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第32章

my name is red-我的名字叫红-第32章

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berate himself in fits of anger; sorrow and impatience as soon as he learns he’s 
been  cheated;  and  these  fits  won’t  subside  until  he  rids  himself  of  me  by 
cheating another。 During this crisis; even as he attempts to repeatedly swindle 
others; failing each time on account of his haste and anger; he’ll continue all 
the while to curse the “immoral” person who had originally conned him。 
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Over  the  last  seven  years  in  Istanbul;  I’ve  changed  hands  560  times;  and 
there’s  not  a  house;  shop;  market;  bazaar;  mosque;  church  or  synagogue  I 
haven’t entered。 As I’ve roamed about; I’ve learned that much more gossip has 
been spread; many more legends told and lies spun in my name than I’d ever 
suspected。  I’ve  constantly  had  my  nose  rubbed  in  it:  Nothing’s  considered 
valuable  anymore  besides  me;  I’m  merciless;  I’m  blind;  I  myself  am  even 
enamored of money; the unfortunate world revolves around; not God; but me; 
and there’s nothing I can’t buy—all this is to say nothing of my dirty; vulgar 
and base nature。 And those who know that I’m fake are given to even harsher 
judgments。  As  my  actual  value  drops;  however;  my  metaphorical  value 
increases—proof  that  poetry  is  consolation  to  life’s  miseries。  But  despite  all 
such  heartless  parison  and  thoughtless  slander;  I’ve  realized  that  a  large 
majority  do  sincerely  love  me。  In  this  age  of  hatred;  such  heartfelt—even 
impassioned—affection ought to gladden us all。 
I’ve  seen  every  square  inch  of  Istanbul;  street  by  street  and  district  by 
district;  I’ve  known  all  hands  from  Jews  to  Abkhazians  and  from  Arabs  to 
Mingerians。  I  once  left  Istanbul  in  the  purse  of  a  preacher  from  Edirne  who 
was going to Manisa。 On the way; we happened to be attacked by thieves。 One 
of them shouted; “Your money or your life!” Panicking; the miserable preacher 
hid  us  in  his  asshole。  This  spot;  which  he  assumed  was  the  safest;  smelled 
worse than the mouth of the garlic lover and was much less fortable。 But 
the situation quickly grew worse when instead of “Your money or your life!” 
the thieves began to shout “Your honor or your life!” Lining up; they took him 
by turns。 I don’t dare describe the agony we suffered in that cramped hole。 It’s 
for this reason that I dislike leaving Istanbul。 
I’ve  been  well  received  in  Istanbul。  Young  girls  kiss  me  as  if  I  were  the 
husband  of  their  dreams;  they  hide  me  beneath  their  pillows;  between  their 
huge  breasts;  and  in  their  underwear;  they  even  fondle  me  in  their  sleep  to 
make certain I’m still there。 I’ve been stored next to the furnace in a public 
bath; in a boot; at the bottom of a small bottle in a wonderful…smelling musk 
seller’s  shop  and  in  the  secret  pocket  sewn  into  a  chef’s  lentil  sack。  I’ve 
wandered through Istanbul in belts made of camel leather; jacket linings made 
from  checkered  Egyptian  cloth;  in  the  thick  fabric  of  shoe  lining  and  in  the 
hidden corners of multicolored shalwars。 The master watchmaker Petro hid me 
in a secret partment of a grandfather clock; and a Greek grocer stuck me 
directly into a wheel of kashari cheese。 I hid together with jewelry; seals and 
keys  wrapped  in  pieces  of  thick  cloth  stowed  away  in  chimneys;  in  stoves; 
beneath   windowsills;   inside   cushions   stuffed   with   rough   straw;   in 
117 
 
