I AM CALLED BLACK
IwonderedwhetherShekure’sfatherwasawareofthelettersweexged.IfIweretosiderhertone,whichbespokeatimidmaidenquiteafraidofherfather,I’dhavetocludethatnotasinglewordaboutmehadpassedbetweenthem.Yet,Isehatthiswasnotthecase.Theslynessiher’slooks,Shekure’sentingappearahewindow,thedecisivenesswithwhichmyEnishteseohisillustratorsandhisdespairwhenheorderedmetoethism—allofitmademequiteuneasy.
Inthem,assoonasmyEnishteaskedmetositbeforehim,hebegantodescribetheportraitshesawinVeheambassadorofOurSultan,RefugeoftheWorld,he’dvisitedquiteanumberofpalazzos,churchesandthehousesofprosperousmen.Overaperiodofdays,hestoodbeforethousandsofportraits.Hesawthousandsofframedfacesdepictedochedvasorwoodorpainteddirectlyontowalls.“Eaewasdifferentfromtheheyweredistinctive,uniquehumanfaces!”hesaid.Hewasintoxicatedbytheirvariety,theircolors,thepleasantness—evey—ofthesoftlightthatseemedtofallonthemandthemeaningemanatingfromtheireyes.
“Asifavirulentplaguehadstruck,everyonewashavinghisportraitmade,”hesaid.“InallofVenice,ridiialmenwaheirportraitspaintedasasymbol,amementooftheirlivesandasignoftheirriches,powerandinflueheymightalwaysbethere,standingbeforeus,announgtheirexistenay,theirindividualityanddistin.”
Hiswordswerebelittling,asifhewerespeakingoutofjealousy,ambitireed.Though,attimes,ashetalkedabouttheportraitshe’dseeninVenice,hisfacewouldabruptlylightuplikeachild’s,invigorated.
Portraiturehadbeesuchatagionamongaffluentmen,prindgreatfamilieswhowerepatronsofartthateveheyissionedfrescoesofbiblicalsesandreligiouslegendsforchurchwalls,theseinfidelswouldinsistthattheirownimagesappearsomewhereinthework.ForinstanapaintingoftheburialofSt.Stephan,you’dsuddenlysee,ahyes,presentamoearfulgravesidemourheveryprincewhowasgivingyouthetour—inastateofpureenthusiasm,exhilarationandceit—ofthepaintingshangingonhispalazzowalls.,intheerofafrescodepigSt.Petergthesickwithhisshadow,you’drealizewithanoddsenseofdisillusiohattheunfortunateohingthereinpainwas,infact,thestrong-as-an-oxbrotherofyourpolitehost.Thefollowingday,thistimeinapiecedepigtheResurreoftheDead,you’ddiscuestwho’dstuffedhimselfbesideyouatlunch.
“Somehavegonesofar,justtobeincludedinapainting,”saidmyEnishte,fearfullyasthoughheweretalkingaboutthetemptationsofSatan,“thatthey’rewillingtobeportrayedasaservantfillinggobletsinthecrowd,oramercilessmanstoninganadulteress,oramurderer,hishandsdrenchedinblood.”
Pretendingnottouand,Isaid,“ExactlythewayweseeShahIsmailasdihrohoseillustratedbooksthatretaPersianlegends.OrwhenweeacrossadepiofTamerlane,whoactuallyruledlongafterward,ioryofHüsrevandShirin.”
Wasthereanoisesomewhereinthehouse?
“It’sasiftheVeianpaintingsweremadethtenus,”saidmyEnishtelater.“Anditisn’tenoughthatwebeiheauthorityandmohesemenwhoissiontheworks,theyalsowantustoknowthatsimplyexistinginthisworldisaveryspecial,verymysteriousevent.They’reattemptingtoterrifyuswiththeiruniquefaces,eyes,bearingandwiththeirclothingwhoseeveryfoldisdefinedbyshadow.They’reattemptingtoterrifyusbybeiuresofmystery.”
Heexplainedhowoncehe’dgottenlostintheexquisitepalleryofalunaticcollectorwhoseopuleeerchedontheshoresofLakeo;theproprietorhadcollectedtheportraitsofallthegreatpersonagesinFrankishhistoryfromkingstocardinals,andfromsoldierstopoets:“WhenmyhospitablehostleftmealooroamasIwishedthroughouthispalazzo,whichhe’dproudlygiveourof,Isawthatthesesupposedlyimportantinfidels—mostofearedtoberealandsomeofwhomlookedmestraightintheeye—hadattaiheirimportahisworldsolelyonatofhavingtheirportraitsmade.Theirlikenesseshadimbuedthemwithsuchmagic,hadsodistinguishedthem,thatforamomentamongthepaintingsIfeltflawedandimpotent.HadIbeeedinthisfashion,itseemed,I’dbetteruandwhyIexistedinthisworld.”
