迪文小说

迪文小说>我的名字是红色 > 第29部分(第1页)

第29部分(第1页)

insolent toward my Enishte as he continued his endless recital—I’d stand up。

Affecting all the while the demeanor of an attentive disciple; quite enthralled

and quite lost in thought; in order to demonstrate how intent I was upon my

Enishte’s  story;  I’d  begin  pacing  in  the  room  with  a  preoccupied  air;  before

approaching that suspicious black spot on the wall。

When  I  failed  to  find  Shekure’s  eye  nesting  in  what  I  had  taken  to  be  a

peephole; I’d be overe by disappointment; and then by a strange feeling of

loneliness; by the impatience of a man uncertain where to turn next。

Now  and  then;  I’d  experience  such  an  abrupt  and  intense  feeling  that

Shekure  was  watching  me;  I’d  be  so  absolutely  convinced  I  was  within  her

gaze; that I’d start posing like a man trying to show he was wiser; stronger and

more capable than he really was so as to impress the woman he loved。 Later;

I’d  fantasize  that  Shekure  and  her  boys  were  paring  me  with  her

husband—the boys’ missing father—before my mind would focus again upon

whichever  variety  of  famous  Veian  illustrator  about  whose  painting

techniques my Enishte was waxing philosophic at the moment。 I longed to be

like  these  newly  famed  painters  solely  because  Shekure  had  heard  so  much

about them from her father; illustrators who had earned their renown—not

through suffering martyrdom in cells like saints; or through severing the heads

of  enemy  soldiers  with  a  mighty  arm  and  a  sharp  scimitar;  as  that  absent

husband had done—but on account of a manuscript they’d transcribed or a

page they’d illuminated。 I tried very hard to imagine the magnificent pictures

created  by  these  celebrated  illustrators;  who  were;  as  my  Enishte  explained;

inspired by the power of the world’s mystery and its visible blackness。 I tried

so hard to visualize them—those masterpieces my Enishte had seen and was

now  attempting  to  describe  to  one  who  had  never  laid  eyes  on  them—that;

finally;  when  my  imagination  failed  me;  I  felt  only  more  dejected  and

demeaned。

I looked up to discover that Shevket was before me again。 He approached

me  decisively;  and  I  assumed—as  was  customary  for  the  oldest  male  child

among certain Arab tribes in Transoxiana and among Circassian tribes in the

Caucasus  mountains—that  he  would  not  only  kiss  a  guest’s  hand  at  the

beginning  of  a  visit;  but  also  when  that  guest  left。  Caught  off  guard;  I

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