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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第45章

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insolent toward my Enishte as he continued his endless recital—I’d stand up。 
Affecting all the while the demeanor of an attentive disciple; quite enthralled 
and quite lost in thought; in order to demonstrate how intent I was upon my 
Enishte’s  story;  I’d  begin  pacing  in  the  room  with  a  preoccupied  air;  before 
approaching that suspicious black spot on the wall。 
When  I  failed  to  find  Shekure’s  eye  nesting  in  what  I  had  taken  to  be  a 
peephole; I’d be overe by disappointment; and then by a strange feeling of 
loneliness; by the impatience of a man uncertain where to turn next。 
Now  and  then;  I’d  experience  such  an  abrupt  and  intense  feeling  that 
Shekure  was  watching  me;  I’d  be  so  absolutely  convinced  I  was  within  her 
gaze; that I’d start posing like a man trying to show he was wiser; stronger and 
more capable than he really was so as to impress the woman he loved。 Later; 
I’d  fantasize  that  Shekure  and  her  boys  were  paring  me  with  her 
husband—the boys’ missing father—before my mind would focus again upon 
whichever  variety  of  famous  Veian  illustrator  about  whose  painting 
techniques my Enishte was waxing philosophic at the moment。 I longed to be 
like  these  newly  famed  painters  solely  because  Shekure  had  heard  so  much 
about them from her father; illustrators who had earned their renown—not 
through suffering martyrdom in cells like saints; or through severing the heads 
of  enemy  soldiers  with  a  mighty  arm  and  a  sharp  scimitar;  as  that  absent 
husband had done—but on account of a manuscript they’d transcribed or a 
page they’d illuminated。 I tried very hard to imagine the magnificent pictures 
created  by  these  celebrated  illustrators;  who  were;  as  my  Enishte  explained; 
inspired by the power of the world’s mystery and its visible blackness。 I tried 
so hard to visualize them—those masterpieces my Enishte had seen and was 
now  attempting  to  describe  to  one  who  had  never  laid  eyes  on  them—that; 
finally;  when  my  imagination  failed  me;  I  felt  only  more  dejected  and 
demeaned。 
I looked up to discover that Shevket was before me again。 He approached 
me  decisively;  and  I  assumed—as  was  customary  for  the  oldest  male  child 
among certain Arab tribes in Transoxiana and among Circassian tribes in the 
Caucasus  mountains—that  he  would  not  only  kiss  a  guest’s  hand  at  the 
beginning  of  a  visit;  but  also  when  that  guest  left。  Caught  off  guard;  I 
presented my hand for him to kiss。 At that moment; from somewhere not too 
far away; I heard her laughter。 Was she laughing at me? I became flustered and 
to remedy the situation; I grabbed Shevket and kissed him on both cheeks as 
though this were what was really expected of me。 Then I smiled at my Enishte 
129 
 
as though to apologize for interrupting him and to assure him that I meant no 
disrespect; while carefully drawing the child near to check whether he bore his 
mother’s scent。 By the time I understood that the boy had placed a crumpled 
scrap of paper into my hand; he’d long since turned his back and walked some 
distance toward the door。 
I clutched the scrap of paper in my fist like a jewel。 And when I understood 
that  this  was  a  note  from  Shekure;  out  of  elation  I  could  scarcely  keep  from 
grinning  stupidly  at  my  Enishte。  Wasn’t  this  proof  enough  that  Shekure 
passionately desired me? Suddenly; I imagined us engaged in a mad frenzy of 
lovemaking。  So  profoundly  convinced  was  I  that  this  incredible  event  I’d 
conjured  was  imminent  that  my  manhood  inappropriately  began  to  rise—
there  in  the  presence  of  my  Enishte。  Had  Shekure  witnessed  this?  I  focused 
intently  on  what  my  Enishte  was  explaining  in  order  to  redirect  my 
concentration。 
Much  later;  while  my  Enishte  came  near  to  show  me  another  illustrated 
plate  from  his  book;  I  discreetly  unfolded  the  note;  which  smelled  of 
honeysuckle;  only  to  discover  that  she’d  left  it  pletely  blank。  I  couldn’t 
believe my eyes and senselessly turned the paper over and over; examining it。 
“A  window;”  said  my  Enishte。  “Using  perspectival  techniques  is  like 
regarding the world from a window—what is that you are holding?” 
“It’s nothing; Enishte Effendi;” I said。 When he looked away; I brought the 
crumpled paper to my nose and deeply inhaled its scent。 
After  an  afternoon  meal;  as  I  did  not  want  to  use  my  Enishte’s  chamber 
pot; I excused myself and went to the outhouse in the yard。 It was bitter cold。 I 
had quickly seen to my concern without freezing my buttocks too much when 
I saw that Shevket had slyly and silently appeared before me; blocking my way 
like  a  brigand。  In  his  hands  he  held  his  grandfather’s  full  and  steaming 
chamber  pot。  He  entered  the  outhouse  after  me  and  emptied  the  pot。  He 
exited  and  fixed  his  pretty  eyes  on  mine  as  he  puffed  out  his  plump  cheeks; 
still holding the empty pot。 
“Have  you  ever  seen  a  dead  cat?”  he  asked。  His  nose  was  exactly  like  his 
mother’s。 Was she watching us? I looked around。 The shutters were closed on 
the  enchanted  second…floor  window  in  which  I’d  first  seen  Shekure  after  so 
many years。 
“Nay。” 
“Shall I show you the dead cat in the house of the Hanged Jew?” 
130 
 
He went out to the street without waiting for my response。 I followed him。 
We walked forty or fifty paces along the muddy and icy path before entering 
an unkempt garden。 Here; it smelled of wet and rotting leaves; and faintly of 
mold。  With  the  confidence  of  a  child  who  knew  the  place  well;  taking  firm; 
rhythmic steps; he entered through the door of a yellow house; which stood 
before us almost hidden behind somber fig and almond trees。 
The house was pletely empty; but it was dry and warm; as if somebody 
were living there。 
“Whose house is this?” I asked。 
“The  Jews‘。  When  the  man  died;  his  wife  and  kids  went  to  the  Jewish 
quarter over by the fruit…sellers’ quay。 They’re having Esther the clothier sell 
the house。” He went into a corner of the room and returned。 “The cat’s gone; 
it’s disappeared;” he said。 
“Where would a dead cat go?” 
“My grandfather says the dead wander。” 
“Not the dead themselves;” I said。 “Their spirits wander。” 
“How  do  you  know?”  he  said。  He  was  holding  the  chamber  pot  tightly 
against his lap in all seriousness。 
“I just know。 Do you always e here?” 
“My mother es here with Esther。 The living dead; risen from the grave; 
e  here  at  night;  but  I’m  not  afraid  of  this  place。  Have  you  ever  killed  a 
man?” 
“Yes。” 
“How many?” 
“Not many。 Two。” 
“With a sword?” 
“With a sword。” 
“Do their souls wander?” 
“I don’t know。 According to what’s written in books; they must wander。” 
“Uncle Hasan has a red sword。 It’s so sharp it’ll cut you if you just touch it。 
And he has a dagger with a ruby…studded handle。 Are you the one who k
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