My Name is Red 精彩片段：
I AM CALLED “OLIVE”
Was it more fitting for me to abandon my prayers, spring to my feet and open the door for them or to keep them waiting in the rain until I’d finished? When I realized they were watching me, I completed my prayers in a somewhat distracted state. I opened the door, and there they were—Butterfly, Stork and Black. I gave a cry of joy and embraced Butterfly.
“Alas, what we’ve had to bear of late!” I lamented, burying my head into his shoulder. “What do they want from us? Why are they killing us?”
Each of them displayed the panic of being separated from the herd, which I’d seen from time to time in every master painter over the span of my life. Even here in the lodge, they were loath to separate from one another.
“We can safely take refuge here for days.”
“We worry,” Black said, “that the person we should fear is perhaps in our very midst.”
“I, too, grow anxious,” I said. “For I have heard such rumors as well.”
There were rumors, spreading from the officers of the Imperial Guard to the division of miniaturists, claiming that the mystery about the murderer of Elegant Effendi and late Enishte was solved: He was one of us who’d labored over that book.
Black inquired as to how many pictures I’d drawn for Enishte’s book.
“The first one I made was Satan. It was of the variety of underground demon common to the old masters in the workshops of the Whitesheep. The storyteller and I were of the same Sufi path; that’s why I made the two dervishes. I was the one who suggested to Enishte that he include them in his book, convincing him that there was a special place for these dervishes in the lands of the Ottomans.”
“Is that all?” asked Black.
When I told him, “Yes, that’s all,” he went to the door with the superior air of a master who caught an apprentice stealing; he brought in a roll of paper untouched by the rain, and placed it before us three artists like a mother cat bringing a wounded bird to her kittens.
I recognized the pages while they were still under his arm: They were the illustrations I’d rescued from the coffeehouse during the raid. I didn’t deign to ask how these men had entered my house and located them. Nevertheless, Butterfly, Stork and I each placidly owned up to the pictures we made for the storyteller, may he rest in peace. Afterward, only the horse, an exquisite horse, remained unclaimed off to the side, its head lowered. Believe me, I didn’t even realize that a horse had been drawn.
“You weren’t the one who made this horse?” said Black like a teacher holding a switch.
“I wasn’t,” I said.