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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第章

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quarter the length of a finger; then removed it。 
In  the  couplet  worked  into  the  frame  of  the  mirror;  the  poet  had  wished 
the observer eternal beauty and wisdom—and eternal life to the mirror itself。 
Smiling; I did the same to my other eye。 
For a long while I didn’t move。 I stared at the world—at everything。 
As  I’d  surmised;  the  colors  of  the  world  did  not  darken;  but  seemed  to 
bleed ever so gently into one another。 I could still more or less see。 
The pale light of the sun fell over the red and oxblood cloth of the Treasury。 
In the accustomed ceremony; the Head Treasurer and his men broke the seal 
350 
 
and  opened  the  lock  and  the  door。  Jezmi  Agha  changed  the  chamber  pots; 
lamps   and   brazier;   brought   in   fresh   bread   and   dried   mulberries   and 
announced to the others that we would continue searching for the horses with 
oddly  drawn  nostrils  within  Our  Sultan’s  books。  What  could  be  more 
exquisite than looking at the world’s most beautiful pictures while trying to 
recollect God’s vision of the world? 
 
 
   
351 
 
I AM CALLED BLACK 
 
When the Head Treasurer and the chief officers opened the portal with great 
ceremony my eyes were so accustomed to the velvety red aura of the Treasury 
rooms that the early morning winter sunlight filtering in from the courtyard 
of the Royal Private Quarters of the Enderun seemed terrifying。 I stood dead 
still; as did Master Osman himself: If I moved; it seemed; the clues we sought 
in the moldy; dusty and tangible air of the Treasury might escape。 
With curious amazement; as if seeing some magnificent object for the first 
time;  Master  Osman  stared  at  the  light  cascading  toward  us  between  the 
heads of the Treasury chiefs lined up in rows on either side of the open portal。 
The night before; I watched him as he turned the pages of the Book of Kings。 
I  noticed  this  same  expression  of  astonishment  pass  over  his  face  as  his 
shadow;  cast  upon  the  wall;  trembled  faintly;  his  head  carefully  sank  down 
toward  his  magnifying  lens;  and  his  lips  first  contorted  delicately;  as  if 
preparing to reveal a pleasant secret; then twitched as he gazed in awe at an 
illustration。 
After  the  portal  was  shut  again;  I  wandered  impatiently  between  rooms 
ever  more  restless;  I  thought  nervously  that  we  wouldn’t  have  time  to  cull 
enough  information  from  the  books  in  the  Treasury。  I  sensed  that  Master 
Osman couldn’t focus adequately on his task; and I confessed my misgivings 
to him。 
Like  a  genuine  master  grown  accustomed  to  caressing  his  apprentices;  he 
held my hand in a pleasing way。 “Men like us have no choice but to try to see 
the world the way God does and to resign ourselves to His justice;” he said。 
“And here; among these pictures and possessions; I have the strong sensation 
that these two things are beginning to converge: As we approach God’s vision 
of  the  world;  His  justice  approaches  us。  See  here;  the  needle  Master  Bihzad 
blinded himself with…” 
Master Osman callously told the story of the needle; and I scrutinized the 
extremely sharp point of this disagreeable object beneath the magnifying glass 
which he lowered so I might better see; a pinkish film covered its tip。 
“The old masters;” Master Osman said; “would suffer pangs of conscience 
about   changing   their   talent;   colors   and   methods。   They’d   consider   it 
dishonorable  to  see  the  world  one  day  as  an  Eastern  shah  manded;  the 
next; as a Western ruler did—which is what the artists of our day do。” 
352 
 
His eyes were neither trained on mine nor upon the pages in front of him。 
It seemed as though he were gazing at a distant unattainable whiteness。 In a 
page of the Book of Kings lying open before him; Persian and Turanian armies 
clashed  with  all  their  force。  As  horses  fought  shoulder  to  shoulder;  enraged 
heroic warriors drew their swords and slaughtered one another with the color 
and  joy  of  a  festival;  their  armor  pierced  by  the  lances  of  the  cavalry;  their 
heads and arms severed; their bodies hacked apart or cloven in two; strewn all 
over the field。 
“When the great masters of old were forced to adopt the styles of victors 
and imitate their miniaturists; they preserved their honor by using a needle to 
heroically bring on the blindness that the labors of painting would’ve caused 
in  time。  Yes;  before  the  pureness  of  God’s  darkness  fell  over  their  eyes  like  a 
divine reward; they’d stare at a masterpiece ceaselessly for hours or even days; 
and  because  they  stubbornly  stared  out  of  bowed  heads;  the  meaning  and 
world of those pictures—spotted with blood dripping from their eyes—would 
take  the  place  of  all  the  evil  they  suffered;  and  as  their  eyes  ever  so  slowly 
clouded over they’d approach blindness in peace。 Do you have any idea which 
illustration  I’d  want  to  stare  at  till  I’d  attained  the  divine  blackness  of  the 
blind?” 
Like  a  man  trying  to  recall  a  childhood  memory;  he  fixed  his  eyes;  whose 
pupils seemed to shrink as their whites expanded; on a distant place beyond 
the walls of the Treasury。 
“The  scene;  rendered  in  the  style  of  the  old  masters  of  Herat;  wherein 
Hüsrev;  burning  madly  with  love;  rides  his  horse  to  the  foot  of  Shirin’s 
summer palace and waits!” 
Perhaps he’d now go on to describe that picture as if reciting a melancholy 
poem eulogizing the blindness of the old masters。 “My great master; my dear 
sire;” on a strange impulse; I interrupted him; “what I want to stare at for all 
eternity is my beloved’s delicate face。 It’s been three days since we wed。 I’ve 
thought of her longingly for twelve years。 The scene wherein Shirin falls in love 
with Hüsrev after seeing his picture reminds me of none other than her。” 
There  was  a  wealth  of  expression  on  Master  Osman’s  face;  curiosity 
perhaps;  but  it  had  to  do  neither  with  my  story  nor  with  the  blo
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