Hewasfrightenedbecausehesuddenlyuood—andperhapsdesired—thatIslamicartistry,perfectedandsecurelyestablishedbytheoldmastersofHerat,wouldmeetitsendonatoftheappealofportraiture.“However,itwasasifItoowaofeelextraordinary,differentandunique,”hesaid.AsifproddedbytheDevil,hefelthimselfstronglydrawntowhathefeared.“HowshouldIsayit?It’sasifthiswereasinofdesire,likegrowingarrogantbefod,likesideringoneselfofutmostimportance,likesituatingotheteroftheworld.”
Thereafter,thisideadawnedonhim:ThesemethodswhichtheFrankishartistsmadeuseofasifplayingapridefulchild’sgame,couldbemorethansimplymagicassociatedwithOurExaltedSultan—butcouldinfactbeeaforcemeanttoserveiingusswayallwhobeheldit.
Ilearhattheideaofpreparinganilluminatedmanuscripthadarisenthen:myEnishte,who’dreturoIstanbulfromVenice,suggesteditwouldbeexcellentindeedforOurSultahesubjectofaportraitintheFrankishstyle.ButafterHisExcellencytookexception,abooktainingpicturesofOurSultanandtheobjectsthatrepresentedHimwasagreedupon.
“Itisthestorythat’sessential,”ourwisestandmostGloriousSultanhadsaid.“Abeautifulillustratiolypletesthestory.Anillustrationthatdoesnotplementastory,intheend,willbeebutafalseidol.Sinceweotpossiblybelieveinaory,wewillnaturallybeginbelievingiureitself.ThiswouldbenodifferentthantheworshipofidolsintheKaabathatwentonbefore
OurProphet,peadblessingsbeuponhim,haddestroyedthem.Ifnotaspartofastory,howwouldyouproposetodepictthisredation,forexample,orthatidwarfoverthere?”
“Byexposingtheatioyanduniqueness.”
“Inthearraofyourse,then,wouldyousituatethefloweratthepreciseterofthepage?”
“Iwasafraid,”myEnishtesaid.“IpanickedmomentarilywhenIrealizedwhereOurSultan’sthoughtsweretakingme.”
WhatfilledmyEnishtewithfearwasthenotionofsituatingattheterofthepage—andthereby,theworld—somethingotherthanwhatGodhadintended.
“Thereafter,”OurSultanhadsaid,“you’llwanttoexhibitapictureinwhoseteryou’vesituatedadwarf.”ItwasasIhadassumed.“Butthispicturecouldneverbedisplayed:afterawhile,we’dbegintoworshipapicturewe’vehungonawall,regardlessoftheinaliions.IfIbelieved,heavenforbid,thewaytheseinfidelsdo,thattheProphetJesuswasalsotheLodhimself,thenI’dalsoholdthatGodcouldbeobservedinthisworld,ahatHeainhumanform;onlythenmightIacceptthedepiankindinfulldetailandexhibitsuchimages.Youdouandthat,eventually,wewouldunthinkinglybeginworshipinganypicturethatishungonawall,don’tyou?”
MyEnishtesaid:“Iuooditquitewell,andbecauseIdid,Iwasafraidofwhatwebothwerethinking.”
“Forthisreason,”OurSultanremarked,“Icouldneverallowmyportraittobedisplayed.”
“Thoughthisisexactlywhathewanted,”whisperedmyEnishte,withadevilishtitter.
Itwasmyturnthtenednow.
“heless,itismydesirethatmyportraitbemadeiyleoftheFrankishmasters,”OurSultaon.“Suchaportraitwill,ofcourse,havetobecealedwithinthepagesofabook.Whateverthatbookmightbe,youshallbetheoellme.”
“Inaninstantofsurpriseandawe,Isideredhisstatement,”saidmyEnishte,thengrinningmoredevilishlythanbefore,heseemed,suddenly,tobeesomeoneelse.
“HisExcellencyOurSultanorderedmetostartwonHisbookposthaste.Myheadspunwithjoy.HeaddedthatitoughttobepreparedasapresentfortheVeianDoge,whomIwastovisitonceagain.Ohebookwaspleted,itwouldbeeasymbolofthevanquishingpoweroftheIslamicCaliphOurExaltedSultan,ihousandthyearoftheHegira.HerequestedthatIpreparethe
illuminatedmanuscriptinutmostsecrecy,primarilytocealitspurposeasanolivebraeheVeians,butalsotoavoidaggravatingworkshopjealousies.Andinastateofgreatelationandsworntosecrecy,Iembarkeduponthisventure.”
IAMYOURBELOVEDUNdsoitwasonthatFridaym,IbegantodescribethebookthatwouldtainOurSultan’sportraitpaiheVeianstyle.IbroachedthetopictoBlackbyretinghowI’dbroughtitupwithOurSultanandhowI’dpersuadedhimtofundthebook.MyhiddenpurposewastohaveBlackwritethestories—whichIhadn’tevenbegun—thatweremeanttoapanytheillustrations.
