I AM CALLED BLACK-1
I AM CALLED BLACK-1 (第2/3页)
’refetteredlikethemostmiserableofslavesanddraggedaroundinisolation.TheseFranksforcethepoorbeastsintotheirhomesandevenintotheirbeds.Dogsaren’tpermittedtowalkwithoneanother,letalonesniffandfrolictogether.Inthatdespicablestate,inchains,theycandonothingbutgazeforlornlyateachotherfromadistancewhentheypassonthestreet.DogswhoroamthestreetsofIstanbulfreelyinpacksandcommunities,thewaywedo,dogswhothreatenpeopleifnecessary,whocancurlupinawarmcornerorstretchoutintheshadeandsleeppeacefully,andwhocan**wherevertheywantandbitewhomevertheywant,suchdogsarebeyondtheinfidels’conception.It’snotthatIhaven’tthoughtthatthismightbewhythefollowersoftheErzurumiopposeprayingfordogsandfeedingthemmeatonthestreetsofIstanbulinexchangefordivinefavorsandevenwhytheyopposetheestablishmentofcharitiesthatperformsuchservices.Iftheyintendboth
totreatusasenemiesandmakeinfidelsofus,letmeremindthemthatbeinganenemytodogsandbeinganinfidelareoneandthesame.Atthe,Ihope,nottoodistantexecutionsofthesedisgracefulmen,Iprayourexecutionerfriendsinviteustotakeabite,astheysometimesdotosetadeterringexample.
BeforeIfinish,letmesaythis:Mypreviousmasterwasaveryjustman.
Whenwesetoutatnighttothieve,we’dcooperate:I’dbegintobark,andhe’dcutthethroatofourvictimwhosescreamswouldbedrownedoutbymybarking.Inreturnformyhelp,he’dcutuptheguiltymenthathe’dpunished,boilthemandfeedthemtome.Idon’tlikerawmeat.Godwilling,thewould-beexecutionerofthatclericfromErzurumwilltakethisintoaccountsoIwon’tupsetmystomachwiththatscoundrel’srawflesh.
IWILLBECALLEDAMURDERERNay,Iwouldn’thavebelievedIcouldtakeanyone’slife,evenifI’dbeentoldsomomentsbeforeImurderedthatfool;andthus,myoffenseattimesrecedesfrommelikeaforeigngalleondisappearingonthehorizon.Nowandagain,IevenfeelasifIhaven’tcommittedanycrimeatall.FourdayshavepassedsinceIwasforcedtodoawaywithhaplessElegant,whowasabrothertome,andonlynowhaveI,tosomeextent,acceptedmysituation.
Iwould’vepreferredtoresolvethisunexpectedandawfuldilemmawithouthavingtodoawaywithanybody,butIknewtherewasnootherchoice.Ihandledthematterthenandthere,assumingtheburdenofresponsibility.Icouldn’tletthefalseaccusationsofonefoolhardymanendangertheentiresocietyofminiaturists.
Nevertheless,beingamurderertakessomegettingusedto.Ican’tstandbeingathome,soIheadouttothestreet.Ican’tstandmystreet,soIwalkontoanother,andthenanother.AsIstareatpeople’sfaces,Irealizethatmanyofthembelievethey’reinnocentbecausetheyhaven’tyethadtheopportunitytosnuffoutalife.It’shardtobelievethatmostmenaremoremoralorbetterthanmesimplyonaccountofsomeminortwistoffate.Atmost,theywearsomewhatstupiderexpressionsbecausetheyhaven’tyetkilled,andlikeallfools,theyappeartohavegoodintentions.AfterItookcareofthatpatheticman,wanderingthestreetsofIstanbulforfourdayswasenoughtoconfirmthateveryonewithagleamofclevernessinhiseyeandtheshadowofhissoulcastacrosshisfacewasahiddenassassin.Onlyimbecilesareinnocent.
Tonight,forexample,whilewarmingupwithasteamingcoffeeatthecoffeehouselocatedinthebackstreetsoftheslavemarket,gazingatthesketchofadoghangingonthebackwall,Iwasgraduallyforgettingmyplightandlaughingwiththerestofthemateverythingthedogrecounted.Then,Ihadthesensationthatoneofthemenbesidemewasacommonmurdererlikemyself.ThoughhewassimplylaughingatthestorytellerasIwas,myintuitionwassparked,eitherbythewayhisarmrestednearmineorbythewayherestlesslyrappedhisfingersonhiscup.I’mnotsurehowIknew,butIsuddenlyturnedandlookedhimdirectlyintheeye.Hegaveastartandhisfacecontorted.Asthecrowddispersed,anacquaintanceofhistookhimbythearmandsaid,“NusretHoja’smenwillsurelyraidthisplace.”
