My Name is Red

by Orhan Pamuk

  “Fat witch,” he said. “Even if you hadn’t shouted I would’ve recognized you by your footsteps.”

  “You good-for-nothing blind man,” I said. “You ill-fated Tatar! Blind men like you are scourges forsaken by Allah. May He give you the punishment you deserve.”

  In the past, such exchanges wouldn’t have angered me. I wouldn’t have taken them seriously. Hasan’s father opened the door. He was an Abkhazian, a noble gentleman and polite.

  “Let’s have a look, then, what have you brought with you this time?” he said.

  “Is that slothful son of yours still asleep?”

  “How could he be sleeping? He’s waiting, expecting news from you.”

  This house is so dark that each time I visit, I feel as if I’ve entered a tomb. Shekure never asks what they’re up to, but I always make a point of carping about the place so she won’t even consider returning to this crypt. It’s hard to imagine that lovely Shekure was once mistress of this house and that she lived here with her rascally boys. Within, it smelled of sleep and death. I entered the next room, moving farther into the blackness.

  You couldn’t see your hand before your face. I didn’t even have the chance to present the letter to Hasan. He appeared out of the darkness and snatched it from my hand. As I always did, I left him alone to read the letter and satisfy his curiosity. He soon raised his head from the page.

  “Isn’t there anything else?” he said. He knew there was nothing else. “This is a brief note,” he said and read:

  Black Effendi, you pay visits to our home, and spend your days here. Yet I’ve heard that you haven’t written even a single line of my father’s book. Don’t get your hopes up without first completing that manuscript.

  Letter in hand, he glared accusingly into my eyes, as if all this was my fault. I’m not fond of these silences in this house.

  “There’s no longer any word of her being married, of her husband returning from the front,” he said. “Why?”

  “How should I know why?” I said. “I’m not the one who writes the letters.”

  “Sometimes I wonder even about that,” he said, handing back the letter along with fifteen silver.

  “Some men grow stingier the more they earn. You’re not that way,” I said.

  There was such an enchanting, intelligent side to this man that despite all his dark and evil traits, one could see why Shekure would still accept his letters.

  “What is this book of Shekure’s father?”

  “You know! Our Sultan is funding the whole project they say.”

  “Miniaturists are murdering each other over the pictures in that book,” he said. “Is it for the money or — God forbid — because the book desecrates our religion? They say one glance at its pages is enough to bring on blindness.”

  He said all this, smiling in such a way that I knew I shouldn’t take any of it seriously. Even if it were a matter to take to heart, at the very least, there was nothing for him to take seriously about me taking the matter seriously. Like many of the men who depended on my services as a letter courier and mediator, Hasan lashed out at me when his pride was hurt. I, as part of my job, pretended to be upset to hearten him. Maidens, on the contrary, hugged me and cried when their feelings were hurt.

  “You’re an intelligent woman,” said Hasan in order to soothe my pride, which he believed he’d injured. “Deliver this posthaste. I’m curious about that fool’s response.”

  For a moment, I felt like saying, “Black is not so foolish.” In such situations, making rival suitors jealous of each other will earn Esther the matchmaker more money. But I was afraid he’d have a sudden tantrum.

  “You know the Tatar beggar at the end of the street?” I said. “He’s very vulgar, that one.”

  To avoid getting into it with the blind man, I walked down the other end of the street and thus happened to pass through the Chicken Market early in the morning. Why don’t Muslims eat the heads and feet of chickens? Because they’re so strange! My grandmother, may she rest in peace, would tell me how chicken feet were so inexpensive when her family arrived here from Portugal that she’d boil them for food.

  At Kemeraralik, I saw a woman on horseback with her slaves, sitting bolt upright like a man. She was proud as proud could be, maybe the wife of a pasha or his rich daughter. I sighed. If Shekure’s father hadn’t been so absentmindedly devoted to books, if her husband had returned from the Safavid war with his plunder, Shekure might’ve lived like this haughty woman. More than anyone, she deserved it.

