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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第23部分

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warmth  reminded  me  that  my  beautiful  wife  with  her  gorgeous  thighs  had 
been sitting here recently; indeed; I had used my reed pen to draw the sorrow 
of the unfortunate prisoners before Our Sultan; as my intelligent wife clung to 
the reed of my manhood。 
The two…page scene I was painting depicted the deliverance of condemned 
and  imprisoned  debtors  and  their  families  by  the  grace  of  Our  Sultan。  I’d 
situated  the  Sultan  on  the  corner  of  a  carpet  covered  in  bags  full  of  silver 
coins;  as  I’d  personally  witnessed  during  such  ceremonies。  Behind  Him;  I’d 
located  the  Head  Treasurer  holding  and  reading  out  of  the  debt  ledger。  I’d 
portrayed the condemned debtors; chained to each other by the iron shackles 
around their necks; in their misery and pain with knit brows; long faces and 
some with teary eyes。 I’d painted the lute players in shades of red with beatific 
faces  as  they  acpanied  the  joyous  prayers  and  poems  that  followed  the 
Sultan’s  presentation  of  His  benevolent  gift:  sparing  the  condemned  from 
prison。 To emphasize deliverance from the pain and embarrassment of debt—
though  I  had  no  such  plan  at  the  outset—beside  the  last  of  the  miserable 
prisoners; I’d included his wife; wearing a purple dress in the wretchedness of 
destitution;  along  with  his  longhaired daughter;  sorrowful  yet  beautiful;  clad 
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in a crimson mantle。 So that this man Black; with his furrowed brows; might 
understand  how  illustrating  equaled  love…of…life;  I  was  going  to  explain  why 
the chained gang of debtors was extended across two pages; I was going to tell 
him about the hidden logic of red within the picture; I was going to elucidate 
the things my wife and I had laughingly discussed while admiring the piece; 
such as how I’d lovingly colored—something the old masters never did—the 
dog resting off to the side in precisely the same hue as the Sultan’s caftan of 
atlas silk; but he asked me a very rude; discourteous question: 
Would I; perchance; have any idea where unfortunate Elegant Effendi might 
be? 
What did he mean “unfortunate”! I didn’t say that Elegant Effendi was a 
worthless  plagiarist;  a  fool  who  did  his  gilding  for  money  alone  with  nary  a 
hint of inspiration。 “Nay;” I said; “I do not know。” 
Had  I  ever  considered  that  the  aggressive  and  fanatical  followers  of  the 
preacher from Erzurum might’ve done Elegant Effendi harm? 
I  maintained  my  posure  and  refrained  from  responding  that  Elegant 
Effendi himself was no doubt one of their lot。 “Nay;” I said。 “Why?” 
The poverty; plague; immorality and scandal we are slave to in this city of 
Istanbul  can  only  be  attributed  to  our  having  distanced  ourselves  from  the 
Islam  of  the  time  of  Our  Prophet;  Apostle  of  God;  to  adopting  new  and  vile 
customs  and  to  allowing  Frankish;  European  sensibilities  to  flourish  in  our 
midst。 This is all that the Preacher Erzurumi is saying; but his enemies attempt 
to persuade the Sultan otherwise by claiming that the Erzurumis are attacking 
dervish lodges where music is played; and that they’re defacing the tombs of 
saints。  They  know  I  don’t  share  their  animosity  toward  His  Excellency 
Erzurumi;  so  they’re  making  polite  insinuations:  “Are  you  the  one  who  has 
taken care of our brother Elegant Effendi?” 
It  suddenly  dawned  on  me  that  these  rumors  had  long  been  spreading 
among  the  miniaturists。  That  group  of  uninspired;  untalented  inpetents 
was  gleefully  alleging  that  I  was  nothing  but  a  beastly  murderer。  I  felt  like 
lowering  an  inkpot  onto  the  Circassian  skull  of  this  buffoon  Black  purely 
because he took the slander of this jealous group of miniaturists seriously。 
Black  was  examining  my  workshop;  mitting  everything  he  saw  to 
memory。  He  was  intently  observing  my  long  paper  scissors;  ceramic  bowls 
filled with yellow pigment; bowls of paint; the apple I occasionally nibbled as I 
worked;  the  coffeepot  resting  on  the  edge  of  the  stove  in  the  back;  my 
diminutive  coffee  cups;  the  cushions;  the  light  filtering  through  the  half…
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opened  window;  the  mirror  I  used  to  check  the  position  of  a  page;  my 
shirts and; over there; my wife’s red sash caught like a sin in the corner where 
she’d dropped it as she quickly quit the room upon hearing Black’s knock at 
the front door。 
Despite the fact that I’ve concealed my thoughts from him; I’ve surrendered 
the paintings I’ve made and this room I live in to his bold and aggressive gaze。 
I sense this hubris of mine will be a shock to you all; but I am the one who 
earns  the  most  money;  and  therefore;  I  am  the  best  of  all  miniaturists!  Yes; 
God  must’ve  wanted  the  art  of  illumination  to  be  ecstasy  so  He  could 
demonstrate how the world itself is ecstasy to those who truly see。 
 
