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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第42部分

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Three: What the unfortunate Elegant Effendi had said was true; and so; I’d 
killed him for naught。 
In situations such as this; as soon as our merciless intellects draw the bitter 
conclusion that our hearts refuse; the entire body rebels against the mind。 At 
first;  half  my  mind  violently  opposed  the  third  conclusion;  which  indicated 
that  I  was  nothing  but  the  vilest  of  murderers。  My  legs;  once  again;  acting 
quicker and more rationally than my head; had already put me in pursuit of 
Black Effendi。 
We’d  passed  down  a  few  side  streets  when  I  thought  how  very  easy  it 
would be to murder him; so contentedly and self…assuredly walking before me; 
and how such a crime would save me from having to confront the first two 
vexing  conclusions  established  by  my  mind。  Furthermore;  I  wouldn’t  have 
cracked Elegant Effendi’s skull for no reason at all。 Now; if I run ahead eight or 
ten paces; catch up to Black and land a blow onto his head with all my might; 
everything  will  go  on  as  usual。  Enishte  Effendi  will  invite  me  to  finish  our 
book。  But  meanwhile  my  more  honest  (what  was  honesty  if  not  fear?)  and 
prudent side continued to tell me that the monster I’d murdered and tossed 
into a well was truly a slanderer。 And if this were the case; I hadn’t killed him 
for naught; and Enishte; who no longer had anything to hide with respect to 
the book he was making; would most certainly invite me back to his home。 
137 
 
As  I  watched  Black  walking  before  me;  however;  I  knew  with  utmost 
certainty that none of this would happen。 It was all illusion。 Black Effendi was 
more real than I。 It happens to us all: In reaction to being overly logical we’ll 
feed fantasies for weeks and years on end; and one day we’ll see something; a 
face; an outfit; a happy person; and suddenly realize that our dreams will never 
e  true;  thus;  we  e  to  understand  that  a  particular  maiden  won’t  be 
permitted to marry us or that we’ll never reach such…and…such a station in life。 
I  was  watching  the  rise  and  fall  of  Black’s  shoulders;  his  head  and  his 
neck—the  incredibly  annoying  way  that  he  walked;  as  though  his  every  step 
were a gift to the world—with a profound hatred that coiled cozily around my 
heart。  Men  like  Black;  free  from  pangs  of  conscience  and  with  promising 
futures  before  them;  assume  that  the  entire  world  is  their  home;  they  open 
every door like a sultan entering his personal stable and immediately belittle 
those of us crouched inside。 The urge to grab a stone and run up behind him 
was almost too great to resist。 
We were two men in love with the same woman; he was in front of me and 
pletely  unaware  of  my  presence  as  we  walked  through  the  turning  and 
twisting streets of Istanbul; climbing and descending; we traveled like brethren 
through  deserted  streets  given  over  to  battling  packs  of  stray  dogs;  passed 
burnt ruins where jinns loitered; mosque courtyards where angels reclined on 
domes  to  sleep;  beside  cypress  trees  murmuring  to  the  souls  of  the  dead; 
beyond the edges of snow…covered cemeteries crowded with ghosts; just out of 
sight of brigands strangling their victims; passed endless shops; stables; dervish 
houses; candle works; leather works and stone walls; and as we made ground; I 
felt I wasn’t following him at all; but rather; that I was imitating him。 
 
 
   
