第23部分(第1/7 页)

“You　get　back　inside。　To　the　funeral。”

I　passed　through　snow…covered　streets；　between　poor　rotting　houses　leaning

this way and that way； barely able to stand； and through fire…ravaged

neighborhoods。　I　walked　for　a　long　time；　taking　the　cautious　steps　of　an　aging

man trying not to slip and fall on the ice。 I passed through out…of…the…way

neighborhoods and gardens and fields。 I walked by shops that dealt in

carriages and wheels and passed iron smiths； saddlers； harness makers and

farriers　on　my　way　toward　the　walls　of　the　city。

I’m　not　sure　why　they　decided　to　start　the　funeral　procession　all　the　way　at

the　Mihrimah　Mosque　near　the　city’s　Edirne　Gate。　At　the　mosque；　I　embraced

the big…headed and bewildered brothers of the deceased； who looked angry

and obstinate。 We miniaturists and calligraphers embraced each other and

wept。　As　I　was　performing　my　prayers　within　a　leaden　fog　that　had　suddenly

descended　and　swallowed　everything；　my　gaze　fell　on　the　coffin　resting　atop

the　mosque’s　stone　funeral　block；　and　I　felt　such　anger　toward　the　miscreant

who’d mitted this crime； believe me； even the Allahümme Barik prayer

became　muddled　in　my　mind。

After　the　prayers；　while　the　congregation　shouldered　the　coffin；　I　was　still

among　all　the　miniaturists　and　calligraphers。　Stork　and　I　had　forgotten　that　on

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some　nights；　when　we　sat　in　the　dim　light　of　oil　lamps　working　until　morning

on　my　book；　he’d　tried　to　convince　me　of　the　inferiority　of　Elegant　Effendi’s

gilding work and of the lack of balance in his use of colors—he colored

everyt