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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第49节

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about  that  picture;  not  because  of  any  sin  I’d  mitted  on  its  account—I 
genuinely wanted to see how it’d turned out。 
“Is it important who killed that miscreant?” I said。 “Is it not possible that 
whoever rid us of him has done a good deed?” 
I was encouraged when I saw he could no longer look me directly in the eye。 
Magnanimous  men;  who  think  themselves  better  and  morally  superior  to 
others; cannot look you in the eye when they are embarrassed on your behalf; 
perhaps because they are contemplating reporting you and abandoning you to 
a fate of torture and execution。 
Outside;  just  in  front  of  the  courtyard  gate;  the  dogs  began  a  frenzied 
howling。 
“It’s  begun  to  snow  again;”  I  said。  “Where  has  everyone  gone  at  this  late 
hour? Why have they left you here all alone? They haven’t even lit a candle for 
you。” 
“It’s quite strange; indeed;” he said。 “I don’t understand it myself。” 
He was so sincere that I believed him pletely; and despite ridiculing him 
just as the other miniaturists did; I once again knew that I actually loved him 
profoundly。 But hoy sudden and great flood of 
respect  and  affection;  to  which  he  responded  by  stroking  my  hair  with 
irresistible  fatherly  concern?  I  began  to  see  that  Master  Osman’s  style  of 
painting; and the legacy of the old masters of Herat; had no future whatsoever。 
And this abominable thought frightened me yet again。 After some tragedy; we 
all  feel  the  same  way:  In  one  last  desperate  hope;  and  without  caring  how 
ic and foolish we might appear; we pray that everything might continue as 
it always has。 
“Let’s continue to illustrate our book;” I said。 “Let everything continue as it 
always has。” 
“There’s  a  murderer  among  the  miniaturists。  I  am  continuing  my  work 
with Black Effendi。” 
Was he provoking me to kill him? 
180 
 
“Where is Black now?” I asked。 “Where is your daughter and her children?” 
I sensed that some other power had placed these words into my mouth; yet 
I  couldn’t  restrain  myself。  There  was  no  longer  any  way  for  me  to  be  happy 
and  hopeful。  I  could  only  be  smart  and  sarcastic。  Behind  these  two  always 
entertaining  jinns—intelligence  and  sarcasm—I  sensed  the  presence  of  the 
Devil;  who  controlled  them;  overing  me。  At  the  same  moment;  the 
accursed dogs beyond the gate began to howl madly as if they’d tracked the 
scent of blood。 
Had I lived this exact moment long ago? In a distant city; at a time which 
now seemed far from me; as a snow that I couldn’t see fell; by the light of a 
candle; I was attempting to explain through tears that I was entirely innocent 
to a crotchety old dotard; who’d accused me of stealing paint。 Back then; just 
as now; dogs began to howl as if they’d smelled blood。 And I understood from 
Enishte  Effendi’s  great  chin;  befitting  an  evil  old  man;  and  from  his  eyes; 
which  he  was  finally  able  to  fix  mercilessly  into  mine;  that  he  intended  to 
crush  me。  I  recalled  this  tattered  memory  from  when  I  was  a  ten…year…old 
miniaturist’s  apprentice  like  a  picture  whose  outlines  are  clear  but  whose 
colors have faded。 Thus was I living the present as though it were a distinct but 
faded memory。 
So; as I arose and circled behind Enishte Effendi; lifting that new; huge and 
heavy bronze inkpot from among the familiar glass; porcelain and crystal ones 
that  rested  on  his  worktable;  the  hardworking  miniaturist  within  me—that 
Master Osman had instilled in us all—was illustrating what I did and what I 
saw in distinct yet faded colors; not as something I was experiencing now but 
as if it were a memory from long ago。 You know how in dreams we shudder to 
see ourselves as if from the outside; with the same sensation; holding the large 
yet small…mouthed bronze inkpot; I said: 
“When I was a ten…year…old apprentice; I saw just such an inkpot。” 
“It’s a three…hundred…year…old Mongol inkpot;” said Enishte Effendi。 “Black 
brought it all the way from Tabriz。 It’s for red。” 
At that very moment; it was of course the Devil prodding me to drive that 
inkpot down with all my might onto this conceited old man’s faulty brain。 But 
I didn’t give in to the Devil; and with false hope; I said; “It is I; I’m the one 
who murdered Elegant Effendi。” 
You understand why I said this hopefully; don’t you? I trusted that Enishte 
would understand; and in turn; forgive me—that he would fear and help me。 
181 
 
