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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第章

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religious schools where he taught; was ill…tempered; angry and had a weakness 
for drink。 Black was six years old at the time; he’d cry when his mother cried; 
quiet  down  when  his  mother  fell  silent  and  regarded  me;  his  Enishte;  with 
apprehension。 
It  pleases  me  to  see  him  before  me  now;  a  determined;  mature  and 
respectful nephew。 The respect he shows me; the care with which he kisses my 
hand and presses it to his forehead; the way; for example; he said; “Purely for 
red;” when he presented me with the Mongol inkpot as a gift; and his polite 
and demure habit of sitting before me with his knees mindfully together; all of 
this not only announces that he is the sensible grown man he aspires to be; 
but it reminds me that I am indeed the venerable elder I aspire to be。 
He shares a likeness with his father; whom I’ve seen once or twice: He’s tall 
and thin; and makes slightly nervous yet being gestures with his arms and 
hands。 His custom of placing his hands on his knees or of staring deeply and 
intently  into  my  eyes  as  if  to  say;  “I  understand;  I’m  listening  to  you  with 
reverence” when I tell him something of import; or the way he nods his head 
with  a  subtle  rhythm  matching  the  measure  of  my  words  are  all  quite 
appropriate。 Now that I’ve reached this age; I know that true respect arises not 
from the heart; but from discrete rules and deference。 
During  the  years  Black’s  mother  brought  him  frequently  to  our  house 
under  every  pretense  because  she  anticipated  a  future  for  him  here;  I 
understood that books pleased him; and this brought us together。 As those in 
the  house  used  to  put  it;  he  would  serve  as  my  “apprentice。”  I  explained  to 
25 
 
him how miniaturists in Shiraz had created a new style by raising the horizon 
line clear to the top of the border; and that while everyone depicted Mejnun 
in  a  wretched  state  in  the  desert;  crazed  with  love  for  his  Leyla;  the  great 
master  Bihzad  was  better  able  to  convey  Mejnun’s  loneliness  by  portraying 
him  walking  among  groups  of  women  cooking;  attempting  to  ignite  logs  by 
blowing on them or walking between tents。 I remarked how absurd it was that 
most  of  the  illustrators  who  depicted  the  moment  when  Hüsrev  spied  the 
naked Shirin bathing in a lake at midnight had whimsically colored the lovers’ 
horses and clothes without having read Nizami’s poem; my point being that a 
miniaturist who took up a brush without the care and diligence to read the 
text he was illustrating was motivated by nothing more than greed。 
I’m delighted now to see that Black has acquired another essential virtue: 
To  avoid  disappointment  in  art;  one  mustn’t  treat  it  as  a  career。  Despite 
whatever great artistic sense and talent a man might possess; he ought to seek 
money and power elsewhere to avoid forsaking his art when he fails to receive 
proper pensation for his gifts and efforts。 
Black recounted how he’d met one by one all of the master illustrators and 
calligraphers  of  Tabriz  by  making  books  for  pashas;  wealthy  Istanbulites  and 
patrons  in  the  provinces。  All  these  artists;  I  learned;  were  impoverished  and 
overe by the futility of their lot。 Not only in Tabriz; but in Mashhad and 
Aleppo;  many  miniaturists  had  abandoned  working  on  books  and  begun 
making  odd  single…leaf  pictures—curiosities  that  would  please  European 
travelers—even   obscene   drawings。   Rumor   has   it   that   the   illuminated 
manuscript Shah Abbas presented to Our Sultan during the Tabriz peace treaty 
has  already  been  taken  apart  so  its  pages  could  be  used  for  another  book。 
Supposedly; the Emperor of Hindustan; Akbar; was throwing so much money 
around  for  a  large  new  book  that  the  most  gifted  illustrators  of  Tabriz  and 
Kazvin quit what they were doing and flocked to his palace。 
As he told me all of this; he pleasantly interjected other stories as well; for 
example; he described with a smile the entertaining story of a Mehdi forgery 
or  the  frenzy  that  erupted  among  the  Uzbeks  when  the  idiot  prince  sent  to 
them by the Safavids as a hostage to peace fell feverishly ill and dropped dead 
within three days。 Even so; I could tell from the shadow that fell across his face 
that the dilemma to which neither of us referred; but which troubled us both; 
had yet to be resolved。 
Naturally; Black; like every young man who frequented our house or heard 
what others had to say about us; or who knew about my beautiful daughter; 
Shekure; from hearsay; had fallen in love with her。 Perhaps I didn’t consider it 
26 
 
dangerous  enough  to  warrant  my  attention  back  then;  but  everyone—
including many who’d never laid eyes on her—fell in love with my daughter; 
that belle of belles。 Black’s affliction was the overwhelming passion of an ill…
fated youth who had free access to our house; who was accepted and well liked 
in our home and who had the opportunity actually to see Shekure。 He did not 
bury  his  love;  as  I  hoped  he  would;  but  made  the  mistake  of  revealing  his 
extreme passion to my daughter。 
As a result; he pletely。 
I  assumed  that  Black  now  also  knew  how  three  years  after  he’d  left 
Istanbul;  my  daughter  married  a  spahi  cavalryman;  at  the  height  of  her 
loveliness; and that this soldier; having fathered two boys but still bereft of any 
mon sense; had gone off on a campaign never to return again。 No one had 
heard from the cavalryman in four years。 I gathered he was aware of this; not 
only  because  such  gossip  spreads  fast  in  Istanbul;  but  because  during  the 
silences that passed between us; I felt he’d learned the whole story long ago; 
judging by the way he looked into my eyes。 Even at this moment; as he casts 
an  eye  at  the  Book  of  the  Soul;  which  stands  open  on  the  folding  X…shaped 
reading  stand;  I  know  he’s  listening  for  the  sounds  of  her  children  running 
through the house; I know he’s aware that my daughter
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