ItoldhimI’dpletedmostofthebook’sillustrationsandthatthelastpicturewasnearlyfihere’sadepiofDeath,”Isaid,“andIhadthemostcleverofminiaturists,Stork,illustratethetreerepresentingthepeacefulnessofOurSultan’sworldlyrealm.There’sapictureofSatanandahorsemeanttospiritusfarfaraway.There’sadog,alwaysingandwily,andalsoagold…Ihadthemasterminiaturistsdepictthesethingswithsuchbeauty,”ItoldBlack,“thatifyousawthembutonce,you’dknhtawaywhatthecorrespondioughttobe.Poetryandpainting,wordsandcolor,thesethingsarebrotherstoeachother,asyouwellknow.”
Forawhile,IponderedwhetherIshouldtellhimImightmarryoffmydaughtertohim.Wouldhelivetogetherwithusinthishouse?Itoldmyselfnottobetakeninbyhisraptattentionandhischildlikeexpression.IknewhewasschemingtoelopewithmyShekure.Still,Icouldrelyonnobodyelsetofinishmybook.
ReturningtogetherfromtheFridayprayers,wediscussed“shadow,”thegreatestofinnovationsmainthepaintingsoftheVeianmasters.“If,”Isaid,“weiomakeourpaintingsfromtheperspectiveofpedestriansexgingpleasantriesandregardingtheirworld;thatis,ifweioillustratefromthestreet,weoughttolearnhowtoatfor—astheFranksdo—whatis,infact,mostprevalentthere:shadows.”
“Howdoesoshadow?”askedBlack.
Fromtimetotime,asmynephewlistened,Iperceivedimpatienhim.He’dbegintofiddlewiththeMongolinkpothe’dgivenmeasapresent.Attimes,he’dtakeuptheironpokerandstokethefireiove.NowandthenIimagihathewaolowerthatpokerontomyheadandkillmebecauseIdaredtomovetheartofillustratingawayfromAllah’sperspective;becauseIwouldbetraythedreamsofthemastersofHeratandtheireraditionofpainting;becauseI’ddupedOurSultanintoalreadydoingso.Occasionally,Blackwouldsitdeadstillfstretchesandfixhiseyesdeeplyintomine.Icouldimagihewasthinking:“I’llbeyourslaveuntilIhaveyhter.”Once,asIwoulddowhenhewasachild,Itookhimoutintotheyardandtriedtoexplaintohim,asafathermight,aboutthetrees,aboutthelightfallingontotheleaves,aboutthemeltingsnowandwhythehousesseemedtoshrinkaswemovedawayfromthem.Butthiswasamistake:Itprovedonlythatourformer
filialrelationshiphadlongsincecollapsed.NowpatientsufferaherantingsofadementedoldmanhadtakentheplaceofBlack’schildhoodcuriosityandpassionforknowledge.IwasjustanoldmanwhosedaughterwastheobjectofBlack’slove.Theinfluendexperiehetriesandcitiesthatmynephewhadtraveledthroughforadozenyearshadbeenfullyabsorbedbyhissoul.Hewastiredofme,andIpitiedhim.Andhewasangry,Iassumed,notonlybecauseIhadn’tallowedhimtomarryShekuretwelveyearsago—afterall,therewasnootherchoicethen—butbecauseIdreamedofpaintingswhosestyletransgressedthepreceptsofthemastersofHerat.Furthermore,becauseIravedaboutthisnonsehsuvi,Iimaginedmydeathathishands.
Iwasnot,however,afraidofhim;orary,Itriedthtenhim.ForIbelievedthatfearropriatetothewritingI’drequestedofhim.“Asinthosepictures,”Isaid,“oneoughttobeabletosituateotheteroftheworld.OneofmyillustratorsbrilliantlydepictedDeathforme.Behold.”
ThusIbegantoshowhimthepaintingsI’dsecretlyissionedfromthemasterminiaturistsoverthelastyear.Atfirst,hewasatadshy,evenfrightened.WhenheuoodthatthedepiofDeathwasinspiredbyfamiliarsesthatcouldbefoundinmanyBookofKingsvolumes—fromtheseofAfrasiyab’sdecapitationofSiyavush,forexample,orRüstem’smurderofSuhrabwithoutrealizingthiswashisson—hequicklybecameiedinthesubject.AmouresthatdepictedthefuneralofthelateSultanSüleymanwasoneI’dmadewithboldbutsadcolors,biningapositionalsensibilityinspiredbytheFrankswithmyowatshading—whichI’daddedlater.Ipoithediabolicdepthevokedbytheinterplayofcloudandhorizon.IremindedhimthatDeathwasunique,justliketheportraitsofinfidelsIhadseenhangingiianpalazzos;allofthemdesperatelyyearoberendereddistinctly.“Theywanttobesodistinddifferent,andtheywantthiswithsuchpassionthat,”Isaid,“look,lookintotheeyesofDeath.SeehowmendonotfearDeath,butrathertheviolenceimplithedesiretobeone-of-a-kind,uniqueandexceptional.Lookatthisillustrationandwriteanatofit.GivevoicetoDeath.Here’spaperandpen.Ishallgivewhatyouwritetothecalligrapherstraightaway.”
