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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第74部分

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perhaps;  but  it  had  to  do  neither  with  my  story  nor  with  the  bloody  battle 
scene  before  him。  He  seemed  to  be  expecting  good  news  in  which  he  could 
gradually take fort。 When I was sure he wasn’t looking at me; I abruptly 
grabbed the plume needle and walked away。 
353 
 
In  a  dark  part  of  the  third  of  the  Treasury  rooms;  the  one  abutting  the 
baths;  there  was  a  corner  cluttered  with  hundreds  of  strange  clocks  sent  as 
presents from Frankish kings and sovereigns; when they stopped working; as 
they usually did within a short time; they were set aside here。 Withdrawing to 
this  room;  I  carefully  scrutinized  the  needle  that  Master  Osman  claimed 
Bihzad had used to blind himself。 
By  the  red  daylight  filtering  inside;  reflecting  off  the  casings;  crystal  faces 
and  diamonds  of  the  dusty  and  broken  clocks;  the  golden  tip  of  the  needle; 
coated  with  a  pinkish  liquid;  occasionally  shimmered。  Had  the  legendary 
Master  Bihzad  actually  blinded  himself  with  this  implement?  Had  Master 
Osman done the same terrible thing to himself? The expression of an impish 
Moroccan;  the  size  of  a  finger  and  colorfully  painted;  attached  to  the 
mechanism of one of the large clocks seemed to say “Yes!” Evidently; when the 
clock  was  working;  this  man  in  the  Ottoman  turban  would  merrily  nod  his 
head as the hour tolled—a small joke on the part of the Hapsburg king who 
sent it; and his skillful clock…maker; for the amusement of Our Sultan and the 
women of His harem。 
I looked through quite a few very mediocre books: As the dwarf confirmed; 
these were among the effects of pashas whose properties and belongings were 
confiscated after they were beheaded。 So many pashas had been executed that 
these  volumes  were  without  number。  With  a  pitiless  joy;  the  dwarf  declared 
that any pasha so intoxicated by his own wealth and power as to forget he was 
a subject of the Sultan and to have a book made in his own honor; illuminated 
with gold leaf as if he were a monarch or a shah; well deserved to be executed 
and have his possessions expropriated。 Even in these volumes; some of which 
were  albums;  illuminated  manuscripts  or  illustrated  collections  of  poetry; 
whenever I came across a version of Shirin falling in love with Hüsrev’s picture; 
I stopped and stared。 
The  picture  within  a  picture;  that  is;  the  picture  of  Hüsrev  which  Shirin 
encountered during her countryside outing; was never rendered in detail; not 
because  miniaturists  couldn’t  adequately  depict  something  so  small—many 
had the dexterity and finesse to paint upon fingernails; grains of rice or even 
strands of hair。 Why then hadn’t they drawn the face and features of Hüsrev—
the object of Shirin’s love—in enough detail so that he might be recognized? 
Sometime in the afternoon; perhaps to forget my hopelessness; and thinking; 
as I leafed through a disorderly album I’d chanced upon; that I’d broach such 
questions to Master Osman; I was struck by the image of a horse in a picture 
of a bridal procession painted on cloth。 My heart skipped a beat。 
354 
 
