按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
And he has a dagger with a ruby…studded handle。 Are you the one who killed
my father？”
131
I nodded indicating neither “yes” nor “no。” “How do you know that your
father is dead？”
“My mother said so yesterday。 He won’t be returning。 She saw him in her
dream。”
If presented with the opportunity； we would choose to do in the name of a
greater goal whatever awful thing we’ve already prepared to do for the sake of
our own miserable gains； for the lust that burns within us or for the love that
breaks our hearts； and so； I resolved once more to bee the father of these
forsaken children； and； when I returned to the house； I listened more intently
to Shevket’s grandfather as he described the book whose text and illustrations
I had to plete。
Let me begin with the illustrations that my Enishte had shown me； the
horse for example。 On this page there were no human figures and the area
around the horse was empty； even so； I couldn’t say it was simply and
exclusively the painting of a horse。 Yes； the horse was there； yet it was apparent
that the rider had stepped off to the side； or who knows； perhaps he was on
the verge of emerging from behind the bush drawn in the Kazvin style。 This
was immediately apparent from the saddle upon the horse； which bore the
marks and embellishments of nobility： Maybe； a man with his sword at the
ready was about to appear beside the steed。
It was obvious that Enishte missioned this horse from a master
illustrator whom he’d secretly summoned from the workshop。 Because the
illustrator； arriving at night； could draw a horse—ingrained in his mind like a
stencil—only if it were the extension of a story； that’s exactly how he’d begin：
by rote。 As he was drawing the horse； which he’d seen thousands of times in
scenes of love and war； my Enishte； inspired by the methods of the Veian
masters； had probably instructed the illustrator； for example； he might have
said； “Forget about the rider； draw a tree there。 But draw it in the background；
on a smaller scale。”
The illustrator； who came at night； would sit before his work desk together
with my Enishte； eagerly drawing by candlelight an odd； unconventional
picture that didn’t resemble any of the usual scenes to which he was
accustomed and had memorized。 Of course； my Enishte paid him handsomely
for each drawing； but frankly； this peculiar method of drawing also had its
charms。 However； as with my Enishte； after a while； the illustrator could no
longer determine which story the illustration was intended to enhance and
plete。 What my Enishte expected of me was that I examine these
illustrations made in half…Veian； half…Persian mode and write a story
132
suitable to acpany them on the opposite page。 If I hoped to get Shekure； I
absolutely had to write these stories； but all that came to mind were the
stories the storyteller told at the coffeehouse。
133
I WILL BE CALLED A MURDERER
Ticking away； my windup clock told me it was evening。 The prayers had yet to
be called； but long before； I’d lit the candle resting beside my folding
pleted drawing an opium addict from memory；
having dipped my reed pen into black Hasan Pasha ink and skated it over well…
burnished and beautifully sized paper； when I heard that voice calling me out
to the street as it did every night。 I resisted。 I was so determined not to go； but
to stay at home and work； I even tried nailing my door shut for a time。
This book I was hastily pleting was missioned by an Armenian
who’d e all the way from Galata； knocking on my door this morning
before anyone had risen。 The man； an interpreter and guide； though he
stuttered； hunted me down whenever a Frank or Veian traveler wanted a
“book of costumes” and engaged me in a bout of vicious bargaining。 Having
agreed that morning upon a lesser…quality book of costumes for a price of
twenty silver pieces； I proceeded to illustrate a dozen Istanbulites in a single
sitting around the time of the evening prayer； paying particular attention to
the detail of their outfits。 I drew a Sheikhulislam； a palace porter； a preacher； a
Janissary； a dervish； a cavalryman； a judge； a liver seller； an executioner—
executioners in the act of torture sold quite well—a beggar； a woman bound
for the hamam； and an opium addict。 I’d done so many of these books just to
earn a few extra silver pieces that I began to invent games for myself to fight
off boredom while I drew； for example； I forced myself to draw the judge
without lifting my pen off the page or to draw the beggar with my eyes closed。
All brigands； poets and men of constant sorrow know that when the
evening prayer is called the jinns and demons within them will grow agitated
and rebellious； urging in unision： “Out！ Outside！” This restless inner voice
demands； “Seek the pany of others； seek blackness； misery and disgrace。”
I’ve spent my time appeasing these jinns and demons。 I’ve painted pictures；
which many regard as miracles that have issued from my hands； with the help
of these evil spirits。 But for seven days now after dusk； since I murdered that
disgrace； I’m no longer able to control the jinns and demons within me。 They
rage with such violence that I tell myself they might calm down if I go out for
a while。
After saying so； as always without knowing how； I found myself roaming
through the night。 I walked briskly； advancing through snowy streets； muddy
passages； icy slopes and deserted sidewalks as if I would never stop。 As I
walked； descending into the dark of night； into the most remote and
134
abandoned parts of the city； I’d ever so gradually leave my soul behind； and
walking along the narrow streets； my footsteps echoing off the walls of stone
inns； schools and mosques； my fears would subside。
Of their own accord； my feet brought me to the abandoned streets of this
neighborhood on the outskirts of the city； where I came each night and where
even specters and jinns would shudder to roam。 I heard tell that half the men
in this neighborhood had perished in the wars with Persia and that the rest
had fled； declaring it ill…omened； but I don’t believe such superstition。 The
only tragedy that has befallen this good quarter on account of the Safavid wars
was the closing of the Kalenderi dervish house forty years ago because it was
suspected of harboring the enemy。
I meandered behind the mulberry bushes and the bay…leaf trees； which had
a pleasant aroma even in the coldest weather； and with my usual
fastidiousness； I straightened up the wall boards between the collapsed
chimney and the window with its dilapidated shutters。 I entered and drew the
lingering scent o