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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第22节

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and  at  the  end  of  a  blissful  night  of  copious  lovemaking  with  Neriman; 
candlestick  in  hand;  he  entered  the  library  like  a  mon  thief;  opened  the 
volume  of  Leyla  and  Mejnun;  and  in  place  of  the  face  of  Neriman’s  late 
husband; drew his own。 Like many khans who had a love for illustrating and 
painting; however; he was an amateur artist and couldn’t portray himself very 
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well。  In  the  morning;  when  his  librarian  opened  the  book  on  a  suspicion  of 
tampering and beheld another figure in place of the late Selahattin Khan; next 
to Neriman…faced Leyla; rather than identifying it as Fahir Shah; he announced 
that it was Fahir Shah’s archenemy; the young and handsome Abdullah Shah。 
This gossip provoked Fahir Shah’s soldiers and emboldened Abdullah Shah; the 
young   and   aggressive   new   ruler   of   the   neighboring   country;   who; 
subsequently; in his first campaign; defeated; captured and killed Fahir Shah; 
established  his  own  sovereignty  over  his  enemy’s  library  and  harem  and 
became the new husband of the eternally beautiful Neriman Sultan。 
 
DJIM 
The  miniaturists  of  Istanbul  recount  the  legend  of  Tall  Mehmet—known  as 
Muhammad  Khorasani  in  Persia—mostly  as  an  example  of  long  life  and 
blindness。  However;  the  legend  of  Tall  Mehmet  is  essentially  a  parable  of 
painting and time。 The primary distinction of this master; who; having begun 
his  apprenticeship  at  the  age  of  nine;  illustrated  for  more  or  less  110  years 
without going blind; was his lack of distinction。 I’m not being witty here; but 
expressing my sincere  admiration。 Tall Mehmet drew everything; as everyone 
else did; in the style of the great masters of old; but even more so; and for this 
reason;  he  was  the  greatest  of  all  masters。  His  humbleness  and  plete 
devotion to illustration and painting; which he deemed a service to Allah; set 
him above both the disputes within the book…arts workshops where he worked 
and the ambition to bee head miniaturist; though he was of appropriate 
age  and  talent。  As  a  miniaturist;  for  110  years;  he  patiently  rendered  every 
trivial detail: grass drawn to fill up the edges of the page; thousands of leaves; 
curly  wisping  clouds;  horse  manes  of  short  repetitive  strokes;  brick  walls; 
never…ending wall ornamentation and the slant…eyed; delicate…chinned tens of 
thousands of faces that were each an imitation of one another。 Tall Mehmet 
was quite content and reserved and he never presumed to distinguish himself 
or  insisted  about  style  or  individuality。  He  considered  whichever  khan’s  or 
prince’s  workshop  he  happened  to  be  working  in  at  the  time  his  house  and 
regarded himself as but a fixture in that home。 As khans and shahs strangled 
one another and miniaturists moved from city to city like the women of the 
harem  to  assemble  under  the  auspices  of  new  masters;  the  style  of  the  new 
book…arts workshop would first be defined in the leaves Tall Mehmet drew; in 
his  grass;  in  the  curves  of  his  rocks  and  in  the  hidden  contours  of  his  own 
patience。 When he was eighty years old; people forgot that he was mortal and 
began to believe that he lived within the legends he illustrated。 Perhaps for this 
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reason; some maintained that he existed outside time and would never grow 
old  and  die。  There  were  those  who  attributed  his  not  going  blind—despite 
living  without  a  home  of  his  own;  sleeping  in  the  rooms  or  tents  which 
constituted miniaturists’ workshops and spending most of his time staring at 
manuscript pages—to the miracle of time having ceased to flow for him。 Some 
claimed that he was actually blind; and no longer had any need to see since he 
painted from memory。 At the age of 119; this legendary master who’d never 
married and had never even made love; met the flesh…and…blood ideal of the 
beautiful  slant…eyed;  sharp…chinned;  moon…faced  boy  he’d  depicted  for  a 
century:  a  part…Chinese  part…Croatian  sixteen…year…old  apprentice  in  Shah 
Tahmasp’s    miniaturists’    workshop;    with    whom    quite    abruptly    and 
understandably;  he  fell  in  love。  In  order  to  seduce  this  boy…apprentice  of 
unimaginable  beauty;  as  a  true  lover  would  do;  he  schemed  and  joined  in 
power struggles between miniaturists; he gave himself over to lying; deception 
and  trickery。  At  first;  the  master  miniaturist  of  Khorasan  was  invigorated  by 
his attempts to catch up to the artistic fashions he’d successfully avoided for 
one  hundred  years;  but  this  effort  also  divorced  him  from  the  eternal 
legendary  days  of  old。  Late  one  afternoon;  staring  dreamily  at  the  beautiful 
apprentice before an open window; he caught cold in the icy Tabriz wind。 The 
following  day;  during  a  fit  of  sneezing;  he  went  pletely  blind。  Two  days 
later; he fell down the lofty stone workshop stairs and died。 
 
