by Orhan Pamuk
If I didn’t exist, however, no one would be able to distinguish a good artist from a bad one, and this would lead to chaos among the miniaturists; they’d all be at each other’s throats. So I haven’t vanished. I’ve entered the purse of the most talented and intelligent of miniaturists and made my way here.
If you think you’re better than Stork, then by all means, get hold of me.
TWENTY
I AM CALLED BLACK
I wondered whether Shekure’s father was aware of the letters we exchanged. If I were to consider her tone, which bespoke a timid maiden quite afraid of her father, I’d have to conclude that not a single word about me had passed between them. Yet, I sensed that this was not the case. The slyness in Esther’s looks, Shekure’s enchanting appearance at the window, the decisiveness with which my Enishte sent me to his illustrators and his despair when he ordered me to come this morning — all of it made me quite uneasy.
In the morning, as soon as my Enishte asked me to sit before him, he began to describe the portraits he saw in Venice. As the ambassador of Our Sultan, Refuge of the World, he’d visited quite a number of palazzos, churches and the houses of prosperous men. Over a period of days, he stood before thousands of portraits. He saw thousands of framed faces depicted on stretched canvas or wood or painted directly onto walls. “Each one was different from the next. They were distinctive, unique human faces!” he said. He was intoxicated by their variety, their colors, the pleasantness — even severity — of the soft light that seemed to fall on them and the meaning emanating from their eyes.
“As if a virulent plague had struck, everyone was having his portrait made,” he said. “In all of Venice, rich and influential men wanted their portraits painted as a symbol, a memento of their lives and a sign of their riches, power and influence — so they might always be there, standing before us, announcing their existence, nay, their individuality and distinction.”
His words were belittling, as if he were speaking out of jealousy, ambition or greed. Though, at times, as he talked about the portraits he’d seen in Venice, his face would abruptly light up like a child’s, invigorated.
Portraiture had become such a contagion among affluent men, princes and great families who were patrons of art that even when they commissioned frescoes of biblical scenes and religious legends for church walls, these infidels would insist that their own images appear somewhere in the work. For instance, in a painting of the burial of St. Stephan, you’d suddenly see, ah yes, present among the tearful graveside mourners, the very prince who was giving you the tour — in a state of pure enthusiasm, exhilaration and conceit — of the paintings hanging on his palazzo walls. Next, in the corner of a fresco depicting St. Peter curing the sick with his shadow, you’d realize with an odd sense of disillusionment that the unfortunate one writhing there in pain was, in fact, the strong-as-an-ox brother of your polite host. The following day, this time in a piece depicting the Resurrection of the Dead, you’d discover the guest who’d stuffed himself beside you at lunch.
“Some have gone so far, just to be included in a painting,” said my Enishte, fearfully as though he were talking about the temptations of Satan, “that they’re willing to be portrayed as a servant filling goblets in the crowd, or a merciless man stoning an adulteress, or a murderer, his hands drenched in blood.”
Pretending not to understand, I said, “Exactly the way we see Shah Ismail ascending the throne in those illustrated books that recount ancient Persian legends. Or when we come across a depiction of Tamerlane, who actually ruled long afterward, in the story of Hüsrev and Shirin.”
Was there a noise somewhere in the house?
“It’s as if the Venetian paintings were made to frighten us,” said my Enishte later. “And it isn’t enough that we be in awe of the authority and money of these men who commission the works, they also want us to know that simply existing in this world is a very special, very mysterious event. They’re attempting to terrify us with their unique faces, eyes, bearing and with their clothing whose every fold is defined by shadow. They’re attempting to terrify us by being creatures of mystery.”
He explained how once he’d gotten lost in the exquisite portrait gallery of a lunatic collector whose opulent estate was perched on the shores of Lake Como; the proprietor had collected the portraits of all the great personages in Frankish history from kings to cardinals, and from soldiers to poets: “When my hospitable host left me alone to roam as I wished throughout his palazzo, which he’d proudly given me a tour of, I saw that these supposedly important infidels — most of whom appeared to be real and some of whom looked me straight in the eye — had attained their importance in this world solely on account of having their portraits made. Their likenesses had imbued them with such magic, had so distinguished them, that for a moment among the paintings I felt flawed and impotent. Had I been depicted in this fashion, it seemed, I’d better understand why I existed in this world.”
He was frightened because he suddenly understood — and perhaps desired — that Islamic artistry, perfected and securely established by the old masters of Herat, would meet its end on account of the appeal of portraiture. “However, it was as if I too wanted to feel extraordinary, different and unique,” he said. As if prodded by the Devil, he felt himself strongly drawn to what he feared. “How should I say it? It’s as if this were a sin of desire, like growing arrogant before God, like considering oneself of utmost importance, like situating oneself at the center of the world.”
Thereafter, this idea dawned on him: These methods which the Frankish artists made use of as if playing a prideful child’s game, could be more than simply magic associated with Our Exalted Sultan — but could in fact become a force meant to serve our religion, bringing under its sway all who beheld it.
