I AM CALLED “BUTTERFLY”
IsawthemobaheErzurumishadbegunslayinguswittyminiaturists.
Blackwasalsointhecrowdwatgtheattack.Isawhimholdingadaggerapaniedbyagroupofodd-lookihewell-khertheclothierandotherwomencarryingclothsacks.Ihadaofleeafterseeiablishmentcruellywreckedandthecoffeehouse-goersbeatenmercilesslyastheytriedtoleave.Later,anothermob,perhapstheJanissaries,arrived.TheErzurumisstheirtorchesandfled.
Therewasnobodyatthedarkentrahecoffeehouse,andnoonewaslooking.Iwalkedinside.Everythingwasinshambles.Isteppedoteredcups,plates,glassesandbowls.Anoillamphangingfromanailhighonthewallhadn’tdiedoutduriurmoilbutonlyillumihesootmarksontheceiling,leavingindarkhefloorstrewnwiththeboardsofwreckedwoodbenches,brokenlowtablesandotherdebris.
Staglongcushionsatopoher,Ireachedupandgrabbedholdoftheoillamp.Withinitscircleoflight,Inoticedbodieslyingonthefloor.WhenIsawthatonefacewascoveredinblood,Iturnedaway,aothehesedbodywasmoaning,anduponseeingmylamp,madeachildlikenoise.
SomeoneelseefirstIwasalarmed,thoughIcouldsewasBlack.Thebothofusleanedoverthethirdbodysprawledonthefloor.AsIloweredthelamptohishead,hatwe’dsuspected:They’dkilledthestoryteller.
Therewasnotraceofbloodonhisface,whichlikeawoman’s,buthis,browandrouge-coveredmouthwerebattered,andjudgingbyhisneck,coveredinbruises,he’dbeenthrottled.Hishandswerecastbackwardoverhisheadoherside.Itwasn’tdifficulttofigureoutthatohemheldtheoldman’sarmsbehindhisbackwhiletheothersbeathiminthefacebeforestranglinghim.Iwonder,hadtheysaid,“CutouthistonguesoheneveragainslandershisExcellencythePreacherHojaEffendi,”aaboutdoingso?
“Bringthelamphere,”saidBlaearthestove,thelightofthelampstruckbrokencoffeegrinders,sieves,scalesandpiecesofbrokencoffeecupslyinginthemudofspilledcoffee.Intheerwherethestorytellerhunghispictureseaight,Blackwasseargfortheperformer’sprops,sash,magi’shandkerchiefandpoppingstick.Blacksaidhewasafterthepicturesahelamphe’dtakenfrommetomyface:Yes,ofcourseI’ddrawntwoofthemoutofasenseoffraternity.WecouldfindnothingbutthePersianskullcapthatthedeceasedworeoverhisperfectlyshavedhead.
Seeingnooneelse,weexitedintotheblaessofnightthroughanarrowpassagewaythatledawayfromthebackdoor.Duringtheraidmuchofthecrowdaistswithinprobablyescapedthroughthisdoor,buttheknocked-overplantersandbagsofcoffeestrewneverywhereindicatedthattherewasastrugglehereaswell.
Thefactthatthecoffeehousewasraidedaerstorytellermurdered,coupledwiththeterrifyingblaessofnight,broughtBladIclether.Thiswasalsowhatcausedthesileweenus.Wepassedtwomorestreets.Bladedthelampbae,thenhedrewhisdaggerandpressedittomythroat.
“We’regoingtoyourhouse,”hesaid.“IwanttosearchitsoIputmymindatease.”
“It’salreadybeensearched.”
Ratherthanbeoffendedbyhim,Ihadtheurgetoteasehim.Didn’tBlack’sbeliefinthedisgracefulrumorsaboutmesimplyprovehewasalsojealousofme?Heheldthedaggerwithoutmufidence.
Myhouseositethedirewewereheadingalongtheroadleadingawayfromthecoffeehouse.Wetackedrightadownneighborhoodstreetsandpassedthroughemptygardensthatborethedepressiofdampandloreesaswetracedawidearcbacktowardmyhouse.We’dcoveredmorethanhalftheroute,whenBlackstoppedandsaid:“Fortwodays,MasterOsmanandIexamihemasterpiecesofthelegendarymastersireasury.”
Muchlater,nearlyscreaming,Isaid,“Afteracertainage,evenifapaintersharesaworktablewithBihzad,whatheseesmaypleasehiseyesandbringteaementtohissoul,butitwon’t
enhaalent,becauseonepaintswiththehand,nottheeyes,andthehandatmyage,letaloMasterOsman’s,doesnoteasilylearhings.”
Assuredmybeautifulaitingforme,IspokeatthetopofmyvoicetoletherknowIwasn’talonesoshemighthideherselffromBlaotthatItookthispatheticdagger-wieldingfoolseriously.
Wepassedthroughthecourtyardgate,andIthoughtIsawthelightofalampmovinginthehouse,butthankGodallwasindarknessnow.Itwassuchamercilessrapeofmyprivacyforthisknife-wieldioforcehiswayintomyheavenlyhome,whereIspentmydays,indeedallmytime,seekingoutandpaintingAllah’smemoriesuntilmyeyestired—whereuponI’dmakelovetomybeloved,themostbeautifulwomanintheworld—thatIsworetotakerevengeuponhim.
Lthelamp,heexaminedmypapers,apageIwasinthemidstofpleting—nedprisonerspleadingtotheSultantoberelievedoftheirsofdebtandreceivingHisbenevolence—mypaints,myworktables,myknives,myreed-cuttingboards,mybrushes,everythingaroundmywritingtable,mypapersagain,myburnishingstones,mypenknivesandthespacesbetweenmypenandpaperboxes;helookedinets,chests,behcushions,atoneofmypaperscissors,ahasoftredcushionandacarpetbefoingback,bringingthelampcloserandclosertoeachobjedexaminingthesameplaceagain.Ashesaidwhenhefirstdrewhison,hewouldn’tsearchmyentirehouse,onlymyatelier.Indeed,couldn’tIcealmywife—theonlythingIwaohide—intheroomfromwhichshewasnowspyingonus?
“There’safinalpicturethatbelohebookmyEnishtewashavingmade,”hesaid.“Whoeverkilledhimalsostolethatpicture.”
“Itwasdifferentfromtheothers,”Isaidimmediately.“YourEnishte,mayherestinpeace,mademedrawatreeinoneerofthepage.Inthebackgroundsomewhere…andinthemiddleofthepage,inthefround,wastobesomeone’spicture,probablyaportraitofOurSultan.Thatspace,quitelargeifImightadd,wasawaitingitspicture.Becausetheobjethebackgrouobesmaller,asintheEuropeanstyle,hewaomakethetreesmaller.Asthepicturedeveloped,itgavetheimpressionofbeingaviewofthisworldfromawindow,nothinglikeanillustrationatall.ItwasthenIprehehatinapicturemadewiththeperspectivalmethodsoftheFranks,thebordersandgildingtooktheplaceofawindowframe.”
“ElegantEffendiwasresponsibleforthebordersandthegilding.”
“Ifthat’swhatyou’reasking,IalreadytoldyouIdidn’tmurderhim.”
“Amurdererneveradmitstohiscrime,”hesaidquickly,thenaskedmewhatIwasdoingatthecoffeehouseduringtheraid.
HeplacedtheoillampjustbesidethecushionuponwhichIwasseated,inawaythatwouldilluminate
myfacealongwithmypapersandthepagesIwasilluminating.Hehimselfwasscurryingabouttheroomlikeashadowinthedark.
