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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第章

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empty  house;  occasionally  leaning  toward  the  candlestick;  in  the  flickering 
light of the dim candle; I y beloved’s angry 
letters;  the  somersaults  they  turned  trying  to  deceive  me  and  their  hip…
swinging right…to…left progression。 Abruptly; those shutters would open before 
my  eyes;  and  my  beloved’s  face  and  her  sorrowful  smile  would  appear。  And 
when  I  saw  her  real  face;  I  forgot  all  of  those  other  faces  whose  sour…cherry 
mouths had increasingly matured and ripened in my imagination。 
In  the  middle  of  the  night  I  lost  myself  in  dreams  of  marriage:  I  had  no 
doubts about my love or that it was reciprocated—we were married in a state 
of  great  contentment—but;  my  imaginary  happiness;  set  in  a  house  with  a 
staircase;  was  dashed  when  I  couldn’t  find  appropriate  work  and  began 
arguing with my wife; unable to make her heed my words。 
I knew I’d appropriated these ominous images from the section on the ills 
of marriage in Gazzali’s The Revival of Religious Science; which I’d read during 
my nights as a bachelor in Arabia; at the same time; I recalled that there was 
actually advice on the benefits of marriage in that same section; though now I 
could remember only two of these benefits: first; having my household kept in 
order (there was no such order in my imagined house); second; being spared 
the guilt of self…abuse and of dragging myself—an even deeper sense of guilt—
behind pimps leading me through dark alleyways to the lairs of prostitutes。 
The thought of salvation at this late hour brought masturbation to mind。 
With a simple…minded desire; and to rid my mind of this irrepressible urge; I 
retired to a corner of the room; as was my wont; but after a while I realized I 
couldn’t jack off—proof well enough that I’d fallen in love again after twelve 
years! 
This struck such excitement and fear into my heart that I walked around the 
room nearly atremble like the flame of the candle。 If Shekure meant to present 
herself at the window; then why this letter; which put the opposite belief into 
play? Why did her father call for me? As I paced; I sensed that the door; wall 
and  squeaky  floor;  stuttering  as  I  myself  did;  were  trying  to  creak  their 
responses to my every question。 
I looked at the picture I’d made years ago; which depicted Shirin stricken 
with  love  upon  gazing  at  Hüsrev’s  image  hanging  from  a  branch。  It  didn’t 
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embarrass me as it would each time it came to mind in subsequent years; nor 
did it bring back my happy childhood memories。 Toward morning; my mind 
had  mastered  the  situation:  By  returning  the  picture;  Shekure  had  made  a 
move in an amatory chess game she was masterfully luring me into。 I sat in 
the candlelight and wrote her a letter of response。 
In the morning; after sleeping for a spell; I went out and walked a long way 
through the streets; carrying the letter upon my breast and my light pen…and…
ink  holder;  as  was  my  custom;  in  my  sash。  The  snow  widened  Istanbul’s 
narrow streets and freed the city of its crowds。 All was quieter and slower; as 
it’d  been  in  my  childhood。  Crows  seemed  to  have  beset  Istanbul’s  roofs; 
domes and gardens just as they had on the snowy winter days of my youth。 I 
walked swiftly; listening to my steps in the snow and watching the fog of my 
breath。 I grew excited; expecting the palace workshop that my Enishte wanted 
me to visit to be as silent as the streets。 Before I entered the Jewish quarter; I 
sent word by way of a little street urchin to Esther; who’d be able to deliver my 
letter to Shekure; telling her where to meet me before the noontime prayers。 
I  arrived  early  at  the  royal  artisans’  workshop  located  behind  the  Hagia 
Sophia。 Except for the icicles hanging from the eaves; there was no change in 
the  building  where  I’d  often  visited  my  Enishte  and  for  a  time  worked  as  a 
child apprentice。 
Following  a  handsome  young  apprentice;  I  walked  past  elderly  master 
binders  dazed  from  the  smell  of  glue  and  bookbinder’s  paste;  master 
miniaturists whose backs had hunched at an early age and youths who mixed 
paints  without  even  looking  into  the  bowls  perched  on  their  knees;  so 
sorrowfully were they absorbed by the flames of the stove。 In a corner; I saw 
an  old  man  meticulously  painting  an  ostrich  egg  on  his  lap;  another  elder 
enthusiastically  embellishing  a  drawer  and  a  young  apprentice  graciously 
watching them both。 Through an open door; I witnessed young students being 
reprimanded  as  they  leaned  forward;  their  noses  almost  touching  the  pages 
spread  before  their  reddened  faces;  as  they  tried  to  understand  the  mistakes 
they’d made。 In another room; a mournful and melancholy apprentice; having 
forgotten  momentarily  about  colors;  papers  and  painting;  stared  into  the 
street I’d just now eagerly walked down。 
We  climbed  the  icy  staircase。  We  walked  through  the  portico;  which 
wrapped  around  the  inner  second  floor  of  the  building。  Below;  in  the  inner 
courtyard  covered  with  snow;  two  young  students;  obviously  trembling  from 
the cold despite their thick capes of coarse wool; were waiting—perhaps for an 
imminent beating。 I recalled my early youth and the beatings given to students 
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who  were  lazy  or  who  wasted  expensive  paints;  and  the  blows  of  the 
bastinado; which landed on the soles of their feet until they bled。 
We entered a warm room。 I saw two novices who’d recently finished their 
apprenticeships。  Since  the  great  masters;  whom  Master  Osman  had  given 
workshop  names;  now  worked  at  home;  this  room;  which  once  aroused 
excessive reverence and delight in me; no longer seemed like the workshop of a 
great  and  wealthy  sultan  but  merely  a  largish  room  in  some  secluded 
caravansary in the remote mountains of the East。 
Immediately  off  to  the  side;  before  a  long  counter;  I  saw  the  Head 
Illuminator; Master Osman; for the 
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