My Name is Red

by Orhan Pamuk

  “Tell her that if we so desire, we’ll force her back here under pressure of the judge.”

  “You really want me to say that?”

  Silence. “Nay,” he said. The light from the oil lamp illuminated his face, allowing me to see him lower his head like a guilty child. It’s because I know this side of Hasan’s character as well that I have some respect for his feelings and deliver his letters. It’s not only for the money, as you might think.

  I was leaving the house, and he stopped me at the door.

  “Do you let Shekure know how much I love her?” he asked me excitedly and foolishly.

  “Don’t you tell her so in your letters?”

  “Tell me how I might convince her and her father? How might I persuade them?”

  “By being a good person,” I said and walked to the door.

  “At this age, it’s too late…” he said with sincere anguish.

  “You’ve begun to earn a lot of money, Customs Officer Hasan. This makes one a good person…” I said and fled.

  The house was so dark and melancholy that the air outside seemed warmer. The sunlight hit my face. I wished for Shekure’s happiness. But I also felt something for that poor man in that damp, chilly and dark house. On a whim, I turned into the Spice Market in Laleli thinking the smells of cinnamon, saffron and pepper would restore my spirits. I was mistaken.

  At Shekure’s house, after she took up the letters, she immediately asked after Black. I told her that the fire of love had mercilessly engulfed his entire being. This news pleased her.

  “Even lonely spinsters busy with their knitting are discussing why Elegant Effendi might’ve been killed,” I said later, changing the subject.

  “Hayriye, make some halva as a present of condolence and take it over to Kalbiye, poor Elegant Effendi’s widow,” said Shekure.

  “All the Erzurumis and quite a crowd of others will be attending his funeral service,” I said. “His relatives swear they’ll avenge his spilt blood.”

  Shekure had already begun to read Black’s letter. I looked into her face intently and angrily. This woman was probably such a fox that she could control how her passions were reflected in her face. As she read I sensed that my silence pleased her, that she regarded it as my approval of the special import she gave to Black’s letter. Shekure finished the letter and smiled at me; to meet with her satisfaction, I felt forced to ask, “What has he written?”

  “Just as in his childhood…He’s in love with me.”

  “What are your thoughts?”

  “I’m a married woman. I’m waiting for my husband.”

  Contrary to your expectations, the fact that she’d lie to me after asking me to get involved in her affairs didn’t anger me. Actually, this comment relieved me. If more of the young maidens and women I’ve carried letters for and advised in the ways of the world attended to details the way Shekure did, they would’ve lessened the work for us both by half. More importantly, they would’ve ended up in better marriages.

  “What does the other one write?” I asked anyway.

  “I don’t intend to read Hasan’s letter right now,” she answered. “Does Hasan know that Black’s returned to Istanbul?”

  “He doesn’t even know he exists.”

  “Do you speak with Hasan?” she asked, opening wide her beautiful black eyes.

  “As you’ve requested.”

  “Yes?”

  “He’s in agony. He’s deeply in love with you. Even if your heart belongs to another, it’ll be difficult ever to be free of him now. By accepting his letters you’ve greatly encouraged him. Be wary of him, however. For not only does he want to make you return there, but by establishing that his older brother has died, he’s preparing to marry you.” I smiled to soften the weight of these words and so as not to be reduced to being that malcontent’s mouthpiece.

  “What’s the other one say, then?” she asked, but did she herself know whom she was inquiring after?

  “The miniaturist?”

  “My mind’s all ajumble,” she said suddenly, perhaps afraid of her own thoughts. “It seems that matters will become even more confused. My father’s growing older. What’ll become of us, of these fatherless children? I sense an evil approaching, that the Devil is preparing some mischief for us. Esther, tell me something that will hearten me.”

  “Don’t you fret in the slightest, my dearest Shekure,” I said as emotion welled up within me. “You’re truly intelligent, you’re very beautiful. One day you’ll sleep in the same bed with your handsome husband, you’ll cuddle with him, and having forgotten all your worries, you’ll be happy. I can read this in your eyes.”

  Such affection rose within me that my eyes filled with tears.

  “Fine, but which one will become my husband?”

  “Isn’t that wise heart of yours giving you an answer?”

  “It’s because I don’t understand what my heart is saying that I’m dispirited.”

  For a moment it occurred to me that Shekure didn’t trust me at all, that she was masterfully concealing her distrust in order to learn what I knew, that she was trying to arouse my pity. When I saw she wouldn’t be writing a response to the letters at present, I grabbed my sack, entered the courtyard and slipped away — but not before saying something I told all my maids, even those who were cross-eyed:

  “Fear not, my dear, if you keep those beautiful eyes of yours peeled, no misfortune, no misfortune at all will befall you.”

