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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第85章

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permission to cry。 
“Don’t be afraid;” I said。 “Your mother is crying so the neighbors will know 
of your grandfather’s death and pay their respects。” 
“What difference does it make if they e?” Shevket asked。 
“If they e; they’ll be sad and mourn with us over his death。 That way 
we can share the burden of our pain。” 
“Did you kill my grandfather?” shouted Shevket。 
“If  you’re  going  to  upset  your  mother;  don’t  expect  any  affection  from 
me!” I shouted back。 
We didn’t shout at each other like stepfather and stepson; but like two men 
talking  by  the  banks  of  a  loud  rushing  river。  Shekure  stepped  out  into  the 
hallway and was forcing the wooden slats of the window trying to throw open 
the   shutters   so   her   shouts   could   be   better   heard   throughout   the 
neighborhood。 
I left the room to join her。 We both tried to force the window。 With a final 
bined effort; the shutters came loose and fell into the courtyard。 Sunlight 
and  cold  struck  our  faces  and  we  were  stunned  momentarily。  Shekure 
screamed; crying her heart out。 
Enishte Effendi’s death; once announced by her cries; turned into a much 
more tragic and agonizing pain。 Whether sincere or feigned; my wife’s crying 
tormented  me。  Unexpectedly;  I  began  to  weep。  I  didn’t  even  know  if  I  was 
crying  sincerely  out  of  grief  or  was  merely  pretending  for  fear  of  being  held 
responsible for my Enishte’s death。 
242 
 
“He’s gone; gone; gone; my dear father’s gone!” cried Shekure。 
My sobs and laments mimicked hers; though I didn’t exactly know what I 
was saying。 I was worried about how I looked to the neighbors staring at us 
from their houses; from behind cracked doors and between shutter slats; and 
wondered  how  fitting  my  behavior  was。  As  I  cried;  I  felt  purged  of  doubts 
about whether my agony was genuine; of apprehensions about being accused 
of murder and of the fear of Hasan and his men。 
Shekure was mine and it was as if I were celebrating with shouts and tears。 I 
drew my sobbing wife close to me; and without paying any heed to the tearful 
children approaching us; I lovingly kissed her cheek and inhaled the scent of 
the almond trees of our youth。 
Together  with  the  children;  we  walked back  to  where  the  body  lay。  I  said; 
“La ilahe illallah; there is no God but Allah” as though addressing not a reeking 
two…day…old corpse but a dying man whom I wanted to reaffirm the words of 
witness; I wanted my Enishte to go to Heaven with these words on his lips。 We 
pretended that he’d repeated them; and smiled for a moment as we gazed at 
his nearly destroyed face and battered head。 I opened my palms to Heaven and 
recited  from  the  “Ya  Sin”  chapter  while  the  others  listened  quietly。  With  a 
clean piece of gauze that Shekure brought into the room; we carefully bound 
my  Enishte’s  mouth  shut;  tenderly  closed  his  ravaged  eyes  and  gently  rolled 
him  over  onto  his  right  side;  arranging  his  head  so  it  faced  Mecca。  Shekure 
spread a clean white sheet over her father。 
I was pleased that the children were watching everything so intensely and 
by the quiet that followed the wailing。 I felt like somebody with a real wife and 
children; with a hearth and home。 
One  by  one;  I  collected  the  pictures  into  a  portfolio;  donned  my  heavy 
caftan  and  hastily  fled  the  house。  I  headed  directly  for  the  neighborhood 
mosque; pretending not to see one of the neighbors—an elderly woman with 
a snot…nosed grandchild who was clearly jubilant about all the sudden activity: 
They’d heard our cries and had eagerly e to enjoy our pain。 
The  tiny  hole  in  the  wall  that  the  preacher  called  his  “house”  was 
embarrassingly  small  next  to  the  ostentatious  structure  with  its  enormous 
domes  and  expansive  courtyard;  typical  of  the  mosques  that  were  being 
constructed  lately。  The  preacher;  in  what  I’d  observed  as  a  custom  of 
increasing frequency; was extending the boundaries of his cold; little rat hole 
of a “home;” and had usurped the entire mosque; without the least concern 
over the faded and dingy wash his wife had hung between two chestnut trees 
243 
 
at the edge of the courtyard。 We avoided the attacks of two brutish dogs that 
had claimed the courtyard; just like the Imam Effendi and his family; and after 
the preacher’s sons chased the beasts away with sticks and excused themselves; 
the preacher and I retired to a private corner。 
After yesterday’s divorce proceedings; and in light of the fact that we hadn’t 
asked him to perform the wedding ceremony; which I was certain had upset 
him; I could read a “For goodness sake; what brings you here now?” upon his 
face。 
“Enishte Effendi passed away this morning。” 
“May God have mercy upon him。 May he find a home in Heaven!” he said 
benevolently。  Why  had  I  senselessly  implicated  myself  by  tacking  the  words 
“this  morning”  onto  my  statement?  I  dropped  another  gold  piece  into  his 
hand; identical to the ones I’d given him yesterday。 I requested that he recite 
the death prayer before the azan and appoint his brother as crier to go around 
announcing the death to the entire neighborhood。 
“My brother has a dear friend who is half blind; together; we are expert at 
carrying out the final ablutions of the deceased;” he said。 
What could be more suitable than having a blind man and a half…wit wash 
Enishte Effendi’s body? I explained to him that the ritual funeral prayer would 
be performed in the afternoon and that notables and crowds from the palace; 
the  guilds  and  theological  schools  would  be  attending。  I  didn’t  attempt  to 
explain  the  state  of  Enishte  Effendi’s  face  and  battered  head;  having  long 
decided that the matter needed to be addressed at a higher level。 
Since Our Sultan had entrusted the balance of the funds for the book that 
He’d  missioned  from  my  Enishte  to  the  Head  Treasurer;  I  had  to  report 
the death to him before anyone else。 To this end; I sought out an upholsterer; a 
relative  on  my  late  father’s  side;  who’d  worked  in  the  tailors’  work  stalls 
opposite  Coldfountain  Gate  ever  since  I  was  a  child。  When  I  found  him;  I 
kissed  his  mottled  hand  and  explained  imploringly  that  I  needed  to  see  the 
Head  Treasurer。  He  had  me  wait  among  his  balding  apprentices  who  were 
sewing  curtains;  doubled  over  the  multicolored  silk  spread  over  their  laps; 
then; he had me follow a head tailor’s assistant who; I learned; was going to 
the palace to take measurements。 When we climbed up to the Parade Square 
through Coldfountain Gate I knew I’d be able to avoid passing the workshop 
opposite the Hagia Sophia; and thus; I was spared from announcing the crime 
to the other miniaturists。 
244 
 
The Parade Square seemed abustle now; whereas it usually seemed empty to 
me。 Though there wasn’t a single person at the Petitioner’s Gate; before which 
petitioners  would  line  up  on  days  when  the  Divan  co
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