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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第60章

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held back from openly confessing my misgivings; at that moment; I decided to 
explain myself through a story。 
Perhaps you’ve also heard of the artist Sheikh Muhammad of Isfahan? There 
was  no  painter  who  could  surpass  him  in  choice  of  color;  in  his  sense  of 
symmetry; in depicting human figures; animals and faces; in painting with an 
effusiveness  bespeaking  poetry;  and  in  the  application  of  an  arcane  logic 
reserved for geometry。 After achieving the status of master painter at a young 
age; this virtuoso with a divine touch spent a full thirty years in pursuit of the 
most fearless innovation of subject matter; position and style。 Working in 
the Chinese black…ink style—brought to us by the Mongols—with skill and an 
elegant  sense  of  symmetry;  he  was  the  one  who  introduced  the  terrifying 
demons;  horned  jinns;  horses  with  large  testicles;  half…human  monsters  and 
giants  into  the  devilishly  subtle  and  sensitive  Herat  style  of  painting;  he  was 
the first to take an interest in and be influenced by the portraiture that had 
e by Western ships from Portugal and Flanders; he reintroduced forgotten 
techniques dating back to the time of Genghis Khan and hidden in decaying 
old  volumes;  before  anybody  else;  he  dared  to  paint  cock…raising  scenes  like 
Alexander’s peeping at naked beauties swimming on the island of women and 
Shirin bathing by moonlight; he depicted Our Glorious Prophet ascending on 
the  back  of  his  winged  steed  Burak;  shahs  scratching  themselves;  dogs 
copulating  and  sheikhs  drunk  with  wine  and  made  them  acceptable  to  the 
entire  munity  of  book  lovers。  He’d  done  it;  at  times  secretly;  at  times 
openly;   drinking   large   quantities   of   wine   and   taking   opium;   with   an 
enthusiasm  that  lasted  for  thirty  years。  Later;  in  his  old  age;  he  became  the 
disciple  of  a  pious  sheikh;  and  within  a  short  time;  changed  pletely。 
ing  to  the  conclusion  that  every  painting  he’d  made  over  the  previous 
thirty years was profane and ungodly; he rejected them all。 What’s more; he 
devoted the remaining thirty years of his life to going from palace to palace; 
from city to city; searching through the libraries and the treasuries of sultans 
and kings; in order to find and destroy the manuscripts he’d illuminated。 In 
whichever  shah’s;  prince’s  or  nobleman’s  library  he  found  a  painting  he’d 
made in previous years; he’d stop at nothing to destroy it; gaining access by 
173 
 
flattery  or  by  ruse;  and  precisely  when  no  one  was  paying  attention;  he’d 
either  tear  out  the  page  on  which  his  illustration  appeared;  or;  seizing  an 
opportunity; he’d spill water on the piece; ruining it。 I recounted this tale as 
an  example  of  how  a  miniaturist  could  suffer  great  agony  for  unwittingly 
forsaking his faith under the spell of his art。 This was why I mentioned how 
Sheikh Muhammad had burned down Prince Ismail Mirza’s immense library 
containing hundreds of books that the sheikh himself had illustrated; so many 
books that he couldn’t cull his own from the others。 With great exaggeration; 
as if I’d experienced it myself; I told how the painter; in profound sorrow and 
regret; had burned to death in that terrible conflagration。 
“Are  you  afraid;  my  child?”  said  Enishte  Effendi  passionately;  “of  the 
paintings we’ve made?” 
The room was black now; I couldn’t see for myself; but I sensed that he’d 
said this with a smile。 
“Our book is no longer a secret;” I answered。 “Perhaps this isn’t important。 
But   rumors   are   spreading。   They   say   we’ve   underhandedly   mitted 
blasphemy。  They  say  that;  here;  we’ve  made  a  book—not  as  Our  Sultan  had 
missioned and hoped for—but one meant to entertain our own whims; 
one  that  ridicules  even  Our  Prophet  and  mimics  infidel  masters。  There  are 
those who believe it even depicts Satan as amiable。 They say we’ve mitted 
an unforgivable sin by daring to draw; from the perspective of a mangy street 
dog; a horsefly and a mosque as if they were the same size—with the excuse 
that  the  mosque  was  in  the  background—thereby  mocking  the  faithful  who 
attend prayers。 I cannot sleep for thinking about such things。” 
“We made the illustrations together;” said Enishte Effendi。 “Could we have 
even considered such ideas; let alone mitted such an offense?” 
“Not at all;” I said expansively。 “But they’ve heard about it somehow。 They 
say there’s one final painting in which; according to the gossip; there’s open 
defiance of our religion and what we hold sacred。” 
“You yourself have seen the final painting。” 
“Nay;  I  made  pictures  of  whatever  you  requested  in  various  places  on  a 
large sheet; which was to be a double…leaf illustration;” I said with a caution 
and precision that I hoped would please Enishte Effendi。 “But I never saw the 
pleted  illustration。  If  I  had  seen  the  entire  painting;  I’d  have  a  clear 
conscience about denying all this foul slander。” 
174 
 
“Why is it that you feel guilty?” he asked。 “What’s gnawing at your soul? 
Who has caused you to doubt yourself?” 
“…to  worry  that  one  has  attacked  what  he  knows  to  be  sacred;  after 
spending months merrily illustrating a book…to suffer the torments of Hell 
while living…if I could only see that last painting in its entirety。” 
“Is this what troubles you?” he said。 “Is this why you’ve e?” 
Suddenly panic seized me。 Could he be thinking something horrendous; like 
I was the one who’d killed the ill…fated Elegant Effendi? 
“Those who want Our Sultan dethroned and replaced by the prince;” I said; 
“are  furthering  this  insidious  gossip;  saying  that  He  secretly  supports  the 
book。” 
“How  many  really  believe  that?”  he  asked  wearily。  “Every  cleric  with  any 
ambition who’s met with some favor and whose head has swollen as a result 
will  preach  that  religion  is  being  ignored  and  disrespected。  This  is  the  most 
reliable way to ensure one’s living。” 
Did he suppose I’d e solely to inform him of a rumor? 
“Poor  old  Elegant  Effendi;  God  rest  his  soul;”  I  said;  my  voice  quavering。 
“Supposedly; we killed him because he saw the whole of the last painting and 
was  convinced  that  it  reviled  our  faith。  A  division  head  I  know  at  the  palace 
workshop  told  me  this。  You  know  how  junior  and  senior  apprentices  are; 
everyone gossips。” 
Maintaining this line of reasoning and growing increasingly impassioned; I 
e。 I didn’t know how much of what I said I myself 
had  indeed  heard;  how  much  I  fabricated  out  of  fear  after  doing  away  with 
that wicked slanderer; or how much I improvised。 Having devoted much of the 
conversation  to  flattery;  I  was  anticipating  that  Enishte  Effendi  would  show 
me  the  two…page  illustration  and  put  me  at  ease。  Why  didn’t  he  realize  this 
was the only way I might overe my fears about being mired in sin? 
Intending 
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