  SIXTEEN

  I, SHEKURE

  If truth be told, it used to be that each time Esther the clothier paid a visit, I’d fantasize that a man stricken with love would finally be roused to write a letter that could stir the heart of an intelligent woman like myself — beautiful, well-bred and widowed, yet with her honor still intact — and set it pounding. And to discover that the letter was from one of the usual suitors, would, at the very least, fortify my resolve and forbearance to await my husband’s return. But these days, every time Esther leaves, I become confused and feel all the more wretched.

  I listened to the sounds of my world. From the kitchen came the bubbling sound of boiling water and the smell of lemons and onions. Hayriye was boiling zucchini. Shevket and Orhan were frolicking and playing “swordsman” in the courtyard beneath the pomegranate tree, I heard their shouts. My father was sitting silently in the next room. I opened and read Hasan’s letter and was reassured that there was no cause for alarm. Still, I grew a little more frightened of him, and congratulated myself for withstanding his efforts to make love to me when we shared the same house. Next, I read Black’s letter, holding it gently as if it were some delicate and sensitive bird, and my thoughts became muddled. I didn’t read the letters again. The sun broke through the clouds and it occurred to me that if I’d entered Hasan’s bedchamber one night and made love with him, no one, except Allah, would’ve been the wiser. He did resemble my missing husband; it’d be the same thing. Sometimes a strange thought like this entered my head. As the sun quickly warmed me, I could feel my body: my skin, my neck, even my nipples. Orhan slipped inside as the sunlight struck me through the open door.

  “Mama, what are you reading?” he said.

  All right then, remember how I said that I didn’t reread the letters Esther had just delivered? I lied. I was in the midst of reading them again. This time, I truly did fold them up and tuck them away in my blouse.

  “Come here, you, onto my lap,” I said to Orhan. He did so. “Oh my, you’re so heavy. May God protect you, you’ve gotten quite big,” I said and kissed him. “You’re as cold as ice…”

  “You’re so warm, Mama,” he interrupted, leaning back onto my bosom.

  We were leaning tight against each other, enjoying sitting that way in silence. I smelled the nape of his neck and kissed him. I hugged him even more tightly. We were still.

  “I’m feeling ticklish,” he said later.

  “Tell me then,” I said in my serious voice. “If the Sultan of the Jinns came and said h
e’d grant you a wish, what would you want most of all?”

  “I’d want Shevket to go away.”

  “What besides? Would you want to have a father?”

  “No, when I grow up I’m going to marry you myself.”

  It wasn’t aging, losing one’s beauty or even being bereft of husband and money that was the worst of all calamities, what was truly horrible was not having anyone to be jealous of you. I lowered Orhan’s warming body from my lap. Thinking that a wicked woman like myself ought to wed someone with a good soul, I went up to see my father.

  “His Excellency Our Sultan will reward you after seeing for Himself that His book has been completed,” I said. “You’ll go to Venice again.”

  “I cannot be certain,” said my father. “This murder has distressed me. Our enemies are apparently quite powerful.”

  “I know, as well, that my own situation has emboldened them, giving rise to misunderstandings and unfounded hopes.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I ought to be wed as soon as possible.”

  “What?” said my father. “To whom? But you are married. Where did this notion come from?” he asked. “Who’s asked for your hand? Even if we were to find a reasonable and appealing prospect,” said my reasonable father, “I doubt we’d be able to take him, not like that, you understand.” He summed up my unfortunate situation as follows: “You’re aware that there are weighty and complicated matters we must settle before you can marry again.” After a protracted silence, he added, “Is it that you want to leave me, my dear daughter?”

  “Last night I dreamed that my husband had died,” I said. I didn’t cry the way a woman who’d actually seen such a dream would have.

  “Like those who know how to read a picture, one should know how to read a dream.”

  “Would you consider it appropriate for me to describe my dream?”

  There was a pause: We smiled at each other, quickly inferring — as intelligent people do — all possible conclusions from the matter at hand.

  “By interpreting your dream, I might be convinced of his death, yet your father-in-law, your brother-in-law and the judge, who is obligated to listen to them, will demand more proof.”

  “Two years have passed since I returned here with the children and my in-laws haven’t been able to force me back…”

  “Because they very well realize that they have their own misdeeds to answer for,” said my father. “This doesn’t mean that they’ll be willing to let you petition for a divorce.”

  “If we were followers of the Maliki or the Hanbeli sects,” I said, “the judge, acknowledging that four years have passed, would grant me a divorce in addition to securing a support allowance for me. But since we are, many thanks to Allah, Hanefis, this option is not open to us.”

  “Don’t mention the Üsküdar judge’s Shafüte stand-in to me. That’s not a sound venture.”

  “All the women of Istanbul whose husbands are missing at the front go to him with their witnesses to get divorced. Since he’s a Shafüte, he simply asks, “Is your husband missing?” “How long has he been missing?” “Are you having trouble making ends meet?” “Are these your witnesses?” and immediately grants the divorce.”

  “My dear Shekure, who’s planted such schemes in your head?” he said. “Who’s stripped you of your reason?”

  “After I’m divorced once and for all, if there is a man who can truly strip me of my reason, you will, of course, tell me who that might be and I shall never question your decision about my husband.”

