my name is red-我的名字叫红-第22部分
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and at the end of a blissful night of copious lovemaking with Neriman；
candlestick in hand； he entered the library like a mon thief； opened the
volume of Leyla and Mejnun； and in place of the face of Neriman’s late
husband； drew his own。 Like many khans who had a love for illustrating and
painting； however； he was an amateur artist and couldn’t portray himself very
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well。 In the morning； when his librarian opened the book on a suspicion of
tampering and beheld another figure in place of the late Selahattin Khan； next
to Neriman…faced Leyla； rather than identifying it as Fahir Shah； he announced
that it was Fahir Shah’s archenemy； the young and handsome Abdullah Shah。
This gossip provoked Fahir Shah’s soldiers and emboldened Abdullah Shah； the
young and aggressive new ruler of the neighboring country； who；
subsequently； in his first campaign； defeated； captured and killed Fahir Shah；
established his own sovereignty over his enemy’s library and harem and
became the new husband of the eternally beautiful Neriman Sultan。
DJIM
The miniaturists of Istanbul recount the legend of Tall Mehmet—known as
Muhammad Khorasani in Persia—mostly as an example of long life and
blindness。 However； the legend of Tall Mehmet is essentially a parable of
painting and time。 The primary distinction of this master； who； having begun
his apprenticeship at the age of nine； illustrated for more or less 110 years
without going blind； was his lack of distinction。 I’m not being witty here； but
expressing my sincere admiration。 Tall Mehmet drew everything； as everyone
else did； in the style of the great masters of old； but even more so； and for this
reason； he was the greatest of all masters。 His humbleness and plete
devotion to illustration and painting； which he deemed a service to Allah； set
him above both the disputes within the book…arts workshops where he worked
and the ambition to bee head miniaturist； though he was of appropriate
age and talent。 As a miniaturist； for 110 years； he patiently rendered every
trivial detail： grass drawn to fill up the edges of the page； thousands of leaves；
curly wisping clouds； horse manes of short repetitive strokes； brick walls；
never…ending wall ornamentation and the slant…eyed； delicate…chinned tens of
thousands of faces that were each an imitation of one another。 Tall Mehmet
was quite content and reserved and he never presumed to distinguish himself
or insisted about style or individuality。 He considered whichever khan’s or
prince’s workshop he happened to be working in at the time his house and
regarded himself as but a fixture in that home。 As khans and shahs strangled
one another and miniaturists moved from city to city like the women of the
harem to assemble under the auspices of new masters； the style of the new
book…arts workshop would first be defined in the leaves Tall Mehmet drew； in
his grass； in the curves of his rocks and in the hidden contours of his own
patience。 When he was eighty years old； people forgot that he was mortal and
began to believe that he lived within the legends he illustrated。 Perhaps for this
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reason； some maintained that he existed outside time and would never grow
old and die。 There were those who attributed his not going blind—despite
living without a home of his own； sleeping in the rooms or tents which
constituted miniaturists’ workshops and spending most of his time staring at
manuscript pages—to the miracle of time having ceased to flow for him。 Some
claimed that he was actually blind； and no longer had any need to see since he
painted from memory。 At the age of 119； this legendary master who’d never
married and had never even made love； met the flesh…and…blood ideal of the
beautiful slant…eyed； sharp…chinned； moon…faced boy he’d depicted for a
century： a part…Chinese part…Croatian sixteen…year…old apprentice in Shah
Tahmasp’s miniaturists’ workshop； with whom quite abruptly and
understandably； he fell in love。 In order to seduce this boy…apprentice of
unimaginable beauty； as a true lover would do； he schemed and joined in
power struggles between miniaturists； he gave himself over to lying； deception
and trickery。 At first； the master miniaturist of Khorasan was invigorated by
his attempts to catch up to the artistic fashions he’d successfully avoided for
one hundred years； but this effort also divorced him from the eternal
legendary days of old。 Late one afternoon； staring dreamily at the beautiful
apprentice before an open window； he caught cold in the icy Tabriz wind。 The
following day； during a fit of sneezing； he went pletely blind。 Two days
later； he fell down the lofty stone workshop stairs and died。
“I’ve heard the name of Tall Mehmet of Khorasan； but I’ve never heard this
legend；” Black said。
He delicately offered this ment to show he knew the story was finished
and his mind was occupied with what I’d related。 I fell silent for a time so he
could stare at me to his heart’s content。 Since it bothers me when my hands
are not occupied； just after beginning the second story； I started to paint
again； picking up where I’d left off when Black knocked on the door。 My
ely apprentice Mahmut； who always sat at my knee and mixed my paints；
sharpened my reed pens and sometimes erased my errors； silently sat beside
me； listening and staring； from within the house the sounds of my wife’s
movements could be heard。
“Aahaa；” said Black； “the Sultan has arisen。”
He stared at the painting with awe； and I pretended the reason for his awe
was insignificant； but let me tell you candidly： Our Exalted Sultan appears
seated in all two hundred of our circumcision ceremony pictures in the Book of
Festivities； watching for fifty…two days the passing of the merchants； guilds；
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spectators； soldiers and prisoners from the window of the royal enclosure
erected for the occasion。 Only in one picture of mine is He shown on foot；
tossing money from florin…filled pouches to the cro
was to capture the surprise and excitement of the crowds punching； kicking
and strangling one another as they scrambled to grab coins off the ground；
their asses jutting toward the sky。
“If love is part of the subject of the painting； the work ought to be rendered
with love；” I said。 “If there’s pain involved； pain should issue from the
painting。 Yet the pain ought to emerge from the at first glance invisible yet
discernible inner harmony of the picture； not from the figures in the
illustration or from their tears。 I didn’t depict surprise； as it has been shown
for centuries by hundreds of master miniaturists； as a figure with his index
finger inserted into the circle of his mouth； but made the whole painting
embody surprise。 This； I acplished by inviting the Sovereign to rise to His
feet。”
I was intrigued and bothered by how he scrutinized my possessions and
illustrating tools； nay my whole life； looking for a clue； and then； I began to see
my own house through his eyes。
You know those palace； hamam and castle pictures that were made in Tabriz
and Shiraz for a time； so that the picture might replicate the piercing gaze of
Exalted Allah； who sees and understands all； the miniaturist would depict the
palace in cross…section as though having cut it in half with a huge； magical
straight razor； and he’d paint all the interior details—which could otherwise
never be seen from outside—down to the pots and pans； drinking glasses； wall
ornamentation； curtains； caged parrots； the most private corners； and the
pillows on which reclined a lovely maiden such as had never seen the light of
day。 Like a curious awestruck reader； Black was examining my paints； my
papers； my books； my lovely assistant； the pages of a Book of Costumes and the
collage album that I’d made for a Frankish traveler； scenes of fucking and other
indecent pages I’d secretly dashed off for a pasha； my inkpots of variously
colored glass； bronze and ceramic； my ivory penknives； my gold…stemmed
brushes； and yes； the glances of my handsome apprentice。
“Unlike the old masters； I’ve seen a lot of battle； a lot；” I said to fill the
silence with my presence。 “War machines； cannonballs； armies； corpses； it was
I who embellished the ceilings of the tents of Our Sultan and our generals。
After a military campaign； upon returning to Istanbul； it was I who recorded
in pictures the scenes of battle that everyone would otherwise have forgotten；
corpses sliced in two； the clash of opposing armies； the soldiers