BesidestellinghimwhatI’vetoldyou,thatIactuallywasaninfrequentvisitortothecoffeehouseandjusthappeobepassingby,IalsorepeatedthatImadetwoofthepictureswhichwerehungonthewallthere—althoughIactuallydisapprovedofthegoings-onatthecoffeehouse.“Because,”Iadded,“theartofpaintingonlyendsupningandpunishingitselfwhenitderivesitsstrengthfromthedesiretonandpunishtheevilsofliferatherthanfromthepainter’sownskill,loveofhisartanddesiretoembraceAllah…regardlessofwhetherit’sthepreacherfromErzurumorSatanhimselfthat’sdenounced.Moreimportantly,ifthatcoffeehousecrowdhadn’ttargetedtheErzurumis,itmightnothavebeenraidedtonight.”
“Evenso,youwouldgothere,”saidthewretch.
“Yes,becauseIenjoyedmyselfthere.”HadheaninklingofhowhoIwasbeing?Iadded,“Despiteknowinghowuglyandwrongsomethingis,wedesdantsofAdammightstillderivesiderablepleasurefromit.AndI’membarrassedtosayIwasalsoeaihosecheapillustrations,themimidthosestoriesaboutSatan,thegoldandthedog,whichthestorytellertoldcrudelywithoutmeterorrhyme.”
“Evenso,whywouldyouevenstepfootinthatdenofunbelievers?”
“Fihen,”Isaidresigningmyselftoaninnervoice,“attimesthere’salsoawormofdoubtthatgnawsatme:EversinceIenlyreizedasthemosttalentedandmostprofitamoersoftheworkshop,notonlybyMasterOsman,butbyOurSultanaswell,IbegaerrifiedoftheenvyoftheothersthatItried,ifonlyattimes,togowheretheywent,tobefriendthemandtoresemblethemsotheywouldn’tturnonmeinasuddenfitofvengeance.Doyouuand?Andsihey’vebegunlabelingmean”Erzurumi,“I’vebeengoingtothatdenofvileunbelieverssohtdistthisrumor.”
“MasterOsmansaidyouoftenactedasifapologizingforyourtalentandproficy.”
“Whatelsedidhesayaboutme?”
“Thatyou’dpaintabsurd,miuresongrainsofridfingernailssothatotherswouldbevincedyou’dforsakenlifeforart.HesaidyouwerealwaystryingtopleaseothersbecauseyouwereembarrassedbythegreatgiftsAllahhadbestoweduponyou.”
“MasterOsmanisonBihzad’slevel,”Isaidwithsiy.“Whatelse?”
“Helistedyourfaultswithouttheslightesthesitation,”saidthewretch.
“Let’shearmyfaultsthen.”
“Hesaidthatdespiteyioustalent,youpaifortheloveofartbuttoingratiateyourself.Supposedly,whatmostmotivatedyouwhilepaintingwasimaginingthepleasureanobserverwouldfeel;whereas,youshould’vepaintedforthepleasureofpaintingitself.”
ItsingedmyheartthatMasterOsmansobrazenlyrevealedwhathethoughtaboutmetoamanofsuchdiminishedspirit,onewhodevotedhislife,nottoart,buttobeingaclerk,writiersandhollowflattery.Blatihegreatmastersofold,MasterOsmanclaimed,wouldneverrenouhestylesahodstheycultivatedthroughself-sacrificetoartjustforthesakeofanewshah’sauthority,thewhimsofanewprihetastesofanewage;thus,toavoidbeingforcedtoaltertheirstylesahods,they’dheroicallyblindthemselves.Meanwhile,you’veenthusiasticallyanddishonorablyimitatedtheEuropeanmastersforthepagesofmyEnishte’sbook,withtheexcusethatit’sthewillofOurSultan.”
“ThegreatHeadIlluminatorMasterOsmanmostcertainoevilbythis,”Isaid.“Allowmetoputsomelieaontheboilforyou,mydearguest.”
Ipassedintotheadjoiningroom.Mybelovedtossedovermyheadthenightgownofesesilkshewaswearing,whichshe’dpurchasedfromEsthertheclothier,thenmoglyparrotedme,“Allowmetoputsomelieaontheboilforyou,mydearguest,”andplacedherhandonmycock.
Itookouttheagate-handledswordhiddenamongrose-stedsheetsatthebottomofthechestonthefloorourroll-upmattress,whichshe’dhopefullyspreadout,aheonfromitssheath.Itsedgewassosharpthatifyoutossedasilkhandkerchiefoverit,theswordwouldeasilycutthroughit;ifyouplacedasheetofgoldleafuponit,theedgesoftheresultingpieceswouldbeasstraightasanycutwitharuler.
cealingtheswordasbestIcould,Ireturomyatelier.BlackEffendileasedwithhisinterrogatiohewasstillcirgtheredcushion,daggerinhand.Iplacedahalf-finishedillustrationuponthecushion.“Takealookatthis,”Isaid.Hekoutofcuriosity,tryingtouaure.
Isteppedbehindhim,drewmyswordandiionloweredhimtotheground,pinninghimwithmyweight.Hisdaggerfellaway.Grabbinghimbythehair,Ipushedhisheadagainstthegroundandpressedmyswordtohisnebelow.IflatteBlack’sdelicatebodyandpressedhimfacedowhmyheavybody,usingmyandonefreehandtopushhisheadsoitnearlytouchedthesharppointofthesword.Myonehandwasfullofhisdirtyhair,theotherheldtheswordtothedelicateskinofhisthroat.Wisely,hedidn’tmoveatall,becauseIcouldhavefinishedhimthenandthere.Beingthisclosetohiscurlyhair,tothenapeofhisneck—whichmight’veinvitedaninsultingslapataime—andtohisuglyearsenragedmeallthemore.“I’musingallmyrestrainttokeep
fromdoingawaywithyouthisinstant,”Iwhisperedintohisearasifdivulgi.
Thathelisteomelikeanobedientchildwithoutmakingapeeppleasedme:“You’llreizethislegendfromtheBookofKings,”Iwhispered.“FeridunShah,inerror,bequeathstheworstofhislandstohistwooldersonsa,Persia,toIraj,theyouur,bentonrevenge,dupeshisyoungerbrother,Iraj,ofwhomheisjealous;beforehecutsIraj’sthroat,hegrabshishairjustasIamdoingnowaopofhimwithallhisweight.Doyoufeeltheweightofmybody?”
Hegavenoanswer,butfromhiseyes,whichstaredblanklylikethoseofasacrificiallamb,Icouldtellthathewaslistening,andIwasstruckwithinspiration:“I’mnotonlyfaithfultoPersianstylesahodsinpainting,butalsoinbeheadings.I’vealsoseenanotherversionofthismuchlovedsethatdescribesShahSiyavush’sdeath.”
IexplaioBlack,wholistenedsilently,howSiyavushmadepreparationsforavenginghisbrothers,howheburneddowirepalace,allhisbelongingsandproperty,howhefivinglypartedfromhiswife,mountedhissteedaowar,howhelostthebattleandwasdraggedbyhishairalongthegroundbeforebeinglaidoutfacedown“justasyouarenow,”andhowakniferessedagainsthisthroat,howthereeruptedanargumeweenhisfriendsandenemiesoverwhethertheyshouldkillhimorlethimfreeandhowthedefeatedking,hisfathedirt,listeohiscaptors.ThenIaskedhim,“Areyoufondofthatillustration?GeruyesupbehindSiyavush,asIhavetoyou,getsontopofhim,restshisswainsthisneck,grabsafistfulofhairandcutshisthroat.Yourredblood,soontoflow,makesblackdustrisefromthedryearth,wherelaterstill,aflowerwillbloom.”
