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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第37章

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“I’m not continuing with the book any longer。” 
“What?” said Butterfly as his expression changed。 
“There’s some kind of ill…fortune in it。 Our Sultan has cut off the funding。 
You’re to tell Olive and Stork; as well。” 
Perhaps  he  would  have  inquired  further;  but  we  found  ourselves  on  the 
slopes of the graveyard amid tightly spaced towering cypresses; high ferns and 
tombstones。 As the great crowd encircled the grave site; my only clue that the 
body was at that very moment being lowered into the grave was the increasing 
intensity of the weeping and sobbing and the exclamations of bismillahi and 
ala milleti Resulullah。 
“Uncover his face pletely;” someone said。 
They  were  removing  the  white  shroud;  and  they  must’ve  been  eye  to  eye 
with the corpse if indeed there was an eye remaining in that smashed head。 I 
was in the back and I couldn’t see anything。 I’d once gazed into the eyes of 
Death; not at a grave site; in an entirely different place… 
A memory: Thirty years ago; Our Sultan’s grandfather; Denizen of Paradise; 
decided  once  and  for  all  to  take  Cyprus  from  the  Veians。  Sheikhulislam 
Ebussuut   Effendi;   recalling   that   this   island   was   once   designated   a 
missariat for Mecca and Medina; issued a fatwa which more or less stated 
that it was inappropriate for an island which had helped sustain holy sites to 
remain under Christian infidel control。 In turn; the difficult task of informing 
the  Veians  of  this  unforeseen  decision;  that  they  must  surrender  their 
island;  fell  to  me。  As  a  result;  I  was  able  to  tour  the  cathedrals  of  Venice。 
Though I marveled at their bridges and palazzos; I was most enchanted by the 
pictures  hanging  in  Veian  homes。  Nevertheless;  in  the  midst  of  this 
bewilderment;  trusting  in  the  hospitality  displayed  by  the  Veians;  I 
delivered  the  menacing  correspondence;  informing  them  in  a  haughty; 
supercilious  fashion  that  Our  Sultan  desired  Cyprus。  The  Veians  were  so 
angry that in their congress; which had been hastily convened; it was decided 
that even to discuss such a letter was unacceptable。 Furious mobs had forced 
me to confine myself to the Doge’s palazzo。 And when some rogues managed 
to get past the guards and doorkeepers and had set to strangling me; two of 
106 
 
the  Doge’s  personal  musketeers  succeeded  in  escorting  me  out  one  of  the 
secret passageways to an exit that opened onto the canal。 There; in a fog not 
unlike  this  one;  I  thought  for  an  instant  that  the  tall  and  pale  gondolier 
dressed in white; who’d taken me by the arm; was none other than Death。 I 
caught sight of my reflection in his eyes。 
Longingly;  I  dreamed  of  finishing  my  book  in  secret  and  returning  to 
Venice。 I approached the grave; which had been carefully covered with dirt: At 
this  moment;  angels  are  interrogating  him  above;  asking  him  whether  he  is 
male  or  female;  his  religion  and  whom  he  recognizes  as  his  prophet。  The 
possibility of my own death came to mind。 
A crow alighted beside me。 I gazed lovingly into Black’s eyes and asked him 
to take my arm and acpany me on the way back。 I told him I expected him 
at the house early the next morning to continue working on the book。 I had 
indeed imagined my own death; and realized; once again; that the book must 
be pleted; whatever the cost。 
 
 
   
107 
 
I WILL BE CALLED A MURDERER 
 
They threw cold; muddy earth onto the battered and disfigured corpse of ill…
fated Elegant Effendi and I wept more than any of them。 I shouted; “I want to 
die with him!” and “Let me share his grave!” and they held me by the waist so 
I wouldn’t fall in。 I gasped for air and they pressed their palms to my forehead; 
drawing  my  head  back  so  I  might  breathe。  By  the  glances  of  the  deceased’s 
relatives;  I  sensed  I  might  have  exaggerated  my  sobs  and  wailing;  I  pulled 
myself together。 Based upon my excessive sorrow the workshop gossips might 
suppose that Elegant Effendi and I had been in love。 
I  hid  behind  a  plane  tree  until  the  funeral  ended  to  avoid  drawing  more 
attention to myself。 A relative of the oaf I’d sent to Hell—an even bigger idiot 
than  the  deceased—discovered  me  behind  the  tree  and  stared  deep  into  my 
eyes with a look he assumed was meaningful。 He held me in his embrace for a 
while;  then  the  ignoramus  said  the  following:  “Were  you  ”Saturday‘  or 
“Wednesday’?” 
“”Wednesday‘ was the workshop name of the dearly departed for a time;“ I 
said。 He fell silent。 
The story behind these workshop names; which bound us to one another 
like  a  secret  pact;  was  simple:  During  our  apprenticeships;  when  Osman  the 
miniaturist had newly graduated from assistant master to the level of master; 
we all shared a great respect; admiration and love for him。 He was a virtuoso 
and  he  taught  us  everything;  for  God  had  blessed  him  with  an  enchanting 
artistic gift and the intellect of a jinn。 Early each morning; as was demanded of 
apprentices;  one  of  us  would  go  to  the  master’s  home;  and  following 
respectfully behind him on the way to the workshop; carry his pen and brush 
box; his bag and his portfolio full of papers。 So desperate were we to be near 
him that we’d argue and fight among ourselves to determine who would go 
that day。 
Master Osman had a favorite。 But if he were always to go; it would fan the 
flames of the never…ending gossip and tasteless jokes that inevitably filled the 
workshop; and so the great master decided that each of us would be assured a 
specified day of the week。 The great master worked on Fridays and stayed at 
home Saturdays。 His son; whom he loved dearly—who later betrayed him and 
us  by  quitting  the  trade—would  acpany  his  father  on  Mondays  like  a 
mon  apprentice。  There  was  also  a  tall  thin  brother  of  ours  known  as 
“Thursday;”  a  miniaturist  more  gifted  than  any  of  us;  who  passed  away  at  a 
108 
 
young age; succumbing to the fever brought on by a mysterious illness。 Elegant 
Effendi;  may  he  rest  in  peace;  would  go  on  Wednesdays;  and  was  therefore 
known  as  “Wednesday。”  Later;  our  great  master  meaningfully  and  lovingly 
changed our names from “Tuesday” to “Olive;” from “Friday” to “Stork;” and 
from  “Sunday”  to  “Butterfly;”  renaming  the  dearly  departed  as  “Elegant”  in 
allusion  to  the  finesse  of  his  gilding  work。  The  great  master  must  have  said; 
“Wele ”Wednesday;“ how are you this morning?” to the late Elegant just 
as he used to greet all of us back then。 
When  I  recalled  how  he  would  address  me;  I  thought  my  eyes  might  fill 
with tears: Master Osman admired us; and his own eyes would tear when he 
beheld the beauty of our work; he’d kiss our hands and arms; and despite the 
beatings;  we  felt  as  if  we  were  in  Heaven  as  apprentices;  and  so  our  talent 
blossomed  with  his  love。  Even  jealousy;  which  cast  its  shadow  over  those
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