《my name is red-我的名字叫红》我的名字叫红-第165章

Devil　nursed　painting。　
“Despite knowing what it takes to be content； a man might still be　
unhappy；”　said　Black。　
He　placed　before　me　a　series　of　pictures　drawn　on　coarse　Samarkand　paper；　
backed　with　heavy　sheets；　which　he’d　removed　from　the　depths　of　a　chest。　We　
studied the pictures： a delightful Satan all the way from Khorasan that had　
emerged　from　beneath　the　ground；　a　tree；　a　beautiful　woman；　a　dog　and　the　
picture of Death I myself had drawn。 These were the illustrations that the　
murdered　storyteller　hung　up　each　night　he　told　one　of　his　disgraceful　stories。　
Prompted　by　Black’s　question；　I　pointed　out　the　picture　of　Death　I　had　drawn。　
“The　same　pictures　are　in　my　Enishte’s　book；”　he　said。　
“Both the storyteller and the proprietor of the coffeehouse realized the　
wisdom of having the miniaturists render the illustrations each night。 The　
storyteller would have one of us quickly dash off an illustration on one of　
these　coarse　sheets；　ask　us　a　little　about　the　story　and　about　our　in　jokes　and　
then；　adding　some　of　his　own　material；　he’d　start　the　evening’s　performance。”　
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“Why　did　you　make　the　same　picture　of　Death　for　him　that　you　made　for　
my　Enishte’s　book？”　
“Upon　the　request　of　the　storyteller；　it　was　a　lone　figure　on　the　page。　But　I　
didn’t draw it with attention and effort the way I had for Enishte’s book； I　
drey　hand　felt　like　drawing　it。　The　others　too；　perhaps　
trying to be witty； drew for the storyteller in a cruder and simpler manner　
what　they　had　made　for　that　secret　book。”　
“Who　made　the　horse；”　he　asked；　“with　the　slit　nostrils？”　
Lowering　the　lamp　we　watched　the　horse　in　wonder。　It　resembled　the　horse　
made for Enishte’s book； but it ore careless and catered to a　
simpler　taste；　as　if　somebody　had　not　only　paid　the　illustrator　less　money　and　
made　him　work　faster；　but　also　forced　him　to　make　a　rougher　and；　I　suppose　
precisely　for　this　reason；　more　realistic　horse。　
“Stork would know best who made this horse；” I said。 “He’s a conceited　
fool　who　can’t　last　a　day　without　listening　to　the　gossip　of　miniaturists；　that’s　
why　he　visits　the　coffeehouse　every　night。　Yes；　most　certainly；　Stork　drew　this　
horse。”　
397　
I　AM　CALLED　“STORK”　
Butterfly　and　Black　arrived　in　the　middle　of　the　night；　they　spread　the　pictures　
on the floor before me； and asked me to tell them who’d made which　
illustration。 It reminded me of the game “Whose Turban” we used to play　
when we were children： You’d draw the various headdresses of a hoja； a　
cavalryman；　a　judge；　an　executioner；　a　head　treasurer　and　secretary　and　try　to　
match　them　with　the　corresponding　names　written　on　other　facedown　sheets。　
I　told　them　I’d　made　the　dog　myself。　We’d　told　its　story　to　the　storyteller。　I　
said that gentle Butterfly； who held a dagger to my throat； must’ve drawn　
Death；　over　which　the　light　of　the　lamp　wavered　pleasantly。　I　remembered　that　
Olive had rendered Satan with great enthusiasm； whose story was spun　
entirely by the dearly departed storyteller。 I’d started the tree whose leaves　
were　drawn　by　all　of　us　who　came　to　the　coffeehouse　that　night。　We　came　up　
with　the　story　as　well。　So　it　was　with　Red；　too：　Some　red　ink　had　splattered　
onto　a　page　and　the　stingy　storyteller　asked　if　we　could　make　a　picture　of　it。　
We　dribbled　some　more　red　ink　onto　the　page；　then　each　of　us　sketched　the　
image of something red in a corner and told the story of his image so the　
storyteller　might　recount　it。　Olive　made　this　exquisite　horse　here—praised　be　
his　talent—and　I　think　it　was　Butterfly　who　drew　the　melancholy　woman。　Just　
then　Butterfly　removed　the　dagger　from　my　throat　and　told　Black　that；　yes；　he　
now　remembered　how　he’d　drawn　the　woman。　We　all　contributed　to　the　gold　
coin　in　the　bazaar；　and　Olive；　a　descendant　of　Kalenderis　himself；　drew　the　two　
dervishes。 The sect of the Kalenderis is based on buggering young boys and　
begging　and　their　sheikh；　Evhad…üd　Dini　Kirmani　wrote　the　sect’s　sacred　book　
250　years　ago；　revealing　in　verse　that　he’d　seen　God’s　perfection　manifested　in　
beautiful　faces。　
I　asked　the　forgiveness　of　my　master　artist　brethren　for　the　disheveled　state　
of　our　house；　offering　the　excuse　that　we’d　been　caught　unprepared；　and　I　told　
them how sorry I was that we could offer them neither fragrant coffee nor　
sweet　oranges　because　my　wife　was　still　asleep　in　the　inner　room。　I　said　this　so　
they　wouldn’t　barge　in　there　and　I　wouldn’t　have　to　wreak　bloody　havoc　upon　
them when they didn’t find what they were looking for among the canvas；　
drawstring　cloth；　summer　sashes　of　Indian　silk　and　fine　muslin；　Persian　prints　
and　dolmans　in　the　baskets　and　trunks　they　eagerly　rummaged　through；　under　
the carpets and cushions； among the illuminated pages I’d prepared for　
various　books；　and　within　the　pages　of　bound　volumes。　
398　
Nevertheless；　I　must　confess　that　it　gave　me　a　certain　pleasure　to　behave　as　
if　I　were　afraid　of　them。　An　artist’s　skill　depends　on　carefully　attending　to　the　
beauty　of　the　present　moment；　taking　everything　down　to　the　minutest　detail　
seriously　while；　at　the　same　time；　stepping　back　from　the　world；　which　takes　
itself　too　seriously；　and　as　if　looking　into　a　mirror；　allowing　for　the　distance　
and　eloquence　of　a　jest。　
Accordingly；　upon　their　asking；　I　said　that；　yes；　when　the　Erzurumis　began　
their raid； there was； as on most evenings； a crowd of about forty in the　
coffeehouse；　which　included；　besides　myself；　Olive；　Nas？r　the　Limner；　Jemal　the　
calligrapher；　two　young　assistant　illustrators；　the　young　calligraphers　who　were　
now spending their days and nights with them； Rahmi the apprentice of　
unsurpassed　beauty；　other　handsome　novices；　six　or　seven　men　belonging　to　
the lot of poets； drunks； hashish addicts and dervishes and others who　
cunningly charmed the