My Name is Red

by Orhan Pamuk

  “Let Enishte Effendi’s death be announced in the workshop without delay,” said the Head Treasurer. “I want the entire artists’ guild to attend his funeral.”

  He looked at me to ascertain whether I might have any objections. Emboldened by his interest, I expressed my concerns about the culprit, and the possible motive behind the deaths of my Enishte and the gilder Elegant Effendi. I hinted that the followers of the preacher from Erzurum and those who were targeting dervish houses where music was played and men danced might be involved. When I saw the doubtful expression of the Head Treasurer, I eagerly shared my other suspicions: I informed him that the monetary rewards and honor involved in being invited to illustrate and illuminate Enishte Effendi’s book had likely led to unavoidable competition and jealousy among the masters. The secrecy of the project alone could very well have instigated these hatreds, grudges and intrigues. As the words left my mouth, I sensed nervously that the Head Treasurer had somehow grown suspicious of me — the way you have as well. My dear Allah, let justice be done, that is all I ask, nothing more.

  Within the ensuing silence, the Head Treasurer cast his glance away from me, as if embarrassed on my behalf for my words and my destiny, and fixed his attention on the pictures resting on the folding table.

  “There are nine plates here,” he said. “The arrangement had been for a book with ten illustrations. Enishte Effendi took more gold leaf from us than has been used here.”

  “That murdering heretic must have stolen the last illustration, upon which much of the gold was applied,” I said.

  “You haven’t told us who the calligrapher-scribe might be.”

  “My late Enishte hadn’t yet completed the book’s text. He was anticipating my help in its completion.”

  “My dear child, you’ve just explained how you’re newly arrived in Istanbul.”

  “It’s been one week. I arrived three days after Elegant Effendi was killed.”

  “You mean to say that your Enishte Effendi has been illustrating an unwritten — a nonexistent — manuscript for an entire year?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Had he, then, revealed to you what the book was to recount?”

  “Precisely what Our Sultan stated He wanted: A book that depicted the thousandth year of the Muslim calendar, which would strike terror into the heart of the Venetian Doge by showing the military strength and pride of Islam, together with the power and wealth of the Exalted House of Osman. This was intended to be a book recounting and depicting the most valuable, most vital aspects of our realm; and just as with the Treatises on Physiognomy, a portrait of Our Sultan would be situated at the heart of the book. Furthermore, since the illustrations were made in the Frankish style using Frankish methods, they would arouse the awe of the Venetian Doge and his desire for friendship.”

  “I’m aware of all that, but are these dogs and trees the most valuable and vital aspects of the Exalted House of Osman?” he said, gesturing wildly at the illustrations.

  “My Enishte, may he rest in peace, insisted that the book show not Our Sultan’s wealth alone, but His spiritual and moral strength along with His hidden sorrows.”

  “And Our Sultan’s portrait?”

  “I haven’t seen it. It’s probably wherever that heretic murderer has hidden it. Who knows, it’s probably in his house at this very moment.”

  My late Enishte had been diminished to the status of a man who’d commissioned a menagerie of odd pictures that the Head Treasurer deemed worthless, rather than one who’d struggled to complete a book worthy of the gold he’d been paid. Was the Head Treasurer thinking I’d murdered an inept and untrustworthy man in order to marry Enishte’s daughter, or for some other reason — perhaps to sell off the gold leaf? From his glances, I read that my case was about to be closed, so speaking nervously and with the last of my strength, I tried to clear my name: I told him that my Enishte had confided to me that one of the master miniaturists he hired might’ve murdered poor Elegant Effendi. Keeping my declaration brief, I told him how my Enishte suspected Olive, Stork or Butterfly. I neither had much proof nor felt much self-confidence. Afterward, I sensed that the Head Treasurer considered me nothing but a base slanderer and a foolish gossip.