I learned that the idea of preparing an illuminated manuscript had arisen then: my Enishte, who’d returned to Istanbul from Venice, suggested it would be excellent indeed for Our Sultan to be the subject of a portrait in the Frankish style. But after His Excellency took exception, a book containing pictures of Our Sultan and the objects that represented Him was agreed upon.
“It is the story that’s essential,” our wisest and most Glorious Sultan had said. “A beautiful illustration elegantly completes the story. An illustration that does not complement a story, in the end, will become but a false idol. Since we cannot possibly believe in an absent story, we will naturally begin believing in the picture itself. This would be no different than the worship of idols in the Kaaba that went on before Our Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him, had destroyed them. If not as part of a story, how would you propose to depict this red carnation, for example, or that insolent dwarf over there?”
“By exposing the carnation’s beauty and uniqueness.”
“In the arrangement of your scene, then, would you situate the flower at the precise center of the page?”
“I was afraid,” my Enishte said. “I panicked momentarily when I realized where Our Sultan’s thoughts were taking me.”
What filled my Enishte with fear was the notion of situating at the center of the page — and thereby, the world — something other than what God had intended.
“Thereafter,” Our Sultan had said, “you’ll want to exhibit a picture in whose center you’ve situated a dwarf.” It was as I had assumed. “But this picture could never be displayed: after a while, we’d begin to worship a picture we’ve hung on a wall, regardless of the original intentions. If I believed, heaven forbid, the way these infidels do, that the Prophet Jesus was also the Lord God himself, then I’d also hold that God could be observed in this world, and even, that He could manifest in human form; only then might I accept the depiction of mankind in full detail and exhibit such images. You do understand that, eventually, we would unthinkingly begin worshiping any picture that is hung on a wall, don’t you?”
My Enishte said: “I understood it quite well, and because I did, I was afraid of what we both were thinking.”
&nb
sp; “For this reason,” Our Sultan remarked, “I could never allow my portrait to be displayed.”
“Though this is exactly what he wanted,” whispered my Enishte, with a devilish titter.
It was my turn to be frightened now.
“Nonetheless, it is my desire that my portrait be made in the style of the Frankish masters,” Our Sultan went on. “Such a portrait will, of course, have to be concealed within the pages of a book. Whatever that book might be, you shall be the one to tell me.”
“In an instant of surprise and awe, I considered his statement,” said my Enishte, then grinning more devilishly than before, he seemed, suddenly, to become someone else.
“His Excellency Our Sultan ordered me to start working on His book posthaste. My head spun with joy. He added that it ought to be prepared as a present for the Venetian Doge, whom I was to visit once again. Once the book was completed, it would become a symbol of the vanquishing power of the Islamic Caliph Our Exalted Sultan, in the thousandth year of the Hegira. He requested that I prepare the illuminated manuscript in utmost secrecy, primarily to conceal its purpose as an olive branch extended to the Venetians, but also to avoid aggravating workshop jealousies. And in a state of great elation and sworn to secrecy, I embarked upon this venture.”
TWENTY-ONE
I AM YOUR BELOVED UNCLE
And so it was on that Friday morning, I began to describe the book that would contain Our Sultan’s portrait painted in the Venetian style. I broached the topic to Black by recounting how I’d brought it up with Our Sultan and how I’d persuaded him to fund the book. My hidden purpose was to have Black write the stories — which I hadn’t even begun — that were meant to accompany the illustrations.
I told him I’d completed most of the book’s illustrations and that the last picture was nearly finished. “There’s a depiction of Death,” I said, “and I had the most clever of miniaturists, Stork, illustrate the tree representing the peacefulness of Our Sultan’s worldly realm. There’s a picture of Satan and a horse meant to spirit us far far away. There’s a dog, always cunning and wily, and also a gold coin…I had the master miniaturists depict these things with such beauty,” I told Black, “that if you saw them but once, you’d know straightaway what the corresponding text ought to be. Poetry and painting, words and color, these things are brothers to each other, as you well know.”
For a while, I pondered whether I should tell him I might marry off my daughter to him. Would he live together with us in this house? I told myself not to be taken in by his rapt attention and his childlike expression. I knew he was scheming to elope with my Shekure. Still, I could rely on nobody else to finish my book.
Returning together from the Friday prayers, we discussed “shadow,” the greatest of innovations manifest in the paintings of the Venetian masters. “If,” I said, “we intend to make our paintings from the perspective of pedestrians exchanging pleasantries and regarding their world; that is, if we intend to illustrate from the street, we ought to learn how to account for — as the Franks do — what is, in fact, most prevalent there: shadows.”
“How does one depict shadow?” asked Black.
