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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第43章

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Islamic  Caliph  Our  Exalted  Sultan;  in  the  thousandth  year  of  the  Hegira。  He 
requested  that  I  prepare  the  illuminated  manuscript  in  utmost  secrecy; 
primarily to conceal its purpose as an olive branch extended to the Veians; 
but  also  to  avoid  aggravating  workshop  jealousies。  And  in  a  state  of  great 
elation and sworn to secrecy; I embarked upon this venture。” 
 
 
   
122 
 
I AM YOUR BELOVED UNCLE 
 
And so it was on that Friday morning; I began to describe the book that would 
contain  Our  Sultan’s  portrait  painted  in  the  Veian  style。  I  broached  the 
topic to Black by recounting how I’d brought it up with Our Sultan and how 
I’d  persuaded  him  to  fund  the  book。  My  hidden  purpose  was  to  have  Black 
write   the   stories—which   I   hadn’t   even   begun—that   were   meant   to 
acpany the illustrations。 
I told him I’d pleted most of the book’s illustrations and that the last 
picture was nearly finished。 “There’s a depiction of Death;” I said; “and I had 
the  most  clever  of  miniaturists;  Stork;  illustrate  the  tree  representing  the 
peacefulness of Our Sultan’s worldly realm。 There’s a picture of Satan and a 
horse meant to spirit us far far away。 There’s a dog; always cunning and wily; 
and also a gold coin…I had the master miniaturists depict these things with 
such  beauty;”  I  told  Black;  “that  if  you  saw  them  but  once;  you’d  know 
straightaway  what  the  corresponding  text  ought  to  be。  Poetry  and  painting; 
words and color; these things are brothers to each other; as you well know。” 
For  a  while;  I  pondered  whether  I  should  tell  him  I  might  marry  off  my 
daughter to him。 Would he live together with us in this house? I told myself 
not to be taken in by his rapt attention and his childlike expression。 I knew he 
was scheming to elope with my Shekure。 Still; I could rely on nobody else to 
finish my book。 
Returning  together  from  the  Friday  prayers;  we  discussed  “shadow;”  the 
greatest of innovations manifest in the paintings of the Veian masters。 “If;” 
I said; “we intend to make our paintings from the perspective of pedestrians 
exchanging  pleasantries  and  regarding  their  world;  that  is;  if  we  intend  to 
illustrate from the street; we ought to learn how to account for—as the Franks 
do—what is; in fact; most prevalent there: shadows。” 
“How does one depict shadow?” asked Black。 
From time to time; as my nephew listened; I perceived impatience in him。 
He’d begin to fiddle with the Mongol inkpot he’d given me as a present。 At 
times; he’d take up the iron poker and stoke the fire in the stove。 Now and 
then I imagined that he wanted to lower that poker onto my head and kill me 
because I dared to move the art of illustrating away from Allah’s perspective; 
because  I  would  betray  the  dreams  of  the  masters  of  Herat  and  their  entire 
tradition  of  painting;  because  I’d  duped  Our  Sultan  into  already  doing  so。 
Occasionally; Black would sit dead still for long stretches and fix his eyes deeply 
123 
 
into mine。 I could imagine what he was thinking: “I’ll be your slave until I can 
have your daughter。” Once; as I would do when he was a child; I took him out 
into the yard and tried to explain to him; as a father might; about the trees; 
about the light falling onto the leaves; about the melting snow and why the 
houses  seemed  to  shrink  as  we  moved  away  from  them。  But  this  was  a 
mistake:  It  proved  only  that  our  former  filial  relationship  had  long  since 
collapsed。 Now patient sufferance of the rantings of a demented old man had 
taken the place of Black’s childhood curiosity and passion for knowledge。 I was 
just an old man whose daughter was the object of Black’s love。 The influence 
and  experience  of  the  countries  and  cities  that  my  nephew  had  traveled 
through for a dozen years had been fully absorbed by his soul。 He was tired of 
me; and I pitied him。 And he was angry; I assumed; not only because I hadn’t 
allowed him to marry Shekure twelve years ago—after all; there was no other 
choice then—but because I dreamed of paintings whose style transgressed the 
precepts  of  the  masters  of  Herat。  Furthermore;  because  I  raved  about  this 
nonsense with such conviction; I imagined my death at his hands。 
I was not; however; afraid of him; on the contrary; I tried to frighten him。 
For I believed that fear was appropriate to the 。 
“As in those pictures;” I said; “one ought to be able to situate oneself at the 
center of the world。 One of my illustrators brilliantly depicted Death for me。 
Behold。” 
Thus I began to show him the paintings I’d secretly missioned from the 
master  miniaturists  over  the  last  year。  At  first;  he  was  a  tad  shy;  even 
frightened。 When he understood that the depiction of Death was inspired by 
familiar scenes that could be found in many Book of Kings volumes—from the 
scene of Afrasiyab’s decapitation of Siyavush; for example; or Rüstem’s murder 
of Suhrab without realizing this e interested in 
the  subject。  Among  the  pictures  that  depicted  the  funeral  of  the  late  Sultan 
Süleyman   was   one   I’d   made   with   bold   but   sad   colors;   bining   a 
positional  sensibility  inspired  by  the  Franks  with  my  own  attempt  at 
shading—which  I’d  added  later。  I  pointed  out  the  diabolic  depth  evoked  by 
the  interplay  of  cloud  and  horizon。  I  reminded  him  that  Death  was  unique; 
just like the portraits of infidels I had seen hanging in Veian palazzos; all of 
them  desperately  yearned  to  be  rendered  distinctly。  “They  want  to  be  so 
distinct  and  different;  and  they  want  this  with  such  passion  that;”  I  said; 
“look; look into the eyes of Death。 See how men do not fear Death; but rather 
the violence implicit in the desire to be one…of…a…kind; unique and exceptional。 
124 
 
Look at this illustration and write an account of it。 Give voice to Death。 Here’s 
paper and pen。 I shall give what you write to the calligrapher straightaway。” 
He stared at the picture in silence。 “Who painted this?” he asked later。 
“Butterfly。  He’s  the  most  talented  of  the  lot。  Master  Osman  had  been  in 
love with and awed by him for years。” 
“I’ve  seen  rougher  versions  of  this  depiction  of  a  dog  at  the  coffeehouse 
where the storyteller performs;” Black said。 
“My  illustrators;  most  of  whom  are  spiritually  bound  to  Master  Osman 
and  the  workshop;  take  a  dim  view  of  the  labors  performed  for  my  book。 
When they leave here at night I imagine they have their vulgar fun over these 
illustrations which they draw for money and ridicule me at the coffeehouse。 
And  who  among  them  will  ever  forget  the  time  Our  Sultan  had  the  young 
Veian artist; whom He’d invited from the embassy at my behest; paint His 
portrait。 Thereafter; He had Master Osman make a copy of that oil painting。 
Forced to imitate the Veian painter; Master Osman held me responsible for 
this  unseem
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