My Name is Red

by Orhan Pamuk

  FOURTY-SEVEN

  LAM

  In Herat and Shiraz, when a master miniaturist nearing the end of his days went blind from a lifetime of excessive labor, it would not only be taken as a sign of that master’s determination, but would be commended as God’s acknowledgment of the great master’s work and talent. There was even a time in Herat when masters who hadn’t gone blind despite having grown old were regarded with suspicion, a situation that compelled quite a few of them to actually induce blindness in their old age. There was a long period during which men reverently recalled artists who blinded themselves, following in the path of those legendary masters who’d done so rather than work for another monarch or change their styles. And it was during this age that Abu Said, Tamerlane’s grandson from the Miran Shah line of descent, introduced a further twist in his workshop after he’d conquered Tashkent and Samarkand: The practice of paying greater homage to the imitation of blindness than to blindness itself. Black Veli, the old artisan who inspired Abu Said, had confirmed that a blind miniaturist could see the horses of God’s vision from within the darkness; however, true talent resided in a sighted miniaturist who could regard the world like a blind man. At the age of sixty-seven he proved his point by dashing off a horse that came to the tip of his brush without so much as a glance at the paper, even as his eyes remained all the while open and fixed on the page. At the end of this artistic ceremony for which Miran Shah had deaf musicians play lutes and mute storytellers recite stories to support the legendary master’s efforts, the splendid horse that Black Veli had drawn was compared at length with other horses he’d made: There was no difference whatsoever among them, much to Miran Shah’s irritation; thereafter, the legendary master declared that a miniaturist possessed of talent, regardless of whether his eyes are open or closed, will always and only see horses in one way, that is, the way that Allah perceives them. And among great master miniaturists, there is no difference between the blind and the sighted: The hand would always draw the same horse because there was as yet no such thing as the Frankish innovation called “style.” The horses made by the great master Black Veli have been imitated by all Muslim miniaturists for 110 years. As for Black Veli himself, after the defeat of Abu Said and the dispersal of his workshop, he moved from Samarkand to Kazvin, where two years later he was condemned for his spiteful attempts to refute the verse in the Glorious Koran that declares, “The blind and the seeing are not equal.” For this, he was first blinded, then killed by young Nizam Shah’s soldiers.

  I was on the verge of telling a third story, describing to the pretty-eyed calligrapher’s apprentice how the great master Bihzad had blinded himself, how he never wanted to leave Herat, why he never painted again after being taken forcibly to Tabriz, how a miniaturist’s style was really the style of the workshop in which he worked and other tales I’d heard from Master Osman, but I became preoccupied with the storyteller. How had I known that he was going to tell Satan’s story tonight?

  I had the urge to say, “It was Satan who first said “I!” It was Satan who adopted a style. It was Satan who separated East from West.”

  I closed my eyes and drew Satan on the storyteller’s rough sheet of paper as my heart desired. As I drew, the storyteller and his assistant, other artists and curious onlookers giggled and goaded me on.

  Pray, do you think I have my own style, or do I owe it to the wine?

  FOURTY-EIGHT

  I, SATAN

  I am fond of the smell of red peppers frying in olive oil, rain falling into a calm sea at dawn, the unexpected appearance of a woman at an open window, silences, thought and patience. I believe in myself, and, most of the time, pay no mind to what’s been said about me. Tonight, however, I’ve come to this coffeehouse to set my miniaturist and calligrapher brethren straight about certain gossip, lies and rumors.

  Of course, because I’m the one speaking, you’re already prepared to believe the exact opposite of what I say. But you’re smart enough to sense that the opposite of what I say is not always true, and though you might doubt me, you’re astute enough to take an interest in my words: You’re well aware that my name, which appears in the Glorious Koran fifty-two times, is one of the most frequently cited.

  All right then, let me begin with God’s book, the Glorious Koran. Everything about me in there is the truth. Let it be known that when I say this, I do so with the utmost humility. For there’s also the issue of style. It has always caused me great pain that I’m belittled in the Glorious Koran. But this pain is my way of life. This is simply the way it is.

  It’s true, God created man before the eyes of us angels. Then He wanted us to prostrate ourselves before this creation. Yes, it happened the way it’s written in “The Heights” chapter: While all the other angels bowed before man, I refused. I reminded all that Adam was made from mud, whereas I was created from fire, a superior element as all of you are familiar. So I didn’t bow before man. And God found my behavior, well, “proud.”

  “Lower yourself from these heavens,” He said. “It’s beyond the likes of you to scheme for greatness here.”

  “Permit me to live until Judgment Day,” I said, “until the dead arise.”

  He granted His permission. I promised that during this entire time I would tempt the descendents of Adam, who’d been the cause of my punishment, and He said He’d send to Hell those I’d successfully corrupted. I don’t have to tell you that we’ve each remained true to his word. I have nothing more to say about the matter.

