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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第章

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somewhat  stupider  expressions  because  they  haven’t  yet  killed;  and  like  all 
fools; they appear to have good intentions。 After I took care of that pathetic 
man; wandering the streets of Istanbul for four days was enough to confirm 
that everyone with a gleam of cleverness in his eye and the shadow of his soul 
cast across his face was a hidden assassin。 Only imbeciles are innocent。 
Tonight;  for  example;  while  warming  up  with  a  steaming  coffee  at  the 
coffeehouse located in the back streets of the slave market; gazing at the sketch 
of  a  dog  hanging  on  the  back  wall;  I  was  gradually  forgetting  my  plight  and 
laughing with the rest of them at everything the dog recounted。 Then; I had 
the  sensation  that  one  of  the  men  beside  me  was  a  mon  murderer  like 
myself。 Though he was simply laughing at the storyteller as I was; my intuition 
was  sparked;  either  by  the  way  his  arm  rested  near  mine  or  by  the  way  he 
restlessly  rapped  his  fingers  on  his  cup。  I’m  not  sure  how  I  knew;  but  I 
suddenly  turned  and  looked  him  directly  in  the  eye。  He  gave  a  start  and  his 
face contorted。 As the crowd dispersed; an acquaintance of his took him by the 
arm and said; “Nusret Hoja’s men will surely raid this place。” 
18 
 
Raising an eyebrow; he signaled the man quiet。 Their fear infected me。 No 
one trusted anyone; everyone expected to be done in at any moment by the 
man next to him。 
It  had  bee  even  colder;  and  snow  had  accumulated  on  street  corners 
and at the bases of walls。 In the blindness of night; I could find my way along 
the narrow streets only by groping with my hands。 At times; the dim light of 
an oil lamp still burning somewhere inside a wooden house filtered out from 
behind  blackened  windows  and  drawn  shutters;  reflecting  on  the  snow;  but 
mostly; I could see nothing; and found my way by listening for the sounds of 
watchmen banging their sticks on stones; for the howling of mad dogs; or the 
sounds ing from houses。 At times the narrow and dreadful streets of the 
city seemed to be lit up by a wondrous light ing from the snow itself; and 
in  the  darkness;  amid  the  ruins  and  trees;  I  thought  I  spotted  one  of  those 
ghosts that have made Istanbul such an ominous place for thousands of years。 
From  within  houses;  now  and  again;  I  heard  the  noises  of  miserable  people 
having coughing fits or snorting or wailing as they cried out in their dreams; 
or  I  heard  the  shouts  of  husbands  and  wives  as  they  tried  to  strangle  each 
other; their children sobbing at their feet。 
For  a  couple  of  nights  in  a  row;  I  came  to  this  coffeehouse  to  relive  the 
happiness I’d felt before being a murderer; to raise my spirits and to listen 
to the storyteller。 Most of my miniaturist friends; the brethren with whom I’d 
spent  my  entire  life;  came  here  every  night。  Since  I’d  silenced  that  lout  with 
whom I’d made illustrations since childhood I didn’t want to see any of them。 
Much embarrasses me about the lives of my brethren; who can’t do without 
gossiping;  and  about  the  disgraceful  atmosphere  of  joviality  in  this  place。  I 
even sketched a few pictures for the storyteller so they wouldn’t accuse me of 
conceit; but that failed to put an end to their envy。 
They’re  justified  in  being  jealous。  Not  one  of  them  could  surpass  me  in 
mixing   colors;   in   creating   and   embellishing   borders;   posing   pages; 
selecting  subjects;  drawing  faces;  arranging  bustling  war  and  hunting  scenes 
and depicting beasts; sultans; ships; horses; warriors and lovers。 Not one could 
approach my mastery in imbuing illustrations with the poetry of the soul; not 
even in gilding。 I’m not bragging; but explaining this to you so you might fully 
understand me。 Over time; jealousy bees an element as indispensable as 
paint in the life of the master artist。 
During my walks; which grow increasingly longer due to my restlessness; I 
e  face…to…face  occasionally  with  one  of  our  most  pure  and  innocent 
religious countrymen; and a strange notion suddenly enters my head: If I think 
19 
 
about the fact that I’m a murderer; the man before me will read it on my face。 
Therefore;  I  force  myself  to  think  of  different  things;  just  as  I  forced  myself; 
writhing in embarrassment; to banish thoughts of women when performing 
prayers as an adolescent。 But unlike those days of youthful fits when I couldn’t 
get  the  act  of  copulation  out  of  my  thoughts;  now;  I  can  indeed  forget  the 
murder that I’ve mitted。 
You realize; in fact; that I’m explaining all these things because they relate 
to  my  predicament。  But  if  I  were  to  divulge  even  one  detail  related  to  the 
killing  itself;  you’d  figure  it  all  out  and  this  would  relieve  me  from  being  a 
nameless;  faceless  murderer  roaming  among  you  like  an  apparition  and 
relegate  me  to  the  status  of  an  ordinary;  confessed  criminal  who  has  given 
himself up; soon to pay for his crime with his head。 Give me the license not to 
dwell  on  every  single  detail;  allow  me  to  keep  some  clues  to  myself:  Try  to 
discover who I am from my choice of words and colors; as attentive people like 
yourselves might examine footprints to catch a thief。 This; in turn; brings us to 
the issue of “style;” which is now of widespread interest: Does a miniaturist; 
ought a miniaturist; have his own personal style? A use of color; a voice all his 
own? 
Let’s consider a piece by Bihzad; the master of masters; patron saint of all 
miniaturists。 I happened across this masterpiece; which also nicely pertains to 
my situation because it’s a depiction of murder; among the pages of a flawless 
niy…year…old  book  of  the  Herat  school。  It  emerged  from  the  library  of  a 
Persian prince killed in a merciless battle of succession and recounts the story 
of Hüsrev and Shirin。 You; of course; know the fate of Hüsrev and Shirin; I refer 
to Nizami’s version; not Firdusi’s: 
The 
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