My Name is Red

by Orhan Pamuk

  As he spoke, Master Osman looked now at the book and now at us, as if he could see only those things he conjured in his mind’s eye.

  “Besides horses with clipped noses and Chinese painting, the devils in this book are another thing brought with the Mongol hordes to Persia and thence all the way here to Istanbul. You’ve probably heard how these demons are ambassadors of evil dispatched by dark forces from deep beneath the ground to snatch away human lives and whatever we deem valuable and how they’re bent on carrying us off to their underworld of blackness and death. In this underground realm everything, whether cloud, tree, object, dog or book, has a soul and speaks.”

  “Quite so,” said the elderly dwarf. “As Allah is my witness, some nights when I’m locked in here, not only the spirits of the clocks, the Chinese plates and the crystal bowls that chime constantly anyway, but the spirits of all the rifles, swords, shields and bloody helmets grow restless and begin to converse in such a ruckus that the Treasury becomes the swarming field of an apocalyptic battle.”

  “The Kalenderi dervishes, whose pictures we’ve seen, brought this belief from Khorasan to Persia, and later all the way to Istanbul,” said Master Osman. “As Sultan Selim the Grim was plundering the Seven Heavens Palace after defeating Shah Ismail, Bediüzzaman Mirza — a descendant of Tamerlane — betrayed Shah Ismail and together with the Kalenderis that constituted his followers, joined the Ottomans. In the train of the Denizen of Paradise, Sultan Selim, as he returned through winter cold and snow to Istanbul, were two wives of Shah Ismail, whom he’d routed at Chaldiran. They were lovely women with white skin and slanting almond eyes, and with them came all the books preserved in the Seven Heavens Palace library, books left by the former masters of Tabriz, the Mongols, the Inkhanids, the Jelayirids and the Blacksheep, and taken as plunder by the defeated shah from the Uzbeks, the Persians and the Timurids. I shall stare at these books until Our Sultan and the Head Treasurer remove me from here.”

  Yet by now his eyes showed the same lack of direction that one sees in the blind. He held his mother-of-pearl-handled magnifying glass more out of habit than to see. We fell silent. Master Osman requested that the dwarf, who listened to his entire account as though to some bitter tale, once again locate and bring him a volume whose binding he described in detail. Once the dwarf had gone away, I naively asked my master:

  “So then, who’s responsible for the horse illustration in my Enishte’s book?”

  “Both the horses in question have clipped nostrils,” he said, “regardless of whether it was done in Samarkand or, as I said, in Transoxiana, the one you’ve found in this album is rendered in the Chinese style. As for the beautiful horse of Enishte’s book, that was made in the Persian style like the wondrous horses drawn by the masters of Herat. Indeed, it is an elegant illustration whose equal would be difficult to find anywhere! It’s a horse of artistry, not a Mongol horse.”

  “But its nostrils are cut open like a genuine Mongol horse,” I whispered.

  “It’s apparent that two hundred years ago when the Mongols retreated and the reign of Tamerlane and his descendants began, one of the old masters in Herat drew an exquisite horse whose nostrils were indeed cut open — influenced either by a Mongol horse that he’d seen or by another miniaturist who’d made a Mongol horse with clipped nostrils. No one knows for certain on which page in which book and for which shah it was made. But I’m sure that the book and picture were greatly admired and praised — who knows, maybe by the sultan’s favorite in the harem — and that they were legendary for a time! I’m also convinced that for this very reason all the mediocre miniaturists, muttering enviously to themselves, imitated this horse and multiplied its image. In this fashion, the wonderful horse with its nostrils gradually became a model of form ingrained in the minds of the artists in that workshop. Years later, after their rulers were defeated in battle, these painters, like somber women headed to other harems, found new shahs and princes to work for in new countries, and carried with them, stowed in their memories, the image of horses whose nostrils were elegantly cut open. Perhaps under the influence of different styles and different masters in different workshops, many of the artists never made use of and eventually forgot this unusual image which nonetheless remained preserved in a corner of their minds. Others, however, in the new workshops they joined, not only drew elegant clipped-nosed horses, they also taught their pretty apprentices to do the same with the encouragement that “this is how the old masters used to do it.” So then, in this manner, even after the Mongols and their hardy horses retreated from the lands of the Persians and Arabs, even centuries after new lives had begun in ravaged and burned cities, some painters continued drawing horses this way, believing it was a standard form. I’m also sure that others still, completely unaware of the conquering Mongol cavalry and the clipped noses of their steeds, draw horses the way we do in our workshop, insisting that this too is “a standard form.” “

