My Name is Red

by Orhan Pamuk

  This man had slandered those of us who’d worked on that book Our Sultan had secretly commissioned. If I hadn’t silenced him, he would’ve denounced as unbelievers Enishte Effendi, all the miniaturists and even Master Osman, letting the rabid followers of the Hoja of Erzurum have their way with them. If someone succeeded in announcing that the miniaturists were committing blasphemy, these followers of Ezurumi — who are looking for any excuse to exercise their strength — wouldn’t just be satisfied with doing away with the master miniaturists, they’d destroy the entire workshop and Our Sultan would be helpless to do anything but watch without a peep.

  As I did every time I came here, I cleaned up with the broom and some rags I kept hidden in a corner. As I cleaned, I was heartened and felt like a dutiful servant of Allah again. So that He wouldn’t deprive me of this blessed feeling, I prayed for a long time. The cold, which was enough to make a fox shit copper, drove into my bones. I began to feel that sinister ache at the back of my throat. I stepped outside.

  Soon afterward, again in the same strange state of mind, I found myself in a completely different neighborhood. I don’t know what had happened, what I’d thought between the deserted neighborhood of the dervish house and here. I didn’t know how I’d arrived on these roads lined with cypress trees.

  However much I walked, a pestering thought wouldn’t leave me be, and it ate at me like a worm. Maybe if I tell you it’ll ease the burden: Call him a “vile slanderer” or “poor Elegant Effendi” — either way it’s the same thing — a short time before the dearly departed gilder had left this world, he was making vehement accusations against our Enishte, but when he saw that I wasn’t that affected by his declaration that Enishte Effendi made use of the perspectival techniques of the infidels, that beast divulged the following: “There’s one final picture. In that picture Enishte desecrates everything we believe in. What he’s doing is no longer an insult to religion, it’s pure blasphemy.” Furthermore, three weeks after this accusation by that scoundrel, Enishte Effendi had actually asked me to illustrate a number of unrelated things, such as a horse, a coin and Death, in various random spots on a page and in shockingly inconsistent scales; indeed, it was what one would expect of a Frankish painting. Enishte always took the trouble to cover large portions of the ruled section of the page he wanted me to illustrate as well as the places ill-fated Elegant Effendi had guilded, as though he wanted to conceal something from me and the other miniaturists.

  I want to ask Enishte what he’s illustrating in this large, final painting, but there’s much holding me back. If I ask him, he’ll of course suspect that I murdered Elegant Effendi and make his suspicions known to all. But there’s something else that unsettles me as well. If I ask him, Enishte might declare that Elegant Effendi was in fact justified in his beliefs. Occasionally, I tell myself I should ask him, pretending as if this suspicion hadn’t passed to me from Elegant Effendi, but had simply occurred to me. In the end, it’s no comfort either way.

  My legs, which have always been quicker than my head, had taken me of their own accord to Enishte Effendi’s street. I crouched in a secluded spot, and for a long time observed the house as best I could in the blackness. I watched for a long time: Nestled among trees was the large and odd-looking two-story house of a rich man! I couldn’t tell on which side Shekure’s room was located. As is the case in some of the pictures made in Tabriz during the reign of Shah Tahmasp, I imagined the house in cross-section — as if it were cut in half with a knife — and I tried to illustrate in my mind’s eye where I would find my Shekure, behind which shutter.

  The door opened. I saw Black leaving the house in the darkness. Enishte gazed at him with affection from behind the courtyard gate for a moment before closing it.

  Even my mind, which had given itself over to idiotic fantasies, quickly, and painfully, drew three conclusions based on what I had seen:

  One: Since Black was cheaper and less dangerous, Enishte Effendi would have him complete our book.

  Two: The beautiful Shekure would marry Black.

  Three: What the unfortunate Elegant Effendi had said was true, and so, I’d killed him for naught.

  In situations such as this, as soon as our merciless intellects draw the bitter conclusion that our hearts refuse, the entire body rebels against the mind. At first, half my mind violently opposed the third conclusion, which indicated that I was nothing but the vilest of murderers. My legs, once again, acting quicker and more rationally than my head, had already put me in pursuit of Black Effendi.

