by Orhan Pamuk
His eyes were deep blue—almost midnight blue—a color you never saw in a Turk. He was brown-haired and beardless, much younger than Ka had expected; he had an aquiline nose and breathtakingly pale skin. He was extraordinarily handsome, but his gracefulness was born of self-confidence. In his manner, expression, and appearance there was nothing of the truculent, bearded, provincial fundamentalist whom the secularist press had depicted with a gun in one hand and a string of prayer beads in the other.
“Please don’t take off your coat until the room has warmed up.… It’s a beautiful coat. Where did you buy it?”
“In Frankfurt.”
“Frankfurt … Frankfurt,” Blue murmured, and he lifted his eyes to the ceiling and lost himself in thought. Then he explained that “some time ago” he had been found guilty under Article 163 of promoting the establishment of a state based on religious principles and had for this reason escaped to Germany.
There was a silence. Ka knew he should take this opportunity to establish cordial terms between them, so when his mind went blank, he began to panic. He sensed that Blue was talking to calm himself.
“When I was in Germany, at whatever Muslim association I happened to be visiting, in whatever city—it could be Frankfurt or Cologne, somewhere between the cathedral and the station, or one of the wealthy neighborhoods of Hamburg—wherever I happened to be walking, there was always one German who stood out of the crowd as an object of fascination for me. The important thing was not what I thought of him but what I thought he might be thinking about me; I’d try to see myself through his eyes and imagine what he might be thinking about my appearance, my clothes, the way I moved, my history, where I had just been and where I was going, who I was. It made me feel terrible but it became a habit; I became used to feeling degraded, and I came to understand how my brothers felt.… Most of the time it’s not the Europeans who belittle us. What happens when we look at them is that we belittle ourselves. When we undertake the pilgrimage, it’s not just to escape the tyranny at home but also to reach to the depths of our souls. The day arrives when the guilty must return to save those who could not find the courage to leave. Why did you come back?”
Ka remained silent. The threadbare room, with its unpainted walls and its flaking plaster, did not invite confidences, nor did the naked bulb that hung from the ceiling, piercing his eyes.
“I don’t want to bore you with questions,” said Blue. “When the dear departed Mullah Kasιm Ensari received visitors at his tribal encampment on the banks of the Tigris River, this was always the first thing he’d say: ‘I’m very glad to meet you, sir, and now would you tell me who you’re spying for?’ ”
“I’m spying for the Republican,” said Ka.
“That much I know. But I still have to ask why they’re so interested in Kars as to have taken the trouble to send someone all the way out here.”
“I volunteered. I’d also heard that my old friend Muhtar and his wife were living here.”
“But they’ve separated—hadn’t you heard?” Blue corrected him, looking straight into Ka’s eyes.
“I had heard,” said Ka. He blushed. Thinking of everything that Blue had to be noticing right then, Ka hated him.
“Did they beat Muhtar at the police station?”
“Yes, they did.”
“Did he deserve to be beaten?” Blue asked, in a strange, almost insinuating voice.
“No, of course he didn’t,” Ka replied angrily.
“And why didn’t they beat you? Are you pleased with yourself?”
“I have no idea why they didn’t beat me.”
“Of course you know why: You belong to the Istanbul bourgeoisie. Anyone can tell, just by looking at your skin and the way you hold yourself. He must have friends in high places—that’s what they said to one another, there’s no doubt about it. As for Muhtar, one look and you know he has no connections, no importance whatsoever. In fact, the reason Muhtar went into politics in the first place was to be able to stand up to those people the way you can. But even if he wins the election, to take office he still has to prove that he’s the sort of person who can take a beating from the state. That’s why he was probably glad to be getting one.”
Blue was not smiling at all; his expression was even sad.
“No one can be happy about a beating,” Ka said, feeling himself to be ordinary and superficial next to Blue.
Blue’s face said, Let’s move on to the subject we’re really here to talk about. “You’ve been meeting with the families of the girls who committed suicide,” he said. “Why did you want to talk to them?”
“To research an article.”
“For newspapers in the West?”
“Yes, for newspapers in the West,” said Ka, with a certain pride, despite his having no contacts in the German press. “And also in Turkey, for the Republican,” he added with embarrassment.
“The Turkish press is interested in its country’s troubles only if the Western press takes an interest first,” said Blue. “Otherwise it’s offensive to discuss poverty and suicide; they talk about these things as if they happen in a land beyond the civilized world. Which means that you too will be forced to publish your article in Europe. This is why I wanted to meet you: You are not to write about the suicide girls, either for a Turkish paper or a European one! Suicide is a terrible sin. It’s an illness that grows the more attention you pay it, particularly this most recent case. If you write that she was a Muslim girl making a political statement about head scarves, it will be more lethal for you than poison.”
“But it’s true,” said Ka. “Before she committed suicide, this girl did her ritual ablutions and then said her prayers. I understand the head-scarf girls have a lot of respect for her because she did that.”
“Girls who commit suicide are not even Muslims!” said Blue. “And it’s wrong to say they’re taking a stand over head scarves. If you publish lies like this, you’ll only spread more rumors—about quarrels among the head-scarf girls, about the poor souls who have resorted to wearing wigs, about how they’ve been destroyed by the pressure put on them by the police and their mothers and fathers. Is this what you came here for, to encourage more poor girls to commit suicide? These girls who for the love of God find themselves caught between their schools and their families are so miserable and so alone that they see no course but to imitate the suicidal martyr.”