  When I turned onto Black’s street, my heart quickened. Did I want Shekure to marry this man? I’ve succeeded both in keeping Shekure involved with Hasan and, at the same time, in keeping them apart. But what about this Black? He seems to have both feet on the ground in all respects except with regard to his love for Shekure.

  “Clothierrrrr!”

  There’s nothing I’d trade for the pleasure of delivering letters to lovers addled by loneliness or the lack of wife or husband. Even if they’re certain of receiving the worst news, when they’re about to read the letter, a shudder of hope overcomes them.

  By not mentioning anything about her husband’s return, by tying her warning “Don’t get your hopes up” to one condition alone, Shekure had, of course, given Black more than just cause to be hopeful. With great pleasure, I watched him read the letter. He was so happy he was distraught, afraid even. When he withdrew to write his response, I, being a sensible clothes peddler, spread open my decoy “delivery” satchel and withdrew from it a dark money purse, which I attempted to sell to Black’s nosy landlady.

  “This is made of the best Persian velvet,” I said.

  “My son died at war in Persia,” she said. “Whose letters do you deliver to Black?”

  I could read from her face that she was making plans to set up her own wiry daughter, or who knows whose daughter, with lionhearted Black. “No one’s,” I said. “A poor relative of his who’s on his deathbed in the Bayrampasha sickhouse and needs money.”

  “Oh my,” she said, unconvinced, “who is the unfortunate man?”

  “How did your son die in the war?” I asked stubbornly.

  We began to glare at each other with hostility. She was a widow and all alone. Her life must’ve been quite difficult. If you ever happen to become a clothier-cum-messenger like Esther, you’ll soon learn that only wealth, might and legendary romances stir people’s curiosity. Everything else is but worry, separation, jealousy, loneliness, enmity, tears, gossip and never-ending poverty. Such things never change, just like the objects that furnish a home: a faded old kilim, a ladle and small copper pan resting on an empty baking sheet, tongs and an ash box resting beside the stove, two worn chests — one small, one large — a turban stand maintained to conceal the widow’s solitary life and an old sword to scare thieves off.

  Black hastily returned with his money purse. “Clothier woman,” he said, making himself heard to the meddling landlady rather than myself. “Take this and bring it to our suffering patient. If he has any response for me, I’ll be waiting. You can find me at Master Enishte’s house, where I’ll spend the rest of the day.”

  There’s no need for all of these games. No cause for a young brave-heart like Black to hide his amatory maneuvers, the signals he receives, the handkerchiefs and letters he sends in pursuit of a maiden. Or does he truly have his eye on his landlady’s daughter? At times, I didn’t trust Black at all and was afraid that he was deceiving Shekure terribly. How is it that, despite spending his entire day with Shekure in the same house, he’s incapable of giving her a sign?

  Once I was outside, I opened the purse. It contained twelve silver coins and a letter. I was so curious about the letter that I nearly ran to Hasan. Vegetable-sellers had spread out cabbage, carrots and the rest in front of their shops. But I didn’t even have it in me to touch the plump leeks that were crying out to me to fondle them.

  I turned onto the side street, and saw that the blind Tatar was there waiting to he
ckle me again. “Tuh,” I spat in his direction; that was all. Why doesn’t this biting cold freeze these vagrants to death?

  As Hasan silently read the letter, I could barely maintain my patience. Finally, unable to restrain myself, I suddenly said “Yes?” and he began reading aloud:

  My Dearest Shekure, you’ve requested that I complete your father’s book. You can be certain that I have no other goal. I visit your house for this reason; not to pester you, as you’d earlier indicated. I’m quite aware that my love for you is my own concern. Yet, due to this love, I’m unable properly to take up my pen and write what your father — my dear Uncle — has requested for his book. Whenever I sense your presence in the house, I seize up and am of no service to your father. I’ve mulled this over extensively and there can be but one cause: After twelve years, I’ve seen your face only once, when you showed yourself at the window. Now, I quite fear losing that vision. If I could once more see you close-up, I’d have no fear of losing you, and I could easily finish your father’s book. Yesterday, Shevket brought me to the abandoned house of the Hanged Jew. No one will see us there. Today, at whatever time you see fit, I’ll go there and wait for you. Yesterday, Shevket mentioned that you dreamt your husband had died.