  “My dear master,” I said, overwhelmed with awe, “as we hoped, your “courtesan method” truly did produce an answer. It seems that each artist also bears his own hidden signature.”

  “Not each artist, but each workshop,” he said with pride. “And not even each workshop. In certain miserable workshops, as in certain miserable families, everyone speaks in a different voice for years without acknowledging that happiness is born of harmony, and that as a matter of course, harmony becomes happiness. Some painters try to illustrate like the Chinese, some like the Turkmen and some like they do in Shiraz, fighting for years on end, never attaining a happy union — like a discontented husband and wife.”

  I saw that pride quite definitely ruled his face; the cross expression of a man who wanted to be all powerful had now replaced the look of the morose, pitiable old man that I’d seen him wear for so long.

  “My dear master,” I said, “over a period of twenty years here in Istanbul, you’ve united various artists from the four corners of the world, men of all natures and temperaments, in such harmony that you’ve ended up creating and defining the Ottoman style.”

  Why did the awe that I’d felt wholeheartedly only a short time ago give way to hypocrisy as I voiced my feelings? For our praise of a man, whose talent and mastery genuinely astounds us, to be sincere, must he lose most of his authority and influence and become slightly pathetic?

  “Now then, where’s that dwarf hiding?” he said.

  He said this the way powerful men who are pleased by flattery and praise but recollect vaguely that they ought not be would — as though he wished to change the subject.

  “Despite being a great master of Persian legends and styles, you’ve created a distinct world of illustration worthy of Ottoman glory and strength,” I whispered. “You’re the one who brought to art the power of the Ottoman sword, the optimistic colors of Ottoman victory, the interest in and attention to objects and implements, and the freedom of a comfortable lifestyle. My dear master, it’s been the greatest honor of my life to look at these masterpieces by the old legendary masters with you…”

  For a long time I whispered on in this manner. Within the icy darkness and cluttered disarray of the Treasury, which resembled a recently abandoned battlefield, our bodies were so close that my whispering became an expression of intimacy.

  Later, as with certain blind men who can’t control their facial expressions, Master Osman’s eyes assumed the look of an old man lost in pleasure. I praised the old master at length, now with heartfelt emotion, now shuddering with the inner revulsion I felt toward the blind.

  He held my hand with his cold fingers, caressed my forearm and touched my face. His strength and age seemed to pass through his fingers into me. I, again, thought of Shekure who awaited me at home.

  Standing still that way for a time, pages opened before us, it was as if my lavish praise and his self-admiration and self-pity had so fatigued us that we were resting. We’d become embarrassed of each other.

  “Where’s that dwarf gone to?” he asked again.


  I was certain that the wily dwarf was hiding in some niche watching us. As if I were searching him out, I turned my shoulders right and left, but kept my eyes trained attentively on Master Osman. Was he truly blind or was he trying to convince the world, including himself, that he was blind? I’d heard that some untalented and incompetent old masters from Shiraz feigned blindness in their old age to curry respect and to prevent others from mentioning their failures.

  “I would like to die here,” he said.

