My Name is Red

by Orhan Pamuk

  Yet, I was still alive. My desire to cling to this world, to run away and escape him, the flailing of my hands and arms in an attempt to protect my face and bloody head, the way, I believe, I bit his wrist at one time, and the inkpot striking my face made me aware of this.

  We struggled for a while, if you can call it that. He was very strong and very agitated. He laid me out flat on my back. Pressing his knees onto my shoulders, he practically nailed me to the ground while he raved on in a very disrespectful tone, accosting me, a dying old man. Perhaps because I could neither understand nor listen to him, perhaps because I took no pleasure in looking into his bloodshot eyes, he struck my head once more. His face and his entire body had become bright red from the ink splattering out of the inkpot, and I suppose, from the blood splattering out of me.

  Saddened that the last thing I’d ever see in this world was this man who would be my enemy, I closed my eyes. Thereupon, I saw a soft, gentle light. The light was as sweet and enticing as the sleep I thought would straightaway ease all my pains. I saw a figure within the light and as a child might, I asked, “Who are you?”

  “It is I, Azrael, the Angel of Death,” he said. “I am the one who ends man’s journey in this world. I am the one who separates children from their mothers, wives from their husbands, lovers from each other and fathers from their daughters. No mortal in this world avoids meeting me.”

  When I knew death was unavoidable, I wept.

  My tears made me profoundly thirsty. On the one hand there was the stupefying agony of my face and eyes drenched in blood; on the other hand there was the place where frenzy and cruelty ceased, yet that place was strange and terrifying. I knew it to be that illumined realm, the Land of the Dead, to which Azrael beckoned me, and I was frightened. Even so, I knew I couldn’t long remain in this world that caused me to writhe and howl in agony. In this land of frightful pain and torment, there was no place for me to take solace. To stay, I’d have to resign myself to this unbearable torment and this was impossible in my elderly condition.

  Just before I died, I actually longed for my death, and at the same time, I understood the answer to the question that I’d spent my entire life pondering, the answer I couldn’t find in books: How was it that everybody, without exception, succeeded in dying? It was precisely through this simple desire to pass on. I also understood that death would make me a wiser man.

  Nonetheless, I was overcome with the indecision of a man about to take a long journey and unable to refrain from taking one last glance at his room, at his belongings and his home. In a panic I wished to see my daughter one last time. I wanted this so badly I was prepared to grit my teeth for a while longer and endure the pain and my increasing thirst, to wait for Shekure’s return.

  And thus, the deathly and gentle light before me faded somewhat, and my mind opened itself up to the sounds and noises of the world in which I lay dying. I could hear my murderer roaming around the room, opening the cabinet, rifling through my papers and searching intently for the last picture. When he came up empty-handed, I heard him pry open my paint set and kick the chests, boxes, inkpots and folding worktable. I sensed that I was groaning now and then and making odd twitching gestures with my old arms and tired legs. And I waited.

  My pain was not abating in the least. I grew increasingly silent and could no longer stand to grit my teeth, but again, I held on, waiting.

  Then it occurred to me, if Shekure came home, she might encounter my ruthless murderer. I didn’t want to even think about this. At that instant, I sensed that my murderer had exited the room. He’d probably found the last painting.

  I’d become excessively thirsty but still I waited. Come now, dear daughter, my pretty Shekure, show yourself.

  She did not come.

  I no longer had strength to withstand the suffering. I knew I would die without seeing her. This seemed so bitter I wanted to die of misery. Afterward, a face I’d never seen before appeared to my left, and smiling all the while, he kindly offered me a glass of water.

  Forgetting all else, I greedily reached for the water.

  He pulled the glass back: “Denounce the Prophet Muhammad as a liar,” he said. “Deny all that he has said.”

  It was Satan. I didn’t answer, I wasn’t even afraid of him. Since I never once believed that painting amounted to being duped by him, I waited confidently. I dreamed of the endless journey that awaited me and of my future.