  Hasan read the letter mockingly, in places raising his already high-pitched voice even higher like a woman’s, and in places, emulating the trembling supplication of a lover who’d lost all reason. He made light of Black’s having written his wish “to see you just once” in Persian. He added, “As soon as Black saw that Shekure had given him some hope, he quickly began to negotiate. Such haggling isn’t something a genuine lover would resort to.”

  “He’s genuinely in love with Shekure,” I said naively.

  “This comment proves that you’ve taken Black’s side,” he said. “If Shekure has written that she dreamt my older brother was dead, it means she accepts her husband’s death.”

  “That was just a dream,” I said like an idiot.

  “I know how smart and cunning Shevket is. We lived together for many years! Without his mother’s permission and prodding, he’d never have taken Black to the house of the Hanged Jew. If Shekure thinks she’s through with my older brother — with us — she’s terribly mistaken! My older brother is still alive and he’ll return from the war.”

  Before he had a chance to conclude, he went into the next room where he intended to light a candle, but succeeded only in burning his hand. He let out a howl. All the while licking the burn, he finally lit the candle and placed it beside a folding worktable. He produced a reed pen from its case, dipped it into an inkwell and began furiously writing on a small piece of paper. I sensed his pleasure at my watching him, and to show that I wasn’t afraid, I smiled exaggeratedly.

  “Who is this Hanged Jew, you must know?” he asked.

  “Just beyond these houses there’s a yellow one. They say that Moshe Hamon, the beloved doctor of the previous Sultan and the wealthiest of men, had for years hidden his Jewish mistress from Amasya and her brother there. Years ago in Amasya, on the eve of Passover, when a Greek youth supposedly “disappeared” in the Jewish quarter, people claimed that he’d been strangled so unleavened bread could be made from his blood. When false witnesses were brought forward, an execution of Jews began; however, the Sultan’s beloved doctor helped this beautiful woman and her brother escape, and hid them with the permission of the Sultan. After the Sultan died, His enemies couldn’t find the beautiful woman, but they hanged her brother, who’d been living alone.”

  “If Shekure doesn’t wait for my brother to come back from the front, they’ll punish her,” said Hasan, handing me the letters.

  No anger or wrath could be seen on his face, just the misfortune and sorrow particular to the love-stricken. I suddenly saw in his eyes how fast love had aged him. The money he’d begun to earn working in customs hadn’t made him more youthful at all. After all his offended grimaces and threats, it dawned on me that he might once again ask me how Shekure could be won over. But he’d come so close to becoming thoroughly evil that he could no longer ask. Once one accepts evil — and rejection in love is a significant cause for doing so — cruelty follows quickly. I became afraid of my thoughts and that terrible red sword the boys talked about, which severed whatever it touched; in my desperation to leave, in a near frenzy, I stumbled outside onto the street.

  This was how I fell unwitting victim to the curses of the Tatar beggar. But I immediately pulled myself together. I softly dropped a small stone I’d picked off the ground into his handkerchief and said, “There you go, mangy Tatar.”

  Without laughing, I watched his hand reach hopefully for the stone he thought was a coin. Ignoring his curses, I headed toward one of my “daughters,” whom I’d married off to a good husband.

  That sweet “daughter” of mine served me a piece of spinach pie, a leftover, but still crisp. For the afternoon meal she was preparing lamb stew in a sauce heavy with beaten eggs and spiced with sour plum, just the way I like it. So as not to disappoint her, I waited and ate two full ladles with fresh bread. She’d also made a nice compote of stewed grapes. Without any hesitation, I requested some rose-petal jam, a spoonful of which I stirred into the compote before topping off my meal. Afterward, I went on to deliver the letters to my melancholy Shekure.