Hestaredatthepictureinsilence.“Whopaihis?”heaskedlater.
“Butterfly.He’sthemosttalehelot.MasterOsmanhadbeenihandawedbyhimforyears.”
“I’veseenrougherversionsofthisdepiofadogatthecoffeehousewherethestorytellerperforms,”Blacksaid.
“Myillustrators,mostofirituallyboundtoMasterOsmanandtheworkshop,takeadimviewofthelaborsperformedformybook.WhentheyleavehereatnightIimagiheyhavetheirvulgarfuheseillustrationswhichtheydrawformoneyandridiculemeatthecoffeehouse.AndwhoamongthemwilleverfetthetimeOurSultanhadtheyouianartist,whomHe’dinvitedfromtheembassyatmybehest,paintHisportrait.Thereafter,HehadMasterOsmanmakeacopyofthat
oilpainting.ForitatetheVeianpainter,MasterOsmanheldmeresponsibleforthisunseemlycoerandtheshamefulportraitthatcameofit.Hewasjustified.”
Alldaylong,Ishowedhimeverypicture—exceptthefinalillustrationthatIot,forwhateverreason,finish.Iproddedhimtowrite.Idiscussedthetemperamentsoftheminiaturists,andIeedthesumsofmoneyImetedouttothem.Wediscussed“perspective”aherthediminutiveobjethebackgroundofVeianpicturesweresacrilegious,andequally,wetalkedaboutthepossibilitythatunfortunateElegantEffendihadbeenmurderedforexcessiveambitionandoutofjealousyoverhiswealth.
AsBlackreturnedhomethatnight,Iwasfidenthe’deagaimaspromisedandthathe’donceagainlistentomeretthestoriesthatwouldstitutemybook.Ilisteohisfootstepsfadingbeyondtheopeherewassomethingtotheightthatseemedtomakemysleeplessandtroubledmurdererstrongerandmoredevilishthanmeandmybook.
Iclosedthecourtyardgatetightlybehindhim.IplacedtheoldceramicwaterbasinthatIusedasabasilplanterbehieasIdideaight.BeforeIreducedthestovetosmashesaobed,IglaoseeShekureinawhitegownlookinglikeaghostintheblaess.
“Areyouabsolutelycertainthatyouwanttomarryhim?”Iasked.
“No,dearFather.I’velongsincefottenaboutmarriage.Besides,Iammarried.”
“Ifyoustillwanttomarryhim,I’mwillingtogiveyoumyblessingnow.”
“Iwishnottobewedtohim.”
“Why?”
“Becauseit’sagainstyourwill.Inallsiy,Idesirenobodythatyoudonotwant.”
Inoticed,momentarily,thecoalsiovereflectedinhereyes.Hereyeshadaged,notoutofunhappiness,butanger;yettherewasnotraceofoffenseinhervoice.
“Blackisihyou,”Isaidasifdivulgi.
“Iknow.”
“HelisteoallIhadtosaytodaynotoutofhisloveofpainting,butoutofhisloveforyou.”
“Hewillpleteyourbook,thisiswhatmatters.”
“Yourhusbandmightreturnoneday,”Isaid.
“I’mainwhy,perhapsit’sthesiletonightI’verealizedondforallthatmyhusbandwillurn.WhatI’vedreamtseemstobethetruth:Theymust’vekilledhim.He’slongsiurodust.”Shewhisperedthelaststatemehesleepingchildrenhear.Andshesaiditeculiartingeofanger.
“Iftheyhappentokillme,”Isaid,“IwantyoutofinishthisbooktowhichI’vededicatedeverything.Swearthatyouwill.”
“Igivemyword.Whowillbetheoopleteyourbook?”
“Black!Yousurethathedoesso.”
“Youarealreadyensuringthathedoesso,dearFather,”shesaid.“Youhavenoneedforme.”
“Agreed,buthe’sgivingintomebecauseofyou.Iftheykillme,hemightbeafraidtotinueon.”
“Inthatcase,hewon’tbeabletomarryme,”saidmycleverdaughter,smiling.
WheredidIeupwiththedetailabouthersmiling?Duriireversation,Inotiothingexceptanoccasionalglimmerinhereyes.Wewerestandingtenselyfagoherinthemiddleoftheroom.
“Doyouunicatewitheachother,exgesignals?”Iasked,uotainmyself.
“Howcouldyoueventhinksuchathing?”
