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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第104章

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master’s body covered with a red cloth; all stood with the same elegant stance 
borrowed  from  the  old  masters  of  Herat;  that  is;  with  one  foreleg  proudly 
extended and the other firmly planted on the ground beside it。 All their necks 
were  long  and  curved;  their  tails  bound  up  and  their  manes  trimmed  and 
bed; but none of the noses had the peculiarity we sought。 Neither was this 
peculiarity  evident  in  any  of  the  hundreds  of  horses  that  bore  manders; 
scholars  and  hojas;  who’d  participated  in  the  funeral  ceremony  and  now 
stood  at  attention  on  the  surrounding  hilltops  in  honor  of  the  late  Sultan 
Süleyman。 
Something of the sadness of this melancholy funeral passed to us as well。 It 
upset  us  to  see  that  this  illustrated  manuscript;  upon  which  Master  Osman 
and his miniaturists labored so much; had been ill…treated; and that women of 
the  harem;  playing  games  with  princes;  had  scribbled  and  marked  various 
places  on  the  pages。  Beside  a  tree  under  which  Our  Sultan’s  grandfather 
hunted; written in a bad hand were the words; “My Exalted Effendi; I love you 
and  am  waiting  for  you  with  the  patience  of  this  tree。”  So;  it  was  with  our 
hearts  full  of  defeat  and  sorrow  that  we  pored  over  the  legendary  books; 
whose creation I’d heard about; but none of which I’d ever seen。 
In the second volume of the Book of Skills; which had seen the brush strokes 
of all three master miniaturists; we saw; behind the roaring cannon and the 
foot soldiers; hundreds of horses of every hue including chestnuts; grays and 
blues;  clattering  along  in  mail  and  full  panoply;  bearing  their  glorious 
scimitar…wielding  spahi  cavalrymen;  as  they  crossed  over  pink  hilltops  in  an 
orderly advance; but none of their noses was flawed。 “And what is a flaw after 
all!”  Master  Osman  said  later;  while  examining  a  page  in  the  same  book; 
which  depicted  the  Royal  Outer  Gate  and  the  parade  ground  where  we 
happened to be at that very moment。 We also failed to discover the mark we 
were  searching  for  on  the  noses  of  the  horses  of  various  hues  mounted  by 
guards;  heralds  and  Secretaries  of  the  Divan  Council  of  State  in  this 
illustration;  which  depicted  the  hospital  off  to  the  right;  the  Sultan’s  Royal 
Audience  Hall;  and  the  trees  in  the  courtyard  on  a  scale  small  enough  to  fit 
into the frame yet grand enough to match their importance in our minds。 We 
watched  Our  Sultan’s  great…grandfather  Sultan  Selim  the  Grim;  during  the 
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time he declared war on the ruler of the Dhulkadirids; erect the imperial tent 
along  the  banks  of  the  Küskün  river  and  hunt  scurrying  red…tailed  black 
greyhounds; gazelle fawns with rumps in the air and frightened rabbits; before 
leaving a leopard lying in a pool of red blood; its spots blooming like flowers。 
Neither the Sultan’s chestnut horse with the white blaze nor the horses upon 
which the falconers waited; their birds at the ready on their forearms; had the 
mark we were looking for。 
Till  dusk;  we  pored  over  hundreds  of  horses  that  had  issued  from  the 
brushes  of  Olive;  Butterfly  and  Stork  over  the  last  four  or  five  years:  the 
Crimean  Khan  Mehmet  Giray’s  elegant…eared  chestnut  palomino;  black  and 
golden horses; pinkish and gray…colored horses whose heads and necks alone 
could be seen behind a hilltop during battle; the horses of Haydar Pasha who 
recaptured the Halkul…Vad fortress from the Spanish infidels in Tunisia and the 
Spaniards’  reddish…chestnut  and  pistachio…green  horses;  one  of  which  had 
tumbled  headlong;  as  they  fled  from  him;  a  black  horse  that  caused  Master 
Osman  to  remark;  “I  overlooked  this  one。  I  wonder  who  did  such  careless 
work?”;  a  red  horse  who  politely  turned  his  ears  to  the  lute  that  a  royal 
pageboy was strumming under a tree; Shirin’s horse; Shebdiz; as bashful and 
elegant  as  she;  waiting  for  her  while  she  bathed  in  a  lake  by  moonlight;  the 
lively  horses  used  in  javelin  jousts;  the  tempestlike  horse  and  its  beautiful 
groom  that  for  some  reason  caused  Master  Osman  to  remark;  “I  loved  him 
dearly  in  my  youth;  I’m  very  tired”;  the  sun…colored;  golden;  winged  horse 
which Allah sent to the prophet Elijah to protect him from an attack by the 
pagans—whose wings had been mistakenly drawn on Elijah; Sultan Süleyman 
the  Magnificent’s  gray  thoroughbred  with  the  small  head  and  large  body; 
which  stared  sorrowfully  at  the  young  and  lovable  prince;  enraged  horses; 
horses  at  full  gallop;  weary  horses;  beautiful  horses;  horses  that  nobody 
noticed; horses that would never leave these pages; and horses that leapt over 
gilded borders escaping their confinement。 
Not one of them bore the signature we were looking for。 
Even so; we were able to maintain a persistent excitement in the face of the 
weariness  and  melancholy  that  descended  upon  us:  A  couple  of  times  we 
forgot about the horse and lost ourselves to the beauty of a picture; to colors 
that  forced  a  momentary  surrender。  Master  Osman  always  looked  at  the 
pictures—most of which he himself had created; supervised or ornamented—
more out of nostalgic enthusiasm than wonder。 “These are by Kas?m from the 
Kas?m  Pasha  district!”  he  said  once;  pointing  out  the  little  purple  flowers  at 
the base of the red war tent of Our Sultan’s grandfather Sultan Süleyman。 “He 
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was  by  no  means  a  master;  but  for  forty  years  he  filled  the  dead  space  of 
pictures  with  these  five…leaf;  single…blossom  flowers;  before  he  unexpectedly 
died two years ago。 I always assigned him to draw this small flower because he 
could do it better than anyone。” He fell silent for a moment; then exclaimed; 
“It’s a pity; a pity!” With all my soul; I sensed that these words signified the 
end of an era。 
Darkness  had  nearly  overtaken  us;  when  a  light  flooded  the  room。  There 
was  a  motion。  My  heart;  which  had  begun  to  beat  like  a  drum; 
prehended  immediately:  The  Ruler  of  the  World;  His  Excellency  Our 
Sultan had abruptly entered。 I threw myself at His feet。 I kissed the hem of His 
robe。 My head spun。 I couldn’t look Him in the eye。 
He’d  long  since  begun  speaking  with  Head  Illuminator  Master  Osman 
anyway。  It  filled  me  with  fiery  pride  to  witness  Him  speak  to  the  man  with 
whom  I’d  only  moments  ago  been  sitting  knee  to  knee  looking  at  pictures。 
Unbelievable; His Excellency Our Sultan was now sitting where I’d been earlier 
and He was listening attentively to what my master was explaining; as I had 
done。 The Head Treasurer; who was at his side and the Agha of the Falconers 
and  a  few  others  whose  identities  I  couldn’t  make  out  were  keeping  close 
guard over Him and gazing at the open pages of books with rapt attention。 I 
gathered  all  my  courage  
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