  Meanwhile, as I was approached by the illuminated angel whom I’d just seen, Satan vanished. Part of me knew that this glowing angel who had caused Satan to flee was Azrael. But another rebellious part of my mind remembered that in the Book of the Apocalypse it was written that Azrael was an angel with one thousand wings spanning East and West and that he held the whole world in his hands.

  As I grew more confused, the angel bathed in light approached as if coming to my aid, and yes, just as Gazzali had stated in Pearls of Magnificence, he sweetly said:

  “Open your mouth so that your soul might leave.”

  “Nothing but the besmele prayer ever leaves my mouth,” I answered him.

  This was just one last excuse however. I knew I could no longer resist, that my time had now come. For a moment I was embarrassed at having to leave my bloodied and ugly body in this miserable condition for my daughter, whom I’d never see again. But I wanted to leave this world, shedding it like some tight-fitting garment that pinched.

  I opened my mouth and abruptly all was color just as in the pictures of Our Prophet’s Miraj journey, during which he visited Heaven. Everything was flooded in exquisite brightness as if generously painted with gold wash. Painful tears flowed from my eyes. A strained exhalation passed from my lungs through my mouth. All was subsumed in wondrous silence.

  I could see now that my soul had left my body and that I was cupped in Azrael’s hand. My soul, the size of a bee, was bathed in light, and it shuddered as it left my body and continued to tremble like mercury in Azrael’s palm. My thoughts were not of this, however, but of the unfamiliar new world I’d just been born into.

  After so much suffering, a calm overcame me. Death did not cause me the pain I’d feared; on the contrary, I relaxed, quickly realizing that my present situation was a permanent one, whereas the constraints I’d felt in life were only temporary. This was how it would be from now on, for century upon century, until the end of the universe. This neither upset nor gladdened me. Events I’d once endured briskly and sequentially were now spread over infinite space and existed simultaneously. As in one of those large double-leaf paintings wherein a witty miniaturist has painted a number of unrelated things in each corner — many things were happening all at once.

  THIRTY

  I, SHEKURE

  It was snowing so hard that snowflakes occasionally passed right through my veil into my eyes. I picked my way through the garden covered in rotting grass, mud and broken branches, then quickened my pace once I’d exited onto the street. I know you’re all wondering what I’m thinking. How much do I trust Black? Let me be frank with you, then. I myself don’t know what to think. You do understand, don’t you? I’m confused. This much, however, I do know: As always, I’ll fall into the routine of meals, children, my father and errands, and before long my heart, without even having to be asked, will whisper the truth to me of its own accord. Tomorrow, before noon, I’ll know whom I am to marry.

  I want to share something with you before I arrive home. No! Come off it, now, it’s not about the size of that monstrosity Black showed me. If you want we can talk about that later. What I was going to discuss was Black’s haste. It’s not that he seems to think only of satisfying his lust. To be honest, it’d make no difference if he did. What surprises me is his stupidity! I suppose it never crossed his mind that he could frighten and abduct me, play with my honor and put me off, or open the door to even more dangerous outcomes. I can tell from his innocent expression how much he loves and desires me. But after waiting twelve years, why can’t he play the game according
to the rules and wait another twelve days?

  Do you know I have the sinking feeling I’ve fallen in love with his incompetence and his melancholy childlike glances? At a time when it would’ve been more appropriate to be irate with him, instead, I pitied him. “Oh, my poor child,” a voice inside me said, “you suffer such torment and are still so utterly incompetent.” I felt so protective of him that I might’ve even made a mistake, I might’ve actually given myself to that spoiled little boy.

  Thinking of my unfortunate children, I quickened my steps. Just then, in the early darkness and blinding snow, I thought a phantom of a man would run right over me. Ducking my head, I slipped by him.