IfellquietandfromdistantstreetswecouldheartheErzurumisscreamingastheyraerroroutsideatoncebroughtthetwoofus,lyiopoftheother,closer.
“Butinallthosepictures,”Iadded,pullingharderonBlack’shair,“onesehedifficultyofelegantlydrawingtwomenwhodespiseeachotheryetwhosebodies,likeours,havebeeaso’sasifthechaosoftreachery,envyandbattlethatesjustbeforethemagidmagnifitmomentofbeheadinghastoofullypermeatedthosepictures.EventhegreatestmastersofKazvinwouldhavedifficultydrawingtwomenontopofeachother;they’dfuseeverything.WhereasyouandI,seeforyourself,we’remuchmoretidya.”
“Thebladeiscutting,”hewhimpered.
“I’mmuchobligedforyourpolitewords,mydearman,butit’sdoingnosuchthing.I’mbeingquitecareful.Iwouldn’tdoanythingtoruinthebeautyofourpose.Inthesesoflove,deathandwar,whereinthegreatmastersofoldreertwinedbodiesasiftheywereoheywereabletoelilyourtears.Seeforyourself:Myheadrestsuponthenapeofyourneckasifitartofyourbody.Ismellyourhairandthestofyourneck.Mylegs,ohersideofyours,arestretchedoutinsuchharmonywithyours,thatanonlhtmistakeusforafgedbeast.Doyoufeelthebalanyweightonyourbadbuttocks?”AnothersileIdidn’tpressthesword
upward,becauseitwouldindeedhavecuthisthroat.“Ifyou’renotgoingtospeak,Imightbeprovokedtobiteyourear,”Isaid,whisperingintothatveryear.
WhenInotihiseyesthathereparedtospeak,Iaskedthesamequestionagain:“Doyoufeelthebalanyweightuponyourbody?”
“Aye.”
“Doyoulikeit?”Isaid.“Arewebeautiful?”Iasked.“Areweasbeautifulasthelegendaryheroeswhoslayeachotherwithsuchelegahemasterpiecesoftheoldmasters?”
“Idon’tknow,”saidBlack,“I’tseeusinthemirror.”
WhenIimaginedhowmywifesawusfromtheotherroominthelightcastbythecoffeehouse’soillamprestingontheflooronlyashortdistanceaway,IthoughtImightactuallybiteBlack’searoutofexcitement.
“BlackEffendi,you,whohaveforcedyourwayintomyhomeandhavedisturbedmyprivacy,daggerinhand,iointerrogateme,”Isaid,“doyounowfeelmystrength?”
“Yes,Ialsoseyou’retrulyintheright.”
“Thenproceed,onceagain,toaskmewhatyouwanttoknow.”
“DescribehowMasterOsmanwouldcaressyou.”
“Asanapprentice,Iwasmuchmorelithe,delicateaifulthanIamnow,andhewouldmouhenthewayIhavemountedyou.Hewouldcaressmyarms,attimeshewouldevenhurtme,butbecauseIwasinaweofhisknowledge,histalentandstrength,whathedidpleasedme,andIneverharboredanyillwilltowardhim,becauseIlovedhim.LovingMasterOsmaneoloveart,colors,paper,thebeautyofpaintingandilluminationahingthatainted,andtherebytolovetheworlditselfandGod.MasterOsmanismorethanafathertome.”
“Wouldhebeatyouoften?”heasked.
“Intheroleofafather,hebeatmeropriatesenseofjustice;asamaster,hebeatmepainfullysothatImightlearnfromthepunishment.ThankstothepainandthefearofarulerwhagmyfingernailsIlearnedmanythierandfasterthanIwould’vealone.Sohewouldn’tgrabmebymyhairandbangmyheadagainstthewallwhenIrentice,I’dneverspillpaint,neverwastehisgoldwash,wouldquicklymemorize,forexample,thecurveofahorse’sf,coverupthemistakesofthemasterlimner,mybrushesregularlyandfocusmyattentionandspiritonthepagebeforeme.SinytalentandmasterytothebeatingsIreceived,I,inturmyorentices
withoutaguiltysce.What’smore,Iknowthateveinggivenwithoutjustcause,ifitdoesn’tbreakthespiritoftheapprentice,willultimatelybehim.”
“Evenso,youuandthatwhiledrubbingahandsome-faced,sweet-eyed,angelicapprentiowandthen,yougetcarriedawaybythesheerpleasureofit,andyouknowthatMasterOsmanprobablyexperiehesamesensationwithyou,don’tyou?”
“Sometimeshe’dtakeamarbleburnishingstoneandstrikemewithsuchforcebehihatmyearwfordays,andI’dwalkaroundhalfstunned.Sometimeshe’dslapmesohardthatforweeksmycheekwouldache,enoughttinualtearstomyeyes.Ishallneverfet,yetIstilllovemymentor.”
“Nay,”saidBlack,“youwerefuriouswithhim.YoutookreveheahatsilentlyaccumulateddeepwithinyoubymakingillustrationsformyEnishte’sFrankish-imitationbook.”
“Theoppositeistrue.Thebeatingsthatayoungminiaturistreceivesfromhismasterbindhimtohismasterrofoundrespetilthedayhedies.”
“ThecruelandtreacherouscuttingofthethroatsofIrajandSiyavushfrombehind,asyouaredoingtome,aroseoutofsiblingrivalry,andsiblingrivalry,asintheBookofKings,isalrovokedbyanunjustfather.”
“True.”
“Theunjustfatherofyoumasterminiaturists,theonewhosetyouateachother’sthroats,isnowpreparingtobetrayyou,”hesaidbrazenly.“Ahh,Ibegofyou,itiscutting,”hewhimpered.Hecriedinagonyabitloheon,“True,cuttingmythroatandspillingmybloodlikeasacrificiallambwouldbebuttheworkofaninstant,butifyoudothiswithoutlisteningtowhatI’mabouttoexplain—Idon’tthinkyou’lldoitanylease,enough—you’llforeverwonderwhatIwasgoingtosay.Please,movethebladeawayslightly.”Ididso.“MasterOsman,whofollowedyoureverystepandyoureverybreathsincechildhood,ilywatchedyod-givebloomintoartistrylikeaspringflowerunderhiscare,hasnowturnedhisbayouiosavehisworkshopanditsstyle,towhichhehasdevotedhisentirelife.”
“IretedthreeparablestoyouthedayweburiedElegantEffendisoyoumightknowhowdisgustingthisthingtheycall”style“trulyis.”
“Thosestoriespertaioaminiaturist’sindividualstyle,”saidBlackcarefully,“whereasMasterOsmanisedwithpreserviyleoftheentireworkshop.”
HeexplainedhowtheSultanattachedgreatimportaofindingthemurdererofElegantEffendiandhisEnishte,howHe’devehemiheRoyalTreasurytothisend,andhowMasterOsmanwas
usingthisopportunitytosabotagehisEnishte’sbookandpunishthosewhobetrayedhimbyimitatingtheEuropeans.Blackaddedthatbasedonstyle,MasterOsmansuspectedOlivewasresponsibleforthehorsewiththeclippednostrils,butasHeadIlluminator,hewasvincedofStuiltandwouldturnhimovertotheexecutioners.Icouldseellihuhepressureofmysword,alikekissinghimbecausehegavehimselfovertowhathewassayinglikeachild.WhatIhearddidn’tworryme,havingStorkoutofthewaymeantI’dbeeHeadIlluminatorafterMasterOsmah—mayGodgranthimlonglife.
