第94部分(第4/7 頁)

green　leaves　of　the　springtime　trees　through　the　open　window　rather　than　at

the leaf he drew； without striking us； would chastise us for the hundredth

time：　“Not　out　there；　in　here！”　We　recalled　the　wailing；　which　could　be　heard

throughout the entire atelier； of the scrawny apprentice who walked toward

the　door；　satchel　in　hand；　having　been　sent　back　home　because　the　intensity　of

the work caused one of his eyes to wander。 Next； we imagined how we

watched （with pleasure because it wasn’t our fault） the slow spread of a

deadly red seeping from a bronze inkpot that had cracked over a page three

illuminators　had　labored　on　for　three　months　（it　depicted　the　Ottoman　army

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on　the　banks　of　the　K？n？k　River　en　route　to　Shirvan；　overing　the　threat　of

starvation by occupying Eresh and filling their stomachs）。 In a refined and

respectful　manner；　we　talked　about　how　the　three　of　us　together　made　love　to

and　together　fell　in　love　with　a　Circasian　lady；　the　most　beautiful　of　the　wives

of　a　seventy…year…old　pasha　who—in　consideration　of　his　conquests；　strength

and　wealth—wanted　ceiling　ornamentation　in　his　home　made　in　imitation　of

the　designs　in　Our　Sultan’s　hunting　lodge。　Then；　we　longingly　recalled　how　on

winter mornings we would have our lentil soup on the threshold of the

yawning　door　so　its　steam　wouldn’t　soften　the　paper。　We　also　lamented　being

separated　from　workshop　friends　and　masters　when　the　latter　pelled　us　to

travel　to　distant　places　to　serve　as　journeymen。　For　a　time；　the　sweetness　of

my dear Butterfly in his sixteenth year appeared