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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第92章

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couldn’t bear to conjure the scene of dear Butterfly—whose skill and love for 
illumination brought tears to my eyes—as he was given the bastinado like a 
mon thieving apprentice。 I just stood there dumbfounded and hollow。 
My elderly mind was mute under the spell of its own internal silence。 There 
was  a  time  when  we’d  paint  together  with  a  passion  that  made  us  forget 
everything。 
“These  men  are  the  most  expert  miniaturists  serving  Our  Sultan;”  I  said。 
“Make certain no harm befalls them。” 
Pleased;  the  Head  Treasurer  rose;  grabbed  a  number  of  pages  from  the 
worktable  at  the  other  end  of  the  room  and  arranged  them  in  front  of  me。 
Next; as if the room were dark; he placed beside me two large candle holders 
whose  portly  tapers  burned  with  bobbing  and  twittering  flames  so  I  could 
study the paintings in question。 
How might I explain what I saw as I moved the magnifying lens over them? 
I felt like laughing—and not because they were humorous。 I was incensed—it 
seemed  that  Enishte  Effendi  had  instructed  my  masters  as  follows:  “Don’t 
261 
 
paint like yourselves; paint as if you were someone else。” He’d forced them to 
recall nonexistent memories; to conjure and paint a future; which they’d never 
want to live。 What was even more incredible was that they were killing each 
other over this nonsense。 
“By looking at these illustrations; can you tell me which miniaturist worked 
on which picture?” asked the Head Treasurer。 
“Yes;” I said angrily。 “Where did you find these paintings?” 
“Black brought them of his own accord and left them with me;” said the 
Head  Treasurer。  “He’s  bent  on  proving  that  he  and  his  late  Enishte  are 
innocent。” 
“During the interrogation; torture him;” I said。 “That way we’ll learn what 
other secrets our late Enishte was harboring。” 
“We’ve  sent  for  him;”  said  the  mander  of  the  Imperial  Guard。 
“Afterward; we’ll thoroughly search the house of that newlywed。” 
Both  their  faces  were  strangely  illuminated;  a  flicker  of  fear  and  awe 
overcame them; and they snapped to their feet。 
Without  having  to  turn  around  I  knew  we  were  in  the  presence  of  His 
Excellency; Our Sultan; the Refuge of the World。 
 
 
   
262 
 
I AM ESTHER 
 
Oh;  how  wonderful  it  is  to  cry  along  with  the  rest  of  them!  While  the  men 
were  at  the  funeral  of  my  dear  Shekure’s  father;  the  women;  kith  and  kin; 
spouses  and  friends;  gathered  in  the  house  and  shed  their  tears;  and  I;  too; 
beat my chest in mourning and wept with them。 Now wailing in unison with 
the pretty maiden beside me; leaning on her and swaying back and forth; now 
crying  in  a  pletely  different  frame  of  mind;  I  was  deeply  touched  by  my 
own woes and pitiful life。 If I could cry like this just once a week; I thought; I 
might  forget  how  I  had  to  roam  the  streets  all  day  just  to  make  ends  meet; 
forget being mocked for my weight and my Jewishness and be reborn an even 
more chattermouth Esther。 
I like social gatherings because I can eat to my heart’s content; and; at the 
same  time;  forget  that  I’m  the  black  sheep  of  the  crowd。  I  love  the  baklava; 
mint candy; marzipan bread and fruit leather of holidays; the pilaf with meat 
and  the  tea…cup  pastries  of  circumcision  ceremonies;  drinking  sour…cherry 
sherbet  at  celebrations  held  by  the  Sultan  in  the  Hippodrome;  eating 
everything  at  weddings;  and  tossing  down  the  sesame;  honey  or  variously 
flavored condolence halvas sent by the neighbors at wakes。 
I  quietly  slipped  into  the  hallway;  put  on  my  shoes  and  went  downstairs。 
Before  I  turned  into  the  kitchen;  I  grew  curious  about  an  odd  noise  ing 
through the half…open door of the room next to the stable。 I took a few steps 
in that direction and glanced inside to discover that Shevket and Orhan had 
tied  up  the  son  of  one  of  the  women  mourners  and  were  in  the  midst  of 
painting his face with their late grandfather’s paints and brushes。 “If you try 
to escape; we’ll hit you like this;” Shevket said and slapped the boy。 
“My dear child; play nice and gentle now; don’t hurt each other; all right?” 
I said in a voice as velvety as I could muster。 
“Mind your own affairs!” Shevket shouted。 
I  noticed  the  small;  frightened;  blond…haired  sister  of  the  boy  they  were 
tormenting  standing  beside  them;  and  for  whatever  reason;  I  felt  for  her 
pletely。 Forget about it; now; Esther! 
In the kitchen; Hayriye peered at me suspiciously。 
“I’ve cried myself dry; Hayriye;” I said。 “For God’s sake; pour me a glass of 
water。” 
263 
 
She  did  so;  silently。  Before  I  drank  it;  I  stared  into  her  eyes;  swollen  from 
weeping。 
“Poor  Enishte  Effendi;  they  say  he  was  already  dead  before  Shekure’s 
wedding;” I mented。 “People’s mouths aren’t like bags that can be cinched 
up; some even claim there was foul play involved。” 
In an exaggerated gesture; she looked down at her toes。 Then she lifted her 
head  and  without  looking  at  me  said;  “May  God  protect  us  from  baseless 
slander。” 
Her first gesture confirmed what I’d said; and moreover the cadence of her 
words conveyed that they were spoken under duress—to hide the truth。 
“What’s going on?” I asked abruptly; whispering as if I were her confidant。 
Indecisive  Hayriye  had  of  course  understood  that  there  was  no  hope  of 
claiming any authority over Shekure after Enishte Effendi’s death。 And a short 
while ago; she was the one mourning with the most heartfelt tears。 
“What’s to bee of me; now?” she said。 
“Shekure  holds  you  in  high  regard;”  I  said  in  my  habit  of  giving  news。 
Lifting up the lids of the pots of halva lined up between the large clay jar of 
grape  molasses  and  the  pickle  jar;  sneaking  a  fingerful  from  one  or  simply 
leaning over to smell another; I asked who’d sent each of them。 
Hayriye  was  rattling  off  who’d  sent  which  pot:  “This  one’s  from  Kas?m 
Effendi of Kayseri; this one; the assistant from the miniaturists division who 
lives two streets over; that’s from the locksmith; Left…Handed Hamdi; that one; 
the young bride from Edirne—” when Shekure interrupted her。 
“Kalbiye;  the  late  Elegant  Effendi’s  widow;  didn’t  e  to  offer  her 
condolences; didn’t send word and didn’t send any halva either!” 
She was heading from the kitchen door to the foot of the stairs。 I followed 
her; knowing that she wanted to have a word with me in private。 
“There was no ill…will between Elegant Effendi and my father。 On the day of 
Elegant’s funeral; we prepared our halva and sent it to them。 I want to know 
what’s going on;” Shekure said。 
“I’ll go right away and find out;” I said; anticipating Shekure’s thoughts。 
Since I kept our chat brief; she kissed me on the cheek。 As the cold of the 
courtyard  bit  into  us;  we  embraced  and  stood  there  without  moving。 
Afterward; I stroked m
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