Alongagonizingsilencepassed.Adogbarkediance.Iwasslightlycoldandshuddered.Theroomwassoblaowthatwecouldnolongerseeeachother;wecouldealyseheother’spresence.tlyembracedwithallht.Shebegantocry,andsaidthatshemissedhermother.Ikissedandstrokedherhead,whideedsmelledlikehermother’shair.Iwalkedhertoherbedchamberandputhertobedothechildrenwhoweresleepingsidebyside.AndasIreflectedbackoverthelasttwodays,IwascertainthatShekurehadcorrespohBlack.松语文学www.16sy.coM免费小说阅读
Inthem,assoonasmyEnishteaskedmetositbeforehim,hebegantodescribetheportraitshesawinVeheambassadorofOurSultan,RefugeoftheWorld,he’dvisitedquiteanumberofpalazzos,churchesandthehousesofprosperousmen.Overaperiodofdays,hestoodbeforethousandsofportraits.Hesawthousandsofframedfacesdepictedochedvasorwoodorpainteddirectlyontowalls.“Eaewasdifferentfromtheheyweredistinctive,uniquehumanfaces!”hesaid.Hewasintoxicatedbytheirvariety,theircolors,thepleasantness—evey—ofthesoftlightthatseemedtofallonthemandthemeaningemanatingfromtheireyes.
“Asifavirulentplaguehadstruck,everyonewashavinghisportraitmade,”hesaid.“InallofVenice,ridiialmenwaheirportraitspaintedasasymbol,amementooftheirlivesandasignoftheirriches,powerandinflueheymightalwaysbethere,standingbeforeus,announgtheirexistenay,theirindividualityanddistin.”
Hiswordswerebelittling,asifhewerespeakingoutofjealousy,ambitireed.Though,attimes,ashetalkedabouttheportraitshe’dseeninVenice,hisfacewouldabruptlylightuplikeachild’s,invigorated.
Portraiturehadbeesuchatagionamongaffluentmen,prindgreatfamilieswhowerepatronsofartthateveheyissionedfrescoesofbiblicalsesandreligiouslegendsforchurchwalls,theseinfidelswouldinsistthattheirownimagesappearsomewhereinthework.ForinstanapaintingoftheburialofSt.Stephan,you’dsuddenlysee,ahyes,presentamoearfulgravesidemourheveryprincewhowasgivingyouthetour—inastateofpureenthusiasm,exhilarationandceit—ofthepaintingshangingonhispalazzowalls.,intheerofafrescodepigSt.Petergthesickwithhisshadow,you’drealizewithanoddsenseofdisillusiohattheunfortunateohingthereinpainwas,infact,thestrong-as-an-oxbrotherofyourpolitehost.Thefollowingday,thistimeinapiecedepigtheResurreoftheDead,you’ddiscuestwho’dstuffedhimselfbesideyouatlunch.
“Somehavegonesofar,justtobeincludedinapainting,”saidmyEnishte,fearfullyasthoughheweretalkingaboutthetemptationsofSatan,“thatthey’rewillingtobeportrayedasaservantfillinggobletsinthecrowd,oramercilessmanstoninganadulteress,oramurderer,hishandsdrenchedinblood.”
Pretendingnottouand,Isaid,“ExactlythewayweseeShahIsmailasdihrohoseillustratedbooksthatretaPersianlegends.OrwhenweeacrossadepiofTamerlane,whoactuallyruledlongafterward,ioryofHüsrevandShirin.”
Wasthereanoisesomewhereinthehouse?
“It’sasiftheVeianpaintingsweremadethtenus,”saidmyEnishtelater.“Anditisn’tenoughthatwebeiheauthorityandmohesemenwhoissiontheworks,theyalsowantustoknowthatsimplyexistinginthisworldisaveryspecial,verymysteriousevent.They’reattemptingtoterrifyuswiththeiruniquefaces,eyes,bearingandwiththeirclothingwhoseeveryfoldisdefinedbyshadow.They’reattemptingtoterrifyusbybeiuresofmystery.”
Heexplainedhowoncehe’dgottenlostintheexquisitepalleryofalunaticcollectorwhoseopuleeerchedontheshoresofLakeo;theproprietorhadcollectedtheportraitsofallthegreatpersonagesinFrankishhistoryfromkingstocardinals,andfromsoldierstopoets:“WhenmyhospitablehostleftmealooroamasIwishedthroughouthispalazzo,whichhe’dproudlygiveourof,Isawthatthesesupposedlyimportantinfidels—mostofearedtoberealandsomeofwhomlookedmestraightintheeye—hadattaiheirimportahisworldsolelyonatofhavingtheirportraitsmade.Theirlikenesseshadimbuedthemwithsuchmagic,hadsodistinguishedthem,thatforamomentamongthepaintingsIfeltflawedandimpotent.HadIbeeedinthisfashion,itseemed,I’dbetteruandwhyIexistedinthisworld.”
Hewasfrightenedbecausehesuddenlyuood—andperhapsdesired—thatIslamicartistry,perfectedandsecurelyestablishedbytheoldmastersofHerat,wouldmeetitsendonatoftheappealofportraiture.“However,itwasasifItoowaofeelextraordinary,differentandunique,”hesaid.AsifproddedbytheDevil,hefelthimselfstronglydrawntowhathefeared.“HowshouldIsayit?It’sasifthiswereasinofdesire,likegrowingarrogantbefod,likesideringoneselfofutmostimportance,likesituatingotheteroftheworld.”
