《my name is red-我的名字叫红》我的名字叫红-第174章

spread　out　and　use　for　catnaps　in　the　afternoons。　
We　talked　about　and　named　the　pages　we　took　pride　in　and　would　want　to　
take　out　and　look　at　now　and　again　if　we　had　copies　of　them；　the　way　Master　
Black　Memi　had。　They　explained　how　the　sky　on　the　upper　half　of　the　palace　
picture　made　for　the　Book　of　Skills；　illuminated　with　gold　wash；　foreshadowed　
the　end　of　the　world；　not　due　to　the　gold　itself；　but　due　to　its　tone　between　
towers； domes and cypresses—the way gold ought to be used in a polite　
rendition。　
They described a portrayal of Our Exalted Prophet’s bewilderment and　
ticklishness； as angels seized him by his underarms during his ascension to　
Heaven from the top of a minaret； a picture of such grave colors that even　
children； upon seeing the blessed scene； would first tremble with pious awe　
and　then　laugh　respectfully　as　if　they　themselves　were　being　tickled。　I　explained　
how　along　one　edge　of　a　page　I’d　memorated　the　previous　Grand　Vizier’s　
suppression of rebels who’d taken to the mountains by delicately and　
respectfully　arranging　the　heads　he’d　severed；　tastefully　drawing　each　one；　not　
as an ordinary corpse’s head； but as an individual and unique face in the　
417　
manner　of　a　Frankish　portraitist；　furrowing　their　brows　before　death；　dabbing　
red　onto　their　necks；　making　their　sorroeaning　of　
life； opening their nostrils to one final； desperate breath； and shutting their　
eyes　to　this　world；　and　thus；　I’d　imbued　the　painting　with　a　terrifying　aura　of　
mystery。　
As if they were our own unforgettable and unattainable memories； we　
wistfully discussed our favorite scenes of love and war； recalling their most　
magnificent wonders and tear…inducing subtleties。 Isolated and mysterious　
gardens　where　lovers　met　on　starry　nights　passed　before　our　eyes：　spring　trees；　
fantastic birds； frozen time…We imagined bloody battles as immediate and　
alarming as our own nightmares； bodies torn in two； chargers with blood…
spattered armor； beautiful men stabbing each other with daggers； the small…
mouthed； small…handed； slanted…eye； bowed women watching events from　
barely open windows…We recalled pretty boys who were haughty and　
conceited；　and　handsome　shahs　and　khans；　their　power　and　palaces　long　lost　
to history。 Just like the women who wept together in the harems of those　
shahs； we now knew we were passing from life into memory； but were we　
passing from history into legend as they had？ To avoid being drawn further　
into a realm of horror by the lengthening shadows of the fear of being　
forgotten—even　more　terrifying　than　the　fear　of　dying—we　asked　each　other　
about　our　favorite　scenes　of　death。　
The first thing to e to mind was the way Satan duped Dehhak into　
killing his father。 At the time of that legend； which is described in the　
beginning of the Book of Kings； the world had been newly created； and　
everything　was　so　basic　that　nothing　needed　explanation。　If　you　wanted　milk；　
you simply milked a goat and drank； you’d say “horse；” then mount it and　
ride away； you’d contemplate “evil” and Satan would appear and convince　
you　of　the　beauty　of　murdering　your　own　father。　Dehhak’s　murder　of　Merdas；　
his　father　of　Arab　descent；　was　beautiful；　both　because　it　was　unprovoked　and　
because　it　occurred　at　night　in　a　magnificent　palace　garden　while　golden　stars　
gently　illuminated　cypresses　and　colorful　spring　flowers。　
Next； we recalled legendary Rüstem； who unknowingly killed his son　
Suhrab； mander of the enemy army that Rüstem had battled for three　
days。 There was something that touched us all in the way Rüstem beat his　
breast in tearful anguish when he saw the armband he had given the boy’s　
mother　years　ago　and　recognized　as　his　own　son　the　enemy　whose　chest　he’d　
ravished　with　thrusts　of　the　sword。　
What　was　that　something？　
418　
The　rain　continued　its　patter　on　the　roof　of　the　dervish　lodge　and　I　paced　
back　and　forth。　Suddenly　I　said　the　following：　
“Either　our　father；　Master　Osman；　will　betray　and　kill　us；　or　we　shall　betray　
and　kill　him。”　
We　were　stricken　with　horror　because　what　I　said　rang　absolutely　true；　we　
fell silent。 Still pacing； and panicked by the thought that everything would　
revert to its former state； I told myself the following： “Tell the story of　
Afrasiyab’s murder of Siyavush to change the subject。 But that’s a betrayal　
such　as　fails　to　frighten　me。　Recount　the　death　of　Hüsrev。”　All　right　then；　but　
should　it　be　the　version　told　by　Firdusi　in　the　Book　of　Kings　or　the　one　told　by　
Nizami　in　Hüsrev　and　Shirin？　The　pathos　of　the　account　in　the Book　of　Kings　
rests　in　Hüsrev’s　tearful　realization　of　the　identity　of　the　murderer　intruding　in　
his bedroom chamber！ As a last resort； saying that he wants to perform his　
prayers；　Hüsrev　sends　the　servant　boy　attending　him　to　fetch　water；　soap；　clean　
clothes and his prayer rug； the naive boy； without understanding that his　
master　has　sent　him　for　help；　goes　to　gather　the　requested　items。　Once　alone　
with　Hüsrev；　the　murderer’s　first　task　is　to　lock　the　door　from　the　inside。　In　
this scene at the end of the Book of Kings； the man whom the conspirators　
found to enact the murder is described by Firdusi with disgust： He is foul　
smelling；　hairy　and　pot…bellied。　
I　paced　to　and　fro；　my　head　swarmed　with　words；　but　as　in　a　dream；　my　
voice　would　not　take。　
Just then I sensed that the others were whispering among themselves；　
maligning　me。　
They　y　legs　that　the　four　of　us　collapsed　to　the　
floor。 There was a struggle and fight on the ground； but it was brief。 I lay　
faceup　on　the　floor　beneath　the　three　of　them。　
One　of　them　sat　on　my　knees。　Another　on　my　right　arm。　
Black pressed a knee into each of