my name is red-我的名字叫红-第64章
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！
master meant。 But the close attention my master had shown to the thousands
of pictures made over the last two hundred years from Bukhara to Herat； from
Tabriz to Baghdad and all the way to Istanbul； had far exceeded the search for a
clue in the depiction of some horse’s nostrils。 We’d participated in a kind of
melancholy elegy to the inspiration； talent and patience of all the masters
who’d painted and illuminated in these lands over the years。
For this reason； when the doors of the Treasury were opened at the time of
the evening prayer and Master Osman explained to me that he had no desire
whatsoever to leave； and that furthermore； only by remaining here until
morning examining pictures by the light of oil lamps and candles could he
execute properly Our Sultan’s charge； my first response； as I informed him；
was to remain here with him and the dwarf。
However； when the door was opened and my master conveyed our wish to
the waiting chiefs and asked permission of the Head Treasurer； immediately
regretted my decision。 I longed for Shekure and our house。 I grew increasingly
restless as I wondered how she would manage； spending the night alone with
the children and how she would batten down the now…repaired shutters of the
windows。
Through the opened half of the Treasury portal； I was beckoned to the
magnificence of life outside by the large damp plane trees in the courtyard of
the Enderun—now under a hint of fog—and by the gestures of two royal
pages； speaking to each other in a sign language so as not to disturb the peace
of Our Sultan； but I remained where I was； frozen by embarrassment and guilt。
332
WE TWO DERVISHES
Yea； the rumor that our picture was among the pages from China； Samarkand
and Herat prising an album hidden away in the remotest corner of the
Treasury filled with the plunder of hundreds of countries over hundreds of
years by the ancestors of His Excellency； Our Sultan； was most probably spread
to the miniaturists’ division by the dwarf Jezmi Agha。 If we might now
recount our own story in our own fashion—the will of God be with us—we
hope that none of the crowd in this fine coffeehouse will take offense。
One hundred and ten years have passed since our deaths； forty since the
closing of our irredeemable； Persia…partisan dervish lodges； those dens of
heresy and nests of devilry； but see for yourselves； here we are before you。 How
could this be？ I’ll tell you how： We were rendered in the Veian style！ As this
illustration indicates； one day we two dervishes were tramping through Our
Sultan’s domains from one city to the next。
We were barefoot； our heads were shaven； and we were half naked； each of
us was wearing a vest and the hide of a deer； a belt around our waists and we
were holding our walking sticks； our begging bowls dangling from our necks
by a chain； one of us was carrying an axe for cutting wood； and the other a
spoon to eat whatever food God had blessed us with。
At that moment； standing before a caravansary beside a fountain； my dear
friend； nay； my beloved； nay； my brother and I had given ourselves over to the
usual argument： “You first please； no you first；” we were noisily deferring to
each other as to who’d be the first to take up the spoon and eat from the
bowl； when a Frank traveler； a strange man； stopped us； gave us each a silver
Veian coin and began to draw our picture。
He was a Frank； of course； he was weird。 He situated us right in the center
of the page as if we were the very tent of the Sultan； and was depicting us in
our half…naked state when I shared with my panion a thought that had
just then dawned upon me： To appear like a pair of truly impoverished
Kalenderi beggar dervishes； we should roll our eyes back so our pupils look
inward； the whites of our eyes facing the world like blind men—and that’s
exactly what we proceeded to do。 In this situation； it’s the nature of a dervish
to behold the world in his head rather than the world outside； since our heads
were full of hashish； the landscape of our minds was more pleasant than what
the Frank painter saw。
333
Meanwhile； the scene outside had grown even worse； we heard the ranting
of a Hoja Effendi。
Pray； let us not give the wrong idea。 We’ve now made mention of the
respected “Hoja Effendi；” but last week in this fine coffeehouse there was a
great misunderstanding： This respected “Hoja Effendi” of whom we speak has
nothing whatsoever to do with His Excellency Nusret Hoja the cleric from
Erzurum； nor with the bastard Husret Hoja； nor with the hoja from Sivas who
made it with the Devil atop a tree。 Those who interpret everything negatively
have said that if His Excellency Hoja Effendi bees a target of reproach here
once again； they’ll cut out the storyteller’s tongue and lower this coffeehouse
about his head。
One hundred and twenty years ago； there being no coffee then； the
respected Hoja； whose story we’ve begun； was simply steaming with rage。
“Hey； Frank infidel； why are you drawing these two？” he was saying。 “These
wretched Kalenderi dervishes wander around thieving and begging； they take
hashish； drink wine； bugger each other； and as is evident from the way they
look； know nothing of performing or reciting prayers； nothing of house； or
home； or family； they’re nothing but the dregs of this good world of ours。 And
you； why are you painting this picture of disgrace when there’s so much
beauty in this great country？ Is it to disgrace us？”
“Not at all； it’s simply because illustrations of your bad side bring in more
money；” said the infidel。 We two dervishes were dumbfounded at the
soundness of the painter’s reasoning。
“If it brought you more money； would you paint the Devil in a favorable
light？” the Hoja Effendi said； coyly trying to start an argument； but as you can
see from this picture； the Veian was a genuine artist； and he’d focused
upon the work before him and the money it’d bring rather than heeding the
Hoja’s empty prattle。
He did indeed paint us； and then slid us into the leather portfolio on the
back of his horse’s saddle； and returned to his infidel city。 Soon afterward； the