  We’d passed down a few side streets when I thought how very easy it would be to murder him, so contentedly and self-assuredly walking before me, and how such a crime would save me from having to confront the first two vexing conclusions established by my mind. Furthermore, I wouldn’t have cracked Elegant Effendi’s skull for no reason at all. Now, if I run ahead eight or ten paces, catch up to Black and land a blow onto his head with all my might, everything will go on as usual. Enishte Effendi will invite me to finish our book. But meanwhile my more honest (what was honesty if not fear?) and prudent side continued to tell me that the monster I’d murdered and tossed into a well was truly a slanderer. And if this were the case, I hadn’t killed him for naught, and Enishte, who no longer had anything to hide with respect to the book he was making, would most certainly invite me back to his home.

  As I watched Black walking before me, however, I knew with utmost certainty that none of this would happen. It was all illusion. Black Effendi was more real than I. It happens to us all: In reaction to being overly logical we’ll feed fantasies for weeks and years on end, and one day we’ll see something, a face, an outfit, a happy person, and suddenly realize that our dreams will never come true; thus, we come to understand that a particular maiden won’t be permitted to marry us or that we’ll never reach such-and-such a station in life.

  I was watching the rise and fall of Black’s shoulders, his head and his neck — the incredibly annoying way that he walked, as though his every step were a gift to the world — with a profound hatred that coiled cozily around my heart. Men like Black, free from pangs of conscience and with promising futures before them, assume that the entire world is their home; they open every door like a sultan entering his personal stable and immediately belittle those of us crouched inside. The urge to grab a stone and run up behind him was almost too great to resist.

  We were two men in love with the same woman; he was in front of me and completely unaware of my presence as we walked through the turning and twisting streets of Istanbul, climbing and descending, we traveled like brethren through deserted streets given over to battling packs of stray dogs, passed burnt ruins where jinns loitered, mosque courtyards where angels reclined on domes to sleep, beside cypress trees murmuring to the souls of the dead, beyond the edges of snow-covered cemeteries crowded with ghosts, just out of sight of brigands strangling their victims, passed endless shops, stables, dervish houses, candle works, leather works and stone walls; and as we made ground, I felt I wasn’t following him at all, but rather, that I was imitating him.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I AM DEATH

  I am Death, as you can plainly see, but you needn’t be afraid, I’m just an illustration. Be that as it may, I read terror in your eyes. Though you know very well that I’m not real — like children who give themselves over to a game — you’re still seized by horror, as if you’d actually met Death himself. This pleases me. As you look at me, you sense that you’ll soil yourselves out of fear when that unavoidable last moment is upon you. This is no joke. When faced with Death, people lose control of their bodily functions — particularly the majority of those men who are known to be brave-hearted. For this reason, the corpse-strewn battlefields that you’ve depicted thousands of times reek not of blood, gunpowder and heated armor as is assumed, but of shit and rotting flesh.

  I know this is the first time you’ve seen a depiction of Death.

  One year ago, a tall, thin and mysterious old man invi
ted to his house the young master miniaturist who would soon enough illustrate me. In the half-dark workroom of the two-story house, the old man served an exquisite cup of silky, amber-scented coffee to the young master, which cleared the youth’s mind. Next, in that shadowy room with the blue door, the old man excited the master miniaturist by flaunting the best paper from Hindustan, brushes made of squirrel hair, varieties of gold leaf, all manner of reed pens and coral-handled penknives, indicating that he would be able to pay handsomely.

  “Now then, draw Death for me,” the old man said.

  “I cannot draw a picture of Death without ever, not once in my entire life, having seen a picture of Death,” said the miraculously sure-handed miniaturist, who would shortly, in fact, end up doing the drawing.

  “You do not always need to have seen an illustration of something in order to depict that thing,” objected the refined and enthusiastic old man.