There  before  me  was  a  horse  with  peculiar  nostrils  carrying  a  coquettish 
bride。  The  beast  was  looking  at  me  out  of  the  picture。  It  was  as  though  the 
magical horse were on the verge of whispering a secret to me。 As if in a dream; 
I wanted to shout; but my voice was silent。 
In one continuous movement; I collected up the volume and ran among the 
objects and chests to Master Osman; laying the page open before him。 
He looked down at the picture。 
When no spark of recognition appeared on his face; I grew impatient。 “The 
nostrils  of  the  horse  are  exactly  like  those  made  for  my  Enishte’s  book;”  I 
exclaimed。 
He  lowered  his  magnifying  lens  over  the  horse。  He  bent  down  so  far; 
bringing his eye to the lens and picture; that his nose nearly touched the page。 
I couldn’t stand the silence。 “As you can see; this isn’t a horse made in the 
style and method of the horse drawn for my Enishte’s book;” I said; “but the 
nose is the same。 The artist attempted to see the world the way the Chinese 
do。” I fell quiet。 “It’s a wedding procession。 It resembles a Chinese picture; but 
the figures aren’t Chinese; they’re our people。” 
The master’s lens seemed to be flat against the page; and his nose was flat 
against the lens。 In order to see; he made use of not only his eyes; but his head; 
the  muscles  of  his  neck;  his  aged  back  and  his  shoulders  with  all  his  might。 
Silence。 
“The nostrils of the horse are cut open;” he said later; breathless。 
I leaned my head against his。 Cheek to cheek we stared at the nostrils for a 
long long time。 I sadly realized that not only were the horse’s nostrils cut; but 
Master Osman was having difficulty seeing them。 
“You do see it; don’t you?” 
“Only very little;” he said。 “Describe the picture。” 
“If  you  ask  me;  this  is  a  melancholy  bride;”  I  said  mournfully。  “She’s 
mounted  on  a  gray  horse  with  its  nostrils  cut  open;  she’s  on  her  way  to  be 
wed; with her panions and an escort of guards who are strangers to her。 
The  faces  of  the  guards;  their  harsh  expressions;  intimidating  black  beards; 
furrowed eyebrows; long thick mustaches; heavy frames; robes of simple thin 
cloth;  thin  shoes;  headdresses  of  bear  fur;  their  battle…axes  and  scimitars 
indicate that they belong to the Whitesheep Turkmen of Transoxiana。 Perhaps 
the  pretty  bride—who  appears  to  be  on  a  long  journey  to  judge  by  the  fact 
355 
 
she’s  traveling  with  her  bridesmaid  at  night  by  the  light  of  oil  lamps  and 
torches—is a melancholy Chinese princess。” 
“Or  perhaps  we  only  think  the  bride  is  Chinese  now;  because  the 
miniaturist;  to  emphasize  her  flawless  beauty;  whitened  her  face  as  the 
Chinese do and painted her with slanted eyes;” said Master Osman。 
“Whoever  she  might  be;  my  heart  aches  for  this  sad  beauty;  traveling  the 
steppe in the middle of the night acpanied by grim…faced foreign guards; 
heading  to  a  strange  land  and  a  husband  she’s  never  seen;”  I  said。  Then  I 
immediately added; “How shall we determine who our miniaturist is from the 
clipped nostrils of the horse she rides?” 
“Turn  the  pages  of  the  album  and  tell  me  what  you  see;”  said  Master 
Osman。 
Just  then;  we  were  joined  by  the  dwarf  whom  I’d  seen  sitting  on  the 
chamber  pot  as  I  was  running  to  bring  the  volume  to  Master  Osman;  the 
three of us looked at the pages together。 
We  saw  strikingly  beautiful  Chinese  maidens  depicted  in  the  style  of  our 
melancholy bride gathered together in a garden playing a peculiar…looking lute。 
We  saw  Chinese  houses;  morose…looking  caravans  heading  out  on  long 
journeys; vistas of the steppes as beautiful as old memories。 We saw gnarled 
trees  rendered  in  the  Chinese  style;  their  spring  blossoms  in  full  bloom;  and 
nightingales tipsy with elation perched on their branches。 We saw princes in 
the Khorasan style seated in their tents holding forth on poetry; wine and love; 
spectacular gardens; and handsome nobles; with magnificent falcons clutching 
their forearms; hunting bolt upright astride their exquisite horses。 Then; it was 
as if the Devil had passed into the pages; we could sense that the evil in the 
illustrations was most often reason itself。 Had the miniaturist added an ironic 
touch to the actions of the heroic prince who slew the dragon with his gigantic 
lance?  Had  he  gloated  at  the  poverty  of  the  unfortunate  peasants  expecting 
fort from the sheikh in their midst? Was it more pleasurable for him to 
draw the sad; empty eyes of dogs locked in coitus or to apply a devilish red to 
the open mouths of the women laughing scornfully at the poor beasts? Then 
we  saw  the  miniaturist’s  devils  themselves:  These  weird  creatures  resembled 
the  jinns  and  giants  the  old  masters  of  Herat  and  the  artists  of  the  Book  of 
Kings  drew  frequently;  yet  the  sardonic  talent  of  the  miniaturist  made  them 
more  sinister;  aggressive  and  human  in  form。  We  laughed  watching  these 
terrifying devils; the size of a man yet with misshapen bodies; branching horns 
and  feline  tails。  As  I  turned  the  pages;  these  naked  devils  with  bushy  brows; 
round  faces;  bulging  eyes;  pointed  teeth;  sharp  nails  and  the  dark  wrinkled 
356 
 
