on my breasts。 
“Ahhh;”  I  said。  “Your  hair  stinks。  I’m  going  to  send  you  to  the  baths 
tomorrow with Hayriye。” 
“I don’t want to go to the baths with Hayriye anymore;” Shevket said。 
“Why? Are you too grown…up?” I said。 
“Mother; why did you wear your fine purple blouse?” Shevket said。 
I went into the other room and removed my purple blouse。 I pulled on the 
faded green one that I usually wear。 As I was changing; I felt cold and shivered; 
but  I  could  sense  that  my  skin  was  aflame;  my  body  vibrant  and  alive。  I’d 
rubbed a bit of rouge onto my cheeks; which probably smudged while I was 
rolling around with the children; but I evened it out by licking my palm and 
rubbing my cheeks。 Are you aware that my relatives; the women whom I meet 
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at the baths and everyone who sees me; swear that I look more like a sixteen…
year…old  maiden  than  a  twenty…four…year…old  mother  of  two  past  her  prime? 
Believe them; truly believe them; or I shan’t tell you any more。 
Don’t be surprised that I’m talking to you。 For years I’ve bed through 
the  pictures  in  my  father’s  books  looking  for  images  of  women  and  great 
beauties。  They  do  exist;  if  few  and  far  between;  and  always  look  shy; 
embarrassed;  gazing  only  at  one  another;  as  if  apologetically。  Never  do  they 
raise  their  heads;  stand  straight  and  face  the  people  of  the  world  as  soldiers 
and sultans would。 Only in cheap; hastily illustrated books by careless artists 
are the eyes of some women trained not on the ground or on some thing in 
the illustration—oh; I don’t kn

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