  “Yes, perhaps not,” said the master illustrator. “Yet, if the picture is to be perfect, the way the masters of old would’ve made it, it ought to be drawn at least a thousand times before I attempt it. No matter how masterful a miniaturist might be, when he paints an object for the first time, he’ll render it as an apprentice would, and I could never do that. I cannot put my mastery aside while illustrating Death; this would be equivalent to dying myself.”

  “Such a death might put you in touch with the subject matter,” quipped the old man.

  “It’s not experience of subject matter that makes us masters, it’s never having experienced it that makes us masters.”

  “Such mastery ought to be acquainted with Death then.”

  In this manner, they entered into an elevated conversation with double entendre, allusions, puns, obscure references and innuendos, as befit miniaturists who respected both the old masters as well as their own talent. Since it was my existence that was being discussed, I listened intently to the conversation, the entirety of which, I know, would bore the distinguished miniaturists among us in this good coffeehouse. Let me just say that there came a point when the discussion touched upon the following:

  “Is the measure of a miniaturist’s talent the ability to depict everything with the same perfection as the great masters or the ability to introduce into the picture subject matter which no one else can see?” said the sure-handed, stunning-eyed, brilliant illustrator, and although he himself knew the answer to this question, he remained quite reserved.

  “The Venetians measure a miniaturist’s prowess by his ability to discover novel subject matter and techniques that have never before been used,” insisted the old man arrogantly.

  “Venetians die like Venetians,” said the illustrator who would soon draw me.

  “All our deaths resemble one another,” said the old man.

  “Legends and paintings recount how men are distinct from one another, not how everybody resembles one another,” said the wise illustrator. “The master miniaturist earns his mastery by depicting unique legends as if we were already familiar with them.”

  In this manner, the conversation turned to the differences between the deaths of Venetians and Ottomans, to the Angel of Death and the other angels of Allah, and how they could never be appropriated by the artistry of the infidels. The young master who is presently staring at me with his beautiful eyes in our dear coffeehouse was disturbed by these weighty words, his hands grew impatient, he longed to depict me, yet he had no idea what kind of entity I was.

  The sly and calculating old man who wanted to beguile the young master caught the scent of the young man’s eagerness. In the shadowy room, the old man bore his eyes, which glowed in the light of the idly burning oil lamp, into the miracle-handed young master.

  “Death, whom the Venetians depict in human form, is to us an angel like Azrael,” he said. “Yes, in the form of a man. Just like Gabriel, who appeared as a person when he delivered the Sacred Word to Our Prophet. You do understand, don’t you?”

  I realized that the young master, whom Allah had endowed with astonishing talent, was impatient and wanted to illustrate me, because the devilish old man had succeeded in arousing him with this devilish idea: What we essentially want is to draw something unknown to us in all its shadowiness, not something we know in all its illumination.

  “I am not, in the least, familiar with Death,” said the miniaturist.

  “We all know Death,” said the old man.

  “We fear it, but we don’t know it.”

  “Then it falls to you to draw that fear,” said the old man.

  He was about to create me just then. The great master miniaturist’s nape was tingling; his arm muscles were tensing up and his fingers yearned for a reed pen. Yet, because he was the most genuine of great masters, he restrained himself, knowing that this tension would further deepen the love of painting in his soul.

  The wily old man understood what was happening, and aiming to inspire the youth in his rendition of me, which he was certain would be completed before long, he began to read passages about me from the books before him: El-Jevziyye’s Book of the Soul, Gazzali’s Book of the Apocalypse and Suyuti.