  Finally, I was elated when the Head Treasurer said we must conceal the details of Enishte’s mysterious death from the workshop; I took this as a sign that he believed my story. The pictures remained with the Head Treasurer and I passed through the Gate of Salutation — which had earlier felt like the Gate of Heaven. After exiting under the scrutiny of the guards, I immediately relaxed, like a soldier returned home after an absence of many years.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  I AM YOUR BELOVED UNCLE

  My funeral was splendid, exactly as I’d wanted. It made me proud that everybody I’d wished would attend came. Of the viziers who were in Istanbul at the time of my death, Haji Hüseyin Pasha of Cyprus and Baki Pasha the Lame loyally remembered that I’d rendered extensive services to them at one time or another. The presence of the Minister of Accounts, Red Melek Pasha, who, at the time of my death was both in high favor and much criticized, enlivened the humble courtyard of our neighborhood mosque. Had I lived and continued an active political life, I would’ve been promoted to the same rank as Mustafa Agha, the Sultan’s Chief Herald, whose presence especially delighted me. The mourners constituted a large, dignified and impressive group that included the Divan Secretary Kemalettin Effendi, Chief Secretary Salim Effendi the Austere, the heralds of the Divan — each of whom was either a dear friend or an archenemy — a group of former Divan councillors who’d resigned early from active political life, my school friends, others who’d somehow learned of my death — I cannot imagine how or where — and various other relatives, in-laws and youths.

  I also took pride in the congregation, its seriousness and its grief. The presence of the Head Treasurer Hazim Agha and the Commander of the Imperial Guard made clear to all in attendance that His Excellency Our Sultan was sincerely aggrieved by my untimely death. I was, indeed, very pleased by this. I don’t know whether the sorrow of Our Glorious Sultan means great efforts will be made to catch my rogue murderer, including the mobilization of torturers, but I do know this: that accursed man is now in the courtyard, among the other miniaturists and calligraphers, wearing a dignified and exceedingly tormented expression as he gazes at my coffin.

  Pray, don’t think that I’m infuriated by my murderer or that I’m set on a path of revenge, or even that my soul is restless because I’ve been treacherously and cruelly slain. I am, at present, on a completely different plane of being, and my soul is quite at peace, having returned to its former glory after years of suffering on Earth.

  My soul temporarily quitted my body, which was writhing in pain as it lay covered in blood from the blows of the inkpot, and quivered for a while within an intense light; afterward, two beautiful and smiling angels with faces bright as the sun — such as I’d read about countless times in the Book of the Soul — slowly approached me within this ethereal brilliance, grabbed me by my arms, as if I were still a body, and began their ascent. Ever so serenely and gently, ever so quickly we ascended as if in a blissful dream! We passed through forests of fire, forded rivers of light and forged dark seas and mountains of snow and ice. Each crossing took us thousands of years, though it seemed no more than the blink of an eye.

  We ascended through the seven Heavens, passing varieties of gatherings, peculiar creatures, marshes and clouds swarming with an infinite variety of insects and birds. At each level of Heaven, the angel who led the way would knock on a portal, and when the question, “Who goes there?” came from beyond, the angel would describe me including all my names and attributes, summing up by saying, “An obedient servant of Exalted Allah!” — which would bring tears of joy to my eyes. I knew, however, that there were yet thousands of years before the Day of Judgment when those destined for Heaven would be separated from those destined for Hell.

  My ascension, except for a few min
or differences, happened just the way Gazzali, El Jevziyye and other legendary scholars described in their passages on death. Eternal puzzles and dark enigmas that only the dead might understand were now being revealed and illuminated, bursting forth brilliantly one by one in thousands of colors.