I AM YOUR BELOVED UNCLE 
 
A silence filled the room when he confessed he’d murdered Elegant Effendi。 I 
assumed he’d kill me as e here to end 
my life or to confess and terrify me? Did he himself know what he wanted? I 
was afraid; realizing how absolutely unacquainted I was with the inner world 
of  this  magnificent  artist  whose  splendid  lines  and  magical  use  of  color  had 
been  familiar  to  me  for  years。  I  could  sense  him  standing  stiffly  behind  me; 
there at the nape of my neck; holding that large inkpot reserved for red; but I 
didn’t turn to face him。 I knew my silence would make him uneasy。 “The dogs 
haven’t yet quieted down;” I said。 
We  fell  silent  again。  This  time;  I  knew  that  my  death;  or  my  somehow 
avoiding this misfortune; would depend on what I told him。 All I knew aside 
from  his  work  was  that  he  was  quite  intelligent;  and  if  you  grant  that  an 
illustrator must never reveal his soul in his work; intelligence is; of course; an 
asset。 How had he cornered me at home when no one else was here? My aged 
mind was furiously preoccupied with this question; but I was too confused to 
see myself out of this game。 Where was Shekure? 
“You knew it was me; didn’t you?” he asked。 
I hadn’t known at all; not until he told me。 In the back of my mind; I was 
even wondering whether he hadn’t done well by killing Elegant Effendi; and 
that  the  late  miniaturist  might’ve  actually  succumbed  to  his  anxieties  and 
made trouble for the rest of us。 
I was ever so slightly grateful to this murderer; with whom I was alone in 
the empty house。 
“I’m not surprised you killed him;” I said。 Men like us who live with books 
and dream eternally of their pages fear only one thing in this world。 What’s 
more; we’re struggling with something more forbidden and dangerous; that is; 
we’re   struggling   to   make   pictures   in   a   Muslim   city。   As   with   Sheikh 
Muhammad  of  Isfahan;  we  miniaturists  are  inclined  to  feel  guilty  and 
regretful; we’re the first to blame ourselves before others do; to be ashamed 
and beg pardon of God and the munity。 We make our books in secret like 
shameful  sinners。  I  know  too  well  how  submission  to  the  endless  attacks  of 
hojas;  preachers;  judges  and  mystics  who  accuse  us  of  blasphemy;  how  the 
endless guilt both deadens and nourishes the artist’s imagination。“ 
“You don’t fault me for murdering that idiotic miniaturist; do you then?” 
182 
 
“What attracts us to writing; illustrating and painting is bound up in this 
fear of retribution。 It’s not only for money and favor that we kneel before our 
work from morning to evening; continuing by candlelight through the night to 
the  point  of  blindness  and  sacrifice  ourselves  for  pictures  and  books;  it’s  to 
escape the prattle of others; to escape the munity; but in contrast to this 
passion to create; we also want those we’ve forsaken to see and appreciate the 
inspired  pictures  we’ve  made—and  if  they  should  call  us  sinners?  Oh;  the 
suffering  this  brings  upon  the  illustrator  of  genuine  talent!  Yet;  genuine 
painting is hidden in the agony no one sees and no one creates。 It’s contained 
in the picture; which on first sight; they’ll say is bad; inplete; blasphemous 
or heretical。 A genuine miniaturist knows he must reach that point; yet at the 
same time; he fears the loneliness that awaits him there。 Who would accede to 
such a frightful; nerve…wracking existence? By blaming himself before anyone 
else does; the artist believes he’ll be spared what he’s feared for years。 Others 
listen to him and believe him only when he admits his guilt; for which he is 
then condemned to burn in Hell—the illustrator of Isfahan lit these hellfires 
himself。” 
“But you’re not a miniaturist;” he said。 “I didn’t kill him out of fear。” 
“You murdered him because you wanted to paint as you wished; without 
fear。” 
For  the  first  time  in  a  long  while;  the  miniaturist  who  aspired  to  be  my 
murderer said something quite intelligent: “I know you’re explaining all this 
to  distract  me;  to  dupe  me;  to  get  yourself  out  of  this  situation;”  and  he 
added;  “but  what  you’ve  just  said  is  the  truth。  I  want  you  to  understand; 
listen to me。” 
I looked into his eyes。 He’d pletely forgotten the formality customary 
between us as he spoke: He’d been carried away by his own thoughts。 But to 
where? 
“Never fear; I won’t offend your honor;” he said。 He laughed bitterl

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