138 
 
I AM DEATH 
 
I  am  Death;  as  you  can  plainly  see;  but  you  needn’t  be  afraid;  I’m  just  an 
illustration。 Be that as it may; I read terror in your eyes。 Though you know very 
well  that  I’m  not  real—like  children  who  give  themselves  over  to  a  game—
you’re  still  seized  by  horror;  as  if  you’d  actually  met  Death  himself。  This 
pleases me。 As you look at me; you sense that you’ll soil yourselves out of fear 
when that unavoidable last moment is upon you。 This is no joke。 When faced 
with  Death;  people  lose  control  of  their  bodily  functions—particularly  the 
majority  of  those  men  who  are  known  to  be  brave…hearted。  For  this  reason; 
the  corpse…strewn  battlefields  that  you’ve  depicted  thousands  of  times  reek 
not  of  blood;  gunpowder  and  heated  armor  as  is  assumed;  but  of  shit  and 
rotting flesh。 
I know this is the first time you’ve seen a depiction of Death。 
One year ago; a tall; thin and mysterious old man invited to his house the 
young master miniaturist who would soon enough illustrate me。 In the half…
dark workroom of the two…story house; the old man served an exquisite cup of 
silky;  amber…scented  coffee  to  the  young  master;  which  cleared  the  youth’s 
mind。 Next; in that shadowy room with the blue door; the old man excited the 
master miniaturist by flaunting the best paper from Hindustan; brushes made 
of  squirrel  hair;  varieties  of  gold  leaf;  all  manner  of  reed  pens  and  coral…
handled penknives; indicating that he would be able to pay handsomely。 
“Now then; draw Death for me;” the old man said。 
“I cannot draw a picture of Death without ever; not once in my entire life; 
having   seen   a   picture   of   Death;”   said   the   miraculously   sure…handed 
miniaturist; who would shortly; in fact; end up doing the drawing。 
“You do not always need to have seen an illustration of something in order 
to depict that thing;” objected the refined and enthusiastic old man。 
“Yes; perhaps not;” said the master illustrator。 “Yet; if the picture is to be 
perfect; the way the masters of old would’ve made it; it ought to be drawn at 
least  a  thousand  times  before  I  attempt  it。  No  matter  how  masterful  a 
miniaturist might be; when he paints an object for the first time; he’ll render 
it as an apprentice would; and I could never do that。 I cannot put my mastery 
aside while illustrating Death; this yself。” 
“Such  a  death  might  put  you  in  touch  with  the  subject  matter;”  quipped 
the old man。 
139 
 
“It’s  not  experience  of  subject  matter  that  makes  us  masters;  it’s  never 
having experienced it that makes us masters。” 
“Such mastery ought to be acquainted with Death then。” 
In  this  manner;  they  entered  into  an  elevated  conversation  with  double 
entendre;   allusions;   puns;   obscure   references   and   innuendos;   as   befit 
miniaturists who respected both the old masters as well as their own talent。 
Since it was my existence that was being discussed; I listened intently to the 
conversation;  the  entirety  of  which;  I  know;  would  bore  the  distinguished 
miniaturists  among  us  in  this  good  coffeehouse。  Let  me  just  say  that  there 
came a point when the discussion touched upon the following: 
“Is  the  measure  of  a  miniaturist’s  talent  the  ability  to  depict  everything 
with the same perfection as the great masters or the ability to introduce into 
the picture subject matter which no one else can see?” said the sure…handed; 
stunning…eyed; brilliant illustrator; and although he himself knew the answer 
to this question; he remained quite reserved。 
“The  Veians  measure  a  miniaturist’s  prowess  by  his  ability  to  discover 
novel  subject  matter  and  techniques  that  have  never  before  been  used;” 
insisted the old man arrogantly。 
“Veians  die  like  Veians;”  said  the  illustrator  who  would  soon  draw 
me。 
“All our deaths resemble one another;” said the old man。 
“Legends  and  paintings  recount  how  men  are  distinct  from  one  another; 
not  how  everybody  resembles  one  another;”  said  the  wise  illustrator。  “The 
master  miniaturist  earns  his  mastery  by  depicting  unique  legends  as  if  we 
were already familiar with them。” 
In  this  manner;  the  conversation  turned  to  the  differences  between  the 
deaths of Veians and Ottomans; to the Angel of Death and the other angels 
of  Allah;  and  how  they  could  never  be  appropriated  by  the  artistry  of  the 
infidels。  The  young  master  who  is  presently  staring  at  me  
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