Raisinganeyebrow,hesignaledthemanquiet.Theirfearinfectedme.Norustedanyone,everyoneexpectedtobedoneinatanymomentbythemannexttohim.
Ithadbecomeevencolder,andsnowhadaccumulatedonstreetcornersandatthebasesofwalls.Intheblindnessofnight,Icouldfindmywayalongthenarrowstreetsonlybygropingwithmyhands.Attimes,thedimlightofanoillampstillburningsomewhereinsideawoodenhousefilteredoutfrombehindblackenedwindowsanddrawnshutters,reflectingonthesnow;butmostly,Icouldseenothing,andfoundmywaybylisteningforthesoundsofwatchmenbangingtheirsticksonstones,forthehowlingofmaddogs,orthesoundscomingfromhouses.Attimesthenarrowanddreadfulstreetsofthecityseemedtobelitupbyawondrouslightcomingfromthesnowitself;andinthedarkness,amidtheruinsandtrees,IthoughtIspottedoneofthoseghoststhathavemadeIstanbulsuchanominousplaceforthousandsofyears.
Fromwithinhouses,nowandagain,Iheardthenoisesofmiserablepeoplehavingcoughingfitsorsnortingorwailingastheycriedoutintheirdreams,orIheardtheshoutsofhusbandsandwivesastheytriedtostrangleeachother,theirchildrensobbingattheirfeet.
Foracoupleofnightsinarow,IcametothiscoffeehousetorelivethehappinessI’dfeltbeforebecomingamurderer,toraisemyspiritsandtolistentothestoryteller.Mostofmyminiaturistfriends,thebrethrenwithwhomI’dspentmyentirelife,camehereeverynight.SinceI’dsilencedthatloutwithwhomI’dmadeillustrationssincechildhoodIdidn’twanttoseeanyofthem.
Muchembarrassesmeaboutthelivesofmybrethren,whocan’tdowithoutgossiping,andaboutthedisgracefulatmosphereofjovialityinthisplace.Ievensketchedafewpicturesforthestorytellersotheywouldn’taccusemeofconceit,butthatfailedtoputanendtotheirenvy.
They’rejustifiedinbeingjealous.Notoneofthemcouldsurpassmeinmixingcolors,increatingandembellishingborders,composingpages,selectingsubjects,drawingfaces,arrangingbustlingwarandhuntingscenesanddepictingbeasts,sultans,ships,horses,warriorsandlovers.Notonecouldapproachmymasteryinimbuingillustrationswiththepoetryofthesoul,noteveningilding.I’mnotbragging,butexplainingthistoyousoyoumightfullyunderstandme.Overtime,jealousybecomesanelementasindispensableaspaintinthelifeofthemasterartist.
Duringmywalks,whichgrowincreasinglylongerduetomyrestlessness,Icomeface-to-faceoccasionallywithoneofourmostpureandinnocentreligiouscountrymen,andastrangenotionsuddenlyentersmyhead:IfIthink
aboutthefactthatI’mamurderer,themanbeforemewillreaditonmyface.
Therefore,Iforcemyselftothinkofdifferentthings,justasIforcedmyself,writhinginembarrassment,tobanishthoughtsofwomenwhenperformingprayersasanadolescent.ButunlikethosedaysofyouthfulfitswhenIcouldn’tgettheactofcopulationoutofmythoughts,now,IcanindeedforgetthemurderthatI’vecommitted.
Yourealize,infact,thatI’mexplainingallthesethingsbecausetheyrelatetomypredicament.ButifIweretodivulgeevenonedetailrelatedtothekillingitself,you’dfigureitalloutandthiswouldrelievemefrombeinganameless,facelessmurdererroamingamongyoulikeanapparitionandrelegatemetothestatusofanordinary,confessedcriminalwhohasgivenhimselfup,soontopayforhiscrimewithhishead.Givemethelicensenottodwelloneverysingledetail,allowmetokeepsomecluestomyself:TrytodiscoverwhoIamfrommychoiceofwordsandcolors,asattentivepeoplelikeyourselvesmightexaminefootprintstocatchathief.This,inturn,bringsustotheissueof“style,”whichisnowofwidespreadinterest:Doesaminiaturist,oughtaminiaturist,havehisownpersonalstyle?Auseofcolor,avoiceallhisown?
