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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第82部分

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even  worse;  to  witness  her  agony  and  secretly  rejoice  in  their  own  better 
situations;  thus;  she  engaged  in  no  pleasantries  with  her  guests;  but  went 
straight to the heart of the matter forgoing any flowery small talk。 Why had 
Esther e this afternoon; just as Kalbiye was about to take a consoling nap 
with her grief? Well aware she’d take no interest in the latest silks from China 
or  handkerchiefs  from  Bursa;  I  didn’t  even  pretend  to  open  my  bundle;  but 
came  right  to  the  point  and  described  teary…eyed  Shekure’s  concern。  “It  has 
heightened  Shekure’s  misery  to  think  that  she  has  somehow  hurt  your 
feelings; with whom she shares the same sorrow;” I said。 
Arrogantly;  Kalbiye  confirmed  that  she  hadn’t  asked  after  Shekure’s  well…
being; hadn’t visited to express her condolences or mourn with her; nor could 
she bring herself to prepare and send any halva。 Behind her pride; there also 
lurked  a  glee  that  she  couldn’t  conceal:  The  delight  that  her  resentment  had 
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been recognized。 It was from this point of entry that your sharp…witted Esther 
attempted to discover the reasons for and circumstances of Kalbiye’s anger。 
It didn’t take long for Kalbiye to admit that she’d been upset with the late 
Enishte Effendi due to the illustrated manuscript he was preparing。 She said 
her husband; may he rest in peace; hadn’t agreed to work on the book for the 
sake of a handful of extra silver coins; but because Enishte Effendi convinced 
him  the  project  was  authorized  by  the  Sultan。  However;  when  her  late 
husband  became  aware  that  the  illuminations  Enishte  Effendi  hired  him  to 
gild  were  slowly  evolving  from  simple  ornamented  pages  into  full…blown 
illustrations;  pictures  moreover  that  bore  the  marks  of  Frankish  blasphemy; 
atheism and even heresy; he grew uneasy and began to lose sight of right and 
wrong。  Being  a  much  more  reasonable  and  prudent  person  than  Elegant 
Effendi; she cautiously added that all these doubts arose gradually rather than 
at once; and since poor Elegant Effendi never found anything that would be 
considered blatant sacrilege; he was able to dismiss his worries as unfounded。 
Besides; he forted himself by never missing a sermon given by Nusret Hoja 
of  Erzurum;  and  if  he  skipped  one  of  his  five  daily  prayers  it  unsettled  him。 
Just as he knew that certain scoundrels at the workshop ridiculed his plete 
devotion to the faith; so he understood very well that their brazen jokes arose 
out of envy of his talent and artistry。 
A large; glimmering tear slid from Kalbiye’s gleaming eye down her cheek; 
and at the first opportunity; your good…hearted Esther decided to find Kalbiye 
a better husband than the one she’d recently lost。 
“My  late  husband  didn’t  often  share  these  concerns  of  his  with  me;” 
Kalbiye  said  cautiously。  “Based  on  whatever  I  could  remember  and  piece 
together   I’ve   concluded   that   everything   happened   on   account   of   the 
illustrations that took him to Enishte Effendi’s house on his very last night。” 
This was some manner of apology。 In response; I reminded her how her fate 
and Shekure’s; not to mention their enemies; were the same if one considered 
that Enishte Effendi had perhaps been killed by the same “scoundrel。” The two 
large…headed fatherless waifs staring at me from the corner suggested another 
similarity  between  the  two  women。  But  my  merciless  matchmaker’s  logic 
quickly reminded me that Shekure’s situation was much more beautiful; rich 
and mysterious。 I let Kalbiye know exactly what I felt: 
“Shekure  told  me  to  tell  you  that  if  she  has  wronged  you;  she’s  sorry;”  I 
said。  “She  wants  to  say  that  she  loves  you  as  a  sister  and  as  a  woman  who 
shares her fate。 She wants you to think about this and help her。 When the late 
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Elegant  Effendi  left  here  on  his  last  night;  did  he  mention  he’d  be  seeing 
anyone besides Enishte Effendi? Did you ever consider that he might’ve been 
going to meet somebody else?” 
“This was found on his person;” she said。 
She  removed  a  folded  piece  of  paper  from  a  lidded  wicker  box;  which 
contained embroidery needles; pieces of cloth and a large walnut。 
When I took up the crumpled piece of rough paper and examined it; I saw a 
variety of shapes drawn in ink that had run and smudged in the well water。 I’d 
just determined what the forms were when Kalbiye voiced my thoughts。 
“Horses;” she said。 “But late Elegant Effendi only did gilding work。 He never 
drew horses。 And no one would’ve ever asked him to render a horse。” 
Your  elderly  Esther  was  looking  at  the  horses  which  had  been  quickly 
sketched; but she couldn’t quite make anything of them。 
“If I were to take this piece of paper to Shekure; she’d be quite pleased;” I 
said。 
“If Shekure desires to see these sketches; let her e get them herself;” said 
Kalbiye with no small hint of conceit。 
 
