《my name is red-我的名字叫红》我的名字叫红-第171章

from everybody； more stolen gold leaf hidden between the pages； indecent　
pictures—some　of　which　I’d　drawn　myself　and　some　I’d　collected—a　keepsake　
agate　ring　from　my　dear　mother　along　with　a　lock　of　her　white　hair；　and　my　
best　pens　and　brushes。　
“If　I　were　truly　a　murderer　as　you　suspect；”　I　said　with　stupid　pride；　“the　
final　picture　would’ve　emerged　from　my　secret　treasury；　not　these　things。”　
“Why　these　things？”　asked　Stork。　
“When the Imperial Guard searched my house； as they did yours； they　
shamelessly pilfered two of these gold pieces that I’ve spent my entire life　
collecting。 I thought about how we’d be searched again on account of this　
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wretched murderer—and I was right。 If that last picture were with me； it　
would　be　here。”　
It　was　a　mistake　to　utter　this　last　sentence；　nevertheless；　I　could　sense　that　
they were put at ease and no longer afraid that I’d strangle them in a dark　
corner　of　the　lodge。　Have　I　gained　your　trust　as　well？　
At this time； however； I was overwhelmed by a severe restlessness； no； it　
wasn’t that my illuminator friends； whom I’d known since childhood； saw　
how I’d been greedily squirreling money away for years； how I bought and　
saved gold； or even that they learned about my sketchbooks and obscene　
pictures。 In truth； I regretted having shown them all of these things in a　
moment　of　panic。　Only　the　mysteries　of　a　man　lessly　could　
be　exposed　so　easily。　
“Noheless；”　said　Black　much　later；　“we　must　e　to　a　consensus　about　
what we will say under torture if Master Osman happens to turn us over　
without　any　forewarning。”　
A hollowness and depression descended upon us。 In the pale light of the　
lamp；　Stork　and　Butterfly　were　staring　at　the　vulgar　pictures　in　my　sketchbook。　
They　displayed　an　air　of　plete　indifference；　in　fact；　they　were　even　happy　in　
some　horrid　way。　I　had　a　strong　urge　to　look　at　the　picture—I　could　very　well　
surmise which one it was； I rose and circled around behind them； gazing　
silently　at　the　obscene　picture　I’d　painted；　thrilled　as　though　I　were　recalling　a　
now distant yet blissful memory。 Black joined us。 For whatever reason； that　
the　four　of　us　were　looking　at　that　illustration　relieved　me。　
“Could　the　blind　and　the　seeing　ever　be　equal？”　said　Stork　much　later。　Was　
he　implying　that　even　though　what　we　saw　was　obscene；　the　pleasure　of　sight　
that　Allah　had　bestowed　upon　us　was　glorious？　Nay；　what　would　Stork　know　
of　such　matters？　He　never　read　the　Koran。　I　knew　that　the　old　masters　of　Herat　
would frequently recite this verse。 The great masters used this verse as a　
response to enemies of painting who warned that illustrating was forbidden　
by　our　faith　and　that　painters　would　be　sent　to　Hell　on　Judgment　Day。　Until　
that　magical　moment；　however；　I’d　never　even　once　heard　from　Butterfly　those　
words　that　now　emerged　from　his　mouth　as　if　on　their　own：　
“I’d　like　to　depict　how　the　blind　and　the　seeing　are　not　equal！”　
“Who　are　the　blind　and　the　seeing？”　Black　said　naively。　
“The　blind　and　the　seeing　are　not　equal；　it’s　what　‘ve　ma　yestevil’ama　ve’l　
basiru’nun　means；”　Butterfly　said　and　continued：　
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“…nor　are　the　darkness　and　the　light。　
The　shade　and　the　heat　are　not　equal；　
nor　are　the　living　and　the　dead。“　
I　shuddered　for　an　instant；　thinking　of　the　fates　of　Elegant　Effendi；　Enishte　
and our storyteller brother who was killed tonight。 Were the others as　
frightened as I？ Nobody moved for a time。 Stork was still holding my book　
open；　but　seemed　not　to　see　the　vulgarity　I’d　painted　though　we　were　all　still　
staring　at　it！　
“I’d want to paint Judgment Day；” said Stork。 “The resurrection of the　
dead； and the separation of the guilty from the innocent。 Why is it that we　
cannot　depict　the　Sacred　Word　of　our　faith？”　
In our youth； working together in the same room of our workshop； we　
would　periodically　lift　our　faces　from　our　work　boards　and　tables；　just　as　the　
aging　masters　would　do　to　rest　their　eyes；　and　begin　talking　about　any　topic　
that happened to enter our minds。 Back then； just as we now did while　
looking at the book open before us； we didn’t look at one another as we　
chatted。 For our eyes would be turned toward some distant spot outside an　
open window。 I’m not sure if it was the excitement of recalling something　
remarkably beautiful from my halcyon apprenticeship days； or the sincere　
regret　I　felt　at　that　moment　because　I　hadn’t　read　the　Koran　for　so　long；　or　the　
horror　of　the　crime　I’d　seen　at　the　coffeehouse　that　night；　but　when　my　turn　
came　to　speak；　I　grew　confused；　my　heart　quickened　as　if　I’d　e　under　the　
threat of some danger； and as nothing else came to mind； I simply said the　
following：　
“You remember those verses at the end of ”The Cow‘ chapter？ I’d want　
most of all to depict them： “Oh God； judge us not by what we’ve forgotten　
and　by　our　mistakes。　Oh　God；　burden　us　not　with　a　weight　we　cannot　bear；　as　
with those who have gone before us。 Forgive and absolve us of our　
transgressions　and　sins！　Treat　us　with　mercy；　my　dear　God。”“　My　voice　broke　
and I was embarrassed by the tears I shed unexpectedly—perhaps because I　
was wary of the sarcasm that we always kept at the ready during our　
apprenticeships　to　protect　ourselves　and　to　avoid　exposing　our　sensitivities。　
I thought my tears would quickly abate； but unable to restrain myself； I　
began　to　cry　in　great　sobs。　As　I　wept；　I　could　sense　that　each　of　the　others　was　
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overe　by　feelings　of　fraternity；　devastation　and　sorrow。　From　now　on；　the　
European　style　would　be　preeminent　in　Our　Sultan’s　workshop；　the　styles　and　
books　to　which　we’d　devoted　our　entire　lives　would　slowly　be　forgotten—yes；　
in　fact；　the　who