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第101章

my name is red-我的名字叫红-第101章

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What was frightening was the silence in which this abundance of incredible 
objects  was  interred。  Behind  us  we  heard  the  clattering  of  the  seal  being 
affixed to the lock on the door; and we looked around in awe; motionless。 
I saw swords; elephant tusks; caftans; silver candlesticks and satin banners。 I 
saw mother…of…pearl inlaid boxes; iron trunks; Chinese vases; belts; long…necked 
lutes;  armor;  silk  cushions;  model  globes;  boots;  furs;  rhinoceros  horns; 
ornamented ostrich eggs; rifles; arrows; maces and cabis。 There were heaps 
of carpets; cloth and satin everywhere; seemingly cascading over me from the 
wood…paneled  upper  floors;  from  the  balustrades;  the  built…in  closets  and 
small storage cells built into the walls。 A strange light; the likes of which I’d 
never seen; shone on the cloth; the boxes; the caftans of sultans; swords; the 
huge pink candles; the wound turbans; pillows embroidered with pearls; gold 
filigree  saddles;  diamond…handled  scimitars;  ruby…handled  maces;  quilted 
turbans;  turban  plumes;  curious  clocks;  ewers  and  daggers;  ivory  statues  of 
horses and elephants; narghiles with diamond…studded tops; mother…of…pearl 
chests  of  drawers;  horse  aigrettes;  strands  of  large  prayer  beads;  and  helmets 
adorned  with  rubies  and  turquoise。  This  light;  which  filtered  faintly  down 
from  the  high  windows;  illuminated  floating  dust  particles  in  the  half…
darkened  room  like  the  summer  sunlight  that  streams  in  from  the  glass 
skylight atop the dome of a mosque—but this wasn’t sunlight。 In this peculiar 
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light; the air had bee palpable and all the objects appeared as if made from 
the  same  material。  After  we  apprehensively  experienced  the  silence  in  the 
room for a while longer; I knew it was as much the light as the dust covering 
everything that dimmed the red color reigning in the cold room; melding all 
the objects into an arcane sameness。 And as the eye swam over these strange 
and  indistinct  items;  unable  to  distinguish  one  from  another  at  even  the 
second  or  third  glance;  this  great  profusion  of  objects  became  even  more 
terrifying。 What I thought was a chest; I later decided was a folding worktable; 
and  later  still;  some  strange  Frankish  device。  I  saw  that  the  mother…of…pearl 
inlaid  chest  among  the  caftans  and  plumes  pulled  out  of  their  boxes  and 
hastily  tossed  hither  and  yon  was  actually  an  exotic  cabi  sent  by  the 
Muscovite Czar。 
Jezmi Agha placed the brazier in the fire niche that had been cut into the 
wall。 
“Where are the books located?” whispered Master Osman。 
“Which books?” said the dwarf。 “The ones from Arabia; the Kufic Korans; 
those that His Excellency Sultan Selim the Grim; Denizen of Paradise; brought 
back from Tabriz; the books of pashas whose property was seized when they 
were  condemned  to  death;  the  gift  volumes  brought  by  the  Veian 
ambassador to Our Sultan’s grandfather; or the Christian books from the time 
of Sultan Mehmet the Conqueror?” 
“The books that Shah Tahmasp sent His Excellency Sultan Selim; Denizen of 
Paradise; as a present twenty…five years ago;” said Master Osman。 
The  dwarf  brought  us  to  a  large  wooden  cabi。  Master  Osman  grew 
impatient as he opened the doors and cast his eyes on the volumes before him。 
He opened one; read its colophon and leafed through its pages。 Together; we 
gazed  in  astonishment  at  the  carefully  drawn  illustrations  of  khans  with 
slightly slanted eyes。 
“”Genghis Khan; Chagatai Khan; Tuluy Khan and Kublai Khan the Ruler of 
China;“” read Master Osman before closing the book and taking up another。 
We  came  across  an  incredibly  beautiful  illustration  depicting  the  scene  in 
which  Ferhad;  empowered  by  love;  carries  his  beloved  Shirin  and  her  horse 
away on his shoulder。 To convey the passion and woe of the lovers; the rocks 
on  the  mountain;  the  clouds  and  the  three  noble  cypresses  witnessing 
