my name is red-我的名字叫红-第22章
按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
everything； there’s a sweet harmony in the workshop； and what’s more； an air
that would suit the old masters of Herat。
In addition to noting the harmony and ambience brought about by my
judgment； let me list for you the various things I might be exchanged for： the
foot of a young and beautiful slave girl； which amounts to about one…fiftieth
of her person； a good…quality walnut…handled barber’s mirror； edges inlaid
with bone； a well…painted chest of drawers decorated with sunburst designs
and silver leaf worth niy silver pieces； 120 fresh loaves of bread； a grave site
and coffins for three； a silver armband； one…tenth of a horse； the legs of an old
and fat concubine； one buffalo calf； two high…quality pieces of china； the
monthly wage of Persian miniaturist Mehmet the Dervish of Tabriz and the
majority of those of his like who work in Our Sultan’s workshop； one good
114
hunting falcon with cage； ten jugs of Panayot’s wine； a heavenly hour with
Mahmut； one of those young boys world…renowned for his beauty； and many
other opportunities too numerous to specify。
Before I arrived here； I spent ten days in the dirty sock of a poor
shoemaker’s apprentice。 Each night the unfortunate man would fall asleep in
his bed； naming the endless things he could buy with me。 The lines of this epic
poem； sweet as a lullaby； proved to me that there was no place on Earth a coin
couldn’t go。
Which reminds me。 If I recited all that happened to me before I came here；
it’d fill volumes。 There are no strangers among us； we’re all friends； as long as
you promise not to tell anyone； and as long as Stork Effendi won’t take
offense； I’ll tell you a secret。 Do you swear not to tell？
All right then； I confess。 I’m not a genuine twenty…two…carat Ottoman
Sultani gold coin minted at the Chemberlitash Mint。 I’m counterfeit。 They
made me in Venice using adulterated gold and brought me here； passing me
off as twenty…two…carat Ottoman gold。 Your sympathy and understanding are
much obliged。
Based on what I could gather from being in the mint in Venice； this
business has been going on for years。 Until recently； the debased gold pieces
that the Veian infidels brought to the East and spent were Veian ducats
which they minted in that same mint。 We Ottomans； forever respectful of
whatever is written； paid no heed to the amount of gold in each ducat—so
long as the inscription remained the same—and these fake Veian gold
pieces flooded Istanbul。 Later； noting that coins with less gold and more
copper were harder； we began to distinguish the coins by biting them。 For
example； you’re burning with love； you go running to Mahmut； that youth of
unsurpassed beauty； beloved by all； first； he takes into his soft mouth the
coin—not the other thing—and biting it； declares it counterfeit。 As a
consequence； he’ll take you to Heaven for only half an hour instead of one full
hour。 The Veian infidels； realizing that their counterfeit coins presented
such disadvantages； decided that they might as well counterfeit Ottoman
coins； reasoning that the Ottomans would be fooled again。
Now； let me draw your attention to something quite bizarre： When these
Veian infidels paint； it’s as if they’re not making a painting but actually
creating the object they’re painting。 When it es to money； however； rather
than making the real thing； they make its counterfeit。
115
We were loaded into iron chests； hauled onto ships and pitching to and fro
traveled from Venice to Istanbul。 I found myself in a money changer’s shop； in
the garlicky mouth of its proprietor。 We waited for a while； and a simple…
minded peasant entered； hoping to exchange some gold。 The master money
changer； who was a genuine trickster； declared that he needed to bite the gold
piece to see if it was counterfeit。 So he took the peasant’s coin and tossed it
into his mouth。
When we met inside his mouth； I realized that the peasant’s coin was a
genuine Ottoman Sultani。 He saw me within that stench of garlic and said；
“You’re nothing but a counterfeit。” He was right； but his arrogant manner
offended my pride and I lied to him： “Actually； my brother； you’re the one
who’s counterfeit。”
Meanwhile； the peasant was proudly insisting； “How could my gold coin
possibly be counterfeit？ I buried it in the ground twenty years ago； did a vice
like counterfeiting exist back then？”
I was wondering what the oute would be when the money changer
took me out of his mouth instead of the peasant’s gold coin。 “Take your gold
coin； I don’t want any vile Veian infidel’s fake money；” he said； “have you
no shame？” The peasant responded with some biting words of his own； then
took me with him out the door。 After hearing the same pronouncement from
other money changers； the peasant’s spirit broke and he exchanged me as a
debased coin for only niy silver pieces。 This is how my seven…year saga of
endless wandering from hand to hand began。
Allow me to admit proudly that I’ve spent most of my time in Istanbul
wandering from purse to purse； and from sash to pocket； as befits an
intelligent coin。 My worst nightmare is to be stored in a jug and languish for
years beneath a rock； buried in some garden； not that it hasn’t happened to
me； but for whatever reason； these periods have never lasted long。 Many of the
people who hold me want to be rid of me as soon as possible； especially if they
discover I’m fake。 Noheless； I have yet to e across someone who’ll warn
an unsuspecting buyer that I’m counterfeit。 A broker； not recognizing that I’m
counterfeit； who has counted out 120 silver coins in exchange for me； will
berate himself in fits of anger； sorrow and impatience as soon as he learns he’s
been cheated； and these fits won’t subside until he rids himself of me by
cheating another。 During this crisis； even as he attempts to repeatedly swindle
others； failing each time on account of his haste and anger； he’ll continue all
the while to curse the “immoral” person who had originally conned him。
116
Over the last seven years in Istanbul； I’ve changed hands 560 times； and