  Oh, how might I adequately describe the hues I saw during this exquisite journey? The whole world was made up of color, everything was color. Just as I sensed that the force separating me from all other beings and objects consisted of color, I now knew that it was color itself that had affectionately embraced me and bound me to the world. I saw orange-hued skies, beautiful leaf-green bodies, brown eggs and legendary sky-blue horses. The world was faithful to the illustrations and legends that I’d avidly scrutinized over the years. I beheld Creation with awe and surprise as if for the first time, but also as if it’d somehow emerged from my memory. What I called “memory” contained an entire world: With time spread out infinitely before me in both directions, I understood how the world as I first experienced it could persist afterward as memory. As I died surrounded by this festival of color, I also discovered why I felt so relaxed, as if I’d been liberated from a straitjacket: From now on, nothing was restricted, and I had unlimited time and space in which to experience all eras and all places.

  As soon as I realized this freedom, with fear and ecstasy I knew I was close to Him; at the same time, I humbly felt the presence of an absolutely matchless red.

  Within a short period, red imbued all. The beauty of this color suffused me and the whole universe. As I approached His Being in this manner, I had the urge to cry out in jubilation. I was suddenly ashamed to be taken into His presence, drenched in blood as I was. Another part of my mind recalled what I’d read in books on death, that He would enlist Azrael and His other angels to summon me to His presence.

  Would I be able to see Him? I wasn’t able to breathe out of excitement.

  The red approaching me — the omnipresent red within which all the images of the universe played — was so magnificent and beautiful that it quickened my tears to think I would become part of it and be so close to Him.

  But I also knew He’d come no closer to me than He already had; He’d inquired about me from His angels and they’d praised me; He saw me as a loyal servant bound to His commandments and prohibitions; and He loved me.

  My mounting joy and flowing tears were abruptly poisoned by a nagging doubt. Guilt-ridden and impatient in my uncertainty, I asked Him:

  “Over the last twenty years of my life, I’ve been influenced by the infidel illustrations that I saw in Venice. There was even a time when I wanted my own portrait painted in that method and style, but I was afraid. Instead, I later had Your World, Your Subjects and Our Sultan, Your Shadow on Earth, depicted in the manner of the infidel Franks.”

  I didn’t remember His voice, but I recalled the answer He gave me in my thoughts.

  “East and West belong to me.”

  I could barely contain my excitement.

  “All right then, what is the meaning of it all, of this…of this world?”

  “Mystery,” I heard in my thoughts, or perhaps, “mercy,” but I wasn’t certain of either.

  By the way the angels had come near me, I knew some sort of decision had been made about me at this height of the heavens, but I’d have to wait in the divine balance of Berzah with the mass of other souls who’d died over the last tens of thousands of years until the Day of Judgment, when the final decision about us would be made. That everything transpired the way it was recorded in books pleased me. I recalled from my readings as I descended that I’d be reunited with my body during my burial.

  But I quickly understood that the phenomenon of “reentering my lifeless body” was just a figure of speech, thank goodness. Despite their sorrow, the dignified funeral congregation that filled me with pride was astonishingly organized as it shouldered my coffin after the prayers and descended into the little Hillock Cemetery beside the mosque. From above, the procession appeared like a thin and delicate length of string.

  Let me clarify my situation: As might be inferred from the well-known legend of Our Prophet — which states “The soul of the faithful is a bird that feeds from the trees of Heaven” — after death, the soul roams the firmament. As claimed by Abu Ömer bin Abdülber, the interpretation of this legend doesn’t mean that the soul will possess a bird or even become a bird itself, but as the learned El Jevziyye aptly clarifies, it means that the soul can be found where birds gather. The spot from which I was observing things, what the Venetian masters who love perspective would call my “point of view,” confirmed El Jevziyye’s interpretation.

  From where I was, for example, I could both see the threadlike funeral procession entering the cemetery, and with the pleasure of analyzing a painting, watch a sailboat gaining speed, its sails gorging on wind as it tacked toward Palace Point, where the Golden Horn met the Bosphorus. Looking down from the height of a minaret, the whole world resembled a magnificent book whose pages I was examining one by one.