“I’ve heard the name of Tall Mehmet of Khorasan; but I’ve never heard this 
legend;” Black said。 
He delicately offered this ment to show he knew the story was finished 
and his mind was occupied with what I’d related。 I fell silent for a time so he 
could stare at me to his heart’s content。 Since it bothers me when my hands 
are  not  occupied;  just  after  beginning  the  second  story;  I  started  to  paint 
again;  picking  up  where  I’d  left  off  when  Black  knocked  on  the  door。  My 
ely apprentice Mahmut; who always sat at my knee and mixed my paints; 
sharpened my reed pens and sometimes erased my errors; silently sat beside 
me;  listening  and  staring;  from  within  the  house  the  sounds  of  my  wife’s 
movements could be heard。 
“Aahaa;” said Black; “the Sultan has arisen。” 
He stared at the painting with awe; and I pretended the reason for his awe 
was  insignificant;  but  let  me  tell  you  candidly:  Our  Exalted  Sultan  appears 
seated in all two hundred of our circumcision ceremony pictures in the Book of 
Festivities;  watching  for  fifty…two  days  the  passing  of  the  merchants;  guilds; 
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spectators;  soldiers  and  prisoners  from  the  window  of  the  royal  enclosure 
erected  for  the  occasion。  Only  in  one  picture  of  mine  is  He  shown  on  foot; 
tossing money from florin…filled pouches to the cro 
was  to  capture  the  surprise  and  excitement  of  the  crowds  punching;  kicking 
and  strangling  one  another  as  they  scrambled  to  grab  coins  off  the  ground; 
their asses jutting toward the sky。 
“If love is part of the subject of the painting; the work ought to be rendered 
with  love;”  I  said。  “If  there’s  pain  involved;  pain  should  issue  from  the 
painting。  Yet  the  pain  ought  to  emerge  from  the  at  first  glance  invisible  yet 
discernible  inner  harmony  of  the  picture;  not  from  the  figures  in  the 
illustration or from their tears。 I didn’t depict surprise; as it has been shown 
for  centuries  by  hundreds  of  master  miniaturists;  as  a  figure  with  his  index 
finger  inserted  into  the  circle  of  his  mouth;  but  made  the  whole  painting 
embody surprise。 This; I acplished by inviting the Sovereign to rise to His 
feet。” 
I  was  intrigued  and  bothered  by  how  he  scrutinized  my  possessions  and 
illustrating tools; nay my whole life; looking for a clue; and then; I began to see 
my own house through his eyes。 
You know those palace; hamam and castle pictures that were made in Tabriz 
and Shiraz for a time; so that the picture might replicate the piercing gaze of 
Exalted Allah; who sees and understands all; the miniaturist would depict the 
palace  in  cross…section  as  though  having  cut  it  in  half  with  a  huge;  magical 
straight razor; and he’d paint all the interior details—which could otherwise 
never be seen from outside—down to the pots and pans; drinking glasses; wall 
ornamentation;  curtains;  caged  parrots;  the  most  private  corners;  and  the 
pillows on which reclined a lovely maiden such as had never seen the light of 
day。  Like  a  curious  awestruck  reader;  Black  was  examining  my  paints;  my 
papers; my books; my lovely assistant; the pages of a Book of Costumes and the 
collage album that I’d made for a Frankish traveler; scenes of fucking and other 
indecent  pages  I’d  secretly  dashed  off  for  a  pasha;  my  inkpots  of  variously 
colored  glass;  bronze  and  ceramic;  my  ivory  penknives;  my  gold…stemmed 
brushes; and yes; the glances of my handsome apprentice。 
“Unlike  the  old  masters;  I’ve  seen  a  lot  of  battle;  a  lot;”  I  said  to  fill  the 
silence with my presence。 “War machines; cannonballs; armies; corpses; it was 
I  who  embellished  the  ceilings  of  the  tents  of  Our  Sultan  and  our  generals。 
After a military campaign; upon returning to Istanbul; it was I who recorded 
in pictures the scenes of battle that everyone would otherwise have forgotten; 
corpses  sliced  in  two;  the  clash  of  opposing  armies;  the  soldiers 

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