 
   
268 
 
I AM CALLED BLACK 
 
Maybe you’ve understood by now that for men like myself; that is; melancholy 
men  for  whom  love;  agony;  happiness  and  misery  are  just  excuses  for 
maintaining eternal loneliness; life offers neither great joy nor great sadness。 
I’m not saying we can’t relate to other souls overwhelmed by these feelings; 
on the contrary; we sympathize with them。 What we cannot fathom is the odd 
disquiet  our  souls  sink  into  at  such  times。  This  silent  turmoil  dims  our 
intellects and dampens our hearts; usurping the place reserved for the true joy 
and sadness we ought to experience。 
I had buried her father; thank God; hurried home from the funeral; and in a 
gesture of condolence; embraced my wife; Shekure; then suddenly; in a fit of 
tears she collapsed onto a large cushion with her children; who were glaring at 
me with spite; and I didn’t know what to do。 Her misery coincided with my 
victory。 In one fell swoop; I had wed the dream of my youth; freed myself from 
her  father  who  belittled  me;  and  bee  master  of  the  house。  Who  would 
ever believe the sincerity of my tears? But believe me; it wasn’t like that。 I truly 
wanted to grieve; but couldn’t: Enishte had always been more of a father to 
me than my real father。 But since the meddlesome preacher who’d performed 
Enishte’s  final  ablution  never  stopped  babbling;  the  rumor  that  my  Enishte 
died under mysterious circumstances spread among the neighbors during the 
funeral—as  I  could  sense  standing  in  the  courtyard  of  the  mosque。  I  didn’t 
want my inability to cry to be interpreted negatively; I don’t have to tell you 
how real the fear of being branded “stonehearted” is。 
You know how some sympathetic aunt will always attest that “he’s crying 
on  the  inside”  to  prevent  someone  like  me  from  being  banished  from  the 
group。 I did in fact cry on the inside as I tried to hide in a corner from the 
busybody  neighbors  and  distant  relatives  with  their  astonishing  abilities  to 
summon a downpour of tears; I thought about being the master of the house 
and  whether  I  should  somehow  take  charge  of  the  situation;  but  just  then 
there came a knock at the door。 A moment of panic。 Was it Hasan? Regardless; 
I wanted to save myself from this hell of whimpering at whatever cost。 
It was a royal page; summoning me to the palace。 I was stunned。 
As I exited the courtyard; I found a mud…covered silver coin on the ground。 
Was I afraid to go to the palace? Yes; but I was also happy to be outside in the 
cold  among  the  horses;  dogs;  trees  and  people。  I  thought  I’d  befriend  the 
pageboy  like  those  hopeless  daydreamers  who;  believing  they  might  sweeten 
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the  world’s  cruelty  before  facing  the  executioner;  attempt  a  lighthearted 
conversation with the dungeon guard about this and that; the beauties of life; 
the ducks afloat on the pond; or the strangeness of a cloud in the sky; but alas 
he disappointed me; proving a rather moro
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