《my name is red-我的名字叫红》我的名字叫红-第167章

I　calculated　that　only　if　I　restrained　myself　and　won　over　Black　and　this　pretty…
eyed　oaf　could　we　deliver　ourselves　from　Olive’s　scheming。　
Once　they　knew　they　wouldn’t　find　what　they　were　looking　for　here；　they　
told me what they were after。 There was a picture that the unspeakable　
murderer　had　absconded　with…I　said　that　my　house　was　already　searched　for　
the same reason； as a result； the wise murderer most certainly would’ve hid　
that　picture　where　nobody　could　ever　find　it　（I　was　thinking　of　Olive）；　but　did　
they heed my words？ Black explained the horse drawn with clipped nostrils　
and　how　the　three…day　period　Our　Sultan　had　granted　Master　Osman　was　well　
nigh over。 When I inquired further about the significance of the clipped　
nostrils； Black told me； looking straight into my eyes； how Master Osman；　
analyzing　them　as　a　clue；　linked　them　to　Olive；　although　he　suspected　me　even　
more；　being　no　stranger　to　my　ambitions。　
At first； it appeared they’d e here prepared to believe that I was the　
murderer and to find proof of it； but in my opinion； this wasn’t the sole　
reason　for　their　visit。　They’d　also　e　knocking　at　my　door　out　of　loneliness　
and　desperation。　When　I　opened　the　door；　the　dagger　that　Butterfly　pointed　at　
me shook in his hand。 Not only were they terrified； thinking that the　
despicable　murderer；　whose　identity　they　were　at　such　pains　to　uncover；　might　
corner　them　in　the　darkness；　smiling　like　an　old　friend；　and　swiftly　cut　their　
throats；　they　were　also　losing　sleep　for　fear　that　Master　Osman　might　conspire　
with　Our　Sultan　and　the　Head　Treasurer　to　turn　them　over　to　the　torturer—
not　to　mention　the　mob　of　Erzurumis　roaming　the　streets；　which　demoralized　
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them。　In　short；　they　desired　my　friendship。　But　Master　Osman　had　instilled　in　
them　the　opposite　notion。　It　was　my　present　obligation　to　show　them　sincerely　
how　Master　Osman　was　mistaken；　which　is　what　they’d　hoped　for　deep　down　
anyway。　
Simply　declaring　that　the　great　master　was　mistaken　and　that　he’d　bee　
senile would surely arouse Butterfly’s enmity。 For in the watery eyes of the　
handsome　illuminator；　whose　eyelashes　fluttered　like　the　insect　he　was　named　
for　as　he　banged　upon　my　armor　with　his　dagger；　I　could　still　make　out　the　
pale　fire　of　love　he　felt　for　the　great　master；　whose　favorite　he　had　been。　In　my　
youth； the closeness of those two； master and apprentice； was enviously　
ridiculed　by　the　others；　but　they　themselves　paid　no　mind；　they’d　stare　into　
each　other’s　eyes　at　length　and　fondle　each　other　in　front　of　everybody；　later　
still； Master Osman would declare tactlessly that Butterfly was possessed of　
the　most　agile　pen　and　the　most　mature　color　brush。　This　declaration—often　
quite　true—became　the　source　of　endless　puns　among　the　jealous　miniaturists　
using pens； brushes； inkpots and pen boxes in vulgar allusions； devilish　
parisons and indecent metaphors。 For this reason； I’m not the only one　
who　senses　that　Master　Osman　wants　Butterfly　to　succeed　him　as　head　of　the　
workshop。 I’ve long understood from the way he talks to others about my　
belligerence； inpatibility and stubbornness that this is what the great　
master　has　hidden　in　the　back　of　his　mind。　He　thinks；　justifiably；　that　I　tend　
far more toward the European methods than Olive or Butterfly； and could　
never resist Our Sultan’s new desires by saying； “The great masters of old　
would　never　paint　this　way。”　
I knew I’d be able to cooperate closely with Black because our eager new　
groom　must’ve　wanted　to　plete　his　deceased　Enishte’s　book；　not　only　to　
conquer　beautiful　Shekure’s　heart　and　show　her　that　he　could　fill　her　father’s　
shoes； but also； most probably； to ingratiate himself with Our Sultan by the　
quickest　means　possible。　
Therefore； I introduced the matter quite unexpectedly by saying that　
Enishte’s　book　was　a　blissful　miracle　without　equal　in　the　world。　When　this　
masterpiece　was　pleted；　in　keeping　with　Our　Sultan’s　decree　and　the　late　
Enishte Effendi’s desire； the whole world would marvel over the Ottoman　
Sultan’s　power　and　wealth　as　well　as　the　talent；　elegance　and　ability　of　us；　His　
master miniaturists。 Not only would they fear us； our power and our　
relentlessness；　they’d　be　bewildered；　seeing　how　we　laughed　and　cried；　how　we　
stole　from　the　Frankish　masters；　how　we　saw　the　most　buoyant　colors　and　the　
minutest　of　details；　and　ultimately；　they　would　acknowledge　with　terror　what　
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only the most intelligent sultans understood： that we were situated both　
within　the　world　of　our　paintings　and　far　far　away　in　the　pany　of　the　old　
masters。　
Butterfly　had　been　striking　me　all　along；　first　like　a　child　eager　to　determine　
whether　or　not　my　armor　was　genuine；　next；　like　a　friend　who　wanted　to　test　
its　strength；　and　finally；　like　an　incorrigible　and　jealous　foe　who　wanted　to　do　
me harm。 In truth； he understood that I was more talented than he； even　
worse；　he　probably　sensed　that　Master　Osman　knew　this　too。　With　his　God…
given talent； Butterfly was a superb master； and his envy made me prouder：　
Unlike　him；　I　became　a　master　through　the　strength　of　my　own　“reed；”　not　by　
holding my master’s； and I sensed that I could force him to accept my　
superiority。　
Raising　my　voice；　I　explained　how　pitiful　it　was　that　there　were　men　who　
wanted to undermine Our Sultan and the late Enishte’s miraculous book。　
Master Osman was like a father to us all； he was everyone’s superior； we　
learned everything from him！ Yet； after tracing the clues in Our Sultan’s　
Treasury； for some unknown reason； Master Osman tried to conceal his　
realization that Olive was the despicable murderer。 I said I was certain that　
Olive； who couldn’t be found at home； was hiding away in the deserted　
Kalenderi　dervish　ho