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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第62部分

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folding worktable; paint boxes and papers that had been torn up with furious 
hatred; and while doing so one of us; periodically; would stop and break down 
crying。  It  was  as  though  we  were  more  distraught  over  the  wreckage  of  the 
rooms and their furnishings and the savage violation of our privacy; than we 
were  over  my  father’s  death。  I  can  tell  you  from  experience;  unfortunates 
who’ve lost loved ones are forted by the unchanged presence of objects in 
the  house;  they’re  lulled  by  the  sameness  of  the  curtains;  blankets  and 
daylight;  which;  in  turn;  allows  them  occasionally  to  forget  that  Azrael  has 
carried away their beloved or kin。 The house that my father looked after with 
patience  and  love;  whose  nooks  and  doors  he  had  meticulously  embellished; 
had been mercilessly vandalized; thus; we were not only devoid of fort and 
pleasant memories but; reminded of the pitilessness of the culprit’s damned 
soul; we were terrified as well。 
When; for example; at my insistence we went downstairs; drew fresh water 
from the well; performed our ablutions and were reciting from the “Family of 
Imran”  chapter—which  my  dearly  departed  father  said  he  loved  so  much 
because  it  mentioned  hope  and  death—out  of  his  most  cherished  Herat…
bound  Koran;  we  were  under  sway  of  this  terror  and  alarmed  that  the 
courtyard gate had begun to creak。 It was nothing。 But; after we checked that 
the latch was locked; and barricaded the gate by moving with our bined 
strength  the  planter  of  sweet  basil  that  my  father  would  water  on  spring 
mornings with freshly drawn well water; we reentered the house in the dead of 
night; and it suddenly seemed that the elongated shadows we were casting by 
the light of the oil lamp belonged to others。 Most frightening of all was the 
horror that overcame us like a silent act of piety; as we solemnly washed his 
bloodied  face  and  changed  his  clothes  so  that  I  might  deceive  myself  into 
believing that my father had died at his appointed time; “Hand me his sleeve 
from underneath;” Hayriye had whispered to me。 
As  we  removed  his  bloody  clothes  and  undergarments;  what  aroused  our 
amazement  and  awe  was  the  vitality  and  whitish  color  of  my  father’s  skin 
illuminated by candlelight。 Because there were many more threatening things 
to  frighten  us;  neither  of  us  was  shy  about  looking  at  my  father’s  sprawling 
naked  body  covered  with  moles  and  wounds。  When  Hayriye  went  back 
upstairs  to  fetch  clean  undergarments  and  his  green  silk  shirt;  unable  to 
restrain  myself;  I  looked  down  there  and  ed  at 
what  I’d  done。  After  I’d  dressed  my  father  in  fresh  clothes  and  carefully 
cleaned  the  blood  off  his  neck;  face  and  hair;  I  embraced  him  with  all  my 
202 
 
strength;  and  burying  my  nose  in  his  beard;  I  inhaled  his  scent  and  cried  at 
length。 
For those of you who would accuse me of lacking feeling; or even of being 
guilty; let me hasten to tell of two further instances when I broke down crying: 
1。  When  I  was  tidying  the  upstairs  room  so  the  children  wouldn’t  discover 
what had happened and I brought a seashell he’d used as a paper burnisher to 
my ear; as I’d done as a child; only to discover that the sound of the sea had 
diminished。  2。  When  I  saw  that  the  red  velvet  cushion  my  father  sat  upon 
often  over  the  last  twenty  years—so  much  so  it’d  bee  part  of  his  rear 
end—had been torn apart。 
When  everything  in  the  house;  excluding  the  damage  that  was  beyond 
repair; was put back in order; I mercilessly denied Hayriye’s request to spread 
her  roll…up  mattress  out  in  our  room。  “I  don’t  want  the  children  to  get 
suspicious in the morning;” I explained to her。 But; to be honest; I was as eager 
to be alone with my children as I was to punish her。 I entered my bed but was 
unable  to  sleep  for  a  long  while;  not  because  I  was  preoccupied  with  the 
horror of what had happened; but because I was considering all that yet lay in 
store。 
 