   
77 
 
I AM CALLED “STORK” 
 
At about the time of midday prayer I heard a knock at the door。 It was Black 
from long ago; from our childhood。 We embraced。 He was chill and I invited 
him inside。 I didn’t even ask how he’d found his way to the house。 His Enishte 
must have sent him to question me about Elegant Effendi’s absence and his 
whereabouts。  Not  only  that;  he  also  brought  word  from  Master  Osman。 
“Allow  me  to  ask  you  a  question;”  he  said。  “According  to  Master  Osman; 
”time‘ separates a true miniaturist from others: The time of the illustration。“ 
What were my thoughts? Listen closely。 
 
Painting and Time 
 
Long  ago;  as  is  mon  knowledge;  the  illustrators  of  our  Islamic  realm; 
including;  for  example;  the  old  Arab  masters;  perceiving  the  world  the  way 
Frankish  infidels  do  today;  would  regard  everything  and  depict  it  from  the 
level  of  a  vagabond;  mutt  or  clerk  at  work  in  his  shop。  Unaware  of  today’s 
perspectival  techniques;  of  which  the  Frankish  masters  haughtily  boast;  their 
world  remained  dull  and  limited;  restricted  to  the  simple  perspective  of  the 
mutt or the shop clerk。 Then a great event came to pass and our entire world 
of illustration changed。 Let me begin here。 
 
Three Stories on Painting and Time 
 
ALIF 
Three  hundred  fifty  years  ago;  when  Baghdad  fell  to  the  Mongols  and  was 
mercilessly plundered on a cold day in the month of Safar; Ibn Shakir was the 
most  renowned  and  proficient  calligrapher  and  scribe  not  only  of  the  whole 
Arab world but of all Islamdom; despite his youth; he had transcribed twenty…
two  volumes;  most  of  which  were  Korans  and  could  be  found  in  the  world…
famous libraries of Baghdad。 Ibn Shakir believed these books would last until 
the end of the world; and; therefore; lived with a deep and infinite notion of 
time。 He’d toiled heroically all through the night by flickering candlelight on 
the last of those legendary books; which are unknown to us today because in 
the span of a few days; they were one by one torn up; shredded; burned and 
tossed into the Tigris River by the soldiers of the Mongol Khan Hulagu。 Just as 
78 
 
the  master  Arab  calligraphers;  mited  to  the  notion  of  the  endless 
persistence of tradition and books; had for five centuries been in the habit of 
resting their eyes as a precaution against blindness by turning their backs to 
the  rising  sun  and  looking  toward  the  western  horizon;  Ibn  Shakir  ascended 
the minaret of the Caliphet Mosque in the coolness of morning; and from the 
balcony  where  the  muezzin  called  the  faithful  to  prayer;  witnessed  all  that 
would end a five…centuries…long tradition of scribal art。 First; he saw Hulagu’s 
pitiless  soldiers  enter  Baghdad;  and  yet  he  remained  where  he  was  atop  the 
minaret。  He  watched  the  plunder  and  destruction  of  the  entire  city;  the 
slaughter  of  hundreds  of  thousands  of  people;  the  killing  of  the  last  of  the 
Caliphs  of  Islam  who’d  ruled  Baghdad  f
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