Iwasn’tdisturbedthatwhathesaidmighthappen,butbythepossibilitythatitmightnot.ReadiweenthelinesofBlack’sat,IwasabletogleanthatMasterOsmanwaswillingnotonlytosacrificeStork,butmeaswell.sideringthisincrediblepossibilitymademyheartquiaowardthehorrorofpleteabandofeltbyachildwho’ssuddenlylosthisfather.Eachtimethiscametomind,IhadtorestrainmyselffromcuttingBlack’sthroat.Ididn’tattempttuethepointwithBlayself:WhyshouldthefactthatwemadeafewfoolishillustrationsinspiredbyEuropeanmasterslowerustotheleveloftraitors?Onceagain,Ithoughtthatbehi’sdeathstoodStorkandOliveandtheirschemesagainstme.IremovedtheswordfromBlack’sthroat.
“Let’sgotoOlive’shousetogether,andsearchitfromtoptobottom,”Isaid.“Ifthelastpictureiswithhim,atleastwe’llknowwhomtofear.Ifnot,we’lltakehimwithusassupportandgoontoraidStork’shouse.”
Itoldhimtotrustmeandthathisdaggerwasenoughonryforthetwoofus.Iapologizedfornotevenhavingofferedhimaglassofliea.AsIliftedtheoillampfromthefloor,webothstaredmeaningfullyatthecushionuponwhichI’dflattenedhim.Iapproachedhimwiththelampinmyhandandtoldhimhowtheever-so-fainthisthroatwouldbeamarkofourfriendship.Hebledonlyslightly.
TheotioheErzurumisandthosepursuingthemcouldstillbeheardoreets,buticedus.WewerequicktoarriveatOlive’shouse.Wekhecourtyarddoor,thedoorofthehouse,andimpatientlyupoters.Nobodywashome;wemadesomuoisethatwewerecertainhewasn’tsleeping.Blackgavevoicetowhatwebothwerethinking:“Shallwegoinside?”
ItwistedthemetalloopofthedoorlockusingthebluntedgeofBlack’sdagger,theingitintothespacebetweendoorandjambandleveringitwithallht,webrokethelock.Weweremetbythestenpness,dirtandloneliness,whichhadaccumulatedoveryears.Bythelightofthelamp,wenotiunmadebed,sashestossedrandomlyuponcushios,twoturbans,undershirts,ullahEffenditheNakshibendi’sPersiandiary,awoodenturbanstand,broadcloth,needleandthread,asmallcopperpanfullofapplepeels,quiteafewcushions,avelvetbedspread,hispaints,hisbrushesandallofhissupplies.Iwasonthevergeofriflingthroughthewritingpaper,thelayeruponlayerofcarefullytrimmedHindustanpaper,andtheilluminatedpagesonhissmalldesk,butIrestrainedmyselfbothbecauseBlackwasmoreenthusiastiI,andbecauseIknewfullwellhowamaster
miniaturistwouldinothingbutbadluckifhewentthroughthebelongingsofalesstalentedminiaturist.Oliveisnotastalentedasisassumed,he’smerelyeager.Hetriestocoverupforhislackoftalentwithadorationoftheoldmasters.Theoldlegends,however,onlyrouseanartist’simagination;it’sthehandthatdoesthepainting.
AsBlackwasseargmeticulouslythroughallthechestsandboxes,goingasfarastocheckthebottomsoflaundrybaskets,withouttouganythingIglaOlive’sBursatowels,hisebonyb,hisdirtybathhandtowel,hisrosewaterbottles,aridiculouswaistclothwithanIndianblock-printpattern,quiltedjackets,aheavy,dirtywomen’srobewithaslit,adentedcoppertray,filthycarpetsandotherfurnishingstoocheapandslovenlyforthemoneyheearned.Olivewaseitherverystingyandsaltinghismoneyawayorhewassquanderingitsomehow…“Thehouseofamurderer,precisely,”Isaidlater.“Thereisn’tevenaprayerrug.”Butthiswasn’twhatIwasthinking.Itrated.“Thesearethebelongingsofamanwhodoesn’tknowhowtobehappy…”Isaid.Yet,inaerofmymind,IthoughtsadlyabouthowmiseryandproximitytotheDevilnursedpainting.
“Despiteknowingwhatittakestobetent,amanmightstillbeunhappy,”saidBlack.
HeplacedbeforemeaseriesofpicturesdrawnoncoarseSamarkandpaper,backedwithheavysheets,whichhe’dremovedfromthedepthsofachest.Westudiedthepictures:adelightfulSatanallthewayfromKhorasanthathademergedfrombeheground,atree,abeautifulwoman,adogaureofDeathImyselfhaddrawn.Theseweretheillustrationsthatthemurderedstorytellerhungupeaighthetoldoneofhisdisgracefulstories.PromptedbyBlack’squestion,IpoithepictureofDeathIhaddrawn.
“ThesamepicturesareinmyEnishte’sbook,”hesaid.
“Boththestorytellerandtheproprietorofthecoffeehouserealizedthewisdomofhavingtheminiaturistsreheillustrationseaight.Thestorytellerwouldhaveoneofusquicklydashoffanillustrationohesecoarsesheets,askusalittleaboutthestoryandaboutourinjokesandthen,addingsomeofhisownmaterial,he’dstarttheevening’sperformance.”
“WhydidyoumakethesamepictureofDeathforhimthatyoumadeformyEnishte’sbook?”
“Upontherequestofthestoryteller,itwasalonefigureonthepage.ButIdidn’tdrawitwithattentionandeffortthewayIhadforEnishte’sbook;Idrewitquickly,thewaymyhalikedrawingit.Theotherstoo,perhapstryingtobewitty,drewforthestorytellerinacruderandsimplermannerwhattheyhadmadeforthatsecretbook.”
“Whomadethehorse,”heasked,“withtheslitnostrils?”
LthelampwewatchedthehorseinworesembledthehorsemadeforEnishte’sbook,butitwasquicker,morecarelessandcateredtoasimplertaste,asifsomebodyhadnotonlypaidtheillustratorlessmoneyandmadehimworkfaster,butalsoforcedhimtomakearougherand,Isupposepreciselyforthisreason,morerealistichorse.
“Storkwouldkwhomadethishorse,”Isaid.“He’saceitedfoolwho’tlastadaywithoutlisteningtothegossipofminiaturists,that’swhyhevisitsthecoffeehouseeverynight.Yes,mostcertainly,Storkdrewth松语文学www.16sy.coM免费小说阅读
Blackwasalsointhecrowdwatgtheattack.Isawhimholdingadaggerapaniedbyagroupofodd-lookihewell-khertheclothierandotherwomencarryingclothsacks.Ihadaofleeafterseeiablishmentcruellywreckedandthecoffeehouse-goersbeatenmercilesslyastheytriedtoleave.Later,anothermob,perhapstheJanissaries,arrived.TheErzurumisstheirtorchesandfled.