Thereafter,thisideadawnedonhim:ThesemethodswhichtheFrankishartistsmadeuseofasifplayingapridefulchild’sgame,couldbemorethansimplymagicassociatedwithOurExaltedSultan—butcouldinfactbeeaforcemeanttoserveiingusswayallwhobeheldit.
Ilearhattheideaofpreparinganilluminatedmanuscripthadarisenthen:myEnishte,who’dreturoIstanbulfromVenice,suggesteditwouldbeexcellentindeedforOurSultahesubjectofaportraitintheFrankishstyle.ButafterHisExcellencytookexception,abooktainingpicturesofOurSultanandtheobjectsthatrepresentedHimwasagreedupon.
“Itisthestorythat’sessential,”ourwisestandmostGloriousSultanhadsaid.“Abeautifulillustratiolypletesthestory.Anillustrationthatdoesnotplementastory,intheend,willbeebutafalseidol.Sinceweotpossiblybelieveinaory,wewillnaturallybeginbelievingiureitself.ThiswouldbenodifferentthantheworshipofidolsintheKaabathatwentonbefore
OurProphet,peadblessingsbeuponhim,haddestroyedthem.Ifnotaspartofastory,howwouldyouproposetodepictthisredation,forexample,orthatidwarfoverthere?”
“Byexposingtheatioyanduniqueness.”
“Inthearraofyourse,then,wouldyousituatethefloweratthepreciseterofthepage?”
“Iwasafraid,”myEnishtesaid.“IpanickedmomentarilywhenIrealizedwhereOurSultan’sthoughtsweretakingme.”
WhatfilledmyEnishtewithfearwasthenotionofsituatingattheterofthepage—andthereby,theworld—somethingotherthanwhatGodhadintended.
“Thereafter,”OurSultanhadsaid,“you’llwanttoexhibitapictureinwhoseteryou’vesituatedadwarf.”ItwasasIhadassumed.“Butthispicturecouldneverbedisplayed:afterawhile,we’dbegintoworshipapicturewe’vehungonawall,regardlessoftheinaliions.IfIbelieved,heavenforbid,thewaytheseinfidelsdo,thattheProphetJesuswasalsotheLodhimself,thenI’dalsoholdthatGodcouldbeobservedinthisworld,ahatHeainhumanform;onlythenmightIacceptthedepiankindinfulldetailandexhibitsuchimages.Youdouandthat,eventually,wewouldunthinkinglybeginworshipinganypicturethatishungonawall,don’tyou?”
MyEnishtesaid:“Iuooditquitewell,andbecauseIdid,Iwasafraidofwhatwebothwerethinking.”
“Forthisreason,”OurSultanremarked,“Icouldneverallowmyportraittobedisplayed.”
“Thoughthisisexactlywhathewanted,”whisperedmyEnishte,withadevilishtitter.
Itwasmyturnthtenednow.
“heless,itismydesirethatmyportraitbemadeiyleoftheFrankishmasters,”OurSultaon.“Suchaportraitwill,ofcourse,havetobecealedwithinthepagesofabook.Whateverthatbookmightbe,youshallbetheoellme.”
“Inaninstantofsurpriseandawe,Isideredhisstatement,”saidmyEnishte,thengrinningmoredevilishlythanbefore,heseemed,suddenly,tobeesomeoneelse.
“HisExcellencyOurSultanorderedmetostartwonHisbookposthaste.Myheadspunwithjoy.HeaddedthatitoughttobepreparedasapresentfortheVeianDoge,whomIwastovisitonceagain.Ohebookwaspleted,itwouldbeeasymbolofthevanquishingpoweroftheIslamicCaliphOurExaltedSultan,ihousandthyearoftheHegira.HerequestedthatIpreparethe
illuminatedmanuscriptinutmostsecrecy,primarilytocealitspurposeasanolivebraeheVeians,butalsotoavoidaggravatingworkshopjealousies.Andinastateofgreatelationandsworntosecrecy,Iembarkeduponthisventure.”
IAMYOURBELOVEDUNdsoitwasonthatFridaym,IbegantodescribethebookthatwouldtainOurSultan’sportraitpaiheVeianstyle.IbroachedthetopictoBlackbyretinghowI’dbroughtitupwithOurSultanandhowI’dpersuadedhimtofundthebook.MyhiddenpurposewastohaveBlackwritethestories—whichIhadn’tevenbegun—thatweremeanttoapanytheillustrations.
