《my name is red-我的名字叫红》我的名字叫红-第182章

house　in　which　I’d　spent　the　night　of　my　first　day　in　Istanbul　twenty…five　years　
ago。　There；　through　the　yawning　courtyard　gate；　I　saw　once　again　the　well　into　
which　I　wished　to　hurl　myself　in　the　middle　of　the　night；　tormented　by　guilt　
for　having　at　the　age　of　eleven　wet　the　mattress　that　a　distant　relative　spread　
out　for　me　in　a　show　of　kind　and　generous　hospitality。　By　the　time　I　reached　
Bayazid；　the　watchmaker’s　shop　（where　I　often　came　to　fix　the　mechanism　of　
my　broken　clock）；　the　bottle　seller’s　shop　（where　I　purchased　the　empty　crystal　
lamps and sherbet cups I embellished and the little bottles I decorated with　
floral　designs　and　secretly　sold　to　the　gentry）　and　the　public　baths　（where　my　
feet　went　out　of　habit　for　a　time　because　it　was　both　inexpensive　and　empty）　
were　all　respectfully　standing　at　attention　before　me　and　my　tearful　eyes。　
There was nobody in the vicinity of the ravaged and burned coffeehouse；　
nor　anyone　at　the　house　of　beautiful　Shekure　and　her　new　husband；　who　was　
perhaps in the throes of death at this very moment。 I heartily wished them　
nothing　but　happiness。　While　roaming　the　streets　in　the　days　after　I’d　tainted　
my hands with blood； all of Istanbul’s dogs； its shadowy trees； shuttered　
windows； black chimneys； ghosts and hardworking； unhappy early risers　
hurrying　to　their　morning　prayers　always　stared　at　
me　with　animosity；　yet；　from　the　moment　I　confessed　my　crimes　and　resolved　
to　abandon　the　only　city　I’d　ever　known；　they　all　regarded　me　with　friendship。　
After passing the Bayazid Mosque； I watched the Golden Horn from a　
promontory：　The　horizon　was　brightening；　yet　the　water　was　still　black。　Ever　
so　slowly　bobbing　in　invisible　waves；　two　fishermen’s　rowboats；　freight　ships　
with　their　sails　furled　and　an　abandoned　galleon　repeatedly　insisted　that　I　not　
leave。　Were　the　tears　flowing　from　my　eyes　caused　by　the　needle？　I　told　myself　
to　dream　of　the　splendid　life　I　would　live　in　Hindustan　off　the　splendid　works　
my　talent　would　create！　
I　left　the　road；　ran　through　two　muddy　gardens　and　took　shelter　beneath　
an　old　stone　house　surrounded　by　greenery。　This　was　the　house　where　I　came　
each　Tuesday　as　an　apprentice　to　get　Master　Osman　and　followed　two　paces　
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behind　him　carrying　his　bag；　portfolio；　pen　box　and　writing　board　on　our　way　
to　the　workshop。　Nothing　had　changed　here；　except　the　plane　trees　in　the　yard　
and　along　the　street　had　grown　so　large　that　an　aura　of　grandeur；　power　and　
wealth hearkening back to the time of Sultan Süleyman had settled over the　
house　and　street。　
Since　the　road　leading　to　the　harbor　was　near；　I　succumbed　to　the　Devil’s　
temptation；　and　was　overe　by　the　excitement　of　seeing　the　arches　of　the　
workshop　building　where　I’d　spent　a　quarter　century。　This　was　how　I　ended　
up tracing the path that I’d take as an apprentice following Master Osman：　
down Archer’s Street which smelled dizzyingly of linden blossoms in the　
spring； past the bakery where my master　would　buy　round　meat　pasties；　up　
the hill lined with beggars and quince and chestnut trees； past the closed　
shutters of the new market and the barber whom my master greeted each　
morning；　alongside　the　empty　field　where　acrobats　would　set　up　their　tents　in　
summer and perform； in front of the foul…smelling rooming houses for　
bachelors； beneath moldy…smelling Byzantine arches； before Ibrahim Pasha’s　
palace and the column made up of three coiling snakes； which I’d drawn　
hundreds　of　times；　past　the　plane　tree；　which　we　depicted　a　different　way　each　
time； emerging into the Hippodrome and under the chestnut and mulberry　
trees wherein sparrows and magpies alighted and chirped madly in the　
mornings。　
The heavy door of the workshop was closed。 There was nobody at the　
entrance or under the arched portico above。 I was able to look up only　
momentarily at the shuttered small windows from which； as apprentices　
stifled　by　boredom；　we　used　to　stare　at　the　trees；　before　I　was　accosted。　
He had a shrill voice that clawed at one’s ears。 He said that the bloody　
ruby…handled dagger in my hand belonged to him and that his nephew；　
Shevket； and Shekure had conspired to steal it from his house。 This was　
apparently　proof　enough　that　I　was　one　of　Black’s　men　who　raided　his　house　
at night to abduct Shekure。 This arrogant； shrill…voiced； irate man also knew　
Black’s artist friends and that they would return to the workshop。 He　
brandished a long sword that shimmered brightly with a strange red and　
indicated that he had a number of accounts that； for whatever reason； he　
meant to settle with me。 I considered telling him that there was some　
misunderstanding；　but　I　saw　the　incredible　anger　on　his　face。　I　could　read　in　
his　expression　that　he　was　about　to　launch　a　sudden　murderous　assault　on　me。　
How　I　would’ve　liked　to　say；　“I　beg　of　you；　stop。”　
But　he’d　already　acted。　
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I　wasn’t　even　able　to　raise　my　dagger；　I　simply　lifted　the　hand　in　which　I　
held　my　satchel。　
The satchel dropped。 In one smooth motion； without losing speed； the　
sword　cut　first　through　my　hand　and　then　clear　through　my　neck；　lopping　off　
my　head。　
I　knew　I’d　been　beheaded　from　the　two　odd　steps　taken　by　my　poor　body　
which　had　left　me　behind　in　its　confusion；　from　the　stupid　manner　in　which　
my　hand　waved　the　dagger　and　from　the　way　my　lonely　body　collapsed；　blood　
spraying from the neck like a fountain。 My poor feet； which continued to　
move　as　though　still　walking；　kicked　uselessly　like　the　legs　of　a　dying　horse。　
From　the　muddy　ground　upon　which　my　head　had　fallen；　I　could　neither　
see　my　murderer　nor　my　satchel　full　of　gold　pieces　and　pictures；　which　I　still　
wanted　to　cling　to　tightly。　These　things　were　behind　me；　in　the　direction　of　the　
hill　leading　down　to　the　sea　and　Galleon　Harbor　which　I　would　n