Therewasnobodyatthedarkentrahecoffeehouse,andnoonewaslooking.Iwalkedinside.Everythingwasinshambles.Isteppedoteredcups,plates,glassesandbowls.Anoillamphangingfromanailhighonthewallhadn’tdiedoutduriurmoilbutonlyillumihesootmarksontheceiling,leavingindarkhefloorstrewnwiththeboardsofwreckedwoodbenches,brokenlowtablesandotherdebris.
Staglongcushionsatopoher,Ireachedupandgrabbedholdoftheoillamp.Withinitscircleoflight,Inoticedbodieslyingonthefloor.WhenIsawthatonefacewascoveredinblood,Iturnedaway,aothehesedbodywasmoaning,anduponseeingmylamp,madeachildlikenoise.
SomeoneelseefirstIwasalarmed,thoughIcouldsewasBlack.Thebothofusleanedoverthethirdbodysprawledonthefloor.AsIloweredthelamptohishead,hatwe’dsuspected:They’dkilledthestoryteller.
Therewasnotraceofbloodonhisface,whichlikeawoman’s,buthis,browandrouge-coveredmouthwerebattered,andjudgingbyhisneck,coveredinbruises,he’dbeenthrottled.Hishandswerecastbackwardoverhisheadoherside.Itwasn’tdifficulttofigureoutthatohemheldtheoldman’sarmsbehindhisbackwhiletheothersbeathiminthefacebeforestranglinghim.Iwonder,hadtheysaid,“CutouthistonguesoheneveragainslandershisExcellencythePreacherHojaEffendi,”aaboutdoingso?
“Bringthelamphere,”saidBlaearthestove,thelightofthelampstruckbrokencoffeegrinders,sieves,scalesandpiecesofbrokencoffeecupslyinginthemudofspilledcoffee.Intheerwherethestorytellerhunghispictureseaight,Blackwasseargfortheperformer’sprops,sash,magi’shandkerchiefandpoppingstick.Blacksaidhewasafterthepicturesahelamphe’dtakenfrommetomyface:Yes,ofcourseI’ddrawntwoofthemoutofasenseoffraternity.WecouldfindnothingbutthePersianskullcapthatthedeceasedworeoverhisperfectlyshavedhead.
Seeingnooneelse,weexitedintotheblaessofnightthroughanarrowpassagewaythatledawayfromthebackdoor.Duringtheraidmuchofthecrowdaistswithinprobablyescapedthroughthisdoor,buttheknocked-overplantersandbagsofcoffeestrewneverywhereindicatedthattherewasastrugglehereaswell.
Thefactthatthecoffeehousewasraidedaerstorytellermurdered,coupledwiththeterrifyingblaessofnight,broughtBladIclether.Thiswasalsowhatcausedthesileweenus.Wepassedtwomorestreets.Bladedthelampbae,thenhedrewhisdaggerandpressedittomythroat.
“We’regoingtoyourhouse,”hesaid.“IwanttosearchitsoIputmymindatease.”
“It’salreadybeensearched.”
Ratherthanbeoffendedbyhim,Ihadtheurgetoteasehim.Didn’tBlack’sbeliefinthedisgracefulrumorsaboutmesimplyprovehewasalsojealousofme?Heheldthedaggerwithoutmufidence.
Myhouseositethedirewewereheadingalongtheroadleadingawayfromthecoffeehouse.Wetackedrightadownneighborhoodstreetsandpassedthroughemptygardensthatborethedepressiofdampandloreesaswetracedawidearcbacktowardmyhouse.We’dcoveredmorethanhalftheroute,whenBlackstoppedandsaid:“Fortwodays,MasterOsmanandIexamihemasterpiecesofthelegendarymastersireasury.”
Muchlater,nearlyscreaming,Isaid,“Afteracertainage,evenifapaintersharesaworktablewithBihzad,whatheseesmaypleasehiseyesandbringteaementtohissoul,butitwon’t
enhaalent,becauseonepaintswiththehand,nottheeyes,andthehandatmyage,letaloMasterOsman’s,doesnoteasilylearhings.”
Assuredmybeautifulaitingforme,IspokeatthetopofmyvoicetoletherknowIwasn’talonesoshemighthideherselffromBlaotthatItookthispatheticdagger-wieldingfoolseriously.
Wepassedthroughthecourtyardgate,andIthoughtIsawthelightofalampmovinginthehouse,butthankGodallwasindarknessnow.Itwassuchamercilessrapeofmyprivacyforthisknife-wieldioforcehiswayintomyheavenlyhome,whereIspentmydays,indeedallmytime,seekingoutandpaintingAllah’smemoriesuntilmyeyestired—whereuponI’dmakelovetomybeloved,themostbeautifulwomanintheworld—thatIsworetotakerevengeuponhim.
Lthelamp,heexaminedmypapers,apageIwasinthemidstofpleting—nedprisonerspleadingtotheSultantoberelievedoftheirsofdebtandreceivingHisbenevolence—mypaints,myworktables,myknives,myreed-cuttingboards,mybrushes,everythingaroundmywritingtable,mypapersagain,myburnishingstones,mypenknivesandthespacesbetweenmypenandpaperboxes;helookedinets,chests,behcushions,atoneofmypaperscissors,ahasoftredcushionandacarpetbefoingback,bringingthelampcloserandclosertoeachobjedexaminingthesameplaceagain.Ashesaidwhenhefirstdrewhison,hewouldn’tsearchmyentirehouse,onlymyatelier.Indeed,couldn’tIcealmywife—theonlythingIwaohide—intheroomfromwhichshewasnowspyingonus?
“There’safinalpicturethatbelohebookmyEnishtewashavingmade,”hesaid.“Whoeverkilledhimalsostolethatpicture.”
“Itwasdifferentfromtheothers,”Isaidimmediately.“YourEnishte,mayherestinpeace,mademedrawatreeinoneerofthepage.Inthebackgroundsomewhere…andinthemiddleofthepage,inthefround,wastobesomeone’spicture,probablyaportraitofOurSultan.Thatspace,quitelargeifImightadd,wasawaitingitspicture.Becausetheobjethebackgrouobesmaller,asintheEuropeanstyle,hewaomakethetreesmaller.Asthepicturedeveloped,itgavetheimpressionofbeingaviewofthisworldfromawindow,nothinglikeanillustrationatall.ItwasthenIprehehatinapicturemadewiththeperspectivalmethodsoftheFranks,thebordersandgildingtooktheplaceofawindowframe.”
“ElegantEffendiwasresponsibleforthebordersandthegilding.”
“Ifthat’swhatyou’reasking,IalreadytoldyouIdidn’tmurderhim.”
“Amurdererneveradmitstohiscrime,”hesaidquickly,thenaskedmewhatIwasdoingatthecoffeehouseduringtheraid.
HeplacedtheoillampjustbesidethecushionuponwhichIwasseated,inawaythatwouldilluminate
myfacealongwithmypapersandthepagesIwasilluminating.Hehimselfwasscurryingabouttheroomlikeashadowinthedark.
BesidestellinghimwhatI’vetoldyou,thatIactuallywasaninfrequentvisitortothecoffeehouseandjusthappeobepassingby,IalsorepeatedthatImadetwoofthepictureswhichwerehungonthewallthere—althoughIactuallydisapprovedofthegoings-onatthecoffeehouse.“Because,”Iadded,“theartofpaintingonlyendsupningandpunishingitselfwhenitderivesitsstrengthfromthedesiretonandpunishtheevilsofliferatherthanfromthepainter’sownskill,loveofhisartanddesiretoembraceAllah…regardlessofwhetherit’sthepreacherfromErzurumorSatanhimselfthat’sdenounced.Moreimportantly,ifthatcoffeehousecrowdhadn’ttargetedtheErzurumis,itmightnothavebeenraidedtonight.”