ItoldhimI’dpletedmostofthebook’sillustrationsandthatthelastpicturewasnearlyfihere’sadepiofDeath,”Isaid,“andIhadthemostcleverofminiaturists,Stork,illustratethetreerepresentingthepeacefulnessofOurSultan’sworldlyrealm.There’sapictureofSatanandahorsemeanttospiritusfarfaraway.There’sadog,alwaysingandwily,andalsoagold…Ihadthemasterminiaturistsdepictthesethingswithsuchbeauty,”ItoldBlack,“thatifyousawthembutonce,you’dknhtawaywhatthecorrespondioughttobe.Poetryandpainting,wordsandcolor,thesethingsarebrotherstoeachother,asyouwellknow.”
Forawhile,IponderedwhetherIshouldtellhimImightmarryoffmydaughtertohim.Wouldhelivetogetherwithusinthishouse?Itoldmyselfnottobetakeninbyhisraptattentionandhischildlikeexpression.IknewhewasschemingtoelopewithmyShekure.Still,Icouldrelyonnobodyelsetofinishmybook.
ReturningtogetherfromtheFridayprayers,wediscussed“shadow,”thegreatestofinnovationsmainthepaintingsoftheVeianmasters.“If,”Isaid,“weiomakeourpaintingsfromtheperspectiveofpedestriansexgingpleasantriesandregardingtheirworld;thatis,ifweioillustratefromthestreet,weoughttolearnhowtoatfor—astheFranksdo—whatis,infact,mostprevalentthere:shadows.”
“Howdoesoshadow?”askedBlack.
Fromtimetotime,asmynephewlistened,Iperceivedimpatienhim.He’dbegintofiddlewiththeMongolinkpothe’dgivenmeasapresent.Attimes,he’dtakeuptheironpokerandstokethefireiove.NowandthenIimagihathewaolowerthatpokerontomyheadandkillmebecauseIdaredtomovetheartofillustratingawayfromAllah’sperspective;becauseIwouldbetraythedreamsofthemastersofHeratandtheireraditionofpainting;becauseI’ddupedOurSultanintoalreadydoingso.Occasionally,Blackwouldsitdeadstillfstretchesandfixhiseyesdeeplyintomine.Icouldimagihewasthinking:“I’llbeyourslaveuntilIhaveyhter.”Once,asIwoulddowhenhewasachild,Itookhimoutintotheyardandtriedtoexplaintohim,asafathermight,aboutthetrees,aboutthelightfallingontotheleaves,aboutthemeltingsnowandwhythehousesseemedtoshrinkaswemovedawayfromthem.Butthiswasamistake:Itprovedonlythatourformer
filialrelationshiphadlongsincecollapsed.NowpatientsufferaherantingsofadementedoldmanhadtakentheplaceofBlack’schildhoodcuriosityandpassionforknowledge.IwasjustanoldmanwhosedaughterwastheobjectofBlack’slove.Theinfluendexperiehetriesandcitiesthatmynephewhadtraveledthroughforadozenyearshadbeenfullyabsorbedbyhissoul.Hewastiredofme,andIpitiedhim.Andhewasangry,Iassumed,notonlybecauseIhadn’tallowedhimtomarryShekuretwelveyearsago—afterall,therewasnootherchoicethen—butbecauseIdreamedofpaintingswhosestyletransgressedthepreceptsofthemastersofHerat.Furthermore,becauseIravedaboutthisnonsehsuvi,Iimaginedmydeathathishands.
Iwasnot,however,afraidofhim;orary,Itriedthtenhim.ForIbelievedthatfearropriatetothewritingI’drequestedofhim.“Asinthosepictures,”Isaid,“oneoughttobeabletosituateotheteroftheworld.OneofmyillustratorsbrilliantlydepictedDeathforme.Behold.”
ThusIbegantoshowhimthepaintingsI’dsecretlyissionedfromthemasterminiaturistsoverthelastyear.Atfirst,hewasatadshy,evenfrightened.WhenheuoodthatthedepiofDeathwasinspiredbyfamiliarsesthatcouldbefoundinmanyBookofKingsvolumes—fromtheseofAfrasiyab’sdecapitationofSiyavush,forexample,orRüstem’smurderofSuhrabwithoutrealizingthiswashisson—hequicklybecameiedinthesubject.AmouresthatdepictedthefuneralofthelateSultanSüleymanwasoneI’dmadewithboldbutsadcolors,biningapositionalsensibilityinspiredbytheFrankswithmyowatshading—whichI’daddedlater.Ipoithediabolicdepthevokedbytheinterplayofcloudandhorizon.IremindedhimthatDeathwasunique,justliketheportraitsofinfidelsIhadseenhangingiianpalazzos;allofthemdesperatelyyearoberendereddistinctly.“Theywanttobesodistinddifferent,andtheywantthiswithsuchpassionthat,”Isaid,“look,lookintotheeyesofDeath.SeehowmendonotfearDeath,butrathertheviolenceimplithedesiretobeone-of-a-kind,uniqueandexceptional.Lookatthisillustrationandwriteanatofit.GivevoicetoDeath.Here’spaperandpen.Ishallgivewhatyouwritetothecalligrapherstraightaway.”
Hestaredatthepictureinsilence.“Whopaihis?”heaskedlater.