  My shrewd father, realizing that his daughter was as shrewd as he, began to blink. My father would blink rapidly like this for three reasons: 1. because he was in a tight spot and his mind was racing to find a clever way out; 2. because he was on the verge of tears of hopelessness and sorrow; 3. because he was in a tight spot, cunningly combining reasons 1 and 2 to give the impression that he might soon cry out of sorrow.

  “Are you taking the children and abandoning your old father? Do you realize that on account of our book” — yes, he said “our book” — “I was afraid of being murdered, but now that you want to take the children and leave, I welcome death.”

  “My dear father, wasn’t it you who always said that only a divorce could save me from that good-for-nothing brother-in-law?”

  “I don’t want you to abandon me. One day your husband might return. Even if he doesn’t, there’s no harm in your being married — so long as you live in this house with your father.”

  “I want nothing more than to live in this house with you.”

  “Darling, weren’t you just now saying that you wanted to get married as soon as possible?”

  This is the dead end you reach by arguing with your father: In due course, you too will be convinced that you’re in the wrong.

  “I was,” I said, gazing at the ground in front of me. Then, holding back my tears and encouraged by the truth of what came to mind, I said:

  “All right then, shall I never be married again?”

  “There’s a special place in my heart for the son-in-law who won’t take you far from me. Who is your suitor, would he be willing to live here with us in this house?”

  I fell silent. We both knew, of course, that my father would never respect a son-in-law willing to live here together with us, and would gradually demean and stifle him. And as Father’s underhanded and expert belittling of the man who’d moved in with his bride’s family proceeded I would soon want to be that wife no more.

  “Without a father’s approval, in your situation, you know that getting married is practically impossible, don’t you? I don’t want you to get married, and I refuse to grant you permission to do so —”

  “I don’t want to get married, I want a divorce.”

  “ — because some thoughtless beast of a man who cares about nothing but his own concerns might hurt you. You know how much I love you, don’t you, my dear Shekure? Besides, we must finish this book.”

  I said nothing. For if I were to speak — prompted by the Devil, who was aware of my anger — I would tell my father right to his face that I knew he slept with Hayriye at night. But would it befit a woman like me to admit that she knew that her elderly father slept with a slave girl?

  “Who is it that wants to marry you?”

  I gazed at the ground before me and was quiet, not out of embarrassment, but out of anger. And recognizing the extent of my anger, but not being able to respond in some manner made me even more furious. At that juncture, I imagined my father and Hayriye in bed in that ridiculous and disgusting position. I was on the verge of tears when I said:

  “There’s zucchini on the stove, I don’t want it to burn.”

  I crossed to the room beside the staircase, the one with the always-closed window that looked out onto the well. In the dark, quickly locating the roll-up mattress with my hands, I spread it open and lay down: Ah, what a wonderful feeling, to lie down and fall asleep in a fit of tears like a child who’s been wrongly chastised! And what agony it is to know that I’m the only person in the world who likes me. As I cry in my solitude, only you, who hear my sobs and moans, can come to my aid.

  A while later, I found that Orhan had stretched out upon my bed. He placed his head between my breasts. I saw that he was sighing, and crying too. Pulling him close to me, I held him.

  “Don’t cry, Mother,” he said later. “Father will return from the war.”

  “How do you know?”

  He didn’t answer. I loved him so, and pressed him to my bosom so that I forgot my own worries entirely. Before I cuddle up with my fine-boned, delicate Orhan and fall asleep, let me confess my only pressing concern: I regret having just now told you, out of spite, about the matter between my father and Hayriye. No, I wasn’t lying, but I’m still so embarrassed that it would be best if you forgot about it. Pretend I never mentioned anything, as if my father and Hayriye weren’t thus involved, please?

  SEVENTEEN

  I AM YOUR BELOVED UNCLE
>
  Alas, it’s difficult having a daughter, difficult. As she wept in the next room, I could hear her sobs, but I could do nothing but look at the pages of the book I held in my hands. On a page of the volume I was trying to read, the Book of the Apocalypse, it was written that three days after death, one’s soul, receiving permission from Allah, visited the body it formerly inhabited. Upon beholding the piteous state of its body, bloodied, decomposing and oozing, as it rested in the grave, the soul would sorrowfully, tearfully and mournfully grieve, “Lo, my miserable mortal coil, my dear wretched old body.” At once, I thought of Elegant Effendi’s bitter end at the bottom of the well, and how upset his soul naturally must have been upon visiting, and finding his body not at his grave, but in the well.

  When Shekure’s sobs died down, I put aside the book on death. I donned an extra woolen undershirt, wound my thick wool sash tightly around my waist so as to warm my midriff, pulled on my shalwar pants lined with rabbit fur and, as I was leaving the house, turned to discover Shevket in the doorway.

  “Where are you going, Grandfather?”

  “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 committed this crime, believe me, even the Allahümme Barik prayer became muddled in my mind.