there’s not a house； shop； market； bazaar； mosque； church or synagogue I
haven’t entered。 As I’ve roamed about； I’ve learned that much more gossip has
been spread； many more legends told and lies spun in my name than I’d ever
suspected。 I’ve constantly had my nose rubbed in it： Nothing’s considered
valuable anymore besides me； I’m merciless； I’m blind； I myself am even
enamored of money； the unfortunate world revolves around； not God； but me；
and there’s nothing I can’t buy—all this is to say nothing of my dirty； vulgar
and base nature。 And those who know that I’m fake are given to even harsher
judgments。 As my actual value drops； however； my metaphorical value
increases—proof that poetry is consolation to life’s miseries。 But despite all
such heartless parison and thoughtless slander； I’ve realized that a large
majority do sincerely love me。 In this age of hatred； such heartfelt—even
impassioned—affection ought to gladden us all。
I’ve seen every square inch of Istanbul； street by street and district by
district； I’ve known all hands from Jews to Abkhazians and from Arabs to
Mingerians。 I once left Istanbul in the purse of a preacher from Edirne who
was going to Manisa。 On the way； we happened to be attacked by thieves。 One
of them shouted； “Your money or your life！” Panicking； the miserable preacher
hid us in his asshole。 This spot； which he assumed was the safest； smelled
worse than the mouth of the garlic lover and was much less fortable。 But
the situation quickly grew worse when instead of “Your money or your life！”
the thieves began to shout “Your honor or your life！” Lining up； they took him
by turns。 I don’t dare describe the agony we suffered in that cramped hole。 It’s
for this reason that I dislike leaving Istanbul。
I’ve been well received in Istanbul。 Young girls kiss me as if I were the
husband of their dreams； they hide me beneath their pillows； between their
huge breasts； and in their underwear； they even fondle me in their sleep to
make certain I’m still there。 I’ve been stored next to the furnace in a public
bath； in a boot； at the bottom of a small bottle in a wonderful…smelling musk
seller’s shop and in the secret pocket sewn into a chef’s lentil sack。 I’ve
wandered through Istanbul in belts made of camel leather； jacket linings made
from checkered Egyptian cloth； in the thick fabric of shoe lining and in the
hidden corners of multicolored shalwars。 The master watchmaker Petro hid me
in a secret partment of a grandfather clock； and a Greek grocer stuck me
directly into a wheel of kashari cheese。 I hid together with jewelry； seals and
keys wrapped in pieces of thick cloth stowed away in chimneys； in stoves；
beneath windowsills； inside cushions stuffed with rough straw； in
117
underground chambers and in the hidden partments of chests。 I’ve known
fathers the dinner table to check whether I was
still where I was supposed to be； women who sucked on me like candy for no
reason； children who sniffed at me as they stuck me up their noses and old
people with one foot in the grave who couldn’t relax unless they removed me
from their sheepskin purses at least seven times a day。 There was a meticulous
Circassian woman who； after spending the whole day cleaning the house； took
us coins out of her purse and scrubbed us with a coarse brush。 I remember the
one…eyed money changer who constantly stacked us up into towers； the porter
who smelled of morning glories and who； along with his family； watched us as
if looking out over a stunning landscape； and the gilder； no longer among us—
no need to name names—who spent his evenings arranging us into various
designs。 I’ve traveled in mahogany skiffs； I’ve visited the Sultan’s palace； I’ve
hidden within Herat…made bindings； in the heels of rose…scented shoes and in
the covers of packsaddles。 I’ve known hundreds of hands： dirty； hairy； plump；
oily； trembling and old。 I’ve been redolent of opium dens； candle…makers’
shops； dried mackerel and the sweat of all of Istanbul。 After experiencing such
excitement and motion； a base thief who had slit his victim’s throat in the
blackness of night and tossed me into his purse； once back in his accursed
house； spat in my face and grunted； “Damn you； it’s all because of you。” I was
so offended； so hurt； that I wanted nothing more than to disappear。
If I didn’t exist； however； no one would be able to distinguish a good artist
from a bad one； and this would lead to chaos among the miniaturists； they’d
all be at each other’s throats。 So I haven’t vanished。 I’ve entered the purse of
the most talented and intelligent of miniaturists and made my way here。
If you think you’re better than Stork； then by all means； get hold of me。
118
I AM CALLED BLACK
I wondered whether Shekure’s father was aware of the letters we exchanged。 If
I were to consider her tone； which bespoke a timid maiden quite afraid of her
father； I’d have to conclude that not a single word about me had passed
between them。 Yet； I sensed that this was not the case。 The slyness in Esther’s
looks； Shekure’s enchanting appearance at the window； the decisiveness with
which my Enishte sent me to his illustrators and his despair when he ordered
me to e this morning—all of it made me quite uneasy。
In the morning； as soon as my Enishte asked me to sit before him； he began
to describe the portraits he saw in Venice。 As the ambassador of Our Sultan；
Refuge of the ber of palazzos； churches and the
houses of prosperous men。 Over a period of days； he stood before thousands
of portraits。 He saw thousands of framed faces depicted on stretched canvas or
wood or painted directly onto walls。 “Each one was different from the next。
They were distinctive； unique human faces！” he said。 He was intoxicated by
their variety； their colors； the pleasantness—even severity—of the soft light
that seemed to fall on them and the meaning emanating from their eyes。
“As if a virulent plague had struck； everyone was having his portrait made；”
he said。 “In all of Venice； rich and influential men wanted their portraits
painted as a symbol； a memento of their lives and a sign of their riches； power
and influence—so they
