《my name is red-我的名字叫红》我的名字叫红-第172章

books　to　which　we’d　devoted　our　entire　lives　would　slowly　be　forgotten—yes；　
in　fact；　the　whole　venture　would　e　to　an　end；　and　if　the　Erzurumis　didn’t　
throttle us and finish us off； the Sultan’s torturers would leave us　
maimed…But as I cried； sobbed and sighed—even though I continued to　
listen　to　the　sad　patter　of　the　rain—a　part　of　my　mind　sensed　that　these　were　
not the things I was actually crying about。 To what extent were the others　
aware of this？ I felt vaguely guilty for my tears； which were at once genuine　
and　false。　
Butterfly　came　up　beside　me；　placed　his　arm　upon　my　shoulder；　stroked　my　
hair； kissed my cheek and forted me with honeyed words。 This show of　
friendship　made　me　cry　with　even　more　sincerity　and　guilt。　I　couldn’t　see　his　
face but； for some reason； I incorrectly thought he too was crying。 We sat　
down。　
We recalled how we’d started our workshop apprenticeships in the same　
year； the strange sadness of being torn away from our mothers to suddenly　
begin　a　new　life；　the　pain　of　beatings　we　received　from　the　first　day；　the　joy　of　
the first gifts from the Head Treasurer； and the days we went back home；　
running　the　whole　way。　At　first；　only　he　talked　while　I　listened　sorrowfully；　but　
later； when Stork and； sometime afterward； Black—who came to the　
workshop　for　a　time　and　left　it；　during　our　early　apprenticeship　years—joined　
our　mournful　conversation；　I　forgot　that　I’d　just　been　crying　and　began　to　talk　
and　laugh　freely　with　them。　
We　reminisced　about　winter　mornings　when　we　would　wake　early；　light　the　
stove　in　the　largest　room　of　the　workshop　and　mop　the　floors　with　hot　water。　
We　recalled　an　old　“master；”　may　he　rest　in　peace；　who　was　so　uninspired　and　
cautious　that　he　could　draw　only　a　single　leaf　of　a　single　tree　during　the　span　
of　a　single　day　and　who；　when　he　saw　that　we　were　again　looking　at　the　lush　
green　leaves　of　the　springtime　trees　through　the　open　window　rather　than　at　
the leaf he drew； without striking us； would chastise us for the hundredth　
time：　“Not　out　there；　in　here！”　We　recalled　the　wailing；　which　could　be　heard　
throughout the entire atelier； of the scrawny apprentice who walked toward　
the　door；　satchel　in　hand；　having　been　sent　back　home　because　the　intensity　of　
the work caused one of his eyes to wander。 Next； we imagined how we　
watched （with pleasure because it wasn’t our fault） the slow spread of a　
deadly red seeping from a bronze inkpot that had cracked over a page three　
illuminators　had　labored　on　for　three　months　（it　depicted　the　Ottoman　army　
413　
on　the　banks　of　the　K？n？k　River　en　route　to　Shirvan；　overing　the　threat　of　
starvation by occupying Eresh and filling their stomachs）。 In a refined and　
respectful　manner；　we　talked　about　how　the　three　of　us　together　made　love　to　
and　together　fell　in　love　with　a　Circasian　lady；　the　most　beautiful　of　the　wives　
of　a　seventy…year…old　pasha　who—in　consideration　of　his　conquests；　strength　
and　wealth—wanted　ceiling　ornamentation　in　his　home　made　in　imitation　of　
the　designs　in　Our　Sultan’s　hunting　lodge。　Then；　we　longingly　recalled　how　on　
winter mornings we would have our lentil soup on the threshold of the　
yawning　door　so　its　steam　wouldn’t　soften　the　paper。　We　also　lamented　being　
separated　from　workshop　friends　and　masters　when　the　latter　pelled　us　to　
travel　to　distant　places　to　serve　as　journeymen。　For　a　time；　the　sweetness　of　
my dear Butterfly in his sixteenth year appeared before my eyes： He was　
burnishing　paper　to　a　high　gloss　by　rubbing　it　quickly　with　a　smooth　seashell　
as　the　sunlight；　ing　through　an　open　window　on　a　summer’s　day；　struck　
his　naked　honey…colored　forearms。　For　a　moment　he　stopped　what　he　was　so　
absentmindedly　doing　and　carefully　lowered　his　face　to　the　page　to　examine　a　
blemish。 After making a few passes over the offending spot with the　
burnishing shell using different motions； he returned to his former pattern；　
moving his hand back and forth as he stared out of the window into the　
distance；　losing　himself　in　daydreams。　I　shall　never　forget　how　before　looking　
outside again； he briefly gazed into my eyes—as I would later do to others。　
This dolorous look has only one meaning； which all apprentices know quite　
well：　Time　doesn’t　flow　if　you　don’t　dream。　
414　
I　WILL　BE　CALLED　A　MURDERER　
You’d forgotten about me； hadn’t you？ Why should I conceal my presence　
from you any longer？ For speaking in this voice； which is gradually getting　
stronger and stronger； has bee irresistible for me。 At times； I restrain　
myself　only　with　great　effort；　and　I’m　afraid　that　the　strain　in　my　voice　will　
give　me　away。　At　times；　I　let　myself　go　pletely　unchecked；　and　that’s　when　
those words； signs of my second character； which you might recognize； spill　
from my lips； my hands begin to tremble； beads of sweat collect on my　
forehead and I realize at once that these little whispers of my body； in turn；　
will　furnish　new　clues。　
Yet　I’m　so　very　content　here！　As　we　console　ourselves　with　twenty…five　years　
of　memories　we’re　reminded　not　of　the　animosities；　but　of　the　beauties　and　
the pleasures of painting。 There’s also something in our sitting here with a　
sense　of　the　impending　end　of　the　world；　caressing　each　other　with　tear…filled　
eyes　as　we　remember　the　beauty　of　bygone　days；　that　recalls　harem　women。　
I’ve taken this parison from Abu Said of Kirman who included the　
stories of the old masters of Shiraz and Herat in his History of the sons of　
Tamerlane。　Thirty　years　ago；　Jihan　Shah；　ruler　of　the　Blacksheep；　came　to　the　
East　where　he　routed　the　small　armies　and　ravaged　the　lands　of　the　Timurid　
khans and shahs who were fighting among themselves。 With his victorious　
T