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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第109章

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picture of a horse?” 
“I once saw a winged horse in an enchanting book that a great teacher; a 
scholar of scholars; had presented to my late hoja。” 
I didn’t know whether I should push the head of this clown into his soup; 
who; along with his teacher; had taken Strange Creatures seriously; and drown 
him or leave him to describe in glowing terms the only horse picture he’d ever 
seen in his life—in who knows how poor a manuscript copy。 I came up with a 
third  alternative;  and  that  was  to  drop  my  spoon  and  quit  the  shop。  After 
walking for a long while I entered the abandoned dervish lodge; where I was 
overe with a sense of peace。 I tidied up and without doing anything else; I 
listened to the silence。 
307 
 
Later; I removed the mirror from where I kept it hidden and set it upon the 
low worktable。 Next; I placed the two…page illustration and the drawing board 
on  my  lap。  When  I  could  see  my  face  in  the  mirror  from  where  I  sat;  I 
attempted to draw my portrait in charcoal。 I drew for a long time; patiently。 
Much later; when I saw that once again the face on the page didn’t resemble 
my  face  in  the  mirror;  I  was  filled  with  such  misery  that  tears  welled  in  my 
eyes。 How did the Veian painters that Enishte described with such flourish 
do it? I then imagined myself to be one of them; thinking that if I illustrated in 
that state of mind; I could perhaps make a convincing self…portrait。 
Later still; I cursed the European painters and Enishte both; erased what I’d 
done and began looking into the mirror anew to begin another drawing。 
Ultimately;  I  found  myself  wandering  the  streets  again;  and  then;  here;  at 
this despicable coffeehouse。 I wasn’t even sure how I happened to e here。 
As I entered; I felt such embarrassment about mingling with these miserable 
miniaturists and calligraphers that sweat accumulated on my forehead。 
I  sensed  that  they  were  watching  me;  alerting  each  other  of  my  presence 
with their elbows; and laughing—all right; I could plainly see them doing it。 I 
seated myself in the corner; trying to behave naturally。 At the same time my 
eyes sought the other masters; my dear brethren with whom; at one time; I’d 
served  as  Master  Osman’s  apprentice。  I  was  certain  each  of  them  was  also 
asked  to  draw  a  horse  this  evening  and  that  they’d  each  expended  great 
desperate efforts; taking the contest arranged by these idiots quite seriously。 
The  storyteller  effendi  hadn’t  yet  begun  his  performance。  The  picture 
hadn’t even been hung up yet。 I was forced to socialize with the coffeehouse 
crowd。 
So  be  it  then;  let  me  be  frank  with  you:  Like  everyone  else  I;  too;  made 
jokes;  told  indecent  stories;  kissed  my  panions  on  the  cheeks  with 
exaggerated  gestures;  spoke  in  double  entendres;  innuendos  and  puns;  asked 
how  the  young  assistant  masters  were  doing;  and  like  everybody  else; 
mercilessly needled our mon enemies; and after I really warmed up; I went 
so far as to roughhouse and kiss men on the neck。 Yet; knowing that a part of 
my  soul  remained  mercilessly  silent  when  I  involved  myself  in  such  behavior 
caused me unbearable torment。 
Noheless; before long; I not only succeeded in using figurative language 
to pare my own cock; and those of others that were much…talked about; to 
brushes;  reeds;  coffeehouse  pillars;  flutes;  newel  posts;  door  knockers;  leeks; 
minarets; lady fingers in heavy syrup; pine trees; and twice; to the world itself; 
308 
 
I was equally successful in paring the asses of much…discussed pretty boys 
to  oranges;  figs;  small  haycocklike  pastries;  pillows  and  also  to  tiny  anthills。 
Meanwhile;  the  most  conceited  of  the  calligraphers  my  age  was  only  able  to 
pare his oateurishly and without any self…confidence I 
might  add—to  a  ship’s  mast  and  a  porter’s  pole。  Furthermore;  I  made 
allusions  to  old  miniaturists’  dicks  that  would  no  longer  rise;  the  cherry…
colored  lips  of  new  apprentices;  master  calligraphers  who  hoarded  their 
money (as did I) in a certain place (“the most disgusting nook”); how perhaps 
opium had been put into the wine I was drinking instead of rose petals; the 
last  great  masters  of  Tabriz  and  Shiraz;  the  mixing  of  coffee  and  wine  in 
Aleppo; and the calligraphers and beautiful boys to be found there。 
At times it seemed that one of the two spirits within me had; in the end; 
emerged  victorious;  leaving  the  other  behind;  and  that  I’d  finally  forgotten 
that  silent  and  loveless  aspect  of  myself。  At  these  times  I  remembered  the 
holiday  celebrations  of  my  childhood  during  which  I  was  able  to  be  myself 
along with my kith and kin。 Despite all these jokes; kisses and embraces; there 
was still a silence within me that left me suffering and isolated in the heart of 
the crowd。 
Who  had  endowed  me  with  this  silent  and  merciless  spirit—it  was  not  a 
spirit but a jinn—which always chided me and cut me off from others? Satan? 
But  the  silence  within  me  was  eased;  not  by  the  crass  mischief  instigated  by 
Satan;  on  the  contrary;  by  the  most  pure  and  simple  stories  that  drove  into 
one’s  soul。  Under  the  influence  of  wine;  I  told  two  stories;  hoping  that  this 
would  grant  me  peace。  A  tall;  pale;  yet  pinkish…plected  calligrapher’s 
apprentice focused his green eyes onto mine and was listening to me with rapt 
attention。 
 
Two Stories on Blindness and Style 
the Miniaturist Told to Ease the Loneliness in His Soul 
 
ALIF 
Contrary to what is assumed; making drawings of horses by looking at actual 
horses wasn’t a discovery of European masters。 The original idea belonged to 
the  great  master  Jemalettin  of  Kazvin。  After  Tall  Hasan;  the  Khan  of  the 
Whitesheep; conquered Kazvin; the old master Jemalettin was not content to 
simply join the book…arts workshop of the victorious khan; instead he headed 
out on campaign with him; claiming that he wanted to embellish the khan’s 
309 
 
History with scenes of war he’d witnessed himself。 So this great master; who 
for  sixty…two  years  had  made  pictures  of  horses;  cavalry  charges  and  battles 
without ever having seen a battle; went to war for the first time。 But before he 
could even see the thunderous and violent clash of sweating horses; he lost his 
hands and his eyesight to enemy cannon…fire。 The old master; like all genuine 
virtuosos;  had  in  any  case  been  awaiting  blindness  as  though  it  were  Allah’s 
blessing; and neither did he treat the loss of his hands as a great deficiency。 He 
maintained that the memory of a miniaturist was located not in the hand; as 
some insisted; but in the intellect and the heart; and furthermore; now that he 
was blind; he declared that he could see the true pictures; scenery and essential 
and  flawless  horses  that  Allah  manded  be  seen。  To  share  these  wonders 
with  lovers  of  art;  he  hired  a  tall;  pale…skinned;  pink…pl
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