Let’sconsiderapiecebyBihzad,themasterofmasters,patronsaintofallminiaturists.Ihappenedacrossthismasterpiece,whichalsonicelypertainstomysituationbecauseit’sadepictionofmurder,amongthepagesofaflawlessny-year-oldbookoftheHeratschool.ItemergedfromthelibraryofaPersianprincekilledinamercilessbattleofsuccessionandrecountsthestoryofHüsrevandShirin.You,ofcourse,knowthefateofHüsrevandShirin,IrefertoNizami’sversion,notFirdusi’s:
Thetwoloversfinallymarryafterahostoftrialsandtribulations;however,theyounganddiabolicalShiruye,Hüsrev’ssonbyhispreviouswife,won’tgivethemanypeace.Theprincehashiseyeonnotonlyhisfather’sthronebutalsohisfather’syoungwife,Shirin.Shiruye,ofwhomNizamiwrites,“Hisbreathhadthestenchofalion’smouth,”byhookorcrookimprisonshisfatherandsucceedstothethrone.Onenight,enteringthebedchamberofhisfatherandShirin,hefeelshiswayinthedark,andonfindingthepairinbed,stabshisfatherinthechestwithhisdagger.Thus,thefather’sbloodflowstilldawnandheslowlydiesinthebedthatheshareswiththebeautifulShirin,whoremainssleepingpeacefullybesidehim.
ThispicturebythegreatmasterBihzad,asmuchasthetaleitself,addressesagravefearI’vecarriedwithinmeforyears:Thehorrorofwakingintheblackofnighttorealizethere’sastrangermakingfaintsoundsashecreepsabout
theblacknessoftheroom!Imaghattheintruderwieldsadaggerinonehandashestranglesyouwiththeother.Everydetail,thefinelywroughtwall,windowandframeornamentation,thecurvesandcirculardesignsintheredrug,thecolorofthesilentscreamemanatingfromyourclampedthroatandtheyellowandpurpleflowersembroideredwithincrediblefinesseandvigoronthemagnificentquiltuponwhichthebareandvilefootofyourmurderermercilesslystepsasheendsyourlife,allofthesedetailsservethesamepurpose:Whileaugmentingthebeautyofthepainting,theyremindyoujusthowexquisitearetheroominwhichyouwillsoondieandtheworldyouwillsoonleave.Theindifferenceofthepainting’sbeautyandoftheworldtoyourdeath,thefactofyourbeingtotallyaloneindeathdespitethepresenceofyourwife,thisistheinescapablemeaningthatstrikesyou.
“ThisisbyBihzad,”theagingmastersaidtwentyyearsagoasweexaminedthebookIheldinmytremblinghands.Hisfacewasilluminatednotbythenearbycandle,butbythepleasureofobservationitself.“ThisissoBihzadthatthere’snoneedforasignature.”
Bihzadwassowellawareofthisfactthathedidn’thidehissignatureanywhereinthepainting.Andaccordingtotheelderlymaster,therewasasenseofembarrassmentandafeelingofshameinthisdecisionofhis.Wherethereistrueartandgenuinevirtuositytheartistcanpaintanincomparablemasterpiecewithoutleavingevenatraceofhisidentity.
Fearingformylife,Imurderedmyunfortunatevictiminanordinaryandcrudemanner.AsIreturnedtothisfire-ravagedareanightafternighttoascertainwhetherI’dleftbehindanytracesthatmightbetrayme,questionsofstyleincreasinglyaroseinmyhead.Whatwasveneratedasstylewasnothingmorethananimperfectionorflawthatrevealedtheguiltyhand.
Icould’velocatedthisplaceevenwithoutthebrillianceofthefallingsnow,forthisspot,razedbyfire,waswhereI’dendedthelifeofmycompanionoftwenty-fiveyears.Now,snowcoveredanderasedallthecluesthatmighthavebeeninterpretedassignature,provingthatAllahconcurredwithBihzadandmeontheissueofstyleandsignature.Ifweactuallycommittedanunpardonablesinbyillustratingthatbook—asthathalf-withadmaintainedfourdaysago—evenifwehaddonesounawares,Allahwouldn’thavebestowedthisfavoruponusminiaturists.
Thatnight,whenElegantEffendiandIcamehere,thesnowhadn’tyetbeguntofall.Wecouldhearthehowlingofmongrelsechointhedistance.
“Pray,forwhatreasonhavewecomehere?”theunfortunateonehadasked.
“Whatdoyouplantoshowmeouthereatthislatehour?”
“Justaheadliesawell,twelvepacesbeyondwhichI’veburiedthemoneyI’vebeensavingforyears,”Isaid.“IfyoukeepeverythingI’veexplainedtoyousecret,EnishteEffendiandIwillseethatyouarehappilyrewarded.”
“AmItounderstandthatyouadmityouknewwhatyouweredoingfromthebeginning?”hesaidinagitation.
