I AM CALLED BLACK-3
I AM CALLED BLACK-3 (第1/3页)
Thesnowbegantofallatalatehourandcontinuedtilldawn.IspentthenightreadingShekure’sletteragainandagain.Ipacedintheemptyroomoftheemptyhouse,occasionallyleaningtowardthecandlestick;intheflickeringlightofthedimcandle,Iwatchedthetensequiveringofmybeloved’sangryletters,thesomersaultstheyturnedtryingtodeceivemeandtheirhip-swingingright-to-leftprogression.Abruptly,thoseshutterswouldopenbeforemyeyes,andmybeloved’sfaceandhersorrowfulsmilewouldappear.AndwhenIsawherrealface,Iforgotallofthoseotherfaceswhosesour-cherrymouthshadincreasinglymaturedandripenedinmyimagination.
InthemiddleofthenightIlostmyselfindreamsofmarriage:Ihadnodoubtsaboutmyloveorthatitwasreciprocated—weweremarriedinastateofgreatcontentment—but,myimaginaryhappiness,setinahousewithastaircase,wasdashedwhenIcouldn’tfindappropriateworkandbeganarguingwithmywife,unabletomakeherheedmywords.
IknewI’dappropriatedtheseominousimagesfromthesectionontheillsofmarriageinGazzali’sTheRevivalofReligiousScience,whichI’dreadduringmynightsasabachelorinArabia;atthesametime,Irecalledthattherewasactuallyadviceonthebenefitsofmarriageinthatsamesection,thoughnowIcouldrememberonlytwoofthesebenefits:first,havingmyhouseholdkeptinorder(therewasnosuchorderinmyimaginedhouse);second,beingsparedtheguiltofself-abuseandofdraggingmyself—anevendeepersenseofguilt—behindpimpsleadingmethroughdarkalleywaystothelairsofprostitutes.
Thethoughtofsalvationatthislatehourbroughtmasturbationtomind.
Withasimple-mindeddesire,andtoridmymindofthisirrepressibleurge,Iretiredtoacorneroftheroom,aswasmywont,butafterawhileIrealizedIcouldn’tjackoff—proofwellenoughthatI’dfalleninloveagainaftertwelveyears!
ThisstrucksuchexcitementandfearintomyheartthatIwalkedaroundtheroomnearlyatrembleliketheflameofthecandle.IfShekuremeanttopresentherselfatthewindow,thenwhythisletter,whichputtheoppositebeliefintoplay?Whydidherfathercallforme?AsIpaced,Isensedthatthedoor,wallandsqueakyfloor,stutteringasImyselfdid,weretryingtocreaktheirresponsestomyeveryquestion.
IlookedatthepictureI’dmadeyearsago,whichdepictedShirinstrickenwithloveupongazingatHüsrev’simagehangingfromabranch.Itdidn’t
embarrassmeasitwouldeachtimeitcametomindinsubsequentyears,nordiditbringbackmyhappychildhoodmemories.Towardmorning,mymindhadmasteredthesituation:Byreturningthepicture,Shekurehadmadeamoveinanamatorychessgameshewasmasterfullyluringmeinto.Isatinthecandlelightandwroteheraletterofresponse.
Inthemorning,aftersleepingforaspell,Iwentoutandwalkedalongwaythroughthestreets,carryingtheletteruponmybreastandmylightpen-and-inkholder,aswasmycustom,inmysash.ThesnowwidenedIstanbul’snarrowstreetsandfreedthecityofitscrowds.Allwasquieterandslower,asit’dbeeninmychildhood.CrowsseemedtohavebesetIstanbul’sroofs,domesandgardensjustastheyhadonthesnowywinterdaysofmyyouth.Iwalkedswiftly,listeningtomystepsinthesnowandwatchingthefogofmybreath.Igrewexcited,expectingthepalaceworkshopthatmyEnishtewantedmetovisittobeassilentasthestreets.BeforeIenteredtheJewishquarter,IsentwordbywayofalittlestreeturchintoEsther,who’dbeabletodelivermylettertoShekure,tellingherwheretomeetmebeforethenoontimeprayers.
Iarrivedearlyattheroyalartisans’workshoplocatedbehindtheHagiaSophia.Exceptfortheicicleshangingfromtheeaves,therewasnochangeinthebuildingwhereI’doftenvisitedmyEnishteandforatimeworkedasachildapprentice.
Followingahandsomeyoungapprentice,Iwalkedpastelderlymasterbindersdazedfromthesmellofglueandbookbinder’spaste,masterminiaturistswhosebackshadhunchedatanearlyageandyouthswhomixedpaintswithoutevenlookingintothebowlsperchedontheirknees,sosorrowfullyweretheyabsorbedbytheflamesofthestove.Inacorner,Isawanoldmanmeticulouslypaintinganostricheggonhislap,anotherelderenthusiasticallyembellishingadrawerandayoungapprenticegraciouslywatchingthemboth.Throughanopendoor,Iwitnessedyoungstudentsbeingreprimandedastheyleanedforward,theirnosesalmosttouchingthepagesspreadbeforetheirreddenedfaces,astheytriedtounderstandthemistakesthey’dmade.Inanotherroom,amournfulandmelancholyapprentice,havingforgottenmomentarilyaboutcolors,papersandpainting,staredintothestreetI’djustnoweagerlywalkeddown.
Weclimbedtheicystaircase.Wewalkedthroughtheportico,whichwrappedaroundtheinnersecondfloorofthebuilding.Below,intheinnercourtyardcoveredwithsnow,twoyoungstudents,obviouslytremblingfromthecolddespitetheirthickcapesofcoarsewool,werewaiting—perhapsforanimminentbeating.Irecalledmyearlyyouthandthebeatingsgiventostudents
whowerelazyorwhowastedexpensivepaints,andtheblowsofthebastinado,whichlandedonthesolesoftheirfeetuntiltheybled.
Weenteredawarmroom.Isawtwonoviceswho’drecentlyfinishedtheirapprenticeships.Sincethegreatmasters,whomMasterOsmanhadgivenworkshopnames,nowworkedathome,thisroom,whichoncearousedexcessivereverenceanddelightinme,nolongerseemedliketheworkshopofagreatandwealthysultanbutmerelyalargishroominsomesecludedcaravansaryintheremotemountainsoftheEast.
Immediatelyofftotheside,beforealongcounter,IsawtheHeadIlluminator,MasterOsman,forthefirsttimeinfifteenyears;heseemedlikeanapparition.WheneverIcontemplatedillustratingandpaintingduringmytravels,thegreatmasterwouldappearinmymind’seyeasifhewereBihzadhimself;now,inhiswhiteoutfitandinthesnow-whitelightfallingthroughthewindowfacingtheHagiaSophia,helook
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