《my name is red-我的名字叫红》我的名字叫红-第169章

Even　here　in　the　lodge；　they　were　loath　to　separate　from　one　another。　
“We　can　safely　take　refuge　here　for　days。”　
“We　worry；”　Black　said；　“that　the　person　we　should　fear　is　perhaps　in　our　
very　midst。”　
“I；　too；　grow　anxious；”　I　said。　“For　I　have　heard　such　rumors　as　well。”　
There were rumors； spreading from the officers of the Imperial Guard to　
the　division　of　miniaturists；　claiming　that　the　mystery　about　the　murderer　of　
Elegant　Effendi　and　late　Enishte　was　solved：　He　was　one　of　us　who’d　labored　
over　that　book。　
Black　inquired　as　to　how　many　pictures　I’d　drawn　for　Enishte’s　book。　
“The first one I made was Satan。 It was of the variety of underground　
demon　mon　to　the　old　masters　in　the　workshops　of　the　Whitesheep。　The　
storyteller and I were of the same Sufi path； that’s why I made the two　
dervishes。　I　was　the　one　who　suggested　to　Enishte　that　he　include　them　in　his　
book；　convincing　him　that　there　was　a　special　place　for　these　dervishes　in　the　
lands　of　the　Ottomans。”　
“Is　that　all？”　asked　Black。　
When　I　told　him；　“Yes；　that’s　all；”　he　went　to　the　door　with　the　superior　air　
of　a　master　who　caught　an　apprentice　stealing；　he　brought　in　a　roll　of　paper　
untouched　by　the　rain；　and　placed　it　before　us　three　artists　like　a　mother　cat　
bringing　a　wounded　bird　to　her　kittens。　
I recognized the pages while they were still under his arm： They were the　
illustrations　I’d　rescued　from　the　coffeehouse　during　the　raid。　I　didn’t　deign　to　
ask how these men had entered my house and located them。 Nevertheless；　
406　
Butterfly；　Stork　and　I　each　placidly　owned　up　to　the　pictures　we　made　for　the　
storyteller；　may　he　rest　in　peace。　Afterward；　only　the　horse；　an　exquisite　horse；　
remained　unclaimed　off　to　the　side；　its　head　lowered。　Believe　me；　I　didn’t　even　
realize　that　a　horse　had　been　drawn。　
“You weren’t the one who made this horse？” said Black like a teacher　
holding　a　switch。　
“I　wasn’t；”　I　said。　
“What　about　the　one　in　my　Enishte’s　book？”　
“I　didn’t　make　that　one　either。”　
“Based　on　the　style　of　the　horse；　however；　it’s　been　determined　that　you’re　
the　one　who　drew　it；”　he　said。　“Furthermore；　it　was　Master　Osman　who　came　
to　this　conclusion。”　
“But　I　have　no　style　whatsoever；”　I　said。　“I’m　not　saying　this　out　of　pride　to　
counter　the　latest　tastes。　Neither　am　I　saying　so　to　prove　my　innocence。　For　
me；　having　a　style　would　be　worse　than　being　a　murderer。”　
“You　have　a　distinct　quality　that　distinguishes　you　from　the　old　masters　and　
the　others；”　said　Black。　
I　smiled　at　him。　He　started　to　relate　things　that　I’m　sure　you　all　know　by　
now。 I listened intently to how Our Sultan； in consultation with the Head　
Treasurer；　sought　a　solution　to　the　murders；　to　the　matter　of　Master　Osman’s　
three　days；　to　the　“courtesan　method；”　to　the　peculiarity　in　the　noses　of　the　
horses　and　to　Black’s　miraculous　admittance　to　the　Royal　Private　Quarters　for　
the　sake　of　actually　examining　those　superlative　books。　There　are　moments　in　
all　our　lives　when　we　realize；　even　as we　experience　them；　that　we　are　living　
through events we will never forget； even long afterward。 A melancholy rain　
was falling。 As if upset by the rain； Butterfly mournfully gripped his dagger。　
Olive； the backside of whose armor was white with flour； was courageously　
forging　into　the　heart　of　the　dervish　lodge；　lamp　in　hand。　These　master　artists；　
whose shadows roamed the walls like ghosts； were my brethren； and how I　
loved　them！　I　was　delighted　to　be　a　miniaturist。　
“Could　you　appreciate　your　good　fortune　as　you　gazed　at　the　great　works　of　
the old masters for days on end with Master Osman at your side？” I asked　
Black。　“Did　he　kiss　you？　Did　he　caress　your　handsome　face？　Did　he　hold　your　
hand？　Were　you　awed　by　his　talent　and　knowledge？”　
“There　among　the　great　works　of　the　old　masters　he　showed　me　how　you　
had　a　style；”　said　Black。　“He　taught　me　how　the　hidden　fault　of ”style‘　isn’t　
407　
something the artist selects of his own volition； but is determined by the　
artist’s　past　and　his　forgotten　memories。　He　also　showed　me　how　these　secret　
faults；　weaknesses　and　defects；　at　one　time　such　a　source　of　shame　they　were　
concealed　so　we　wouldn’t　be　estranged　from　the　old　masters；　will　henceforth　
emerge to be praised as “personal characteristics’ or ”style；“ because the　
European masters have spread them over the world。 Henceforth； thanks to　
fools who take pride in their own shortings； the world will be a more　
colorful　and　more　stupid　and；　of　course；　a　much　more　imperfect　place。”　
The　fact　that　Black　confidently　believed　in　what　he　said　proved　that　he　was　
one　of　the　new　breed　of　fools。　
“Was Master Osman able to explain why； for years； I drew hundreds of　
horses　with　regular　nostrils　in　Our　Sultan’s　books？”　I　asked。　
“It　was　due　to　the　love　and　beatings　he　gave　all　of　you　in　your　childhood。　
Because he was both father and beloved to you all； he doesn’t see that he　
associates　all　of　you　with　himself　and　each　of　you　with　the　others。　He　didn’t　
want you each to have a style of your own； he wanted the royal atelier as a　
whole　to　have　a　style。　Because　of　the　awesome　shadow　he　cast　over　all　of　you；　
you forgot what came from within； the imperfections； the elements and　
differences that fell outside the confines of standard forms。 Only when you　
painted　for　other　books　and　other　pages；　which　Master　Osman’s　eyes　would　
never　see；　did　you　draw　the　horse　that　had　lain　within　you　all　those　years。”　
“My　mother；　may　she　rest　in　peace；　was　more　intelligent　than　my　father；”　I　
said。　“One　night　I　was　at　home；　in　tears；　determined　never　again　to　return　to　
the workshop because I was daunted not only by Master Osman’s beatings；　
but by those of the other harsh and irritable masters and by those of the　
division head who always intimidated us