“Iadmitit,”Iliedobligingly.
“Youacknowledgethepictureyou’vemadeisinfactadesecration,don’tyou?”hesaidinnocently.“It’sheresy,asacrilegethatnodecentmanwouldhavethegalltocommit.You’regoingtoburninthepitsofHell.Yoursufferingandpainwillneverdiminish—andyou’vemademeanaccomplice.”
AsIlistenedtohim,Isensedwithhorrorhowhiswordshadsuchstrengthandgravitythat,willinglyornot,peoplewouldheedthem,hopingthattheywouldprovetrueaboutmiserablecreaturesotherthanthemselves.ManyrumorslikethisaboutEnishteEffendihadbeguntoflyduetothesecrecyofthebookhewasmakingandthemoneyhewaswillingtopay—andbecauseMasterOsman,theHeadIlluminator,despisedhim.Itoccurredtomethatperhapsmybrothergilder,Elegant,hadwithslyintentusedthesefactstobuttresshisfalseaccusations.Towhatdegreewashebeinghonest?
Ihadhimrepeattheclaimsthatpittedusagainsteachother,andashespoke,hedidn’tmincehiswords.Heseemedtobeprovokingmetocoverupamistake,asduringourapprenticeyears,whenthegoalwastoavoidabeatingbyMasterOsman.Backthen,Ifoundhissincerityconvincing.Asanapprentice,hiseyeswouldwidenastheydidnow,butbackthentheyhadn’tyetdimmedfromthelaborofembellishing.ButfinallyIhardenedmyheart;hewaspreparedtoconfesseverythingtoeveryone.
“Dolistentome,”Isaidwithforcedexasperation.“Wemakeilluminations,createborderdesigns,drawframesontopages,webrightlyornamentpageafterpagewithlovelytonesofgold,wemakethegreatestofpaintings,weadornarmoiresandboxes.We’vedonenothingelseforyears.Itisourcalling.
Theycommissionpaintingsfromus,orderingustoarrangeaship,anantelopeorasultanwithinthebordersofaparticularframe,demandingacertainstyleofbird,acertaintypeoffigure,takethisparticularscenefromthestory,forgetaboutsuch-and-such.Whateveritistheydemand,wedoit.”Listen,“EnishteEffendisaidtome,”here,drawahorseofyourownimagining,righthere.“Forthreedays,likethegreatartistsofold,IsketchedhundredsofhorsessoImight
cometoknowexactlywhat”ahorseofmyownimagining‘was.Toaccustommyhand,IdrewaseriesofhorsesonacoarsesheetofSamarkandpaper.“ItookthesesketchesoutandshowedthemtoElegant.Helookedatthemwithinterestand,leaningclosetothepaper,begantostudytheblackandwhitehorsesinthefaintmoonlight.“TheoldmastersofShirazandHerat,”Isaid,“claimedthataminiaturistwouldhavetosketchhorsesunceasinglyforfiftyyearstobeabletotrulydepictthehorsethatAllahenvisionedanddesired.Theyclaimedthatthebestpictureofahorseshouldbedrawninthedark,sinceatrueminiaturistwouldgoblindworkingoverthatfifty-yearperiod,butintheprocess,hishandwouldmemorizethehorse.”
Theinnocentexpressiononhisface,theoneI’dalsoseenlongago,whenwewerechildren,toldmethathe’dbecomecompletelyabsorbedinmyhorses.
“Theyhireus,andwetrytomakethemostmysterious,themostunattainablehorse,justastheoldmastersdid.There’snothingmoretoit.It’sunjustofthemtoholdusresponsibleforanythingmorethantheillustration.”
“I’mnotsurethat’scorrect,”hesaid.“We,too,haveresponsibilitiesandourownwill.IfearnoonebutAllah.ItwasHewhoprovideduswithreasonthatwemightdistinguishGoodfromEvil.”
Itwasanappropriateresponse.
“Allahseesandknowsall…”IsaidinArabic.“He’llknowthatyouandI,we’vedhisworkwithoutbeingawareofwhatweweredoing.WhowillyounotifyaboutEnishteEffendi?Aren’tyouawarethatbehindthisaffairreststhewillofHisExcellencyOurSultan?”
Silence.
IwonderedwhetherhewasreallysuchabuffoonorwhetherhislossofcomposureandrantinghadsprungoutofasincerefearofAllah.
Westoppedatthemouthofthewell.Inthedarkness,Ivaguelycaughtsightofhiseyesandcouldseethathewasscared.Ipitiedhim.Butitwastoolateforthat.IprayedtoGodtogivemeonemoresignthatthemanstandingbeforemewasnotonlyadim-wittedcoward,butanunredeemabledisgrace.