skin of old men began to beat each other and wrestle; to steal a great horse 
and sacrifice it to their gods; to leap and play; to cut down trees; to spirit away 
beautiful  princesses  in  their  palanquins  and  to  capture  dragons  and  sack 
treasuries。 I mentioned that in this volume; which had seen the touch of many 
different brushes; the miniaturist known as Black Pen; who’d made the devils; 
also  drew  Kalenderi  dervishes  with  shaved  heads;  ragged  clothes;  iron  chains 
and  staffs;  and  Master  Osman  had  me  one  by  one  repeat  their  similarities; 
listening closely to what I said。 
“Cutting open the nostrils of horses so they might breathe easier and travel 
farther  is  a  centuries…old  Mongol  custom;”  he  said  later。  “Hulagu  Khan’s 
armies conquered all of Arabia; Persia and China with their horses。 When they 
entered Baghdad; put its inhabitants to the sword; plundered it and tossed all 
its  books  into  the  Tigris;  as  we  know;  the  famous  calligrapher;  and  later; 
illuminator  Ibn  Shakir  fled  the  city  and  the  slaughter;  heading  north  on  the 
road by which the Mongol horsemen had e; instead of south along with 
everyone  else。  At  that  time;  no  one  made  illustrations  because  the  Koran 
forbade  them;  and  painters  weren’t  taken  seriously。  We  owe  the  greatest 
secrets of our noble occupation to Ibn Shakir; the patron saint and master of 
all  miniaturists:  the  vision  of  the  world  from  a  minaret;  the  persistence  of  a 
horizon line visible or invisible; and the depiction of all things from clouds to 
insects  the  way  the  Chinese  envisaged  them;  in  curling;  lively  and  optimistic 
colors。 I’ve heard that he studied the nostrils of horses in order to keep himself 
moving  northward  during  that  legendary  journey  into  the  heartland  of  the 
Mongol hordes。 However; as far as I’ve seen and heard; none of the horses he 
drew in Samarkand; which he reached after a year’s travel on foot undaunted 
by  snow  and  severe  weather;  had  clipped  nostrils。  For  him;  perfect  dream 
horses were not the sturdy; powerful; victorious horses of the Mongols that he 
came to know in his adulthood; they were the elegant Arab horses that he’d 
sorrowfully left behind in his happy youth。 This is why for me the strange nose 
of the horse made for Enishte’s book brought to mind neither Mongol horses 
nor this custom the Mongols spread to Khorasan and Samarkand。” 
As he spoke; Master Osman looked now at the book and now at us; as if he 
could see only those things he conjured in his mind’s eye。 
“Besides horses with clipped noses and Chinese painting; the devils in this 
book are another thing brought with the Mongol hordes to Persia and thence 
all  the  way  here  to  Istanbul。  You’ve  probably  heard  how  these  demons  are 
ambassadors of evil dispatched by dark forces from deep beneath the ground 
to snatch away human lives and whatever we deem valuable and how they’re 
357 
 
bent  on  carrying  us  off  to  their  underworld  of  blackness  and  death。  In  this 
underground realm everything; whether cloud; tree; object; dog or book; has a 
soul and speaks。” 
“Quite  so;”  said  the  elderly  dwarf。  “As  Allah  is  my  witness;  some  nights 
when I’m locked in here; not only the spirits of the clocks; the Chinese plates 
and the crystal bowls that chime constantly anyway; but the spirits of all the 
rifles; swords; shields and bloody helmets grow restless and begin 
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