“Evenso,youwouldgothere,”saidthewretch.
“Yes,becauseIenjoyedmyselfthere.”HadheaninklingofhowhoIwasbeing?Iadded,“Despiteknowinghowuglyandwrongsomethingis,wedesdantsofAdammightstillderivesiderablepleasurefromit.AndI’membarrassedtosayIwasalsoeaihosecheapillustrations,themimidthosestoriesaboutSatan,thegoldandthedog,whichthestorytellertoldcrudelywithoutmeterorrhyme.”
“Evenso,whywouldyouevenstepfootinthatdenofunbelievers?”
“Fihen,”Isaidresigningmyselftoaninnervoice,“attimesthere’salsoawormofdoubtthatgnawsatme:EversinceIenlyreizedasthemosttalentedandmostprofitamoersoftheworkshop,notonlybyMasterOsman,butbyOurSultanaswell,IbegaerrifiedoftheenvyoftheothersthatItried,ifonlyattimes,togowheretheywent,tobefriendthemandtoresemblethemsotheywouldn’tturnonmeinasuddenfitofvengeance.Doyouuand?Andsihey’vebegunlabelingmean”Erzurumi,“I’vebeengoingtothatdenofvileunbelieverssohtdistthisrumor.”
“MasterOsmansaidyouoftenactedasifapologizingforyourtalentandproficy.”
“Whatelsedidhesayaboutme?”
“Thatyou’dpaintabsurd,miuresongrainsofridfingernailssothatotherswouldbevincedyou’dforsakenlifeforart.HesaidyouwerealwaystryingtopleaseothersbecauseyouwereembarrassedbythegreatgiftsAllahhadbestoweduponyou.”
“MasterOsmanisonBihzad’slevel,”Isaidwithsiy.“Whatelse?”
“Helistedyourfaultswithouttheslightesthesitation,”saidthewretch.
“Let’shearmyfaultsthen.”
“Hesaidthatdespiteyioustalent,youpaifortheloveofartbuttoingratiateyourself.Supposedly,whatmostmotivatedyouwhilepaintingwasimaginingthepleasureanobserverwouldfeel;whereas,youshould’vepaintedforthepleasureofpaintingitself.”
ItsingedmyheartthatMasterOsmansobrazenlyrevealedwhathethoughtaboutmetoamanofsuchdiminishedspirit,onewhodevotedhislife,nottoart,buttobeingaclerk,writiersandhollowflattery.Blatihegreatmastersofold,MasterOsmanclaimed,wouldneverrenouhestylesahodstheycultivatedthroughself-sacrificetoartjustforthesakeofanewshah’sauthority,thewhimsofanewprihetastesofanewage;thus,toavoidbeingforcedtoaltertheirstylesahods,they’dheroicallyblindthemselves.Meanwhile,you’veenthusiasticallyanddishonorablyimitatedtheEuropeanmastersforthepagesofmyEnishte’sbook,withtheexcusethatit’sthewillofOurSultan.”
“ThegreatHeadIlluminatorMasterOsmanmostcertainoevilbythis,”Isaid.“Allowmetoputsomelieaontheboilforyou,mydearguest.”
Ipassedintotheadjoiningroom.Mybelovedtossedovermyheadthenightgownofesesilkshewaswearing,whichshe’dpurchasedfromEsthertheclothier,thenmoglyparrotedme,“Allowmetoputsomelieaontheboilforyou,mydearguest,”andplacedherhandonmycock.
Itookouttheagate-handledswordhiddenamongrose-stedsheetsatthebottomofthechestonthefloorourroll-upmattress,whichshe’dhopefullyspreadout,aheonfromitssheath.Itsedgewassosharpthatifyoutossedasilkhandkerchiefoverit,theswordwouldeasilycutthroughit;ifyouplacedasheetofgoldleafuponit,theedgesoftheresultingpieceswouldbeasstraightasanycutwitharuler.
cealingtheswordasbestIcould,Ireturomyatelier.BlackEffendileasedwithhisinterrogatiohewasstillcirgtheredcushion,daggerinhand.Iplacedahalf-finishedillustrationuponthecushion.“Takealookatthis,”Isaid.Hekoutofcuriosity,tryingtouaure.
Isteppedbehindhim,drewmyswordandiionloweredhimtotheground,pinninghimwithmyweight.Hisdaggerfellaway.Grabbinghimbythehair,Ipushedhisheadagainstthegroundandpressedmyswordtohisnebelow.IflatteBlack’sdelicatebodyandpressedhimfacedowhmyheavybody,usingmyandonefreehandtopushhisheadsoitnearlytouchedthesharppointofthesword.Myonehandwasfullofhisdirtyhair,theotherheldtheswordtothedelicateskinofhisthroat.Wisely,hedidn’tmoveatall,becauseIcouldhavefinishedhimthenandthere.Beingthisclosetohiscurlyhair,tothenapeofhisneck—whichmight’veinvitedaninsultingslapataime—andtohisuglyearsenragedmeallthemore.“I’musingallmyrestrainttokeep
fromdoingawaywithyouthisinstant,”Iwhisperedintohisearasifdivulgi.
Thathelisteomelikeanobedientchildwithoutmakingapeeppleasedme:“You’llreizethislegendfromtheBookofKings,”Iwhispered.“FeridunShah,inerror,bequeathstheworstofhislandstohistwooldersonsa,Persia,toIraj,theyouur,bentonrevenge,dupeshisyoungerbrother,Iraj,ofwhomheisjealous;beforehecutsIraj’sthroat,hegrabshishairjustasIamdoingnowaopofhimwithallhisweight.Doyoufeeltheweightofmybody?”
Hegavenoanswer,butfromhiseyes,whichstaredblanklylikethoseofasacrificiallamb,Icouldtellthathewaslistening,andIwasstruckwithinspiration:“I’mnotonlyfaithfultoPersianstylesahodsinpainting,butalsoinbeheadings.I’vealsoseenanotherversionofthismuchlovedsethatdescribesShahSiyavush’sdeath.”
IexplaioBlack,wholistenedsilently,howSiyavushmadepreparationsforavenginghisbrothers,howheburneddowirepalace,allhisbelongingsandproperty,howhefivinglypartedfromhiswife,mountedhissteedaowar,howhelostthebattleandwasdraggedbyhishairalongthegroundbeforebeinglaidoutfacedown“justasyouarenow,”andhowakniferessedagainsthisthroat,howthereeruptedanargumeweenhisfriendsandenemiesoverwhethertheyshouldkillhimorlethimfreeandhowthedefeatedking,hisfathedirt,listeohiscaptors.ThenIaskedhim,“Areyoufondofthatillustration?GeruyesupbehindSiyavush,asIhavetoyou,getsontopofhim,restshisswainsthisneck,grabsafistfulofhairandcutshisthroat.Yourredblood,soontoflow,makesblackdustrisefromthedryearth,wherelaterstill,aflowerwillbloom.”
IfellquietandfromdistantstreetswecouldheartheErzurumisscreamingastheyraerroroutsideatoncebroughtthetwoofus,lyiopoftheother,closer.