  As some will claim, at that time Almighty God and I made a pact. According to them, I was helping to test the Almighty’s subjects by attempting to destroy their faith: The good, possessed of sound judgment, would not be led astray, while the evil, giving into their carnal desires, would sin, to later fill the depths of Hell. Therefore, what I did was quite important: If all men went to Heaven, no one would ever be frightened, and the world and its governments could never function on virtue alone; for in our world evil is as necessary as virtue and sin as necessary as rectitude. Given that I am to thank for the genesis of Allah’s worldly order — with His permission no less (why else would He allow me to live until Judgment Day?) — to be branded “evil” and never be granted my due is my hidden troment. Men like the mystic Mansur, the wool carder, or the famous Imam Gazzali’s younger brother Ahmet Gazzali, have taken this line of reasoning so far as to conclude in their writings that if the sins I caused are actually committed through God’s permission and will, then they are what God desires; furthermore, they maintain that good and evil do not exist because everything emerges from God, and even I am a part of Him.

  Some of these mindless men have quite appropriately been burned to death with their books. Of course, good and evil do exist, and the responsibility for drawing a line between the two falls to each of us. I am not Allah, God forbid, and I was not the one who planted such absurdities into the heads of these dimwits; they came up with it all by themselves.

  This brings me to my second complaint: I am not the source of all the evil and sin in the world. Many people sin out of their own blind ambition, lust, lack of willpower, baseness, and most often, out of their own idiocy without any instigation, deception or temptation on my part. However absurd the efforts of certain learned mystics to absolve me of any evil might be, so too is the assumption that I am the source of all of it, which also contradicts the Glorious Koran. I’m not the one who tempts every fruit monger who craftily foists rotten apples upon his customers, every child who tells a lie, every fawning sycophant, every old man who has obscene daydreams or every boy who jacks off. Even the Almighty couldn’t find anything evil in passing wind or jacking off. Sure, I work very hard so you might commit grave sins. But some hojas claim that all of you who gape, sneeze or even fart are my dupes, which tells me they haven’t understood me in the least.

  Let them misunderstand you, so you can dupe them all the more easily, you might suggest. True. But let me remind you, I have my pride, which is what caused me to fall out
with the Almighty in the first place. Even though I can assume every imaginable form, and though it’s been recorded in numerous books tens of thousands of times that I’ve successfully tempted the pious, especially in the lust-kindling guise of a beautiful woman, can the miniaturist brethren before me tonight please explain why they persist in picturing me as a misshapen, horned, long-tailed and gruesome creature with a face covered with protruding moles?

  Like so, we arrive at the heart of the matter: figurative painting. An Istanbul street mob incited by a preacher whose name I won’t mention so he won’t bother you later on, condemns the following as being contrary to the word of God: the calling of the azan like a song; the gathering of men in dervish lodges, sitting in each other’s laps, and chanting with abandon to the accompaniment of musical instruments; and the drinking of coffee. I’ve heard that some of the miniaturists among us who fear this preacher and his mob claim that I’m the one behind all this painting in the Frankish style. For centuries, countless accusations have been leveled at me, but none so far from the truth.

  Let’s start from the beginning. Everybody gets caught up in my provoking Eve to eat of the forbidden fruit and forgets about how this whole matter began. No, it doesn’t begin with my hubris before the Almighty, either. Before anything else, there’s the matter of His presenting man to us and expecting us to bow down to him, which met with my quite appropriate and decisive refusal — though the other angels obeyed. Do you think it fitting that, after creating me from fire, He require me to bow before man, whom He created out of the crudest mud? Oh my brethren, speak the truth of your conscience. All right, then, I know you’ve been thinking about it and fear that anything said here will not just remain between us: He will hear it all and one day He’ll call you to account. Fine, never mind why He’s provided you with that conscience in the first instance; I agree, you’re justified in being afraid, and I’ll forget about this question and the mud-versus-fire debate. But there’s something I’ll never forget — yes indeed, something I’ll always be proud of: I never bowed down before man.

  This, however, is precisely what the new European masters are doing, and they’re not satisfied with merely depicting and displaying every single detail down to the eye color, complexion, curvy lips, forehead wrinkles, rings and disgusting ear hair of gentlemen, priests, wealthy merchants and even women — including the lovely shadows that fall between their breasts. These artists also dare to situate their subjects in the center of the page, as if man were meant to be worshiped, and display these portraits like idols before which we should prostrate ourselves. Is man important enough to warrant being drawn in every detail, including his shadow? If the houses on a street were rendered according to man’s false perception that they gradually diminish in size as they recede into the distance, wouldn’t man then effectively be usurping Allah’s place at the center of the world? Well, Allah, almighty and omnipotent, would know better than I. But surely it’s absurd on the face of it to credit me with the idea of these portraits; I, who having refused to prostrate myself before man suffered untold pain and isolation; I, who fell from God’s grace to become the subject of curses. It would be more reasonable to hold me responsible, as some mullahs and preachers do, for all the children who play with themselves and everyone who farts.

