《my name is red-我的名字叫红》我的名字叫红-第184章

in　his　nostril；　I　cleansed　the　horrible　wound　on　his　shoulder　as　a　doctor　might。　
As　I’d　do　when　bathing　the　children　when　they　were　babies；　I　cooed　to　him　in　
a　singsong　voice。　There　were　cuts　on　his　chest　and　arms　as　well。　The　fingers　of　
his　left　hand　were　purple　from　being　bitten。　The　rags　I　used　to　wipe　his　body　
were　soon　bloodsoaked。　I　touched　his　chest；　I　felt　the　softness　of　his　abdomen　
with　my　hand；　I　looked　at　his　cock　for　a　long　time。　The　sounds　of　the　children　
were　ing　from　the　courtyard　below。　Why　did　some　poets　call　this　thing　a　
“reed　pen”？　
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I　could　hear　Esther　enter　the　kitchen　with　that　joyous　voice　and　mysterious　
air　she　adopted　when　she　brought　news；　and　I　went　down　to　greet　her。　
She was so excited she began without embracing or kissing me： Olive’s　
severed　head　was　found　in　front　of　the　workshop；　the　pictures　proving　his　guilt　
in　the　crimes　and　his　satchel　had　also　been　recovered。　He　was　intending　to　flee　
to　Hindustan；　but　had　decided　first　to　call　at　the　workshop　one　last　time。　
There　were　witnesses　to　the　ordeal：　Hasan；　encountering　Olive；　had　drawn　
his　red　sword　and　cut　off　Olive’s　head　in　a　single　stroke。　
As she recounted； I thought about where my unfortunate father was。　
Learning　that　the　murderer　had　received　his　due　punishment　at　first　put　my　
fears to rest。 And revenge lent me a feeling of fort and justice。 At that　
instant； I wondered intensely whether my now…dead father could experience　
this　feeling；　suddenly；　it　seemed　to　me　that　the　entire　world　was　like　a　palace　
with　countless　rooms　whose　doors　opened　into　one　another。　We　were　able　to　
pass from one room to the next only by exercising our memories and　
imaginations；　but　most　of　us；　in　our　laziness；　rarely　exercised　these　capacities；　
and　forever　remained　in　the　same　room。　
“Don’t cry； my dear；” said Esther。 “You see； in the end everything has　
turned　out　fine。”　
I　gave　her　four　gold　coins。　She　took　them；　one　at　a　time；　into　her　mouth　
and　bit　down　upon　them　crudely　with　eagerness　and　longing。　
“Coins　counterfeited　by　the　Veians　are　everywhere；”　she　said；　smiling。　
As soon as she’d left； I warned Hayriye not to let the children upstairs。 I　
went　up　to　the　room　where　Black　lay；　locked　the　door　behind　me　and　cuddled　
up　eagerly　next　to　Black’s　naked　body。　Then；　more　out　of　curiosity　than　desire；　
more　out　of　care　than　fear；　I　did　what　Black　wanted　me　to　do　in　the　house　of　
the　Hanged　Jew　the　night　my　poor　father　was　killed。　
I can’t say I pletely understood why Persian poets； who for centuries　
had likened that male tool to a reed pen； also pared the mouths of us　
women　to　inkwells；　or　what　lay　behind　such　parisons　whose　origins　had　
been forgotten through rote repetition—was it the smallness of the mouth？　
The　arcane　silence　of　the　inkwell？　Was　it　that　God　Himself　was　an　illuminator？　
Love；　however；　must　be　understood；　not　through　the　logic　of　a　woman　like　me　
who　continually　racks　her　brain　to　protect　herself；　but　through　its　illogic。　
So； let me tell you a secret： There； in that room that smelled of death； it　
wasn’t　the　object　in　my　mouth　that　delighted　me。　What　delighted　me　then；　
440　
lying there with the entire world throbbing between my lips； was the happy　
twittering of my sons cursing and roughhousing with each other in the　
courtyard。　
While　my　mouth　was　thus　occupied；　my　eyes　could　make　out　Black　looking　
at　me　in　a　pletely　different　way。　He　said　he’d　never　again　forget　my　face　
and my mouth。 As with some of my father’s old books； his skin smelled of　
moldy　paper；　and　the　scent　of　the　Treasury’s　dust　and　cloth　had　saturated　his　
hair。 As I let myself go and caressed his wounds； his cuts and swellings； he　
groaned　like　a　child；　moving　further　and　further　away　from　death；　and　it　was　
then　I　understood　I　would　bee　even　more　attached　to　him。　Like　a　solemn　
ship that gains speed as its sails swell with wind； our gradually quickening　
lovemaking　took　us　boldly　into　unfamiliar　seas。　
I could tell by the way he was able to navigate these waters； even on his　
deathbed；　that　Black　had　plied　these　seas　many　times　before　with　who　knows　
what manner of indecent women。 While I was confused as to whether the　
forearm　I　kissed　was　my　own　or　his；　whether　I　was　sucking　my　own　finger　or　
an　entire　life；　he　stared　out　of　one　half…opened　eye；　nearly　intoxicated　by　his　
wounds and pleasure； checking where the world was taking him； and from　
time　to　time；　he　would　hold　my　head　delicately　in　his　hands；　and　stare　at　my　
face　astounded；　now　looking　as　if　at　a　picture；　now　as　if　at　a　Mingerian　whore。　
At　the　peak　of　pleasure；　he　cried　out　like　the　legendary　heroes　cut　clear　in　
half　with　a　single　stroke　of　the　sword　in　fabled　pictures　that　immortalized　the　
clash of Persian and Turanian armies； the fact that this cry could be heard　
throughout the neighborhood frightened me。 Like a genuine master　
miniaturist　at　the　moment　of　greatest　inspiration；　holding　his　reed　under　the　
direct　guidance　of　Allah；　yet　still　able　to　take　into　consideration　the　form　and　
position of the entire page； Black continued to direct our place in the　
world　from　a　corner　of　his　mind　even　through　his　highest　excitement。　
“You can tell them you were spreading salve onto my wounds；” he said　
breathlessly。　
These　words　not　only　constituted　the　color　of　our　love—which　settled　into　
a bottleneck between life and death； prohibition and paradise； hopelessness　
and shame—they also were the excuse for our love。 For the next twenty…six　
years；　until　my　beloved　husband　Black　collapsed　next　to　the　well　one　morning　
to die of a bad heart； each afternoon； as the sunlight filtered into the room　
through　the　slats　of　the　shutters；　and　for　the　first　few　years；　to　the　sounds　of　
Shevket　and　Orhan　playing；　we　made　love；　always　referring　to　it　as　“spreading　
salve