“Butinallthosepictures,”Iadded,pullingharderonBlack’shair,“onesehedifficultyofelegantlydrawingtwomenwhodespiseeachotheryetwhosebodies,likeours,havebeeaso’sasifthechaosoftreachery,envyandbattlethatesjustbeforethemagidmagnifitmomentofbeheadinghastoofullypermeatedthosepictures.EventhegreatestmastersofKazvinwouldhavedifficultydrawingtwomenontopofeachother;they’dfuseeverything.WhereasyouandI,seeforyourself,we’remuchmoretidya.”
“Thebladeiscutting,”hewhimpered.
“I’mmuchobligedforyourpolitewords,mydearman,butit’sdoingnosuchthing.I’mbeingquitecareful.Iwouldn’tdoanythingtoruinthebeautyofourpose.Inthesesoflove,deathandwar,whereinthegreatmastersofoldreertwinedbodiesasiftheywereoheywereabletoelilyourtears.Seeforyourself:Myheadrestsuponthenapeofyourneckasifitartofyourbody.Ismellyourhairandthestofyourneck.Mylegs,ohersideofyours,arestretchedoutinsuchharmonywithyours,thatanonlhtmistakeusforafgedbeast.Doyoufeelthebalanyweightonyourbadbuttocks?”AnothersileIdidn’tpressthesword
upward,becauseitwouldindeedhavecuthisthroat.“Ifyou’renotgoingtospeak,Imightbeprovokedtobiteyourear,”Isaid,whisperingintothatveryear.
WhenInotihiseyesthathereparedtospeak,Iaskedthesamequestionagain:“Doyoufeelthebalanyweightuponyourbody?”
“Aye.”
“Doyoulikeit?”Isaid.“Arewebeautiful?”Iasked.“Areweasbeautifulasthelegendaryheroeswhoslayeachotherwithsuchelegahemasterpiecesoftheoldmasters?”
“Idon’tknow,”saidBlack,“I’tseeusinthemirror.”
WhenIimaginedhowmywifesawusfromtheotherroominthelightcastbythecoffeehouse’soillamprestingontheflooronlyashortdistanceaway,IthoughtImightactuallybiteBlack’searoutofexcitement.
“BlackEffendi,you,whohaveforcedyourwayintomyhomeandhavedisturbedmyprivacy,daggerinhand,iointerrogateme,”Isaid,“doyounowfeelmystrength?”
“Yes,Ialsoseyou’retrulyintheright.”
“Thenproceed,onceagain,toaskmewhatyouwanttoknow.”
“DescribehowMasterOsmanwouldcaressyou.”
“Asanapprentice,Iwasmuchmorelithe,delicateaifulthanIamnow,andhewouldmouhenthewayIhavemountedyou.Hewouldcaressmyarms,attimeshewouldevenhurtme,butbecauseIwasinaweofhisknowledge,histalentandstrength,whathedidpleasedme,andIneverharboredanyillwilltowardhim,becauseIlovedhim.LovingMasterOsmaneoloveart,colors,paper,thebeautyofpaintingandilluminationahingthatainted,andtherebytolovetheworlditselfandGod.MasterOsmanismorethanafathertome.”
“Wouldhebeatyouoften?”heasked.
“Intheroleofafather,hebeatmeropriatesenseofjustice;asamaster,hebeatmepainfullysothatImightlearnfromthepunishment.ThankstothepainandthefearofarulerwhagmyfingernailsIlearnedmanythierandfasterthanIwould’vealone.Sohewouldn’tgrabmebymyhairandbangmyheadagainstthewallwhenIrentice,I’dneverspillpaint,neverwastehisgoldwash,wouldquicklymemorize,forexample,thecurveofahorse’sf,coverupthemistakesofthemasterlimner,mybrushesregularlyandfocusmyattentionandspiritonthepagebeforeme.SinytalentandmasterytothebeatingsIreceived,I,inturmyorentices
withoutaguiltysce.What’smore,Iknowthateveinggivenwithoutjustcause,ifitdoesn’tbreakthespiritoftheapprentice,willultimatelybehim.”
“Evenso,youuandthatwhiledrubbingahandsome-faced,sweet-eyed,angelicapprentiowandthen,yougetcarriedawaybythesheerpleasureofit,andyouknowthatMasterOsmanprobablyexperiehesamesensationwithyou,don’tyou?”
“Sometimeshe’dtakeamarbleburnishingstoneandstrikemewithsuchforcebehihatmyearwfordays,andI’dwalkaroundhalfstunned.Sometimeshe’dslapmesohardthatforweeksmycheekwouldache,enoughttinualtearstomyeyes.Ishallneverfet,yetIstilllovemymentor.”
“Nay,”saidBlack,“youwerefuriouswithhim.YoutookreveheahatsilentlyaccumulateddeepwithinyoubymakingillustrationsformyEnishte’sFrankish-imitationbook.”
“Theoppositeistrue.Thebeatingsthatayoungminiaturistreceivesfromhismasterbindhimtohismasterrofoundrespetilthedayhedies.”
“ThecruelandtreacherouscuttingofthethroatsofIrajandSiyavushfrombehind,asyouaredoingtome,aroseoutofsiblingrivalry,andsiblingrivalry,asintheBookofKings,isalrovokedbyanunjustfather.”
“True.”
“Theunjustfatherofyoumasterminiaturists,theonewhosetyouateachother’sthroats,isnowpreparingtobetrayyou,”hesaidbrazenly.“Ahh,Ibegofyou,itiscutting,”hewhimpered.Hecriedinagonyabitloheon,“True,cuttingmythroatandspillingmybloodlikeasacrificiallambwouldbebuttheworkofaninstant,butifyoudothiswithoutlisteningtowhatI’mabouttoexplain—Idon’tthinkyou’lldoitanylease,enough—you’llforeverwonderwhatIwasgoingtosay.Please,movethebladeawayslightly.”Ididso.“MasterOsman,whofollowedyoureverystepandyoureverybreathsincechildhood,ilywatchedyod-givebloomintoartistrylikeaspringflowerunderhiscare,hasnowturnedhisbayouiosavehisworkshopanditsstyle,towhichhehasdevotedhisentirelife.”
“IretedthreeparablestoyouthedayweburiedElegantEffendisoyoumightknowhowdisgustingthisthingtheycall”style“trulyis.”
“Thosestoriespertaioaminiaturist’sindividualstyle,”saidBlackcarefully,“whereasMasterOsmanisedwithpreserviyleoftheentireworkshop.”
HeexplainedhowtheSultanattachedgreatimportaofindingthemurdererofElegantEffendiandhisEnishte,howHe’devehemiheRoyalTreasurytothisend,andhowMasterOsmanwas
usingthisopportunitytosabotagehisEnishte’sbookandpunishthosewhobetrayedhimbyimitatingtheEuropeans.Blackaddedthatbasedonstyle,MasterOsmansuspectedOlivewasresponsibleforthehorsewiththeclippednostrils,butasHeadIlluminator,hewasvincedofStuiltandwouldturnhimovertotheexecutioners.Icouldseellihuhepressureofmysword,alikekissinghimbecausehegavehimselfovertowhathewassayinglikeachild.WhatIhearddidn’tworryme,havingStorkoutofthewaymeantI’dbeeHeadIlluminatorafterMasterOsmah—mayGodgranthimlonglife.
