《my name is red-我的名字叫红》我的名字叫红-第164章

enough—you’ll　forever　wonder　what　I　was　going　to　say。　Please；　move　the　blade　
away slightly。” I did so。 “Master Osman； who followed your every step and　
your　every　breath　since　childhood；　who　happily　watched　your　God…given　talent　
bloom into artistry like a spring flower under his care； has now turned his　
back on you in order to save his workshop and its style； to which he has　
devoted　his　entire　life。”　
“I　recounted　three　parables　to　you　the　day　we　buried　Elegant　Effendi　so　you　
might　know　how　disgusting　this　thing　they　call　”style‘　truly　is。“　
“Those stories pertained to a miniaturist’s individual style；” said Black　
carefully； “whereas Master Osman is concerned with preserving the style of　
the　entire　workshop。”　
He explained how the Sultan attached great importance to finding the　
murderer　of　Elegant　Effendi　and　his　Enishte；　how　He’d　even　let　them　inspect　
the Royal Treasury to this end； and how Master Osman was using this　
opportunity to sabotage his Enishte’s book and punish those who betrayed　
him by imitating the Europeans。 Black added that based on style； Master　
Osman　suspected　Olive　was　responsible　for　the　horse　with　the　clipped　nostrils；　
but　as　Head　Illuminator；　he　was　convinced　of　Stork’s　guilt　and　would　turn　him　
over to the executioners。 I could sense he was telling the truth under the　
pressure　of　my　sword；　and　I　felt　like　kissing　him　because　he　gave　himself　over　
to　what　he　was　saying　like　a　child。　What　I　heard　didn’t　worry　me；　having　Stork　
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out of the way meant I’d bee Head Illuminator after Master Osman’s　
death—may　God　grant　him　long　life。　
I　wasn’t　disturbed　that　what　he　said　might　happen；　but　by　the　possibility　
that　it　might　not。　Reading　between　the　lines　of　Black’s　account；　I　was　able　to　
glean that Master Osman was willing not only to sacrifice Stork； but me as　
well。　Considering　this　incredible　possibility　made　my　heart　quicken　and　drew　
me toward the horror of plete abandonment felt by a child who’s　
suddenly　lost　his　father。　Each　time　this　came　to　mind；　I　had　to　restrain　myself　
from　cutting　Black’s　throat。　I　didn’t　attempt　to　argue　the　point　with　Black　or　
myself：　Why　should　the　fact　that　we　made　a　few　foolish　illustrations　inspired　
by　European　masters　lower　us　to　the　level　of　traitors？　Once　again；　I　thought　
that　behind　Elegant’s　death　stood　Stork　and　Olive　and　their　schemes　against　
me。　I　removed　the　sword　from　Black’s　throat。　
“Let’s go to Olive’s house together； and search it from top to bottom；” I　
said。　“If　the　last　picture　is　with　him；　at　least　we’ll　know　whom　to　fear。　If　not；　
we’ll　take　him　with　us　as　support　and　go　on　to　raid　Stork’s　house。”　
I　told　him　to　trust　me　and　that　his　dagger　was　enough　weaponry　for　the　
two　of　us。　I　apologized　for　not　even　having　offered　him　a　glass　of　linden　tea。　As　
I　lifted　the　oil　lamp　from　the　floor；　we　both　stared　meaningfully　at　the　cushion　
upon　which　I’d　flattened　him。　I　approached　him　with　the　lamp　in　my　hand　
and　told　him　how　the　ever…so…faint　cut　on　his　throat　would　be　a　mark　of　our　
friendship。　He　bled　only　slightly。　
The motion made by the Erzurumis and those pursuing them could　
still　be　heard　on　the　streets；　but　no　one　noticed　us。　We　were　quick　to　arrive　at　
Olive’s　house。　We　knocked　on　the　courtyard　door；　the　door　of　the　house；　and　
impatiently upon the shutters。 Nobody was home； we made so much noise　
that　we　were　certain　he　wasn’t　sleeping。　Black　gave　voice　to　what　we　both　were　
thinking：　“Shall　we　go　inside？”　
I twisted the metal loop of the door lock using the blunt edge of Black’s　
dagger；　then　inserting　it　into　the　space　between　door　and　jamb　and　levering　it　
with all our weight； we broke the lock。 We were met by the stench of　
dampness；　dirt　and　loneliness；　which　had　accumulated　over　years。　By　the　light　
of the lamp； we noticed an unmade bed； sashes tossed randomly upon　
cushions； vests； two turbans； undershirts； Nimetullah Effendi the　
Nakshibendi’s　Persian　dictionary；　a　wooden　turban　stand；　broadcloth；　needle　
and thread； a small copper pan full of apple peels； quite a few cushions； a　
velvet　bedspread；　his　paints；　his　brushes　and　all　of　his　supplies。　I　was　on　the　
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verge of rifling through the writing paper； the layer upon layer of carefully　
trimmed　Hindustan　paper；　and　the　illuminated　pages　on　his　small　desk；　but　I　
restrained myself both because Black was more enthusiastic than I； and　
because I knew full well how a master miniaturist would incur nothing but　
bad　luck　if　he　went　through　the　belongings　of　a　less　talented　miniaturist。　Olive　
is　not　as　talented　as　is　assumed；　he’s　merely　eager。　He　tries　to　cover　up　for　his　
lack　of　talent　with　adoration　of　the　old　masters。　The　old　legends；　however；　only　
rouse　an　artist’s　imagination；　it’s　the　hand　that　does　the　painting。　
As　Black　was　searching　meticulously　through　all　the　chests　and　boxes；　going　
as　far　as　to　check　the　bottoms　of　laundry　baskets；　without　touching　anything　I　
glanced　at　Olive’s　Bursa　towels；　his　ebony　b；　his　dirty　bath　hand　towel；　his　
rosewater　bottles；　a　ridiculous　waist　cloth　with　an　Indian　block…print　pattern；　
quilted　jackets；　a　heavy；　dirty　women’s　robe　with　a　slit；　a　dented　copper　tray；　
filthy　carpets　and　other　furnishings　too　cheap　and　slovenly　for　the　money　he　
earned。 Olive was either very stingy and salting his money away or he was　
squandering　it　somehow…　
“The　house　of　a　murderer；　precisely；”　I　said　later。　“There　isn’t　even　a　prayer　
rug。” But this wasn’t what I was thinking。 I concentrated。 “These are the　
belongings　of　a　man　who　doesn’t　know　how　to　be　happy…”　I　said。　Yet；　in　a　
corner of my mind； I thought sadly about how misery and proximity to the　
Devil　nursed　painting。　
“Despite knowing what it takes to be content； a man might still be　
unhappy；”　said　Bl