迪文小说

第64部分（第4页）

was　working　on　before　showing　it　to　me　with　a　smug　chuckle。　Unlike　my　other

miniaturists；　he　didn’t　stop　working　in　a　ceremonial　show　of　respect　when　I

arrived；　　on　　the　　contrary；　　he　　happily　　exhibited　　the　　swift　　exercise　　of　　his　　God…

given　talent　and　the　skill　he’d　acquired　through　hard　work　（he　could　do　the

work　　of　　seven　　or　　eight　　miniaturists　　at　　the　　same　　time）。　　Now；　　I　　catch　　myself

secretly　　thinking　　that　　if　　the　　vile　　murderer　　is　　one　　of　　my　　three　　master

miniaturists；　I　hope　to　God　it’s　Stork。　During　his　apprenticeship；　the　sight　of

him　at　my　door　on　Friday　mornings　didn’t　excite　me　the　way　Butterfly　did　on

his　day。

Since　　he　　paid　　equal　　attention　　to　　every　　odd　　detail；　　with　　no　　basis　　of

discrimination　except　that　it　be　visible；　his　aesthetic　approach　resembled　that

of　the　Veian　masters。　But　unlike　them；　my　ambitious　Stork　neither　saw　nor

depicted　　people’s　　faces　　as　　individual　　or　　distinct。　　I　　assume；　　since　　he　　either

openly　or　secretly　belittled　everyone；　that　he　didn’t　consider　faces　important。

I’m　certain　deceased　Enishte　didn’t　appoint　him　to　draw　Our　Sultan’s　face。

Even　when　depicting　a　subject　of　the　utmost　importance；　he　couldn’t　keep

from　situating　a　skeptical　dog　somewhere　at　some　distance　from　the　event；　or

drawing　　a　　disgraceful　　beggar　　whose　　misery　　demeaned　　the　　wealth　　and

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extravagance　of　a　ceremony。　He　had　enough　self…confidence　to　mock　whatever

illustration　he　made；　its　subject　and　himself。

“Elegant　Effendi’s　murder　resembles　the　way　Joseph’s　brothers　tossed　him

into　a　well　out　of　jealousy；”　said　Black。　“And　my　Enishte’s　death　resembles　the

unforeseen　murder　of　Hüsrev　at　the　hands　of　his　son　who　had　his　heart　set　on

Hüsrev’s　wife；　Shirin。　Everyone　says　that　Stork　loved　to　paint　scenes　of　war　and

gruesome　depictions　of　death。”

“Anyone　who　thinks　an　illuminator　resembles　the　subject　of　the　picture　he

paints　doesn’t　understand　me　or　my　master　miniaturists。　What　exposes　us　is

not　the　subject；　which　others　have　missioned　from　us—these　are　always

the　same　anyway—but　the　hidden　sensibilities　we　include　in　the　painting　as

we　render　that　subject：　A　light　that　seems　to　radiate　from　within　the　picture；　a

palpable　hesitancy　or　anger　one　notices　in　the　position　of　figures；　horses

and　trees；　the　desire　and　sorrow　emanating　from　a　cypress　as　it　reaches　to　the

heavens；　　the　　pious　　resignation　　and　　patience　　that　　we　　introduce　　into　　the

illustration　　　when　　　we　　　ornament　　　wall　　　tiles　　　with　　　a　　　fervor　　　that　　　tempts

blindness…Yes；　these　are　our　hidden　traces；　not　those　identical　horses　all　in　a

row。　When　a　painter　renders　the　fury　and　speed　of