From time to time, as my nephew listened, I perceived impatience in him. He’d begin to fiddle with the Mongol inkpot he’d given me as a present. At times, he’d take up the iron poker and stoke the fire in the stove. Now and then I imagined that he wanted to lower that poker onto my head and kill me because I dared to move the art of illustrating away from Allah’s perspective; because I would betray the dreams of the masters of Herat and their entire tradition of painting; because I’d duped Our Sultan into already doing so. Occasionally, Black would sit dead still for long stretches and fix his eyes deeply into mine. I could imagine what he was thinking: “I’ll be your slave until I can have your daughter.” Once, as I would do when he was a child, I took him out into the yard and tried to explain to him, as a father might, about the trees, about the light falling onto the leaves, about the melting snow and why the houses seemed to shrink as we moved away from them. But this was a mistake: It proved only that our former filial relationship had long since collapsed. Now patient sufferance of the rantings of a demented old man had taken the place of Black’s childhood curiosity and passion for knowledge. I was just an old man whose daughter was the object of Black’s love. The influence and experience of the countries and cities that my nephew had traveled through for a dozen years had been fully absorbed by his soul. He was tired of me, and I pitied him. And he was angry, I assumed, not only because I hadn’t allowed him to marry Shekure twelve years ago — after all, there was no other choice then — but because I dreamed of paintings whose style transgressed the precepts of the masters of Herat. Furthermore, because I raved about this nonsense with such conviction, I imagined my death at his hands.
I was not, however, afraid of him; on the contrary, I tried to frighten him. For I believed that fear was appropriate to the writing I’d requested of him. “As in those pictures,” I said, “one ought to be able to situate oneself at the center of the world. One of my illustrators brilliantly depicted Death for me. Behold.”
Thus I began to show him the paintings I’d secretly commissioned from the master miniaturists over the last year. At first, he was a tad shy, even frightened. When he understood that the depiction of Death was inspired by familiar scenes that could be found in many Book of Kings volumes — from the scene of Afrasiyab’s decapitation of Siyavush, for example, or Rüstem’s murder of Suhrab without realizing this was his son — he quickly became interested in the subject. Among the pictures that depicted the funeral of the late Sultan Süleyman was one I’d made with bold but sad colors, combining a compositional sensibility inspired by the Franks with my own attempt at shading — which I’d added later. I pointed out the diabolic depth evoked by the interplay of cloud and horizon. I reminded him that Death was unique, just like the portraits of infidels I had seen hanging in Venetian palazzos; all of them desperately yearned to be rendered distinctly. “They want to be so distinct and different, and they want this with such passion that,” I said, “look, look into the eyes of Death. See how men do not fear Death, but rather the violence implicit in the desire to be one-of-a-kind, unique and exceptional. Look at this illustration and write an account of it. Give voice to Death. Here’s paper and pen. I shall give what you write to the calligrapher straightaway.”
He stared at the picture in silence. “Who painted this?” he asked later.
“Butterfly. He’s the most talented of the lot. Master Osman had been in love with and awed by him for years.”
“I’ve seen rougher versions of this depiction of a dog at the coffeehouse where the storyteller performs,” Black said.
“My illustrators, most of whom are spiritually bound to Master Osman and the workshop, take a dim view of the labors performed for my book. When they leave here at night I imagine they have their vulgar fun over these illustrations which they draw for money and ridicule me at the coffeehouse. And who among them will ever forget the time Our Sultan had the young Venetian artist, whom He’d invited from the embassy at my behest, paint His portrait. Thereafter, He had Master Osman make a copy of that oil painting. Forced to imitate the Venetian painter, Master Osman held me responsible for this unseemly coercion and the shameful portrait that came of it. He was justified.”
All day long, I showed him every picture — except the final illustration that I cannot, for whatever reason, finish. I prodded him to write. I discussed the temperaments of the miniaturists, and I enumerated the sums of money I meted out to them. We discussed “perspective” and whether the diminutive objects in the background of Venetian pictures were sacrilegious, and equally, we talked about the possibility that unfortunate Elegant Effendi had been murdered for excessive ambition and out of jealousy over his wealth.
As Black returned home that night, I was confident he’d come again the next morning as promised and that he’d once again listen to me recount the stories that would co
nstitute my book. I listened to his footsteps fading beyond the open gate; there was something to the cold night that seemed to make my sleepless and troubled murderer stronger and more devilish than me and my book.
I closed the courtyard gate tightly behind him. I placed the old ceramic water basin that I used as a basil planter behind the gate as I did each night. Before I reduced the stove to smoldering ashes and went to bed, I glanced up to see Shekure in a white gown looking like a ghost in the blackness.
“Are you absolutely certain that you want to marry him?” I asked.
“No, dear Father. I’ve long since forgotten about marriage. Besides, I am married.”
“If you still want to marry him, I’m willing to give you my blessing now.”
“I wish not to be wed to him.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s against your will. In all sincerity, I desire nobody that you do not want.”
I noticed, momentarily, the coals in the stove reflected in her eyes. Her eyes had aged, not out of unhappiness, but anger; yet there was no trace of offense in her voice.
“Black is in love with you,” I said as if divulging a secret.
“I know.”
“He listened to all I had to say today not out of his love of painting, but out of his love for you.”
“He will complete your book, this is what matters.”
“Your husband might return one day,” I said.
“I’m not certain why, perhaps it’s the silence, but tonight I’ve realized once and for all that my husband will never return. What I’ve dreamt seems to be the truth: They must’ve killed him. He’s long since turned to dust.” She whispered the last statement lest the sleeping children hear. And she said it with a peculiar tinge of anger.