  I have one last comment on this subject, but my words aren’t for men who can’t think beyond their eagerness to show off, their carnal desires, lust for money or other absurd passions! Only God, in His infinite wisdom, will understand me: Was it not You who instilled man with pride by making the angels bow before him? Now they regard themselves as Your angels were made to regard them; men are worshiping themselves, placing themselves at the center of the world. Even your most devoted servants want to be depicted in the style of the Frankish masters. I know it as well as I know my own name that this narcissism will end in their forgetting You entirely. And I’m the one who’ll be blamed.

  How might I convince you that I don’t take all of this to heart? Naturally, by standing firmly on my own two feet despite centuries of merciless stonings, curses, damnings and denouncements. If only my angry and shallow enemies, who never tire of condemning me, would remember that it was the Almighty Himself who granted me life until Judgment Day, while allotting them no more than sixty or seventy years. If I were to advise them that they could extend this period by drinking coffee, I know quite well that some, because it was Satan speaking, would do the exact opposite and refuse coffee entirely, or worse yet, stand on their heads and try pouring it into their asses.

  Don’t laugh. It’s not the content, but the form of thought that counts. It’s not what a miniaturist paints, but his style. Yet these things should be subtle. I was going to conclude with a love story, but it’s gotten quite late. The honey-tongued master storyteller who’s given me voice tonight promises to tell this story of love when he hangs up the picture of a woman the day after tomorrow, on Wednesday night.

  FOURTY-NINE

  I, SHEKURE

  I dreamed that my father was telling me incomprehensible things, and it was so terrifying that I woke up. Shevket and Orhan were clinging tightly to me on either side, and their warmth made me sweat. Shevket had his hand on my stomach. Orhan was resting his sweaty head on my bosom. Somehow, I was able to get out of bed and leave the room without waking them.

  I crossed the wide hallway and silently opened Black’s door. In the light cast by my candle, I couldn’t see him, only the edge of his white mattress which lay like a shrouded body in the middle of the dark, cold room. The candlelight seemed unable to reach the mattress.

  When I brought my hand even closer, the reddish-orange light of the candle struck Black’s weary, unshaven face and naked shoulders. I drew near to him. Just as Orhan did, he slept curled up like a pill bug, and he wore the expression of a sleeping maiden.

  “This is my husband,” I said to myself. He seemed so distant, so much a stranger, that I was filled with sorrow. If I’d had a dagger with me, I would’ve murdered him — no, I didn’t actually want to do such a thing; I was only wondering, the way children do, how it’d be if I killed him. I didn’t believe he’d lived for years through thoughts of me, neither in his innocent childlike expression.

  Prodding his shoulder with the edge of my bare foot, I woke him. When he saw me, he was startled more than enchanted and excited, if only for a moment, just as I’d hoped. Before he’d completely come to his senses, I said:

  “I dreamed I saw my father. He confided something horrible to me: You were the one who killed him…”

  “Weren’t we together when your father was murdered?”

  “I’m aware of this,” I said. “But you knew that my father would be at home all alone.”

  “I did not. You were the one who sent the children out with Hayriye. Only Hayriye, and perhaps Esther, knew about it. And as for whoever else might’ve known, you’d have a better idea than I.”

  “There are times I feel an inner voice is about to tell me why everything has gone so badly, the secret of all of our misfortune. I open my mouth so that voice might speak, but as in a dream, I make no sound. You’re no longer the good and naive Black of my childhood.”

  “That naive Black was driven away by you and your father.”

  “If you’ve married me to take revenge on my father, you’ve accomplished your goal. Maybe this is why the children don’t like you.”

  “I know,” he said without sorrow. “Before going to bed you were downstairs for a while. They were chanting “Black, Black, my ass’s crack,” loud enough so I could hear.”

  “You should’ve given them a beating,” I said, at first half-wishing he’d done so. Then I added in a panic, “If you raise a hand against them, I’ll kill you.”

  “Get into bed,” he said. “Or you’ll freeze to death.”

  “Maybe I’ll never get into your bed. Maybe we’ve made a mistake by getting married. They say our ceremony has no legitimacy before the law. Do you know I heard Hasan’s footsteps
before I fell asleep? It’s not surprising, when I was living in the house of my late husband, I heard Hasan’s footsteps for years. The children like him. And he’s merciless, that one. He has a red sword, take care to guard yourself against it.”

  I saw something so weary and so stern in Black’s eyes that I knew I wouldn’t be able to scare him.

  “Of the two of us, you’re the one with more hope and the one with more sadness,” I said. “I’m just struggling not to be unhappy and to protect my children, whereas you’re stubbornly trying to prove yourself. It’s not because you love me.”

  He went on at length about how much he loved me, how he always thought only of me in desolate caravansaries, on barren mountains and during snowy nights. If he hadn’t said these things, I would’ve awakened the children and returned to my former husband’s house. Because I had the urge, I said the following:

  “Sometimes it seems that my former husband might return at any time. It’s not that I fear being caught in the middle of the night with you or being caught by the children, I’m afraid that as soon as we embrace he’ll come knocking on the door.”