  TWENTY-SIX

  I, SHEKURE

  I was in the midst of folding and putting away the clothes that had been washed and hung out to dry yesterday when Hayriye announced Esther had come…or, this was what I planned to tell you. But why should I lie? All right then, when Esther arrived, I was spying on my father and Black through the closet peephole, impatiently waiting for the letters from Black and Hasan, and thus, my mind was preoccupied with her. Just as I sensed that my father’s fears of death were justified, I also knew Black’s interest in me wasn’t eternal. He was in love insofar as he wanted to be married, and because he wanted to be married, he easily fell in love. If not me, he’d love. If not me, he’d marry another, taking care to fall in love with her beforehand.

  In the kitchen, Hayriye sat Esther in a corner and handed her a glass of rosewater sherbet, as she gave me a guilty look. I realized that since Hayriye had become my father’s mistress, she might be reporting to him everything she sees. I’m afraid that this may indeed be the case.

  “My black-eyed girl, my dark-fortuned beauty, my stunning beauty of beauties, I was delayed because Nesim, my pig of a husband, kept me occupied with all sorts of nonsense,” said Esther. “You have no husband senselessly haranguing you, and I hope you know the value of this.”

  She took out the letters; I snatched them from her hand. Hayriye withdrew to a corner where she wouldn’t be in the way, but could still hear everything that passed between us. So Esther wouldn’t be able to see my expression, I turned my back on her and read Black’s letter first. When I thought about the house of the Hanged Jew, I shuddered for a moment. “Don’t be afraid, Shekure, you can manage in any situation,” I said to myself and began reading Hasan’s letter. He was on the verge of madness:

  Shekure, I’m burning with desire, yet I know you’re not in the least concerned. In my dreams, I see myself chasing you over deserted hilltops. Every time you leave one of my letters — that I know you read — unanswered, a three-feathered arrow pierces my heart. I’m writing in hopes that you’ll respond this time. The word is out, everyone’s spreading the news, even your children are saying it: You’ve dreamed that your husband has died, and now you claim that you’re free. I cannot say whether or not it’s true. What I do know is that you’re still married to my older brother and bound to this household. Now that my father finds me justified, we’re both going to the judge to have you returned here. We’ll be coming with a group of men we’ve assembled; so let your father be forewarned. Collect your things, you’re to come back to this house. Send your response with Esther immediately.

  After reading the letter a second time, I pulled myself together and gazed at Esther with questioning eye
s, but she told me nothing new about Hasan or Black.

  I pulled out the reed pen that I kept hidden in a corner of the pantry, placed a sheet of paper on the breadboard and was about to begin writing a letter to Black when I froze.

  Something came to mind. I turned toward Esther: She’d fallen upon the rosewater sherbet with the joy of a chubby child and so it seemed ridiculous to me that she could be aware of what was going through my mind.

  “See how sweetly you’re smiling, my dear,” she said. “Don’t worry, in the end everything will be all right. Istanbul is rife with rich gentlemen and pashas who’d give their souls to be wed to a stunning beauty, possessed of so many talents like yourself.”

  You understand what I’m talking about: Sometimes you’ll say something you’re convinced of, but no sooner do the words leave your mouth than you ask yourself, “Why did I say this so halfheartedly, even though I believe it through and through?” That was what happened when I said the following:

  “But Esther, who’d want to marry a widow with two kids, for Heaven’s sake?”

  “A widow like you? Plenty, a slew of men,” she said, conveying them all with a hand gesture.

  I looked into her eyes. I was thinking I did not like her. I fell so silent that she knew I wasn’t going to give her a letter and even that it would be better if she left. After Esther had gone, I withdrew to my own corner of the house as though I could feel my silence — how should I put it — in my soul.

  Leaning on the wall, for a long while I stood still in the blackness. I thought of myself, of what I should do, of the fear that was growing within me. All the while I could hear Shevket and Orhan chattering upstairs.