 
   
203 
 
I AM RED 
 
I appeared in Ghazni when Book of Kings poet Firdusi pleted the final line 
of  a  quatrain  with  the  most  intricate  of  rhymes;  besting  the  court  poets  of 
Shah Mahmud; who ridiculed him as being nothing but a peasant。 I was there 
on the quiver of Book of Kings hero Rüstem when he traveled far and wide in 
pursuit of his missing steed; I became the blood that spewed forth when he 
cut the notorious ogre in half with his wondrous sword; and I was in the folds 
of the quilt upon which he made furious love with the beautiful daughter of 
the king who’d received him as a guest。 Verily and truly; I’ve been everywhere 
and am everywhere。 I emerged as Tur traitorously decapitated his brother Iraj; 
as  legendary  armies;  spectacular  as  a  dream;  clashed  on  the  steppes;  and  as 
Alexander’s  lifeblood  shimmered  brightly  from  his  handsome  nose  after  he 
suffered sunstroke。 Yes; Shah Behram Gür spent every night of the week with a 
different beauty beneath domes of varying color from distant lands; listening 
to the story she recounted; and I was upon the outfit of the striking maiden 
he  visited  on  a  Tuesday;  whose  picture  he’d  fallen  in  love  with;  just  as  I 
appeared  from  the  crown  to  the  caftan  of  Hüsrev;  who’d  fallen  in  love  with 
Shirin’s  picture。  Verily;  I  was  visible  upon  the  military  banners  of  armies 
besieging  fortresses;  upon  the  tablecloths  covering  tables  set  for  feasts;  upon 
the velvet caftans of ambassadors kissing the feet of sultans; and wherever the 
sword;  whose  legends  children  loved;  was  depicted。  Yes;  handsome  almond…
eyed  apprentices  applied  me  with  elegant  brushes  to  thick  paper  from 
Hindustan and Bukhara; I embellished Ushak carpets; wall ornamentation; the 
bs of fighting cocks; pomegranates; the fruits of fabled lands; the mouth 
of Satan; the subtle accent lines within picture borders; the curled embroidery 
on  tents;  flowers  barely  visible  to  the  naked  eye  made  for  the  artist’s  own 
pleasure; blouses worn by stunning women with outstretched necks watching 
the street through open shutters; the sour…cherry eyes of bird statues made of 
sugar;  the  stockings  of  shepherds;  the  dawns  described  in  legends  and  the 
corpses and wounds of thousands; nay; tens of thousands of lovers; warriors 
and shahs。 I love engaging in scenes of war where blood blooms like poppies; 
appearing on the caftan of the most proficient of bards listening to music on a 
countryside   outing   as   pretty   boys   and   poets   partake   of   wine;   I   love 
illuminating  the  wings  of  angels;  the  lips  of  maidens;  the  death  wounds  of 
corpses and severed heads bespeckled with blood。 
I hear the question upon your lips: What is it to be a color? 
204 
 
Color is the touch of the eye; music to the deaf; a word out of the darkness。 
Because  I’ve  listened  to  souls  whispering—like  the  susurrus  of  the  wind—
from book to book and object to object for tens of thousands of years; allow 
me to say that my touch resembles the touch of angels。 Part of me; the serious 
half; calls out to your vision while the mirthful half soars through the air with 
your glances。 
I’m so fortunate to be red! I’m fiery。 I’m strong。 I know men take notice of 
me and that I cannot be resisted。 
I  do  not  conceal  myself:  For  me;  delicacy  manifests  itself  neither  in 
weakness  nor  in  subtlety;  but  through  determination  and  will。  So;  I  draw 
attention to myself。 I’m not afraid of other colors; shadows; crowds or even of 
loneliness。 How wonderful it is to cover a surface that awaits me with my own 
victorious  being!  Wherever  I’m  spread;  I  see  eyes  shine;  passions  increase; 
eyebrows  rise  and  heartbeats  quicken。  Behold  how  wonderful  it  is  to  live! 
Behold how wonderful to see。 Behold: Living is seeing。 I am everywhere。 Life
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