“Countofftwelvestepsanddig,”Isaid.
“Then,whatwillyoudo?”
“I’llexplainitalltoEnishteEffendi,andhe’llburnthepictures.Whatotherrecourseisthere?IfoneofNusretHoja’sfollowershearsofsuchanallegation,
nothingwillremainofusorthebook-artsworkshop.AreyoufamiliarwithanyoftheErzurumis?Acceptthismoneysothatwecanbecertainyouwon’tinformonus.”
“Whatisthemoneycontainedin?”
“Thereareseventy-fiveViangoldpiecesinsideanoldceramicpicklejar.”
TheVianducatsmadegoodsense,butwherehadIcomeupwiththeceramicpicklejar?Itwassofooli**wasbelievable.IwastherebyreassuredthatGodwaswithmeandhadgivenmeasign.Myoldcompanionapprentice,who’dgrowngreedierwitheachpassingyear,hadalreadystartedexcitedlycountingoffthetwelvestepsinthedirectionIindicated.
Thereweretwothingsonmymindatthatmoment.Firstofall,therewerenoViancoinsoranythingofthesortburiedthere!IfIdidn’tcomeupwithsomemoneythisbuffoonwoulddestroyus.IsuddenlyfeltlikeembracingtheoafandkissinghischeeksasIsometimesdidwhenwewereapprentices,buttheyearshadcomebetweenus!Second,Iwaspreoccupiedwithfiguringouthowweweregoingtodig.Withourfingernails?Butthiscontemplation,ifyoucouldcallitthat,lastedonlyawinkintime.
Panicking,Igrabbedasthatlaybesidethewell.Whilehewasstillontheseventhoreighthstep,Icaughtuptohimandstruckhimonthebackofhisheadwithallmystrength.IstruckhimsoswiftlyandbrutallythatIwasmomentarilystartled,asiftheblowhadlandedonmyownhead.Aye,Ifelthispain.
InsteadofanguishingoverwhatI’ddone,Iwantedtofinishthejobquickly.
He’dbegunthrashingaboutonthegroundandmypanicdeepenedfurther.
LongafterI’ddroppedhimintothewell,Icontemplatedhowthecrudenessofmydeeddidnotintheleastbefitthegraceofaminiaturist.
IAMYOURBELOVEDUNCLEIamBlack’smaternaluncle,hisenishte,butothersalsocallme“Enishte.”
TherewasatimewhenBlack’smotherencouragedhimtoaddressmeas“EnishteEffendi,”andlater,notonlyBlack,buteveryonebeganreferringtomethatway.Thirtyyearsago,afterwe’dmovedtothedarkandhumidstreetshadedbychestnutandlindentreesbeyondtheAksaraydistrict,Blackbegantomakefrequentvisitstoourhouse.Thatwasourresidencebeforethisone.IfIwereawayonsummercampaignwithMahmutPasha,I’dreturnintheautumntodiscoverthatBlackandhismotherhadtakenrefugeinourhome.
Black’smother,maysherestinpeace,wastheoldersisterofmydearlydepartedwife.ThereweretimesonwintereveningsI’dcomehometofindmywifeandhismotherembracingandtearfullyconsolingeachother.Black’sfather,whocouldnevermaintainhisteachingpostsattheremotelittlereligiousschoolswherehetaught,wasill-tempered,angryandhadaweaknessfordrink.Blackwassixyearsoldatthetime;he’dcrywhenhismothercried,quietdownwhenhismotherfellsilentandregardedme,hisEnishte,withapprehension.
Itpleasesmetoseehimbeforemenow,adetermined,matureandrespectfulnephew.Therespectheshowsme,thecarewithwhichhekissesmyhandandpressesittohisforehead,theway,forexample,hesaid,“Purelyforred,”whenhepresentedmewiththeMongolinkpotasagift,andhispoliteanddemurehabitofsittingbeforemewithhiskneesmindfullytogether;allofthisnotonlyannouncesthatheisthesensiblegrownmanheaspirestobe,butitremindsmethatIamindeedthevenerableelderIaspiretobe.
Hesharesalikenesswithhisfather,whomI’veseenonceortwice:He’stallandthin,andmakesslightlynervousyetbecominggestureswithhisarmsandhands.Hiscustomofplacinghishandsonhiskneesorofstaringdeeplyandintentlyintomyeyesasiftosay,“Iunderstand,I’mlisteningtoyouwithreverence”whenItellhimsomethingofimport,orthewayhenodshisheadwithasubtlerhythmmatching
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