Ferhad’s act of love were drawn with a trembling grief…stricken hand in such 
agony that Master Osman and I were instantly affected by the taste of tears 
and sorrow in the falling leaves。 This touching moment had been depicted—as 
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the  great  masters  intended—not  to  signify  Ferhad’s  muscular  strength;  but 
rather  to  convey  how  the  pain  of  his  love  was  felt  at  once  throughout  the 
entire world。 
“A Bihzad imitation made in Tabriz eighty years ago;” Master Osman said 
as he replaced the volume and opened another。 
This was a picture that showed the forced friendship between the cat and 
the  mouse  from  Kelile  and  Dimne。  Out  in  the  fields;  a  poor  mouse;  caught 
between the attacks of a marten on the ground and a hawk in the air; finds his 
salvation  in  an  unfortunate  cat  caught  in  a  hunter’s  trap。  They  e  to  an 
agreement:  The  cat;  pretending  to  be  the  mouse’s  friend;  licks  him;  thereby 
scaring away the marten and the hawk。 In turn; the mouse cautiously frees the 
cat  from  the  snare。  Even  before  I  could  understand  the  painter’s  sensibility; 
the  master  had  stuffed  the  book  back  beside  the  other  volumes  and  had 
randomly opened another。 
This was a pleasant picture of a mysterious woman and a man: The woman 
had elegantly opened one hand while asking a question; holding her knee with 
the other over her green cloak; as the man turned to her and listened intently。 
I  looked  at  the  picture  avidly;  jealous  of  the  intimacy;  love  and  friendship 
between them。 
Putting  that  book  down;  Master  Osman  opened  to  a  page  from  another 
book。 The cavalry of Persian and Turanian armies; eternal enemies; had donned 
their  full  panoply  of  armor;  helmets;  greaves;  bows;  quivers  and  arrows  and 
had  mounted  those  magnificent;  legendary  and  fully  armored  horses。  Before 
they engaged one another in a battle to the death; they were arrayed in orderly 
ranks  facing  each  other  on  a  dusty  yellow  steppe  holding  the  tips  of  their 
lances  upright;  bedecked  in  an  array  of  colors  and  patiently  watching  their 
manders; who’d rushed to the fore and begun to fight。 I was about to tell 
myself  that  regardless  of  whether  the  illustration  was  made  today  or  a 
hundred years ago; whether it’s a depiction of war or love; what the artist of 
absolute faith actually paints and conveys is a battle with his will and his love 
for painting; I was going to declare further that the miniaturist actually paints 
his own patience; when Master Osman said: 
“It’s not here either;” and shut the heavy tome。 
In the pages of an album we saw high mountains interwoven with curling 
clouds in a landscape illustration that seemed to go on forever。 I thought how 
painting meant seeing this world yet depicting it as if it were the Otherworld。 
Master Osman recounted how this Chinese illustration might’ve traveled from 
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Bukhara  to  Herat;  from  Herat  to  Tabriz;  and  at  last;  from  Tabriz  to  Our 
Sultan’s  palace;  moving  from  book  to  book  along  the  way;  bound  and 
unbound; finally to be rebound with other paintings at the end of the journey 
from China to Istanbul。 
We  saw  pictures  of  war  and  death;  each  more  frightening  and  more 
expertly done than the next: Rüstem together with Shah Mazenderan; Rüstem 
attacking Afrasiyab’s army; and Rüstem; disguised in armor; a mysterious and 
unidentified  hero  warrior…In  another  album  we  saw  dismembered  corpses; 
daggers  drenched  in  red  blood;  sorrowful  soldiers  in  whose  eyes  the  light  of 
death  gleamed  and  warriors  cutting  each  other  down  like  reeds;  as  fabled 
armies;  which  we  could  not  name;  clashed  mercilessly。  Master  Osman—for 
who  knows  how  many  thousandth  time—looked  upon  Hüsrev  spying  on 
Shirin  bathing  in  a  lake  by  moonlight;  upon  the  lovers  Leyla  and  Mejnun 
fainting as they beheld each other after an extended separation; and a spirited 
picture; all aflutt

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