“Butterfly.He’sthemosttalehelot.MasterOsmanhadbeenihandawedbyhimforyears.”
“I’veseenrougherversionsofthisdepiofadogatthecoffeehousewherethestorytellerperforms,”Blacksaid.
“Myillustrators,mostofirituallyboundtoMasterOsmanandtheworkshop,takeadimviewofthelaborsperformedformybook.WhentheyleavehereatnightIimagiheyhavetheirvulgarfuheseillustrationswhichtheydrawformoneyandridiculemeatthecoffeehouse.AndwhoamongthemwilleverfetthetimeOurSultanhadtheyouianartist,whomHe’dinvitedfromtheembassyatmybehest,paintHisportrait.Thereafter,HehadMasterOsmanmakeacopyofthat
oilpainting.ForitatetheVeianpainter,MasterOsmanheldmeresponsibleforthisunseemlycoerandtheshamefulportraitthatcameofit.Hewasjustified.”
Alldaylong,Ishowedhimeverypicture—exceptthefinalillustrationthatIot,forwhateverreason,finish.Iproddedhimtowrite.Idiscussedthetemperamentsoftheminiaturists,andIeedthesumsofmoneyImetedouttothem.Wediscussed“perspective”aherthediminutiveobjethebackgroundofVeianpicturesweresacrilegious,andequally,wetalkedaboutthepossibilitythatunfortunateElegantEffendihadbeenmurderedforexcessiveambitionandoutofjealousyoverhiswealth.
AsBlackreturnedhomethatnight,Iwasfidenthe’deagaimaspromisedandthathe’donceagainlistentomeretthestoriesthatwouldstitutemybook.Ilisteohisfootstepsfadingbeyondtheopeherewassomethingtotheightthatseemedtomakemysleeplessandtroubledmurdererstrongerandmoredevilishthanmeandmybook.
Iclosedthecourtyardgatetightlybehindhim.IplacedtheoldceramicwaterbasinthatIusedasabasilplanterbehieasIdideaight.BeforeIreducedthestovetosmashesaobed,IglaoseeShekureinawhitegownlookinglikeaghostintheblaess.
“Areyouabsolutelycertainthatyouwanttomarryhim?”Iasked.
“No,dearFather.I’velongsincefottenaboutmarriage.Besides,Iammarried.”
“Ifyoustillwanttomarryhim,I’mwillingtogiveyoumyblessingnow.”
“Iwishnottobewedtohim.”
“Why?”
“Becauseit’sagainstyourwill.Inallsiy,Idesirenobodythatyoudonotwant.”
Inoticed,momentarily,thecoalsiovereflectedinhereyes.Hereyeshadaged,notoutofunhappiness,butanger;yettherewasnotraceofoffenseinhervoice.
“Blackisihyou,”Isaidasifdivulgi.
“Iknow.”
“HelisteoallIhadtosaytodaynotoutofhisloveofpainting,butoutofhisloveforyou.”
“Hewillpleteyourbook,thisiswhatmatters.”
“Yourhusbandmightreturnoneday,”Isaid.
“I’mainwhy,perhapsit’sthesiletonightI’verealizedondforallthatmyhusbandwillurn.WhatI’vedreamtseemstobethetruth:Theymust’vekilledhim.He’slongsiurodust.”Shewhisperedthelaststatemehesleepingchildrenhear.Andshesaiditeculiartingeofanger.
“Iftheyhappentokillme,”Isaid,“IwantyoutofinishthisbooktowhichI’vededicatedeverything.Swearthatyouwill.”
“Igivemyword.Whowillbetheoopleteyourbook?”
“Black!Yousurethathedoesso.”
“Youarealreadyensuringthathedoesso,dearFather,”shesaid.“Youhavenoneedforme.”
“Agreed,buthe’sgivingintomebecauseofyou.Iftheykillme,hemightbeafraidtotinueon.”
“Inthatcase,hewon’tbeabletomarryme,”saidmycleverdaughter,smiling.
WheredidIeupwiththedetailabouthersmiling?Duriireversation,Inotiothingexceptanoccasionalglimmerinhereyes.Wewerestandingtenselyfagoherinthemiddleoftheroom.
“Doyouunicatewitheachother,exgesignals?”Iasked,uotainmyself.
“Howcouldyoueventhinksuchathing?”
Alongagonizingsilencepassed.Adogbarkediance.Iwasslightlycoldandshuddered.Theroomwassoblaowthatwecouldnolongerseeeachother;wecouldealyseheother’spresence.tlyembracedwithallht.Shebegantocry,andsaidthatshemissedhermother.Ikissedandstrokedherhead,whideedsmelledlikehermother’shair.Iwalkedhertoherbedchamberandputhertobedothechildrenwhoweresleepingsidebyside.AndasIreflectedbackoverthelasttwodays,IwascertainthatShekurehadcorrespohBlack.松语文学www.16sy.coM免费小说阅读
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