victorious armies of the Ottomans conquered and plundered that city on the
banks of the Danube； and the two of us ended up ing back this way to
Istanbul and the Royal Treasury。 From there； copied over and over； we moved
from one secret book to another； and finally arrived at this joyous coffeehouse
where coffee is drunk like a rejuvenating； invigorating elixir。 Now then：
334
A Brief Treatise on Painting； Death and Our Place in the World
The Hoja Effendi from Konya； whom we’ve just mentioned； has made the
following claim somewhere in one of his sermons； which are written out and
collected in a thick tome： Kalenderi dervishes are the unnecessary dross of the
world because they don’t belong to any of the four categories into which men
are divided： 1。 notables； 2。 merchants； 3。 farmers and 4。 artists； thus； they are
superfluous。
Additionally； he said the following： “These two always tramp about as a pair
and always argue about which of them will be the first to eat with their only
spoon； and those who don’t know that this is a sly allusion to their true
concern—who’ll be the first to bugger the other—find it amusing and laugh。
His Excellency Please…Don’t…Take…It…Wrong Hoja has uncovered our secret
because he； along with us； the pretty young boys； apprentices and miniaturists；
are all fellow travelers on the same path。”
The Real Secret
However； the real secret is this： While the Frank infidel was making our
picture； he gazed at us so sweetly and with such attention to detail that we
took a liking to him and enjoyed being depicted by him。 But； he was
mitting the error of looking at the world with his naked eye and rendering
what he saw。 Thus； he drew us as if we were blind although we could see just
fine； but we didn’t mind。 Now； we’re quite content； indeed。 According to the
Hoja； we’re in Hell； according to some unbelievers we’re nothing but decayed
corpses and according to you； the intelligent society of miniaturists gathered
here； we’re a picture； and because we’re a picture； we stand here before you as
though we were alive and well。 After our run…in with the respected Hoja
Effendi and after walking from Konya to Sivas in three nights； through eight
villages； begging all the way； one night we were beset by such cold and snow
that we two dervishes； hugging each other tightly； fell asleep and froze to
death。 Just before dying I had a dream： I was the subject of a painting that
entered Heaven after thousands and thousands of years。
335
IT IS I； MASTER OSMAN
They tell a story in Bukhara that dates back to the time of Abdullah Khan。 This
Uzbek Khan was a suspicious ruler； and though he didn’t object to more than
one artist’s brush contributing to the same illustration； he was opposed to
painters copying from one another’s pages—because this made it impossible
to determine which of the artists brazenly copying from one another was to
blame for an error。 More importantly； after a time； instead of pushing
themselves to seek out God’s memories within the darkness； pilfering
miniaturists would lazily seek out whatever they saw over the shoulder of the
artist beside them。 For this reason； the Uzbek Khan joyously weled two
great masters； one from Shiraz in the South； the other from Samarkand in the
East； who’d fled from war and cruel shahs to the shelter of his court； however；
he forbade the two celebrated talents to look at each other’s work； and
separated them by giving them small workrooms on opposite ends of his
palace； as far from each other as possible。 Thus； for exactly thirty…seven years
and four months； as if listening to a legend； these two great masters each
listened to Abdullah Khan recount the magnificence of the other’s never…to…
be…seen work； how it differed from or was oddly similar to the other’s。
Meanwhile； they both lived dying of curiosity about each other’s paintings。
After the Uzbek Khan’s life had run its long tortoiselike course； the two old
artists ran to each other’s rooms to see the paintings。 Later still； sitting upon
either edge of a large cushion； holding each other’s books on their laps and
looking at the pictures that they recognized from Abdullah Khan’s fables； both
the miniaturists were overe with great disappointment because the
illustrations they saw weren’t nearly as spectacular as those they’d anticipated
from the stories they’d heard； but instead appeared； much like all the pictures
they’d seen in recent years； rather ordinary； pale and hazy。 The two great
masters didn’t then realize that the reason for this haziness was the blindness
that had begun to descend upon them； nor did they realize it after both had
gone pletely blind； rather they attributed the haziness to having been
duped by the Khan； and hence they died believing dreams were more beautiful
than pictures。
In the dead of night in the cold Treasury room； as I turned pages with
frozen fingers and gazed upon the pictures in books that I’d dreamed of for
forty years； I knew I was much happier than the artists in this pitiless story
from Bukhara。 It gave me such a thrill to know； before going blind and passing
into the Hereafter； that I was handling the very books whose legends I’d heard
336
about my whole life； and at times I would murmur； “Thank you； God； thank
you” when I saw that one of pages I was turning was even more marvelous
than its legend。
For instance； eighty years ago Shah Ismail crossed the river and by the
sword reconquered Herat and all of Khorasan from the Uzbeks； whereupon he
appointed his brother Sam Mirza governor of Herat； to celebrate this joyous
occasion； his brother； in turn； had a manuscript prepared； an illuminated
version of a book entitled The Convergence of the Stars； which recounted a story
as witnessed by Emir Hüsrev in the palace of Delhi。 According to legend； one
illustration in this book showed the two rulers meeting on the banks of a river
where they celebrated their victory。 Their faces resembled the Sultan of Delhi；
Keykubad； and his father； Bughra Khan； the Ruler of Bengal； who were the
subjects of the book； but they also resembled the faces of Shah Ismail and his
brother Sam Mirza； the men responsible for the book’
