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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第90章

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Festivities; which described the circumcision ceremonies of our prince; wherein 
was  depicted  the  Egyptian  Governor…General’s  presentation  of  the  following 
gifts: a gold…chased sword decorated with rubies; emeralds; and turquoise on a 
swatch of red velvet and one of the Governor…General’s proud; lightning fast 
and  spirited  Arabian  horses  with  a  white  blaze  on  its  nose  and  a  silvery; 
gleaming coat; fully appointed with a gold bit and reins; stirrups of pearl and 
greenish…yellow  chrysoberyl;  and  a  red  velvet  saddle  embellished  with  silver 
thread  and  ruby  rosettes。  With  a  flick  of  my  brush;  here  and  there;  I  was 
touching  up  the  illustration;  whose  position  I  had  arranged  while 
delegating the rendering of the horse; the sword; the prince and the spectator…
ambassadors to various apprentices。 I applied purple to some of the leaves of 
the plane tree in the Hippodrome。 I dabbed yellow upon the caftan…buttons of 
the Tatar Khan’s ambassador。 As I was brushing a sparse amount of gold wash 
onto the horse’s reins; somebody knocked at the door。 I quit what I was doing。 
It was an imperial pageboy。 The Head Treasurer had summoned me to the 
palace。  My  eyes  ached  ever  so  mildly。  I  placed  my  magnifying  lens  in  my 
pocket; and left with the boy。 
256 
 
Oh; how nice it is to walk through the streets after having worked without 
a break for so long! At such times; the whole world strikes one as original and 
stunning; as if Allah had created it all the day before。 
I noticed a dog; more meaningful than all the pictures of dogs I’d ever seen。 
I saw a horse; a lesser creation than what my master miniaturists might make。 
I  spied  a  plane  tree  in  the  Hippodrome;  the  same  tree  whose  leaves  I’d  just 
now accented with tones of purple。 
Strolling  through  the  Hippodrome;  whose  parades  I’d  illustrated  over  the 
last two years; was like stepping into my own painting。 Let’s say we were to 
turn down a street: In a Frankish painting; this would result in our stepping 
outside  both  the  frame  and  the  painting;  in  a  painting  made  following  the 
example of the great masters of Herat; it’d bring us to the place from which 
Allah looks upon us; in a Chinese painting; we’d be trapped; because Chinese 
illustrations are infinite。 
The pageboy; I discovered; wasn’t taking me to the Divan Chamber where I 
often  met  with  the  Head  Treasurer  to  discuss  one  of  the  following:  the 
manuscripts and ornamented ostrich eggs or other gifts my miniaturists were 
preparing for Our Sultan; the health of the illustrators or the Head Treasurer’s 
own  constitution  and  peace  of  mind;  the  acquisition  of  paint;  gold  leaf  or 
other  materials;  the  usual  plaints  and  requests;  the  desires;  delights; 
demands and disposition of the Refuge of the World; Our Sultan; my eyesight; 
my looking glasses or my lumbago; or the Head Treasurer’s good…for…nothing 
son…in…law  or  the  health  of  his  tabby  cat。  Silently;  we  entered  the  Sultan’s 
Private Garden。 As if mitting a crime; but with great delicacy; we serenely 
descended  toward  the  sea  through  the  trees。  “We’re  nearing  the  Sea…Side 
Kiosk;”  I  thought;  “this  means  I  will  see  the  Sultan。  His  Excellency  must  be 
here。” But we turned off the path。 We walked ahead a few steps through the 
arched  doorway  of  a  stone  building  behind  the  rowboat  and  ca?que  sheds。  I 
could smell the scent of baking bread wafting from the guard’s bakery before 
catching sight of the Imperial Guard themselves in their red uniforms。 
The  Head  Treasurer  and  the  mander  of  the  Imperial  Guard  were 
together in one room: Angel and Devil! 
The mander; who performed executions in the name of Our Sultan on 
the   palace   grounds—who   tortured;   interrogated;   beat;   blinded   and 
administered the bastinado—smiled sweetly at me。 It was as if some piddling 
lodger;  with  whom  I  was  forced  to  share  a  caravansary  cell;  were  going  to 
recount a heart…warming story。 
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The Head Treasurer diffidently said; “Our Sultan; one year prior; charged me 
with  having  an  illuminated  manuscript  prepared  under  conditions  of  the 
utmost privacy; a manuscript that would be included among the gifts meant 
for  an  ambassadorial  delegation。  In  light  of  the  secrecy  of  the  book;  His 
Excellency  did  not  deem  it  appropriate  that  Master  Lokman  the  Royal 
Historian be enlisted to write the manuscript。 Similarly; He did not venture to 
involve  you;  ires。  Indeed;  He  supposed  that  you 
were already fully engaged with the Book of Festivities。” 
Upon  entering  this  room  I  had  abruptly  assumed  that  some  wretch  had 
slandered  me;  claiming  that  I  was  mitting  heresy  in  such…and…such  an 
illustration and that I’d lampooned the Sovereign in another; I imagined with 
horror that this tattler had been able to convince the Sovereign of my guilt and 
that I was about to be laid out for torture with no consideration for my age。 
And so to hear that the Head Treasurer was simply trying to make amends for 
Our  Sultan’s  having  missioned  a  manuscript  from  an  outsider—these 
words  were  sweeter  than  honey  indeed。  Without  learning  anything  new;  I 
listened  to  an  account  of  the  manuscript;  about  which  I  was  already  well 
aware。 I was privy to the rumors about Nusret Hoja of Erzurum; and naturally; 
to the intrigues within the workshop。 
“Who is responsible for preparing the manuscript?” I asked。 
“Enishte Effendi; as you know;” said the Head Treasurer。 Fixing his gaze into 
my eyes; he added; “You were aware that he died an untimely death; that is to 
say; that he was murdered; weren’t you?” 
“Nay;” I said simply; like a child; and fell quiet。 
“Our Sultan is quite furious;” the Head Treasurer said。 
That Enishte Effendi was a dunce。 The master miniaturists always mocked 
him  for  being  more  pretentious  than  knowledgeable;  more  ambitious  than 
intelligent。 I knew something was rotten at the funeral anyway。 How was he 
killed; I wondered? 
The Head Treasurer explained exactly how。 Appalling。 Dear God protect us。 
Yet who could be responsible? 
“The  Sultan  has  decreed;”  said  the  Head  Treasurer;  “that  the  book  in 
question should be finished as soon as possible; as with the Book of Festivities 
manuscript…” 
“He has also made a second decree;” said the mander of the Imperial 
Guard。  “If;  indeed;  this  unspeakable  murderer  is  one  of  the  miniaturists;  He 
258 
 
wants  the  black…hearted  devil  found。  He  intends  to  sentence  him  to  a 
punishment such as will stand as a deterrent to one and all。” 
An expression of such excitement appeared on the face of the mander 
as  if  to  suggest  he  already  knew  the  monstrous  punishment  Our  Sultan  had 
decreed。 
I knew that Our Sultan had only recently charged these two men with this 
task; thereby forcing them to cooperate—on which account they couldn’t hide 
their distaste even now。 Seeing this inspired in
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