  And so, as the master miniaturist with the miracle touch was making this portrait, which you now so fearfully behold, he listened to how the Angel of Death had thousands of wings which spanned Heaven and Earth, from the farthest point in the East to the farthest point in the West. He heard how these wings would be a great comfort to the truly faithful yet for sinners and rebels as painful as a spike through the flesh. Since a majority of you miniaturists are bound for Hell, he depicted me laden with spikes. He listened to how the angel sent to you by Allah to take your lives would carry a ledger wherein all your names appeared and how, some of your names would be circled in black. Only Allah has knowledge of the exact moment of death: When this moment arrives, a leaf falls from the tree located beneath His throne and whoever lays hold of this leaf can read for whom Death has come. For all these reasons, the miniaturist depicted me as a terrifying being, but thoughtful, too, like one who understands accounts. The mad old man continued to read: when the Angel of Death, who appeared in human form, extended his hand and took the soul of the person whose time on Earth had ended, an all-encompassing light reminiscent of the light of the sun shone, and thus, the wise miniaturist depicted me bathed in light, for he also knew that this light wouldn’t be visible to those who had gathered beside the deceased. The impassioned old man read from the Book of the Soul about ancient grave robbers who had witnessed, in place of bodies riddled with spikes, only flames and skulls filled with molten lead. Hence, the wondrous illustrator, listening intently to such accounts, depicted me in a manner that would terrify whoever laid eyes on me.

  Later, he regretted what he’d done. Not due to the terror with which he’d imbued his picture, but because he dared to make the illustration at all. As for me, I feel like someone whose father regards him with embarrassment and regret. Why did the miniaturist with the gifted hands regret having illustrated me?

  Because I, the picture of Death, had not been drawn with enough mastery. As you can see, I am not as perfect as what the great Venetian masters or the old masters of Herat drew. I, too, am embarrassed by my wretchedness. The great master has not depicted me in a style befitting the dignity of Death.

  Upon being cunningly duped by the old man, the master illustrator who drew me found himself, suddenly and unwittingly, imitating the methods and perspectives of the Frankish virtuosos. It disturbed his soul because he felt he was being disrespectful and, he sensed for the first time, oddly dishonorable toward the old masters.

  It must’ve even dawned on him, as it does now on some of the imbeciles who have tired of me and are smiling: Death is no laughing matter.

  The master miniaturist who made me now roams the streets endlessly each night in fits of regret; like certain Chinese masters, he believes he’s become what he has drawn.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I AM ESTHER

  Ladies from the neighborhoods of Red
minaret and Blackcat had ordered purple and red quilting from the town of Bilejik; so, early in the morning, I loaded up my makeshift satchel — the large cloth that I’d fill up and tie into a bundle. I removed the green Chinese silk that had recently arrived by way of the Portuguese trader but wasn’t selling, substituting the more alluring blue. And given the persistent snows of this endless winter, I carefully folded plenty of colorful socks, thick sashes and heavy vests, all of wool, arranging them in the center of the bundle: When I spread open my blanket a bouquet of color would bloom to make even the most indifferent woman’s heart leap. Next, I packed some lightweight, but expensive, silk handkerchiefs, money purses and embroidered washcloths especially for those ladies who called for me not to make a purchase but to gossip. I lifted the tote. My goodness, this is much too heavy, it’ll break my back. I put it down and opened it. As I stared at it, trying to determine what to leave out, I heard knocking at the door. Nesim opened it and called to me.

  It was that concubine Hayriye, all flushed and blushing. She held a letter in her hand.

  “Shekure sent it,” she hissed. This slave was so flustered that you’d think she was the one who’d fallen in love and wanted to get married.

  With dead seriousness, I grabbed the letter. I warned the idiot to return home without being seen by anyone and she left. Nesim cast a questioning eye at me. I took up the larger, yet lighter decoy satchel I carried whenever I was out delivering my letters.

  “Shekure, the daughter of Master Enishte, is burning with love,” I said. “She’s gone clear out of her mind, the poor girl.”

  I cackled and stepped outside, but then was gripped by pangs of embarrassment. If truth be told, I longed to shed a tear for Shekure’s sorrows instead of making light of her dalliances. How beautiful she is, that dark-eyed melancholy girl of mine!

  I ever so quickly strode past the run-down homes of our Jewish neighborhood, which looked even more deserted and pitiful in the morning cold. Much later, when I caught sight of that blind beggar who always took up his spot on the corner of Hasan’s street, I shouted as loud as I could, “Clothierrr!”