  Upon entering through the courtyard gate, I knew that Hayriye and the children hadn’t yet returned. Very well then, I’d come back in time, the evening prayers hadn’t yet been called. I climbed the stairs, the house smelled of orange jam. My father was in his darkened room with the blue door; my feet were freezing. I entered my room to the right beside the stairs holding a lamp, and when I saw that the cabinet had been opened, that the cushions had fallen out and the room had been ransacked, I assumed it was the naughty work of Shevket and Orhan. There was a silence in the house, not unusual, yet unlike the usual silence. I donned my house clothes and sat alone in the darkness, and as I gave myself over to momentary daydreaming, my mind registered a noise coming from below, directly below me, not from the kitchen but from the large room next to the stable, used in summertime as the illustrating workshop. Had my father gone down there, in this cold? I didn’t remember seeing the light of an oil lamp there; suddenly, I heard the squeak of the front door between the stone walkway and the courtyard, and afterward, the cursed and ominous barking of the pesky dogs roaming past the courtyard gate — I was alarmed, to put it mildly.

  “Hayriye,” I shouted. “Shevket, Orhan…”

  I felt a cold draft. My father’s brazier must be burning; I ought to sit with him and warm up. As I went to be with him, holding an oil lamp aloft, my thoughts weren’t with Black any longer, but with the children.

  I crossed the wide hall diagonally, wondering if I should set water to boil on the downstairs brazier for the gray mullet soup. I entered the room with the blue door. Everything was in shambles. Without thinking, I was about to say, “What has my father done?”

  Then I saw him on the floor.

  I screamed, overcome with horror. Then I screamed again. Gazing at my father’s body, I fell silent.

  Listen, I can tell by your tight-lipped and cold-blooded reaction that you’ve known for some time what’s happened in this room. If not everything, then quite a lot. What you’re wondering about now is my reaction to what I’ve seen, what I feel. As readers sometimes do when studying a picture, you’re trying to discern the pain of the hero and thinking about the events in the story leading up to this agonizing moment. And then, having considered my reaction, you’ll take pleasure in trying to imagine, not my pain, but what you’d feel in my place, had it been your father murdered like this. I know this is what you’re so craftily trying to do.

  Yes, I returned home in the evening to discover that someone had killed my father. Yes, I tore out my hair. Yes, as I would do in my childhood, I hugged him with all my might and smelled his skin. Yes, I trembled and I couldn’t breathe. Yes, I begged Allah to raise him up and have him sit silently in his corner among his books as he always did. Get up, Father, get up, don’t die. His bloodied head was crushed. More than the torn papers and books, more than the breaking and tossing about of the end tables, paint sets and inkpots, more than the wild destruction of cushions, worktables and writing boards, and the ransacking of everything, more even than the anger that had killed my father, I feared the hatred that had destroyed the room and everything within it. I was no longer crying. A couple passed down the street outside, laughing and talking in the blackness; meanwhile, I could hear the infinite silence of the world in my mind; with my hands I wiped my running nose and the tears off my cheeks. For a long long time I thought about the children and our lives.

  I listened to the silence. I ran, I grabbed my father by the ankles and dragged him into the hallway. For whatever reason, he felt heavier out there, but without paying any mind to this, I began to pull him down the stairs. Halfway down, my strength gave out and I sat on a step. I was on the verge of tears again when I heard a noise that made me assume that Hayriye and the children had returned. I grabbed my father by the ankles, and pressing them into my armpits, I continued to descend, faster this time. My dear father’s head had been so crushed and was so soaked in blood that it made the sound of a wrung-out mop as it struck each step. At the base of the stairs, I turned his body, which now seemed to have grown lighter, and with one great effort, dragging him across the stone floor, I took him into the summer painting room. In order to see within the pitch-black room, I hastened back out to the stove in the kitchen. When I returned with a candle I saw how thoroughly the room where I’d dragged my father had been pillaged. I was dumbstruck.

  Who is it, my God, which one of them?

  My mind was churning. Closing the door tightly, I left my father in the demolished room. I grabbed a bucket from the kitchen, and filled it with water from the well. I climbed the stairs, and by the light of an oil lamp, I quickly wiped away the blood in the hallway, on the staircase and everywhere else. I went back upstairs to my room, removed my bloodied clothes and put on clean clothes. Carrying the bucket and rag, I was about to enter the room with the blue door when I heard the courtyard gate swing open. The evening call to prayer had begun. I mustered all my strength, and holding the oil lamp in my hand, I waited for them at the top of the stairs.