Iwasn’tdisturbedthatwhathesaidmighthappen,butbythepossibilitythatitmightnot.ReadiweenthelinesofBlack’sat,IwasabletogleanthatMasterOsmanwaswillingnotonlytosacrificeStork,butmeaswell.sideringthisincrediblepossibilitymademyheartquiaowardthehorrorofpleteabandofeltbyachildwho’ssuddenlylosthisfather.Eachtimethiscametomind,IhadtorestrainmyselffromcuttingBlack’sthroat.Ididn’tattempttuethepointwithBlayself:WhyshouldthefactthatwemadeafewfoolishillustrationsinspiredbyEuropeanmasterslowerustotheleveloftraitors?Onceagain,Ithoughtthatbehi’sdeathstoodStorkandOliveandtheirschemesagainstme.IremovedtheswordfromBlack’sthroat.
“Let’sgotoOlive’shousetogether,andsearchitfromtoptobottom,”Isaid.“Ifthelastpictureiswithhim,atleastwe’llknowwhomtofear.Ifnot,we’lltakehimwithusassupportandgoontoraidStork’shouse.”
Itoldhimtotrustmeandthathisdaggerwasenoughonryforthetwoofus.Iapologizedfornotevenhavingofferedhimaglassofliea.AsIliftedtheoillampfromthefloor,webothstaredmeaningfullyatthecushionuponwhichI’dflattenedhim.Iapproachedhimwiththelampinmyhandandtoldhimhowtheever-so-fainthisthroatwouldbeamarkofourfriendship.Hebledonlyslightly.
TheotioheErzurumisandthosepursuingthemcouldstillbeheardoreets,buticedus.WewerequicktoarriveatOlive’shouse.Wekhecourtyarddoor,thedoorofthehouse,andimpatientlyupoters.Nobodywashome;wemadesomuoisethatwewerecertainhewasn’tsleeping.Blackgavevoicetowhatwebothwerethinking:“Shallwegoinside?”
ItwistedthemetalloopofthedoorlockusingthebluntedgeofBlack’sdagger,theingitintothespacebetweendoorandjambandleveringitwithallht,webrokethelock.Weweremetbythestenpness,dirtandloneliness,whichhadaccumulatedoveryears.Bythelightofthelamp,wenotiunmadebed,sashestossedrandomlyuponcushios,twoturbans,undershirts,ullahEffenditheNakshibendi’sPersiandiary,awoodenturbanstand,broadcloth,needleandthread,asmallcopperpanfullofapplepeels,quiteafewcushions,avelvetbedspread,hispaints,hisbrushesandallofhissupplies.Iwasonthevergeofriflingthroughthewritingpaper,thelayeruponlayerofcarefullytrimmedHindustanpaper,andtheilluminatedpagesonhissmalldesk,butIrestrainedmyselfbothbecauseBlackwasmoreenthusiastiI,andbecauseIknewfullwellhowamaster
miniaturistwouldinothingbutbadluckifhewentthroughthebelongingsofalesstalentedminiaturist.Oliveisnotastalentedasisassumed,he’smerelyeager.Hetriestocoverupforhislackoftalentwithadorationoftheoldmasters.Theoldlegends,however,onlyrouseanartist’simagination;it’sthehandthatdoesthepainting.
AsBlackwasseargmeticulouslythroughallthechestsandboxes,goingasfarastocheckthebottomsoflaundrybaskets,withouttouganythingIglaOlive’sBursatowels,hisebonyb,hisdirtybathhandtowel,hisrosewaterbottles,aridiculouswaistclothwithanIndianblock-printpattern,quiltedjackets,aheavy,dirtywomen’srobewithaslit,adentedcoppertray,filthycarpetsandotherfurnishingstoocheapandslovenlyforthemoneyheearned.Olivewaseitherverystingyandsaltinghismoneyawayorhewassquanderingitsomehow…“Thehouseofamurderer,precisely,”Isaidlater.“Thereisn’tevenaprayerrug.”Butthiswasn’twhatIwasthinking.Itrated.“Thesearethebelongingsofamanwhodoesn’tknowhowtobehappy…”Isaid.Yet,inaerofmymind,IthoughtsadlyabouthowmiseryandproximitytotheDevilnursedpainting.
“Despiteknowingwhatittakestobetent,amanmightstillbeunhappy,”saidBlack.
HeplacedbeforemeaseriesofpicturesdrawnoncoarseSamarkandpaper,backedwithheavysheets,whichhe’dremovedfromthedepthsofachest.Westudiedthepictures:adelightfulSatanallthewayfromKhorasanthathademergedfrombeheground,atree,abeautifulwoman,adogaureofDeathImyselfhaddrawn.Theseweretheillustrationsthatthemurderedstorytellerhungupeaighthetoldoneofhisdisgracefulstories.PromptedbyBlack’squestion,IpoithepictureofDeathIhaddrawn.
“ThesamepicturesareinmyEnishte’sbook,”hesaid.
“Boththestorytellerandtheproprietorofthecoffeehouserealizedthewisdomofhavingtheminiaturistsreheillustrationseaight.Thestorytellerwouldhaveoneofusquicklydashoffanillustrationohesecoarsesheets,askusalittleaboutthestoryandaboutourinjokesandthen,addingsomeofhisownmaterial,he’dstarttheevening’sperformance.”
“WhydidyoumakethesamepictureofDeathforhimthatyoumadeformyEnishte’sbook?”
“Upontherequestofthestoryteller,itwasalonefigureonthepage.ButIdidn’tdrawitwithattentionandeffortthewayIhadforEnishte’sbook;Idrewitquickly,thewaymyhalikedrawingit.Theotherstoo,perhapstryingtobewitty,drewforthestorytellerinacruderandsimplermannerwhattheyhadmadeforthatsecretbook.”
“Whomadethehorse,”heasked,“withtheslitnostrils?”
LthelampwewatchedthehorseinworesembledthehorsemadeforEnishte’sbook,butitwasquicker,morecarelessandcateredtoasimplertaste,asifsomebodyhadnotonlypaidtheillustratorlessmoneyandmadehimworkfaster,butalsoforcedhimtomakearougherand,Isupposepreciselyforthisreason,morerealistichorse.
“Storkwouldkwhomadethishorse,”Isaid.“He’saceitedfoolwho’tlastadaywithoutlisteningtothegossipofminiaturists,that’swhyhevisitsthecoffeehouseeverynight.Yes,mostcertainly,Storkdrewth松语文学www.16sy.coM免费小说阅读
推荐自己的新书《天命讨债人》齐天大魔猴
桀骜齐天圣，铮铮大魔猴
第817章 四公子当真与众不同？清穿后每天被迫撩
【欢脱独宠，沙雕撩夫日
新书《谜城》开启神峰
一次偶然， 他踏足修
第270章 酒吧偶遇网游之影子大师
我，在黑夜中行走 我
007儿女成群婚城难入
十八岁的她，一心想用高
第四百一十六章 邀请剑神之剑弑乾坤
《剑神之剑弑乾坤》是一
声明：本站所收录之:My Name is Red- I AM CALLED “BUTTERFLY”、言情小说、玄幻、网游小说、及短篇作品、均为本站作者及网友上传。
并不代表本站立场!本站亦无法严格审:My Name is Red最新章节其版权归属。如您对My Name is RedTXT下载持有版权方面的异议，请联系本站客服。我们将于72小时内处理。
Copyright (C) 2019 All Rights Reserved 版权所有：松语文学
并不代表本站立场!本站亦无法严格审:My Name is Red最新章节其版权归属。如您对My Name is RedTXT下载持有版权方面的异议，请联系本站客服。我们将于72小时内处理。
Copyright (C) 2019 All Rights Reserved 版权所有：松语文学