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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第章

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Scenes of bat or fucking are quite mon。 The price for a bustling battle 
has  fallen  to  three  hundred  silver  coins;  and  there  are  hardly  any  interested 
clients。  To  sell  pieces  on  the  cheap  and  to  better  lure  a  buyer;  some  simply 
draw  in  black  ink  on  nonsized;  unfinished  paper  with  nary  a  brushstroke  of 
color。” 
“There  was  a  gilder  of  mine  who  was  content  as  content  could  be  and 
talented as talent would allow;” said Master Osman。 “He saw to his work with 
such  elegance  that  we  referred  to  him  as  ”Elegant  Effendi。“  But  he  has 
abandoned  us。  It’s  been  six  days;  and  he’s  not  to  be  found  anywhere。  He’s 
plain disappeared。” 
“How could anyone quit such a workshop as this; such a joyous hearth?” I 
said。 
“Butterfly;  Olive;  Stork  and  Elegant;  the  four  young  masters  whom  I’ve 
trained  since  they  were  apprentices;  now  work  at  home  at  Our  Sultan’s 
behest;” said Master Osman。 
This  apparently  came  about  so  they  could  work  more  fortably  on  the 
Book of Festivities with which the entire workshop was involved。 This time; the 
Sultan hadn’t arranged for a special workspace for His master miniaturists in 
the palace courtyard; rather; He decreed that they work on this special book at 
home。 When it occurred to me that this order was probably issued for the sake 
of my Enishte’s book; I fell silent。 To what degree was Master Osman making 
insinuations? 
“Nuri  Effendi;”  he  called  to  a  pale  and  hunched  painter;  “present  Our 
Master Black with a ”survey‘ of the workshop!“ 
The  “survey”  was  a  regular  ritual  of  Our  Sultan’s  bimonthly  visits  to  the 
miniaturists’ atelier during that exciting time when His Excellency had intently 
followed what transpired at the workshop。 Under the auspices of Haz?m; the 
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Head Treasurer; Lokman; the Head Poetic Chronicler and Master Osman; the 
Head  Illuminator;  Our  Sultan  would  be  apprised  of  which  pages  in  which 
books  the  masters  were  working  on  at  any  given  moment:  who  did  which 
gilding;  who  colored  which  picture;  and  one  by  one;  how  the  colorists;  the 
page  rulers;  the  gilders  and  the  master  miniaturists;  whose  talent  allowed 
them  to  acplish  miracles;  were  engaged。  It  saddened  me  that  they  were 
holding  a  fake  ceremony  in  place  of  the  one  that  was  no  longer  performed 
because age and ill health bound the Head Poetic Chronicler Lokman Effendi; 
who  wrote  most  of  the  books  which  were  illustrated;  to  his  home;  because 
Master Osman often disappeared in a cloud of indignation and wrath; because 
the four masters known as Butterfly; Olive; Stork and Elegant worked at home; 
and  because  Our  Sultan  no  longer  waxed  enthusiastic  like  a  child  in  the 
workshop。 As happened to many miniaturists; Nuri Effendi had grown old in 
vain; without having fully experienced life or bee a master of his art。 Not 
in  vain;  however;  did  he  spend  those  years  over  his  worktable  being 
hunchbacked:  He  always  paid  close  attention  to  what  happened  in  the 
workshop; to who made which exquisite page。 
And so I eagerly beheld for the first time the legendary pages of the Book of 
Festivities;  which  recounted  the  circumcision  ceremonies  of  Our  Sultan’s 
prince。  When  I  was  still  in  Persia;  I  heard  stories  about  this  fifty…two…day 
circumcision ceremony wherein people from all occupations and all guilds; all 
of   Istanbul;   had   participated;   indeed   at   a   time   when   the   book   that 
memorialized the great event was yet being prepared。 
In  the  first  picture  placed  before  me;  fixed  in  the  royal  enclosure  of  late 
Ibrahim Pasha’s palace; Our Sultan; the Refuge of the World; gazed upon the 
festivities in the Hippodrome below with a look that bespoke His satisfaction。 
His face; even though not so detailed as to permit one to distinguish Him from 
others  by  features  alone;  was  drawn  adeptly  and  with  reverence。  As  for  the 
right side of the double…leaf picture showing Our Sultan on the left; there were 
viziers; pashas; Persian; Tatar; Frankish and Veian ambassadors standing in 
the arched colonnades and windows。 Because they were not sultans; their eyes 
were drawn hastily and carelessly and focused on nothing in particular besides 
the general motion in the square。 Later; I noticed in other pictures that the 
same  arrangement  and  page  position  repeated—even  though  the  wall 
ornamentation;  the  trees  and  terra…cotta  shingles  were  depicted  in  different 
styles  and  colors。  Once  the  text  was  written  out  by  scribes;  the  illustrations 
pleted  and  the  book  bound;  the  reader;  turning  pages;  would  each  time 
see  pletely  different  activities  in  pletely  different  colors  in  the 
Hippodrome which remained under the same watchful gazes of the Sultan and 
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His crowd of guests—who always stood identically; forever gazing at the same 
area below。 
There before me I saw people scrambling for hundreds of bowls of pilaf that 
were placed in the Hippodrome; I saw the live rabbits and birds emerge out of 
the  roast  ox  and  startle  the  crowd  that  had  descended  upon  it。  I  saw  the 
master  coppersmiths’  guild  riding  in  a  wheeled  cart  before  Our  Sultan;  its 
members hammering away at copper but never striking the one among them 
lying  in  the  cart  with  the  anvil  balanced  on  his  bare  chest。  I  saw  glaziers 
embellishing glass with carnations and cypresses as they paraded before Our 
Sultan  in  a  wagon;  confectioners  reciting  sweet  poems  as  they  drove  camels 
laden with sacks of sugar and displayed cages holding sugar…parrots; and aged 
locksmiths  who  showed  off  a  variety  of  hanging  locks;  padlocks;  dead  bolts 
and  gearlocks  as  they  plained  of  the  evils  of  new  times  and  new  doors。 
Butterfly;  Stork  and  Olive  had  worked  on  the  picture  that  depicted  the 
magicians:  One  of  them  was  causing  eggs  to  march  down  a  pole
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