  Still, I could see much more than a man who’d simply ascended to such heights without his soul having left his body, and furthermore, I could see it all at once: On the other side of the Bosphorus, beyond Üsküdar, among gravestones in an empty yard, children playing leapfrog; the graceful progression of the Vizier of Diplomatic Affair’s caïque propelled by seven pairs of oarsmen twelve years and seven months ago, when we accompanied the Venetian ambassador from his seaside mansion to be received by the Grand Vizier, Bald Ragip Pasha; a portly woman in the new Langa bazaar holding a huge head of cabbage like a child she was about to nurse; my elation when the Divan Herald Ramazan Effendi died, opening the way for my own advancement; how I stared as a child from my grandmother’s lap at red shirts while my mother hung the laundry to dry in the courtyard; how I ran to distant neighborhoods in search of the midwife when Shekure’s mother, may she rest in peace, had gone into labor; the location of the red belt I’d lost over forty years ago (I know now that Vasfi stole it); the splendid garden in the distance that I’d dreamed about once twenty-one years ago, which I pray Allah will one day confirm is Heaven; the severed heads, noses, and ears sent to Istanbul by Ali Bey, the Governor-General of Georgia, who suppressed the rebels in the fortress of Gori; and my beautiful, dear Shekure, who separated herself from the neighborhood women mourning over me in the house and stared into the flames of the brick stove in our courtyard.

  As is recorded in books and confirmed by scholars, the soul dwells in four realms: 1. the womb; 2. the terrestrial world; 3. Berzah, or divine limbo, where I now await Judgment Day; and 4. Heaven or Hell, where I will arrive after the Judgment.

  From the intermediate state of Berzah, past and present time appear at once, and as long as the soul remains within its memories, limitations of place do not obtain. Only when one escapes the dungeons of time and space does it becomes evident that life is a straitjacket. However blissful it is being a soul without a body in the realm of the dead, so too is being a body without a soul among the living; what a pity nobody realizes this before dying. Therefore, during my lovely funeral, as I grievously watched my dear Shekure wear herself out weeping in vain, I begged of Exalted Allah to grant us souls-without-bodies in Heaven and bodies-without-souls in life.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  IT IS I, MASTER OSMAN

  You know about those ornery old men who’ve charitably devoted their lives to art. They’ll attack anyone who gets in their way. They’re usually gaunt, bony and tall. They’ll want the dwindling number of days before them to be just like the long period they’ve left behind. They’re short-tempered, and they complain about everything. They’ll try to grab the reins in all situations, causing everyone around them to throw up their hands in frustration; they don’t like anyone or anything. I know, because I’m one of them.

  The master of masters Nurullah Selim Chelebi, with whom I had the honor of making illustrations knee to knee in the same workshop, was this way in his eighties, when I
was but a sixteen-year-old apprentice (though he wasn’t as peevish as I am now). Blond Ali, the last of the great masters, laid to rest thirty years ago, was also this way (though he wasn’t as thin and tall as I am). Since the arrows of criticism aimed at these legendary masters, who directed the workshops of their day now frequently strike me in the back, I want you to know that the hackneyed accusations leveled at us are entirely unfounded. These are the facts:

  The reason we don’t like anything innovative is that there is truly nothing new worth liking.

  We treat most men like morons because, indeed, most men are morons, not because we’re poisoned by anger, unhappiness or some other flaw in character. (Granted, treating these people better would be more refined and sensible.)

  The reason I forget and confuse so many names and faces — except those of the miniaturists I’ve loved and trained since their apprenticeships — is not senility, but because these names and faces are so lackluster and colorless as to be hardly worth remembering.

  During the funeral of Enishte, whose soul was prematurely taken by God because of his own foolishness, I tried to forget that the deceased had at one time caused me unmentionable agony by forcing me to imitate the European masters. On the way back, I had the following thoughts: blindness and death, those gifts bestowed by God, are not so far from me now. Of course, I will be remembered only so long as my illustrations and manuscripts cause your eyes to prance and flowers of bliss to bloom in your hearts. But after my death let it be known that in my old age, at the very end of my life, there was still plenty that made me smile. For instance: