《my name is red-我的名字叫红》我的名字叫红-第185章

Shevket　and　Orhan　playing；　we　made　love；　always　referring　to　it　as　“spreading　
salve onto wounds。” This was how my jealous sons； whom I didn’t want to　
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suffer　beatings　at　the　jealous　whims　of　a　rough　and　melancholy　father；　were　
able to continue sleeping in the same bed with me for years。 All sensible　
women　know　how　it’s　much　nicer　to　sleep　curled　up　with　one’s　children　than　
with　a　melancholy　husband　who’s　been　beaten　down　by　life。　
We；　my　children　and　I；　were　happy；　but　Black　couldn’t　be。　The　most　obvious　
reason　for　this　was　the　wound　on　his　shoulder　and　neck　that　never　pletely　
healed；　my　beloved　husband　was　left　“crippled；”　as　I　heard　him　described　by　
others。　But　this　didn’t　disrupt　his　life；　other　than　in　its　appearance。　There　were　
even times when I heard other women； who’d seen my husband from a　
distance；　describe　him　as　handsome。　But　Black’s　right　shoulder　was　lower　than　
the　left　and　his　neck　remained　oddly　cocked。　I　also　heard　gossip　to　the　effect　
that a woman like myself could only marry a husband whom she felt was　
beneath her； and how as much as Black’s wound was the cause of his　
discontent；　it　was　also　the　secret　source　of　our　shared　happiness。　
As with all gossip； there is perhaps an element of truth in this as well。　
However deprived and destitute I felt at not being able to pass down the　
streets of Istanbul mounted tall on an exceptionally beautiful horse；　
surrounded by slaves； lady servants and attendants—what Esther always　
thought I deserved—I also occasionally longed for a brave and spirited　
husband who held his head high and looked at the world with a sense of　
victory。　
Whatever the cause； Black always remained melancholy。 Because I knew　
that his sadness had nothing to do with his shoulder； I believed that　
somewhere　in　a　secret　corner　of　his　soul　he　was　possessed　by　a　jinn　of　sorrow　
that dampened his mood even during our most exhilarating moments of　
lovemaking。　To　appease　that　jinn；　at　times　he’d　drink　wine；　at　times　stare　at　
illustrations　in　books　and　take　an　interest　in　art；　at　times　he’d　even　spend　his　
days　and　nights　with　miniaturists　chasing　after　pretty　boys。　There　were　periods　
when he entertained himself in the pany of painters； calligraphers and　
poets　in　orgies　of　puns；　double　entendres；　innuendos；　metaphors　and　games　of　
flattery； and there were periods when he forgot everything and surrendered　
himself to secretarial duties and a governmental clerkship under Hunched　
Süleyman　Pasha；　into　whose　service　he’d　managed　to　enter。　Four　years　later；　
when　Our　Sultan　died；　and　with　the　ascension　of　Sultan　Mehmed；　who　turned　
his back entirely on all artistry； Black’s enthusiasm for illumination and　
painting turned from an openly celebrated pleasure into a private secret　
pursued behind closed doors。 There were times when he’d open one of the　
books　left　to　us　by　my　father；　and　stare；　guilty　and　sad；　at　an　illustration　made　
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during the era of Tamerlane’s sons in Herat—yes； Shirin falling in love with　
Hüsrev after seeing his picture—not as if it were part of a happy game of　
talent still being played in palace circles； but as if he were dwelling upon a　
sweet　secret　long　surrendered　to　memory。　
In the third year of Our Sultan’s reign； the Queen of England sent His　
Excellency a miraculous clock that contained a musical instrument with a　
bellows。　An　English　delegation　assembled　this　enormous　clock　after　weeks　of　
toil　with　various　pieces；　cogs；　pictures　and　statuettes　that　they　brought　with　
them　from　England；　erecting　it　on　a　slope　of　the　Royal　Private　Garden　facing　
the　Golden　Horn。　The　crowds　that　collected　on　the　slopes　of　the　Golden　Horn　
or came in ca？ques to watch； astonished and awed； saw how the life…size　
statues and ornaments spun around each other purposefully when the huge　
clock played its noisy and terrifying music； how they danced elegantly and　
meaningfully　by　themselves　in　time　to　the　melody　as　if　they　were　creations　of　
God　rather　than　of　His　servants；　and　how　the　clock　announced　the　time　to　all　
Istanbul　with　a　chime　that　resembled　the　sounding　of　a　bell。　
Black　and　Esther　told　me　on　different　occasions　how　the　clock；　as　well　as　
being　the　focus　of　endless　astonishment　on　the　part　of　Istanbul’s　riffraff　and　
dull…witted　mobs；　was　understandably　a　source　of　disfort　to　the　pious　and　
to　Our　Sultan　because　it　symbolized　the　power　of　the　infidel。　In　a　time　when　
rumors　of　this　sort　abounded；　Sultan　Ahmed；　the　subsequent　sovereign；　woke　
up　in　the　middle　of　the　night　under　Allah’s　instigation；　seized　His　mace　and　
descended　from　the　harem　to　the　Private　Garden　where　He　shattered　the　clock　
and its statues to pieces。 Those who brought us the news and the rumors　
explained how as Our Sultan slept； He saw the sacred face of Our Exalted　
Prophet　bathed　in　holy　light　and　how　the　Apostle　of　God　warned　Him：　If　Our　
Sultan　allowed　his　subjects　to　be　awed　by　pictures　and；　worse　yet；　by　objects　
that mimicked Mankind and thus peted with Allah’s creations； the　
sovereign would be diverging from divine will。 They also added that Our　
Sultan　had　taken　up　His　mace　while　still　dreaming。　This　was　more　or　less　how　
Our Sultan dictated the event to His faithful historian。 He had this book；　
entitled The Quintessence of Histories； prepared by calligraphers； upon whom　
He lavished purses full of gold； though He forbade its illustration by　
miniaturists。　
Thus　withered　the　red　rose　of　the　joy　of　painting　and　illumination　that　had　
bloomed　for　a　century　in　Istanbul；　nurtured　by　inspiration　from　the　lands　of　
Persia。　The　conflict　between　the　methods　of　the　old　masters　of　Herat　and　the　
Frankish masters that paved the ong artists and endless　
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quandries was