my name is red-我的名字叫红-第124部分
按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
Devil nursed painting。
“Despite knowing what it takes to be content； a man might still be
unhappy；” said Black。
He placed before me a series of pictures drawn on coarse Samarkand paper；
backed with heavy sheets； which he’d removed from the depths of a chest。 We
studied the pictures： a delightful Satan all the way from Khorasan that had
emerged from beneath the ground； a tree； a beautiful woman； a dog and the
picture of Death I myself had drawn。 These were the illustrations that the
murdered storyteller hung up each night he told one of his disgraceful stories。
Prompted by Black’s question； I pointed out the picture of Death I had drawn。
“The same pictures are in my Enishte’s book；” he said。
“Both the storyteller and the proprietor of the coffeehouse realized the
wisdom of having the miniaturists render the illustrations each night。 The
storyteller would have one of us quickly dash off an illustration on one of
these coarse sheets； ask us a little about the story and about our in jokes and
then； adding some of his own material； he’d start the evening’s performance。”
396
“Why did you make the same picture of Death for him that you made for
my Enishte’s book？”
“Upon the request of the storyteller； it was a lone figure on the page。 But I
didn’t draw it with attention and effort the way I had for Enishte’s book； I
drey hand felt like drawing it。 The others too； perhaps
trying to be witty； drew for the storyteller in a cruder and simpler manner
what they had made for that secret book。”
“Who made the horse；” he asked； “with the slit nostrils？”
Lowering the lamp we watched the horse in wonder。 It resembled the horse
made for Enishte’s book； but it ore careless and catered to a
simpler taste； as if somebody had not only paid the illustrator less money and
made him work faster； but also forced him to make a rougher and； I suppose
precisely for this reason； more realistic horse。
“Stork would know best who made this horse；” I said。 “He’s a conceited
fool who can’t last a day without listening to the gossip of miniaturists； that’s
why he visits the coffeehouse every night。 Yes； most certainly； Stork drew this
horse。”
397
I AM CALLED “STORK”
Butterfly and Black arrived in the middle of the night； they spread the pictures
on the floor before me； and asked me to tell them who’d made which
illustration。 It reminded me of the game “Whose Turban” we used to play
when we were children： You’d draw the various headdresses of a hoja； a
cavalryman； a judge； an executioner； a head treasurer and secretary and try to
match them with the corresponding names written on other facedown sheets。
I told them I’d made the dog myself。 We’d told its story to the storyteller。 I
said that gentle Butterfly； who held a dagger to my throat； must’ve drawn
Death； over which the light of the lamp wavered pleasantly。 I remembered that
Olive had rendered Satan with great enthusiasm； whose story was spun
entirely by the dearly departed storyteller。 I’d started the tree whose leaves
were drawn by all of us who came to the coffeehouse that night。 We came up
with the story as well。 So it was with Red； too： Some red ink had splattered
onto a page and the stingy storyteller asked if we could make a picture of it。
We dribbled some more red ink onto the page； then each of us sketched the
image of something red in a corner and told the story of his image so the
storyteller might recount it。 Olive made this exquisite horse here—praised be
his talent—and I think it was Butterfly who drew the melancholy woman。 Just
then Butterfly removed the dagger from my throat and told Black that； yes； he
now remembered how he’d drawn the woman。 We all contributed to the gold
coin in the bazaar； and Olive； a descendant of Kalenderis himself； drew the two
dervishes。 The sect of the Kalenderis is based on buggering young boys and
begging and their sheikh； Evhad…üd Dini Kirmani wrote the sect’s sacred book
250 years ago； revealing in verse that he’d seen God’s perfection manifested in
beautiful faces。
I asked the forgiveness of my master artist brethren for the disheveled state
of our house； offering the excuse that we’d been caught unprepared； and I told
them how sorry I was that we could offer them neither fragrant coffee nor
sweet oranges because my wife was still asleep in the inner room。 I said this so
they wouldn’t barge in there and I wouldn’t have to wreak bloody havoc upon
them when they didn’t find what they were looking for among the canvas；
drawstring cloth； summer sashes of Indian silk and fine muslin； Persian prints
and dolmans in the baskets and trunks they eagerly rummaged through； under
the carpets and cushions； among the illuminated pages I’d prepared for
various books； and within the pages of bound volumes。
398
Nevertheless； I must confess that it gave me a certain pleasure to behave as
if I were afraid of them。 An artist’s skill depends on carefully attending to the
beauty of the present moment； taking everything down to the minutest detail
seriously while； at the same time； stepping back from the world； which takes
itself too seriously； and as if looking into a mirror； allowing for the distance
and eloquence of a jest。
Accordingly； upon their asking； I said that； yes； when the Erzurumis began
their raid； there was； as on most evenings； a crowd of about forty in the
coffeehouse； which included； besides myself； Olive； Nas？r the Limner； Jemal the
calligrapher； two young assistant illustrators； the young calligraphers who were
now spending their days and nights with them； Rahmi the apprentice of
unsurpassed beauty； other handsome novices； six or seven men belonging to
the lot of poets； drunks； hashish addicts and dervishes and others who
cunningly charmed the proprietor into allowing them to join this mirthful
and witty group。 I explained how confusion reigned as soon as the raid began。
When the crowd of onlookers gathered by the proprietor for some bawdy
entertainment began to leave in a panic； no one thought to mount a defense
of the establishment or of the poor old storyteller dressed as a woman。 Did I
grieve over this calamity？ “Yes！ I； Mustafa the Painter； also known as ”Stork；“
who have truly devoted my entire life to illumination； find it necessary； each
night； to sit together with my artist brethren and converse； joke； ridicule； pay
pliments； recite poems and speak in innuendos；” I confessed； looking
directly into the eyes of dim…witted Butterfly； shrouded in the air of a plump；
moist…eyed boy plagued by envy。 Even as an apprentice； this Butterfly of ours；
whose eyes were still as lovely as a child’s； was a sensitive； fine…skinned beauty。
Again； upon their asking me； I described how on the second day that the
storyteller； may his soul find peace in Heaven； wandering the city and
neighborhoods began plying his trade in the coffeehouse； one of the
miniaturists； perhaps under the influence of coffee； hung a picture on the wall
to be amusing； the glib storyteller took notice and； as a joke of his own； began
a monologue as if he were the dog in the picture； which met with great
success； thenceforth； every night he continued to feature pictures drawn by the
master miniaturists and to tell witty tales they whispered into his ear。 Because
the jibes at the preacher from Erzurum at once exhilarated the artists； who
lived in terror of the preacher’s wrath； and drew more customers to the
coffeehouse； the proprietor from Edirne encouraged the performances。
They asked me my interpretation of the pictures the storyteller hung up
behind himself each night； the ones they found during their raid of brother
