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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第章

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my  gold  pieces;  my  notebook  of  forms;  and  put  my  illustrations  into  my 
portfolio。  I  considered  how  I  might  kill  each  of  them  one  by  one  with  the 
dagger; whose point I held at Black’s throat; but I felt nothing but affection for 
my boyhood friends—including Stork; who’d stuck the plume needle into my 
eyes。 
I screamed at Butterfly; who had stood up; and thus scared him into sitting 
back down。 Now; confident I’d be able to escape the lodge safely; I hastened 
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toward the door; and at the threshold; I impatiently uttered the momentous 
words I’d been planning to say: 
“My  flight  from  Istanbul  shall  resemble  Ibn  Shakir’s  flight  from  Baghdad 
under Mongol occupation。” 
“In that case; you must head West instead of East;” said jealous Stork。 
“To God belongs the East and the West;” I said in Arabic like the late Enishte。 
“But East is east and West is west;” said Black。 
“An artist should never succumb to hubris of any kind;” said Butterfly; “he 
should  simply  paint  the  way  he  sees  fit  rather  than  troubling  over  East  or 
West。” 
“So very true;” I said to beloved Butterfly。 “Accept my kiss。” 
I’d hardly taken two steps toward him when Black dutifully pounced upon 
me。 In one hand I held my satchel containing my clothes and gold coins; and 
under my other arm; the portfolio filled with pictures。 Taking care to protect 
my belongings; I failed to protect myself。 I couldn’t prevent him from grabbing 
the  forearm  of  the  hand  that  held  the  dagger。  But  luck  did  not  shine  upon 
him; either; he tripped slightly over a low worktable and momentarily lost his 
balance。  Instead  of  taking  control  of  my  arm;  he  ended  up  hanging  by  it。 
Kicking  him  with  all  my  might  and  biting  his  fingers;  I  freed  myself。  He 
howled;  fearing  for  his  life。  Then;  I  stepped  on  the  same  hand;  causing  him 
great pain。 Brandishing the dagger before the other two; I shouted: 
“Halt!” 
They stayed seated where they were。 I stuck the point of the dagger into one 
of Black’s nostrils; the way Keykavus had done in the legend。 When it began to 
bleed; bitter tears flowed from his imploring eyes。 
“Now; tell me then;” I said; “shall I go blind?” 
“According to legend; blood clots in the eyes of some and not in others。 If 
Allah is pleased with your artistry; he’ll bestow His own magnificent blackness 
upon you and take you under His care。 In that case; you shall behold not this 
wretched world; but the exquisite vistas that He sees。 If He is displeased; you 
shall continue to see the world the way you now do。” 
“I shall practice genuine artistry in Hindustan;” I said。 “I’ve yet to make the 
picture Allah will judge me by。” 
“Don’t  nourish  the  illusion  over  much  that  you’ll  be  able  to  escape 
Frankish methods;” said Black。 “Did you know that Akbar Khan encourages all 
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his artists to sign their work? The Jesuit priests of Portugal long ago introduced 
European painting and methods there。 They are everywhere now。” 
“There’s  always  work  for  the  artist  who  wants  to  remain  pure;  there’s 
always a place to find shelter;” I said。 
“Aye;” said Stork; “going blind and fleeing to nonexistent countries。” 
“Why is it that you want to remain pure?” said Black。 “Stay here with us。” 
“For the rest of your lives you’ll do nothing but emulate the Franks for the 
sake  of  an  individual  style;”  I  said。  “But  precisely  because  you  emulate  the 
Franks you’ll never attain individual style。” 
“There’s nothing else left to do;” said Black dishonorably。 
Of course; it wasn’t artistry but beautiful Shekure that was his sole source 
of  happiness。  I  removed  the  bloodstained  dagger  from  Black’s  bleeding  nose 
and  raised  it  over  his  head  like  the  sword  of  an  executioner  preparing  to 
behead a condemned man。 
“If I so desired; I could cut off your head this instant;” I said; announcing 
what  was  already  apparent。  “But  I’m  prepared  to  spare  you  for  the  sake  of 
Shekure’s  children  and  her  happiness。  Be  good  to  her  and  don’t  act  crudely 
and ignorantly toward her。 Promise me!” 
“I give my word;” he said。 
“I hereby grant you Shekure;” I said。 
Yet  my  arm  acted  of  its  own  accord;  heedless  of  my  words。  I  drove  the 
dagger down upon Black with all my might。 
At  the  last  moment;  both  because  Black  moved  and  because  I  altered  the 
path  of  my  blow;  the  dagger  struck  his  shoulder;  not  his  neck。  I  watched  in 
terror; the deed enacted by my arm alone。 Once I removed the dagger; sunk to 
its handle in Black’s flesh; the spot bloomed a pure red。 What I’d done both 
frightened  and  shamed  me。  But  if  I  went  blind  on  the  ship;  perhaps  on  the 
Arabian  seas;  I  knew  that  I  could  not  then  take  revenge  upon  any  of  my 
miniaturist brethren。 
Stork;  afraid  that  his  turn  had  e;  and  justifiably  so;  fled  into  the 
blackened rooms within。 Holding the lamp aloft; I went after him; but soon 
grew  frightened  and  turned  back。  My  last  gesture  was  to  kiss  Butterfly;  and 
saying  farewell;  to  take  my  leave  of  him。  Since  the  tang  of  blood  had  e 
between  us;  I  couldn’t  kiss  him  to  my  heart’s  content。  But  he  noticed  that 
tears flowed from my eyes。 
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I  left  the  lodge  within  a  kind  of  deathly  silence  punctuated  by  Black’s 
moaning。  Nearly  running;  I  fled  the  wet  and  muddy  garden;  the  dark 
neighborhood。 The ship that was to take me to Akbar Khan’s workshop would 
depart after the morning azan; at that hour the last rowboat would leave for 
the ship from Galleon Harbor。 As I ran; tears poured from my eyes。 
As I passed through Aksaray like a thief; I could faintly make out the first 
light  of  day  on  the  horizon。  Opposite  the  first  neighborhood  fountain  I 
encountered; among the side streets; narrow passages and walls; was the stone 
house in which I’d spent the night of my first day in Istanbul twenty…five years 
ago。 There;
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