  “My great master, my dear sir,” I fawned, “in this age when value is placed not on painting but on the money one can earn from it, not on the old masters but on imitators of the Franks, I so well understand what you’re saying that it brings tears to my eyes. Yet it is also your duty to protect your master illustrators from their enemies. Please tell me, what conclusions have you drawn from the “courtesan method?” Who is the miniaturist who painted that horse?”

  “Olive.”

  He’d said this with such ease that I had no chance to be surprised.

  He fell silent.

  “But I’m also certain that Olive wasn’t the one who murdered your Enishte or unfortunate Elegant Effendi,” he said calmly. “I believe that Olive drew the horse because he’s the one who’s most bound to the old masters, who knows most intimately the legends and styles of Herat and whose master-apprentice genealogy stretches back to Samarkand. Now I know you won’t ask me, “Why haven’t we encountered these nostrils in the other horses that Olive drew over the years?” since I’ve already mentioned how at times a detail — the wing of a bird, the way a leaf is attached to a tree — can be preserved in memory for generations, passing from master to apprentice, and yet might not manifest on the page due to the influence of a moody or rigid master or on account of the particular tastes and whims of a particular workshop or sultan. So then, this is the horse that dear Olive, in his childhood, learned directly from the Persian masters without ever being able to forget it. The fact that the horse suddenly appeared for the sake of Enishte’s book is a cruel trick of Allah’s. Hadn’t all of us taken the old masters of Herat as our models? Just like the Turkmen illustrators for whom the face of a beautiful woman meant one with Chinese features, didn’t we think exclusively of the masterpieces of Herat when we thought of well-executed pictures? We are all their devoted admirers. Nourishing all great art is the Herat of Bihzad, and supporting this Herat are the Mongol horsemen and the Chinese. Why should Olive, thoroughly bound to the legends of Herat, murder poor Elegant Effendi, who was even more bound — even blindly devoted — to the same old methods?”

  “Who then?” I said. “Butterfly?”

  “Stork!” he said. “This is what I know in my heart of hearts, for I am well acquainted with his greed and fury. Listen, in all probability while gilding for your Enishte, who foolishly and clumsily imitated Frankish methods, poor Elegant Effendi came to believe that this venture might somehow be dangerous. Since he was enough of a dolt to listen earnestly to the drivel of that foolish preacher from Erzurum — unfortunately, masters of gilding, though closer to God than painters, are also boring and stupid — and moreover, because he knew your silly Enishte’s book was an important project of the Sultan, his fears and doubts clashed: Should he believe in his Sultan or in the preacher from Erzurum? Any other time this unfortunate child, whom I knew like the back of my hand, would’ve come to me about a dilemma that was eating away at him. But even he, with his bird brain, knew very well that the act of gilding for your Enishte, that mimic of the Franks, amounted to a betrayal of me and our guild; and so he sought another confidant. He confided in the wily and ambitious Stork and made the mistake of letting himself be awed by the intellect and morality of a man whose talent impressed him. I’ve seen plenty of times how Stork manipulated Elegant Effendi by taking advantage of the poor gilder’s admiration. Whatever argument took place between them, it resulted in Elegant Effendi’s murder at Stork’s hands. And since the deceased long ago confided his worries to the Erzurumis, they, in a fit of vengeance and to demonstrate their power, went on to kill your Frankophile Enishte, whom they held responsible for the death of their companion. I can’t say that I’m all that sorry about the whole matter. Years ago, your Enishte duped Our Sultan into having a Venetian painter — his name was Sebastiano — make a portrait of His Excellency in the Frankish style as if He were an infidel king. Not satisfied with that, in a disgraceful affront to my dignity, he had this shameful work given to me as a model to be copied; and out of dire fear of Our Sultan, I dishonorably copied that picture which was made using infidel methods. Had I not been forced to do that, perhaps I could grieve for your Enishte, and today help find the scoundrel who killed him. But my concern is not for your Enishte, it’s for my workshop. Your Enishte is responsible for the way my master miniaturists — whom I love more than if they were my own children, whom I trained with doting attention for twenty-five years — betrayed me and our entire artistic tradition; he’s to blame for their enthusiastic imitation of European masters with the justification that “it is the will of Our Sultan.” Each of those disgraceful masters deserves nothing but torture! If we, the society of miniaturists, learn to serve foremost our own talent and art instead of Our Sultan who provides us with work, we shall have earned entry through the Gates of Heaven. Now then, I’d like to study this book alone.”

