《my name is red-我的名字叫红》我的名字叫红-第166章

the lot of poets； drunks； hashish addicts and dervishes and others who　
cunningly charmed the proprietor into allowing them to join this mirthful　
and　witty　group。　I　explained　how　confusion　reigned　as　soon　as　the　raid　began。　
When the crowd of onlookers gathered by the proprietor for some bawdy　
entertainment　began　to　leave　in　a　panic；　no　one　thought　to　mount　a　defense　
of　the　establishment　or　of　the　poor　old　storyteller　dressed　as　a　woman。　Did　I　
grieve　over　this　calamity？　“Yes！　I；　Mustafa　the　Painter；　also　known　as　”Stork；“　
who　have　truly　devoted　my　entire　life　to　illumination；　find　it　necessary；　each　
night；　to　sit　together　with　my　artist　brethren　and　converse；　joke；　ridicule；　pay　
pliments； recite poems and speak in innuendos；” I confessed； looking　
directly　into　the　eyes　of　dim…witted　Butterfly；　shrouded　in　the　air　of　a　plump；　
moist…eyed　boy　plagued　by　envy。　Even　as　an　apprentice；　this　Butterfly　of　ours；　
whose　eyes　were　still　as　lovely　as　a　child’s；　was　a　sensitive；　fine…skinned　beauty。　
Again；　upon　their　asking　me；　I　described　how　on　the　second　day　that　the　
storyteller； may his soul find peace in Heaven； wandering the city and　
neighborhoods began plying his trade in the coffeehouse； one of the　
miniaturists；　perhaps　under　the　influence　of　coffee；　hung　a　picture　on　the　wall　
to　be　amusing；　the　glib　storyteller　took　notice　and；　as　a　joke　of　his　own；　began　
a monologue as if he were the dog in the picture； which met with great　
success；　thenceforth；　every　night　he　continued　to　feature　pictures　drawn　by　the　
master　miniaturists　and　to　tell　witty　tales　they　whispered　into　his　ear。　Because　
the jibes at the preacher from Erzurum at once exhilarated the artists； who　
lived in terror of the preacher’s wrath； and drew more customers to the　
coffeehouse；　the　proprietor　from　Edirne　encouraged　the　performances。　
They asked me my interpretation of the pictures the storyteller hung up　
behind himself each night； the ones they found during their raid of brother　
399　
Olive’s empty house。 I explained that there was no need for interpretation　
because　the　proprietor；　like　Olive　himself；　was　a　begging；　thieving；　wild　wretch　
of a Kalenderi dervish。 The simple…minded Elegant Effendi； terrified of Hoja　
Effendi’s exhortations； and especially of his fire…and…brimstone Friday　
sermons； must’ve plained of them to the Erzurumis。 Or even more　
probable；　when　Elegant　warned　them　to　stop　in　their　mischief；　the　proprietor　
and　Olive；　both　of　the　same　temperament；　conspired　to　cruelly　do　away　with　
the ill…fated gilder。 The Erzurumis； incited by Elegant’s murder； and perhaps　
because Elegant Effendi had described Enishte’s book to them； held Enishte　
responsible for the murder and killed him； and； they must’ve raided the　
coffeehouse　to　plete　their　revenge。　
How　much　attention　were　chubby　Butterfly　and　grave　Black　（he　was　like　a　
ghost）　paying　to　what　I　said　as　they　ransacked　my　possessions；　gleefully　lifting　
every　lid　and　leaving　not　a　stone　unturned？　When　they　came　across　my　boots；　
armor　and　bellished　walnut　trunk；　a　look　of　envy　
blossomed on Butterfly’s childish face； and I once again declared what　
everybody　already　knew　quite　well。　I　was　the　first　Muslim　illustrator　to　set　out　
on　campaign　with　the　army　and　the　first　to　carefully　study　and　depict　what　I’d　
witnessed in various victory Chronicles—the firing of cannon； the towers of　
enemy　castles；　the　colors　of　infidel　soldiers’　uniforms；　the　sprawl　of　corpses；　
the piles of severed heads along riverbanks and the order and charge of　
armored　cavalry！　
When　Butterfly　asked　me　to　show　him　how　I　donned　my　armor；　I　forthwith　
and　without　embarrassment　took　off　my　overshirt；　my　black　rabbit…fur…lined　
undershirt； my trousers and my underwear。 Pleased with the way they　
watched　me　by　the　light　of　the　stove；　I　pulled　on　my　clean　long　underwear；　the　
thick　shirt　of　red　broadcloth　worn　under　armor　in　cold　weather；　woolen　socks；　
the　boots　of　yellow　leather；　and　over　them；　my　gaiters。　Removing　it　from　its　
case；　I　was　delighted　to　put　on　my　breastplate；　then　I　turned　my　back　toward　
Butterfly　and　as　if　ordering　a　pageboy；　had　him　do　up　the　laces　of　the　armor　
tightly　and　ordered　him　to　attach　my　shoulder　plates。　As　I　was　putting　on　my　
vambraces； gloves； the camel hair sword belt and finally the gold…worked　
helmet that I wore for ceremonies； I proudly declared that henceforth battle　
scenes　would　never　again　be　depicted　as　they’d　been　in　days　of　old。　“It　is　no　
longer permissible to depict the cavalries of two opposing armies uniformly　
using the same pattern as a guide and simply flipping it over to draw the　
enemy’s forces；” I said。 “From now on； the battle scenes made in the　
400　
workshops　of　the　Ottomans　will　be　drawn　the　way　I’ve　seen　them　and　drawn　
them：　a　tumult　of　armies；　horses；　armor…clad　warriors　and　bloodied　bodies！”　
Seized　by　envy；　Butterfly　said；　“The　illuminator　draws　not　what　he　sees；　but　
what　Allah　sees。”　
“Yes；”　I　said；　“however；　exalted　Allah　certainly　sees　everything　we　see。”　
“Of　course；　Allah　sees　what　we　see；　but　He　doesn’t　perceive　it　the　way　we　
do；” said Butterfly as if chastising me。 “The confused battle scene that we　
perceive in our bewilderment； He perceives in His omniscience as two　
opposing　armies　in　an　orderly　array。”　
Naturally；　I　had　a　response。　I　wanted　to　say；　“It　falls　to　us　to　believe　in　Allah　
and　to　depict　only　what　He　reveals　to　us；　not　what　He　conceals；”　but　I　held　my　
peace。　And　I　hadn’t　kept　quiet　because　Butterfly　would　otherwise　accuse　me　of　
imitating　the　Europeans　or　because　he　was　relentlessly　striking　one　end　of　his　
dagger　against　my　helmet　and　back；　supposedly　to　test　my　armor；　but　because　
I　calculated　that　only　if　I　restrained　myself　and　won　over　Black　and　this　pretty…
eyed　oaf　could　we　delive