underground chambers and in the hidden partments of chests。 I’ve known 
fathers  the dinner table to check whether I was 
still where I was supposed to be; women who sucked on me like candy for no 
reason;  children  who  sniffed  at  me  as  they  stuck  me  up  their  noses  and  old 
people with one foot in the grave who couldn’t relax unless they removed me 
from their sheepskin purses at least seven times a day。 There was a meticulous 
Circassian woman who; after spending the whole day cleaning the house; took 
us coins out of her purse and scrubbed us with a coarse brush。 I remember the 
one…eyed money changer who constantly stacked us up into towers; the porter 
who smelled of morning glories and who; along with his family; watched us as 
if looking out over a stunning landscape; and the gilder; no longer among us—
no  need  to  name  names—who  spent  his  evenings  arranging  us  into  various 
designs。 I’ve traveled in mahogany skiffs; I’ve visited the Sultan’s palace; I’ve 
hidden within Herat…made bindings; in the heels of rose…scented shoes and in 
the covers of packsaddles。 I’ve known hundreds of hands: dirty; hairy; plump; 
oily;  trembling  and  old。  I’ve  been  redolent  of  opium  dens;  candle…makers’ 
shops; dried mackerel and the sweat of all of Istanbul。 After experiencing such 
excitement and motion; a base thief who had slit his victim’s throat in the 
blackness  of  night  and  tossed  me  into  his  purse;  once  back  in  his  accursed 
house; spat in my face and grunted; “Damn you; it’s all because of you。” I was 
so offended; so hurt; that I wanted nothing more than to disappear。 
If I didn’t exist; however; no one would be able to distinguish a good artist 
from a bad one; and this would lead to chaos among the miniaturists; they’d 
all be at each other’s throats。 So I haven’t vanished。 I’ve entered the purse of 
the most talented and intelligent of miniaturists and made my way here。 
If you think you’re better than Stork; then by all means; get hold of me。 
 
 
   
118 
 
I AM CALLED BLACK 
 
I wondered whether Shekure’s father was aware of the letters we exchanged。 If 
I were to consider her tone; which bespoke a timid maiden quite afraid of her 
father;  I’d  have  to  conclude  that  not  a  single  word  about  me  had  passed 
between them。 Yet; I sensed that this was not the case。 The slyness in Esther’s 
looks; Shekure’s enchanting appearance at the window; the decisiveness with 
which my Enishte sent me to his illustrators and his despair when he ordered 
me to e this morning—all of it made me quite uneasy。 
In the morning; as soon as my Enishte asked me to sit before him; he began 
to describe the portraits he saw in Venice。 As the ambassador of Our Sultan; 
Refuge of the ber of palazzos; churches and the 
houses of prosperous men。 Over a period of days; he stood before thousands 
of portraits。 He saw thousands of framed faces depicted on stretched canvas or 
wood  or  painted  directly  onto  walls。  “Each  one  was  different  from  the  next。 
They  were  distinctive;  unique  human  faces!”  he  said。  He  was  intoxicated  by 
their  variety;  their  colors;  the  pleasantness—even  severity—of  the  soft  light 
that seemed to fall on them and the meaning emanating from their eyes。 
“As if a virulent plague had struck; everyone was having his portrait made;” 
he  said。  “In  all  of  Venice;  rich  and  influential  men  wanted  their  portraits 
painted as a symbol; a memento of their lives and a sign of their riches; power 
and influence—so they might always be there; standing before us; announcing 
their existence; nay; their individuality and distinction。” 
His words were belittling; as if he were speaking out of jealousy; ambition 
or  greed。  Though;  at  times;  as  he  talked  about  the  portraits  he’d  seen  in 
Venice; his face would abruptly light up like a child’s; invigorated。 
Portraiture had bee such a contagion among affluent men; princes and 
great  families  who  were  patrons  of  art  that  even  when  they  missioned 
frescoes of biblical scenes and religious legends for church walls; these infidels 
would  insist  that  their  own  images  appear  somewhere  in  the  work。  For 
instance; in a painting of the burial of St。 Stephan; you’d suddenly see; ah yes; 
present among the tearful graveside mourners; the very prince who was giving 
you the tour—in a state of pure enthusiasm; exhilaration and conceit—of the 
paintings  hanging  on  his  palazzo  walls。  Next;  in  the  corner  of  a  fresco 
depicting St。 Peter curing the sick with his shadow; you’d realize with an odd 
sense of disillusionment that the unfortunate one writhing there in pain was; 
in fact; the strong…as…an…ox brother of your polite host。 The following day; this 
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time  in  a  piece  depicting  the  Resurrection  of  the  Dead;  you’d  discover  the 
guest who’d stuffed himself beside you at lunch。 
“Some have gone so far; just to be included in a painting;” said my Enishte; 
fearfully  as  though  he  were  talking  about  the  temptations  of  Satan;  “that 
they’re willing to be portrayed as a servant filling goblets in the crowd; or a 
merciless  man  stoning  an  adulteress;  or  a  murderer;  his  hands  drenched  in 
blood。” 
Pretending not to understand; I said; “Exactly the way we see Shah Ismail 
ascending  the  throne  in  those  illustrated  books  that  recount  ancient  Persian 
legends。 Or when we e across a depiction of Tamerlane; who actually ruled 
long afterward; in the story of Hüsrev and Shirin。” 
Was there a noise somewhere in the ho

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