  Master Osman uttered this last statement like the last wish of a disconsolate weary pasha who was responsible for military defeat and condemned to beheading. He opened the book Jezmi Agha placed before him and in a scolding voice ordered the dwarf to turn to the pages he wanted. With this accusatory tone, he instantly became the Head Illuminator with whom the entire workshop was familiar.

  I withdrew into a corner among cushions embroidered with pearls, rusty-barreled rifles with jewel-studded butts and cabinets, and began eyeing Master Osman. The doubt gnawing away at me spread throughout my entire being: If he wished to stop the creation of Our Sultan’s book, it made perfect sense that Master Osman might’ve orchestrated the murders of poor Elegant Effendi and, afterward, of my Enishte — I reprimanded myself for just now feeling such awe toward him. On the other hand, I couldn’t restrain myself from feeling profound respect for this great master who now gave himself over to the picture before him and, blind or half blind, was peering at it closely as if looking with the countless wrinkles of his old face. It dawned on me that to preserve the old style and the regimen of the miniaturists’ workshop, to rid himself of Enishte’s book and to become again the Sultan’s only favorite, he would gladly surrender any one of his master miniaturists, and me as well, to the torturers of the Commander of the Imperial Guard. I furiously began to think of freeing myself from the love that bound me to him over the last two days.

  Much later, I was still completely confused. I stared randomly at the illuminated pages of the volumes I extracted from chests solely to appease the demons that had risen within me and to distract my jinns of indecision.

  How many men and women had fingers in their mouths! This was used as a gesture of surprise in all the workshops from Samarkand to Baghdad over the last two hundred years. As the hero Keyhüsrev, cornered by his enemies, safely crossed the rushing Oxus River aided by his black charger and Allah, the wretched raftsman and his oarsman, who refused to offer him safe passage on their raft each had a finger in his mouth. An astonished Hüsrev’s finger remained in his mouth as he saw for the first time the beauty of Shirin, whose skin was like moonlight as she bathed in the once glimmering lake whose silver leaf had tarnished. I spent even more time carefully examining the gorgeous women of the harem who, with fingers in their mouths, stood behind half-opened palace doors, at the inaccessible windows of castle towers and peered from behind curtains. As Tejav, defeated by the armies of Persia to lose his crown, was fleeing the battlefield, Espinuy, a beauty of beauties and his harem favorite, watched with sorrow and shock from a palace window, finger in mouth, begging him with her eyes not to abandon her to the enemy. As Joseph
, arrested under Züleyha’s false accusation that he raped her, was being taken to his cell, she stared from her window, a finger in her beautiful mouth in a show of devilishness and lust rather than bewilderment. As happy yet somber lovers who emerged as if from a love poem were carried away by the force of passion and wine in a garden reminiscent of Paradise, a malicious lady servant spied on them with an envious finger in her red mouth.

  Despite its being a standard image recorded in the notebooks and memories of all miniaturists, the long finger sliding into a beautiful woman’s mouth had a different elegance each time.

  How much did these illustrations comfort me? As dusk fell, I went to Master Osman and said the following:

  “My dear master, when the portal is opened once again, with your permission, I shall quit the Treasury.”

  “How do you mean!” he said. “We still have one night and one morning. How quickly your eyes have had their fill of the greatest illustrations the world has ever known!”

  As he said this, he hadn’t turned his face away from the page before him, yet the paleness in his pupils confirmed he was indeed gradually going blind.