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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第19章

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I  was  meant  to  be  among  the  pages  of  this  illustrated  manuscript  that  I 
sadly  heard  was  pleted  today。  Unfortunately;  on  a  cold  winter’s  day;  the 
Tatar courier who was carrying me as he crossed a rocky mountain pass was 
ambushed by thieves。 First they beat the poor Tatar; then they robbed him and 
raped  him  in  a  manner  befitting  thieves  before  mercilessly  killing  him。  As  a 
result; I know nothing about the page I’ve fallen from。 My request is that you 
look at me and ask: “Were you perhaps meant to provide shade for Mejnun 
disguised as a shepherd as he visited Leyla in her tent?” or “Were you meant to 
fade  into  the  night;  representing  the  darkness  in  the  soul  of  a  wretched  and 
hopeless man?” How I would’ve wanted to plement the happiness of two 
lovers who fled from the whole world; traversing oceans to find solace on an 
island rich with birds and fruit! I would’ve wanted to shade Alexander during 
the final moments of his life on his campaign to conquer Hindustan as he died 
from  a  persistent  nosebleed  brought  on  by  sunstroke。  Or  was  I  meant  to 
symbolize the strength and wisdom of a father offering advice on love and life 
to his son? Ah; to which story was I meant to add meaning and grace? 
Among the brigands who’d killed the messenger and taken me with them; 
dragging me headlong from mountain to mountain and city to city; there was 
a  thief  who  occasionally  understood  my  worth;  and  had  the  refinement  to 
realize that looking at the drawing of a tree is more pleasant than looking at a 
tree; but because he didn’t know to which story I belonged; he quickly tired of 
me。 After dragging me from city to city; this rogue didn’t tear me apart and 
dispose  of  me  as  I’d  feared  he  might;  but  sold  me  to  a  cultivated  man  in  a 
caravansary  for  a  jug  of  wine。  Sometimes  at  night  this  unfortunate  delicate…
spirited man would stare at me by candlelight and cry。 In time; he died of grief 
and they sold his belongings。 Thanks to the master storyteller who purchased 
me; I’ve e all the way to Istanbul。 Now; I’m most happy; and honored to 
be  here  tonight  among  you;  the  Ottoman  Sultan’s  miraculously  inspired; 
eagle…eyed;  iron…willed;  elegant…wristed;  sensitive…spirited  miniaturists  and 
calligraphers—and  for  Heaven’s  sake;  I  beg  of  you  not  to  believe  those  who 
claim I’ve been hastily sketched onto coarse paper by some master miniaturist 
as a wall prop。 
56 
 
But hear yet what other lies; slander and brazen untruths are being spread! 
You  might  remember  how  last  night  my  master  nailed  the  picture  of  a  dog 
here on the wall and recounted the adventures of this crass beast; and how at 
the same time he told of the adventures of Husret Hoja of Erzurum! Well now; 
the  admirers  of  His  Excellency  Nusret  Hoja  have  pletely  misunderstood 
this story; they think he was the target of our account。 Could we have possibly 
said that the great preacher; His Esteemed Excellency; was of uncertain birth? 
God  forbid!  Would  it  have  even  crossed  our  minds?  What  mischief;  what  a 
crude  lie!  Clearly;  Husret  of  Erzurum  is  being  confused  with  Nusret  of 
Erzurum; so let me proceed to tell you the story of Cross…Eyed Nedret Hoja of 
Sivas and the Tree。 
Besides denouncing the wooing of pretty boys and the art of painting; this 
Cross…Eyed Nedret Hoja of Sivas maintained that coffee was the Devil’s work 
and  that  coffee  drinkers  would  go  to  Hell。  Hey;  you  from  Sivas;  have  you 
forgotten how this enormous branch of mine was bent? Let me tell you about 
it;  then;  but  swear  you  won’t  tell  anyone;  and  may  Allah  protect  you  from 
baseless  slander。  One  morning;  I  awoke  to  find  that  a  giant  of  a  man—God 
protect him; he was as tall as a minaret with hands like a lion’s claws—had 
climbed  up  onto  this  branch  of  mine  and  hidden  beneath  my  lush  leaves 
together with the aforementioned Hoja and; excuse the expression; they were 
going  at  it  like  dogs  in  heat。  While  the  giant;  whom  I  later  realized  was  the 
Devil; attended to his business with our hero; he was passionately kissing 
his  lovely  ear  and  whispering  into  it;  “Coffee  is  a  sin;  coffee  is  a  vice…” 
Accordingly; those who believe in the harmful effects of coffee; believe not in 
the mandments of our good religion; but in the Devil himself。 
And  finally;  I  shall  make  mention  of  Frank  painters;  so  if  there  are 
degenerates among you who have pretensions to be like them; may you heed 
my  warning  and  be  deterred。  Now;  these  Frank  painters  depict  the  faces  of 
kings; priests; noblemen and even women in such a manner that after gazing 
upon  the  portrait;  you’d  be  able  to  identify  that  person  on  the  street。  Their 
wives roam freely on the streets anyway—now; just imagine the rest。 As if this 
weren’t enough; they’ve taken matters even further。 I don’t mean in regard to 
pimping; but in regard to painting。 
A  great  European  master  miniaturist  and  another  great  master  artist  are 
walking through a Frank meadow discussing virtuosity and art。 As they stroll; a 
forest  es  into  view  before  them。  The  more  expert  of  the  two  says  to  the 
other: “Painting in the new style demands such talent that if you depicted one 
57 
 
of the trees in this forest; a man who looked upon that painting could e 
here; and if he so desired; correctly select that tree from among the others。” 
I thank Allah that I; the humble tree before you; have not been drawn with 
such intent。 And not because I fear that if I’d been thus depicted all the dogs 
in Istanbul would assume I was a real tree and piss on me: I don’t want to be a 
tree; I want to be its meaning。 
 
   
58 
 
I AM CALLED BLACK 
 
The snow began to fall at a late hour and continued till dawn。 I spent the night 
reading  Shekure’s  letter  again  and  again。  I  paced  in  the  empty  room  of  the 
empty  house;  occasionally  leaning  toward  the  candlestick;  in  the  flickering 
light of the dim candle; I y beloved’s angry 
letters;  the  somersaults  they  turned  trying  to  deceive  me  and  their  hip…
swinging right…to…left progression。 Abruptly; those shutters would open before 
my  eyes;  and  my  beloved’s  face  and  her  sorrowful  smile  would  appear。  And 
when  I  saw  her  real  face;  I  forgot  all  of  those  other  faces  whose  sour…cherry 
mouths had increasingly matured and ripened in my imagination。 
In  the  middle  of  the  night  I  lost  myself  in  dreams  of  marriage:  I  had  no 
doubts about my love or that it was reciprocated—we were married in a state 
of  great  contentment—but;  my  imaginary  happiness;  set  in  a  house  with  a 
staircase;  was  dashed  when  I  couldn’t  find  appropriate  work  and  began 
arguing with my wife; unable to make her heed my words。 
I knew I’d appropriated these ominous images from the section on the ills 
of marriage in Gazzali’s The Revival of Religious Science; which I’
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