  “Mother, we’re back,” Orhan said.

  “Hayriye! Where have you been!” I said forcefully, but as if I were whispering, not shouting.

  “But Mother, we didn’t stay out past the evening call to prayer…” Shevket had begun to say.

  “Quiet! Your grandfather is ill, he’s sleeping.”

  “Ill?” said Hayriye from below. She could tell from my silence that I was angry: “Shekure, we waited for Kosta. After the gray mullet arrived, without tarrying, we picked bay leaves, then I bought the dried figs and cherries for the children.”

  I had the urge to go down and admonish Hayriye in a whisper, but I was afraid that as I was going downstairs, the oil lamp I carried would illuminate the wet steps and the drops of blood I’d missed in my haste. The children noisily climbed the stairs and then removed their shoes.

  “Ah-ah-ah,” I said. Guiding them toward our bedroom, “Not that way, your grandfather’s sleeping, don’t go in there.”

  “I’m going into the room with the blue door, to be by the brazier,” Shevket said, “not to Grandfather’s room.”

  “Your grandfather fell asleep in that room,” I whispered.

  But I noticed that they hesitated for a moment. “Let’s be certain that the evil jinns that’ve possessed your grandfather and made him sick don’t set upon the both of you as well,” I said. “Go to your room, now.” I grabbed both of them by their hands and put them into the room where we slept together. “Tell me then, what were you doing out on the streets till this hour?” “We saw some black beggars,” said Shevket. “Where?” I asked. “Were they carrying flags?” “As we were climbing the hill. They gave Hayriye a lemon. Hayriye gave them some money. They were covered in snow.” “What else?” “They were practicing shooting arrows at a target in the square.” “In this snow?” I said. “Mother, I’m cold,” said Shevket. “I’m going into the room with the blue door.” “You’re not to leave this room,” I said. “Otherwise you’ll die. I’ll bring you the brazier.” “Why do you say we’re going to die?” said Shevket. “I’m going to tell you something,” I said, “but you’re not to tell anyone, are we understood?” They swore not to tell. “While you were out, a completely white man who’d died and lost his color came here from a faraway country and spoke to your grandfather. It turns out he was a jinn.” They asked
me where the jinn came from. “From the other side of the river,” I said. “Where our father is?” asked Shevket. “Yes, from there,” I said. “The jinn came to take a look at the pictures in your grandfather’s books. They say that a sinner who looks at those pictures immediately dies.”

  A silence.

  “Listen, I’m going downstairs to be with Hayriye,” I said. “I’m going to carry the brazier in here, as well as the dinner tray. Don’t even think of leaving the room or you’ll die. The jinn is still in the house.”

  “Mama, Mama, don’t go,” Orhan said.

  I squared myself to Shevket. “You’re responsible for your brother,” I said. “If you leave the room and the jinn doesn’t get you, I’ll be the one who kills you.” I put on the frightening expression that I made before slapping them. “Now pray that your ill grandfather doesn’t die. If you’re good, God will grant you your prayers and no one will be able to harm you.” Without giving themselves over to it too much, they began to pray. I went downstairs.

  “Somebody knocked over the pot of orange jam,” said Hayriye. “The cat couldn’t have done it, not strong enough; a dog couldn’t have gotten into the house…”

  She abruptly saw the terror on my face and stopped: “What’s the matter, then,” she said, “what happened? Has something happened to your dear father?”

  “He’s dead.”

  She shrieked. The knife and onion she was holding fell from her hands and hit the cutting board with such force that the fish she was preparing flopped. She shrieked again. We both noticed that the blood on her left hand had come, not from the fish, but from her index finger, which she’d sliced accidentally. I ran upstairs, and as I was searching for a piece of muslin in the room opposite the one the children were in, I heard their noises and shouts. Holding the piece of cloth I’d torn off, I entered the room to find that Shevket had climbed onto his younger brother, pinning Orhan’s shoulders down with his knees. He was choking him.