按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
blackened rooms within。 Holding the lamp aloft； I went after him； but soon
grew frightened and turned back。 My last gesture was to kiss Butterfly； and
saying farewell； to take my leave of him。 Since the tang of blood had e
between us； I couldn’t kiss him to my heart’s content。 But he noticed that
tears flowed from my eyes。
434
I left the lodge within a kind of deathly silence punctuated by Black’s
moaning。 Nearly running； I fled the wet and muddy garden； the dark
neighborhood。 The ship that was to take me to Akbar Khan’s workshop would
depart after the morning azan； at that hour the last rowboat would leave for
the ship from Galleon Harbor。 As I ran； tears poured from my eyes。
As I passed through Aksaray like a thief； I could faintly make out the first
light of day on the horizon。 Opposite the first neighborhood fountain I
encountered； among the side streets； narrow passages and walls； was the stone
house in which I’d spent the night of my first day in Istanbul twenty…five years
ago。 There； through the yawning courtyard gate； I saw once again the well into
which I wished to hurl myself in the middle of the night； tormented by guilt
for having at the age of eleven wet the mattress that a distant relative spread
out for me in a show of kind and generous hospitality。 By the time I reached
Bayazid； the watchmaker’s shop （where I often came to fix the mechanism of
my broken clock）； the bottle seller’s shop （where I purchased the empty crystal
lamps and sherbet cups I embellished and the little bottles I decorated with
floral designs and secretly sold to the gentry） and the public baths （where my
feet went out of habit for a time because it was both inexpensive and empty）
were all respectfully standing at attention before me and my tearful eyes。
There was nobody in the vicinity of the ravaged and burned coffeehouse；
nor anyone at the house of beautiful Shekure and her new husband； who was
perhaps in the throes of death at this very moment。 I heartily wished them
nothing but happiness。 While roaming the streets in the days after I’d tainted
my hands with blood； all of Istanbul’s dogs； its shadowy trees； shuttered
windows； black chimneys； ghosts and hardworking； unhappy early risers
hurrying to their morning prayers always stared at
me with animosity； yet； from the moment I confessed my crimes and resolved
to abandon the only city I’d ever known； they all regarded me with friendship。
After passing the Bayazid Mosque； I watched the Golden Horn from a
promontory： The horizon was brightening； yet the water was still black。 Ever
so slowly bobbing in invisible waves； two fishermen’s rowboats； freight ships
with their sails furled and an abandoned galleon repeatedly insisted that I not
leave。 Were the tears flowing from my eyes caused by the needle？ I told myself
to dream of the splendid life I would live in Hindustan off the splendid works
my talent would create！
I left the road； ran through two muddy gardens and took shelter beneath
an old stone house surrounded by greenery。 This was the house where I came
each Tuesday as an apprentice to get Master Osman and followed two paces
435
behind him carrying his bag； portfolio； pen box and writing board on our way
to the workshop。 Nothing had changed here； except the plane trees in the yard
and along the street had grown so large that an aura of grandeur； power and
wealth hearkening back to the time of Sultan Süleyman had settled over the
house and street。
Since the road leading to the harbor was near； I succumbed to the Devil’s
temptation； and was overe by the excitement of seeing the arches of the
workshop building where I’d spent a quarter century。 This was how I ended
up tracing the path that I’d take as an apprentice following Master Osman：
down Archer’s Street which smelled dizzyingly of linden blossoms in the
spring； past the bakery where my master would buy round meat pasties； up
the hill lined with beggars and quince and chestnut trees； past the closed
shutters of the new market and the barber whom my master greeted each
morning； alongside the empty field where acrobats would set up their tents in
summer and perform； in front of the foul…smelling rooming houses for
bachelors； beneath moldy…smelling Byzantine arches； before Ibrahim Pasha’s
palace and the column made up of three coiling snakes； which I’d drawn
hundreds of times； past the plane tree； which we depicted a different way each
time； emerging into the Hippodrome and under the chestnut and mulberry
trees wherein sparrows and magpies alighted and chirped madly in the
mornings。
The heavy door of the workshop was closed。 There was nobody at the
entrance or under the arched portico above。 I was able to look up only
momentarily at the shuttered small windows from which； as apprentices
stifled by boredom； we used to stare at the trees； before I was accosted。
He had a shrill voice that clawed at one’s ears。 He said that the bloody
ruby…handled dagger in my hand belonged to him and that his nephew；
Shevket； and Shekure had conspired to steal it from his house。 This was
apparently proof enough that I was one of Black’s men who raided his house
at night to abduct Shekure。 This arrogant； shrill…voiced； irate man also knew
Black’s artist friends and that they would return to the workshop。 He
brandished a long sword that shimmered brightly with a strange red and
indicated that he had a number of accounts that； for whatever reason； he
meant to settle with me。 I considered telling him that there was some
misunderstanding； but I saw the incredible anger on his face。 I could read in
his expression that he was about to launch a sudden murderous assault on me。
How I would’ve liked to say； “I beg of you； stop。”
But he’d already acted。
436
I wasn’t even able to raise my dagger； I simply lifted the hand in which I
held my satchel。
The satchel dropped。 In one smooth motion； without losing speed； the
sword cut first through my hand and then clear through my neck； lopping off
my head。
I knew I’d been beheaded from the two odd steps taken by my poor body
which had left me behind in its confusion； from the stupid manner in which
my hand waved the dagger and from the way my lonely body collapsed； blood
spraying from the neck like a fountain。 My poor feet； which continued to
move as though still walking； kicked uselessly like the legs of a dying horse。
From the muddy ground upon which my head had fallen； I could neither
see my murderer nor my satchel full of gold pieces and pictures； which I still
wanted to cling to tightly。 These things were behind me； in the direction of the
hill leading down to the sea and Galleon Harbor which I would neve