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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第38章

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blossomed  with  his  love。  Even  jealousy;  which  cast  its  shadow  over  those 
happy years; had a different hue then。 
Now I am pletely divided; just like those figures whose head and hands 
are  drawn  and  painted  by  one  master  while  their  bodies  and  clothes  are 
depicted  by  another。  When  a  God…fearing  man  like  myself  unexpectedly 
bees a murderer; it takes time to adjust。 I’ve adopted a second voice; one 
befitting  a  murderer;  so  that  I  might  still  carry  on  as  though  my  old  life 
continued。 I am speaking now in this derisive and devious second voice; which 
I  keep  out  of  my  regular  life。  From  time  to  time;  of  course;  you’ll  hear  my 
familiar;  regular  voice;  which  would’ve  remained  my  only  voice  had  I  not 
bee  a  murderer。  But  when  I  speak  under  my  workshop  name;  I’ll  never 
admit  to  being  “a  murderer。”  Let  no  one  try  to  associate  these  two  voices;  I 
have  no  individual  style  or  flaws  in  artistry  to  betray  my  hidden  persona。 
Indeed;  I  believe  that  style;  or  for  that  matter;  anything  that  serves  to 
distinguish  one  artist  from  another;  is  a  flaw—not  individual  character;  as 
some arrogantly claim。 
I do admit that in my own situation; this presents a problem。 For though I 
might  speak  through  my  workshop  name;  lovingly  given  to  me  by  Master 
Osman and used by Enishte Effendi; who also admired it; in no wise do I want 
you  to  figure  out  whether  I  am  Butterfly;  Olive  or  Stork。  For  if  you  do  you 
won’t hesitate to turn me over to the torturers of the Sultan’s mander of 
the Imperial Guard。 
And; I must mind what I think about and say。 Actually; I know that you’re 
listening to me even when I’m mulling over matters in private。 I can’t afford 
careless  contemplation  of  my  frustrations  or  the  incriminating  details  of  my 
109 
 
life。  Even  when  recounting  the  “Alif;”  “Ba”  and  “Djim”  stories。  I  was  always 
mindful of your gaze。 
One  side  of  the  warriors;  lovers;  princes  and  legendary  heroes  that  I’ve 
illustrated tens of thousands of times faces whatever is depicted there; in that 
mythical  time—the  enemies  they’re  battling;  for  example;  or  the  dragons 
they’re slaying; or the beautiful maidens over whom they weep。 But another 
aspect; and another side of their bodies; faces the book lover who happens to 
be gazing at the magnificent painting。 If I do have style and character; it’s not 
only hidden in my artwork; but in my crime and in my words as well! Yes; try 
to discover who I am from the color of my words! 
I;  too;  know  that  if  you  catch  me;  it’ll  bring  consolation  to  unfortunate 
Elegant Effendi’s miserable soul。 They’re shoveling dirt on him as I stand here 
beneath trees; amid chirping birds; watching the gilded waters of the Golden 
Horn and the leaden domes of Istanbul; and discovering anew how wonderful 
it is to be alive。 Pathetic Elegant Effendi; soon after he joined the circle of that 
fierce…browed preacher from Erzurum; he stopped liking me pletely; yet; in 
the  twenty…five  years  that  we  illustrated  books  for  Our  Sultan;  there  were 
times  when  we  felt  very  close  to  each  other。  Twenty  years  ago;  we  became 
friends  while  working  on  a  royal  history  in  verse  for  the  late  father  of  our 
present  sultan。  But  we  were  never  closer  than  when  working  on  the  eight 
illustrated  plates  that  were  to  acpany  a  collection  of  Fuzuli  poems。  One 
summer evening back then; as a concession to his understandable but illogical 
desires—apparently  a  miniaturist  ought  to  feel  in  his  soul  the  text  he’s 
illustrating—I  came  here  and  patiently  listened  to  him  pretentiously  recite 
lines from Fuzuli’s collected works as flocks of swallows fluttered above us in a 
frenzy。 I still recall a line recited that evening: “I am not me but eternally thee。” 
I’ve always wondered how one might illustrate this line。 
I ran to his house as soon as I learned that his body had been found。 There; 
the diminutive garden where we once sat and recited poetry; now covered in 
snow; seemed diminished; just like any garden revisited after a period of years。 
His  house  was  that  way;  too。  From  the  next  room;  I  could  hear  the  wails  of 
women;  and  their  exaggerated  exclamations;  mounting  as  if  they  were 
peting with each other。 When his eldest brother spoke; I listened intently: 
The face of our forlorn brother Elegant was practically destroyed; and his head 
was smashed。 After he was removed from the bottom of the well where he’d 
lain for four days; his brothers scarcely knew him; and his poor wife; Kalbiye; 
whom   they’d   brought   from   the   house;   was   forced   to   identify   the 
unrecognizable body in the dark of night by its torn and tattered clothing。 I 
110 
 
was reminded of a depiction of the Midian merchants pulling Joseph from the 
pit  into  which  he’d  been  cast  by  his  jealous  brothers。  I  quite  enjoy  painting 
this scene from the romance of Joseph and Zuleyha; for it reminds us that envy 
is the prime emotion in life。 
There was a sudden lull。 I sensed their eyes upon me。 Should I cry? I caught 
Black’s eye。 That vile scoundrel; he’s peering at us; like someone who’s been 
sent here by Enishte Effendi to uncover the truth。 
“Who  could’ve  perpetrated  such  a  horrendous  crime?”  cried  the  oldest 
brother。 “What kind of heartless beast could’ve slaughtered our brother; our 
brother who wouldn’t dare harm an ant?” 
He  answered  this  question  with  his  own  tears;  and  I  joined  him;  feigning 
grief while I sought my own answer: Who were Elegant’s enemies? If it hadn’t 
been me; who else could’ve murdered him? I recalled that some time ago—I 
believe  it  was  when  the  Book  of  Skills  was  being  prepared—he  would  get 
involved in arguments with certain artists inclined to dismiss the techniques 
of the old masters and ruin the pages we illustrators had labored extensively 
over;  thus  they  would  spoil  the  borders  with  the  horrid  colors  used  to 
embellish more cheaply and quickly。 Who were they? Later; however; rumors 
began  to  spread  that  the  enmity  had  arisen  not  for  this  reason;  but  out  of 
petition for the affections of a handsome binder’s apprentice who worked 
on the ground floor; but this was an old story。 And there were those who were 
annoyed  by  Elegant’s  dignity;  his  refinement  and  his  erudite  feminine 
demeanor;  but  this  had  to  do  with  another  matter  entirely:  Elegant  was 
slavishly  bound  to  the  old  style;  a  fanatic  about  the  coordination  of  color 
between  gilding  and  illustration;  and  in  the  presence  of  Master  Osman;  he 
would; for instance; point out the nonexistent faults of other miniaturists—
mine  in  particular—with  gentle  conceit。  His  last  quarrel  had  to  do  with  an 
issue  about  which  Master  Osman  had;  in  past  years;  grown  quite  sensitive: 
royal  miniaturists  who  moonligh
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