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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第47章

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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 of one…hundred…year…old incense and mold deep into my lungs。 
It made me so blissful to be here; I thought tears would fall from my eyes。 
If I haven’t already said so; I’d like to say that I fear nothing but Allah and 
the  punishment  meted  out  in  this  world  has  no  import  whatsoever  in  my 
opinion。 What I fear are the various torments that murderers like myself will 
have to endure on Judgment Day; as is clearly described in the Glorious Koran; 
in  the  “Criterion”  chapter;  for  example。  In  the  ancient  books;  that  I  quite 
rarely lay hold of; whenever I see this punishment in all its colors and violence; 
recalling the simple; childish; yet terrifying scenes of Hell illustrated on calfskin 
by the old Arab miniaturists; or; for whatever reason; the torments of demons 
depicted  by  Chinese  and  Mongol  master  artists;  I  can’t  keep  myself  from 
drawing  this  analogy  and  heeding  its  logic:  What  does  “The  Night  Journey” 
chapter  state  in  its  thirty…third  verse?  Is  it  not  written  that  one  should  not; 
without justification; take the life of another whose murder God forbids? All 
right then: The miscreant I’ve sent to Hell was not a believer; whose murder 
God had forbidden; and besides; I had excellent justification for shattering his 
skull。 
This man had slandered those of us who’d worked on that book Our Sultan 
had secretly missioned。 If I hadn’t silenced him; he would’ve denounced 
as  unbelievers  Enishte  Effendi;  all  the  miniaturists  and  even  Master  Osman; 
letting the rabid followers of the Hoja of Erzurum have their way with them。 If 
someone  succeeded  in  announcing  that  the  miniaturists  were  mitting 
blasphemy;  these  followers  of  Ezurumi—who  are  looking  for  any  excuse  to 
135 
 
exercise  their  strength—wouldn’t  just  be  satisfied  with  doing  away  with  the 
master  miniaturists;  they’d  destroy  the  entire  workshop  and  Our  Sultan 
would be helpless to do anything but watch without a peep。 
As I did every time I came here; I cleaned up with the broom and some rags 
I kept hidden in a corner。 As I cleaned; I was heartened and felt like a dutiful 
servant of Allah again。 So that He wouldn’t deprive me of this blessed feeling; I 
prayed for a long time。 The cold; which was enough to make a fox shit copper; 
drove into my bones。 I began to feel that sinister ache at the back of my throat。 
I stepped outside。 
Soon afterward; again in the same strange state of mind; I found myself in a 
pletely  different  neighborhood。  I  don’t  know  what  had  happened;  what 
I’d  thought  between  the  deserted  neighborhood  of  the  dervish  house  and 
here。 I didn’t know how I’d arrived on these roads lined with cypress trees。 
However much I walked; a pestering thought wouldn’t leave me be; and it 
ate at me like a worm。 Maybe if I tell you it’ll ease the burden: Call him a “vile 
slanderer” or “poor Elegant Effendi”—either way it’s the same thing—a short 
time  before  the  dearly  departed  gilder  had  left  this  world;  he  was  making 
vehement accusations against our Enishte; but when he saw that I wasn’t that 
affected  by  his  declaration  that  Enishte  Effendi  made  use  of  the  perspectival 
techniques of the infidels; that beast divulged the following: “There’s one final 
picture。 In that picture Enishte desecrates everything we believe in。 What he’s 
doing  is  no  longer  an  insult  to  religion;  it’s  pure  blasphemy。”  Furthermore; 
three  weeks  after  this  accusation  by  that  scoundrel;  Enishte  Effendi  had 
actually asked me to illustrate a number of unrelated things; such as a horse; a 
coin  and  Death;  in  various  random  spots  on  a  page  and  in  shockingly 
inconsistent  scales;  indeed;  it  was  what  one  would  expect  of  a  Frankish 
painting。 Enishte always took the trouble to cover large portions of the ruled 
section  of  the  page  he  wanted  me  to  illustrate  as  well  as  the  places  ill…fated 
Elegant Effendi had guilded; as though he wanted to conceal something from 
me and the other miniaturists。 
I want to ask Enishte what he’s illustrating in this large; final painting; but 
there’s  much  holding  me  back。  If  I  ask  him;  he’ll  of  course  suspect  that  I 
murdered  Elegant  Effendi  and  make  his  suspicions  known  to  all。  But  there’s 
something  else  that  unsettles  me  as  well。  If  I  ask  him;  Enishte  might  declare 
that  Elegant  Effendi  was  in  fact  justified  in  his  beliefs。  Occasionally;  I  tell 
myself I should ask him; pretending as if this suspicion hadn’t passed to me 
from  Elegant  Effendi;  but  had  simply  occurred  to  me。  In  the  end;  it’s  no 
fort either way。 
136 
 
My legs; which have aly head; had taken me of 
their own accord to Enishte Effendi’s street。 I crouched in a secluded spot; and 
for a long time observed the house as best I could in the blackness。 I watched 
for a long time: Nestled among trees was the large and odd…looking two…story 
house of a rich man! I couldn’t tell on which side Shekure’s room was located。 
As is the case in some of the pictures made in Tabriz during the reign of Shah 
Tahmasp; I imagined the house in cross…section—as if it were cut in half with a 
knife—and  I  tried  to  illustrate  in  my  mind’s  eye  where  I  would  find  my 
Shekure; behind which shutter。 
The  door  opened。  I  saw  Black  leaving  the  house  in  the  darkness。  Enishte 
gazed  at  him  with  affection  from  behind  the  courtyard  gate  for  a  moment 
before closing it。 
Even my mind; which had given itself over to idiotic fantasies; quickly; and 
painfully; drew three conclusions based on what I had seen: 
One:  Since  Black  was  cheaper  and  less  dangerous;  Enishte  Effendi  would 
have him plete our book。 
Two: The beautiful Shekure would marry Black。 
Three: What the unfortunate Elegant Effendi had said was true; and so; I’d 
killed him for naught。 
In situations such as this; as soon as our merciless intellects draw the bitter 
conclusion that our hearts refuse; the entire body rebels against the mind。 At 
first;  half  my  mind  violently  opposed  the  third  conclusion;  which  indicated 
that  I  was  nothing  but  the  vilest  of  murderers。  My  legs;  once  again;  acting 
quicker and more rationally than my head; had already put me in pursuit of 
Black Effendi。 
We’d  passed  down  a  few  side  streets  when  I  thought  how  very  easy  it 
would be to murder him; so contentedly and self…assuredly walking before me; 
and how such a crime would save me from having to confront the first two 
vexing  conclusions  established  by  my  mind。  Furthermore;  I  wouldn’t  have 
cracked Elegant Effendi’s skull for no reason at all。 Now; if I run ahead eight or 
ten paces; catch up to Black and land a blow onto his head with all my might; 
everything  will  go  on  as  usual。  Enishte  Effendi  w
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