“The deputy governor said that the Kars suicides have been exaggerated.”
“Why did you meet with the deputy governor?”
“For the same reason I went to see the police: so that they wouldn’t feel obliged to follow me around all day.”
“When they heard the news that the covered girls thrown out of school were committing suicide, they were very pleased!” said Blue.
“I will write things as I see them,” said Ka.
“Your insinuation is directed not just against the state and the deputy governor, it’s directed at me too. When you imply that neither the secular governor nor the political Islamists want anything written about the suicide girls, I know you’re trying to provoke me.”
“Yes, I am.”
“That girl didn’t kill herself because they threw her out of school, she killed herself over a love affair. But if you write that a covered girl killed herself—sinned against God—on account of a broken heart, the boys at the religious high school will be furious. Kars is a small place.”
“I was hoping to discuss all this with the girls themselves.”
“Fine,” said Blue. “Why don’t you ask these girls whether they’d like you to write in the German press about their sisters who, having stood up for the right to cover their heads, were so devastated by the repercussions that they departed this world in a state of sin.”
“I’d be more than happy to ask them!” Ka said stubbornly, even as he was beginning to feel afraid.
“I had another reason for having you come here,” said Blue. “You just witnessed the assassination of the director o
f the Institute of Education. This was a direct result of the anger of our believers over the cruelty that the state has visited on our covered girls. But of course the whole thing is a state plot. First they used this poor director to enforce their cruel measures, and then they incited some madman to kill him so as to pin the blame on the Muslims.”
“Are you claiming responsibility or are you condemning the incident?” Ka asked sharply, as if he really were a journalist.
“I haven’t come to Kars for political reasons,” said Blue. “I came, perhaps, to stop this suicide epidemic.” Suddenly he put his hands on Ka’s shoulders, pulled him close, and kissed him on both cheeks. “You are a modern-day dervish. You’ve withdrawn from the world to devote yourself to poetry. You would never want to be the pawn of those who would denigrate innocent Muslims. Just as I’ve decided to trust you, you’ve decided to trust me—and you came through all this snow that we might meet. Now, to show my thanks, I would like to tell you a story with a moral.” Again he looked Ka straight in the eye. “Shall I tell you the story?”
“Tell me the story.”
“Long, long ago, there was a tireless warrior of unequaled bravery who lived in Iran. Everyone who knew him loved him. They called him Rüstem, and so shall we. One day, while hunting, he lost his way, and then, as he slept encamped that same night, he lost his horse. While he was looking for Raksh, his horse, Rüstem wandered into Turan, which was an enemy land. But because his reputation preceded him, they treated him well. The shah of Turan welcomed him as a guest and arranged a feast in his honor. And after the feast, the shah’s daughter paid Rüstem a visit in his room to proclaim her love for him. She told him that she wished to have his child. She seduced him with her beauty and her fine words, and before long they were making love.
“The following morning, Rüstem returned to his own country, but he left a token—a wristband—for his future child. When the child was born, they called him Suhrab, so let’s call him that too. Years later, his mother told him that his father was none other than the legendary Rüstem. ‘I’m going to Iran,’ the boy said, ‘to depose the wicked Shah Keykavus and install my father as his successor … and then I’ll return to Turan and do exactly the same thing to the wicked Shah Efrasiyab, and when I’ve done that, I’ll install myself as his successor. And then my father Rüstem and I will bring just rule to Iran and Turan—in other words, to the entire universe!’
“So said the pure and good-hearted Suhrab, little knowing that his enemies were far more cunning and sly than he. For while Efrasiyab, the shah of Turan, lent his support to the war with Iran, he also placed spies in the army to make sure Suhrab wouldn’t recognize his father.
“After many tricks and ruses, and cruel twists of fate and coincidence, engineered for all he knew by the Sublime Almighty, the day arrived when Suhrab and his father Rüstem came face-to-face on the battlefield, each with his army behind him. Neither could have known the other’s face, but no matter: Both were in armor, and needless to say they did not recognize each other. Rüstem would of course have wanted to remain anonymous inside his armor: otherwise this hero facing him might unleash the full fury of his force against Rüstem in particular. As for Suhrab, his childish heart allowed him only one vision, that of his father on the throne of Iran, so he never stopped even to wonder who his adversary might be. And so it came to pass that these two great and good-hearted warriors who were father and son, standing before their respective watchful armies, jumped forward and drew their swords.”
Blue paused. Before looking into Ka’s eyes, he added in a childish voice, “Although I’ve read this story hundreds of times, I always shudder when I get to this part, and my heart starts pounding. I don’t know why, but for some reason I identify with Suhrab as he prepares to kill his father. Who would want to kill his father? What soul could bear the pain of that crime, the weight of that sin? Especially my own Suhrab with his innocent heart! The only hope at this point is that Suhrab will kill his foe without discerning his identity.
“As these thoughts pass through my mind, the two warriors begin to fight, and in a struggle that goes on for hours neither is able to defeat the other. Soaked and exhausted, they scabbard their swords. When we come to the evening of the first day, I’m as troubled for the father as I am for Suhrab, and when I continue the story, it’s as if I’m reading it for the first time; I dare to dream that father and son will be unable to kill each other and find some way out of their predicament.
“On the second day, the two armies line up once more, and once again father and son face each other in their armor and engage each other in merciless combat. After a long struggle, luck smiles on Suhrab—but can we even call this luck?—and he throws Rüstem off his horse and pins him to the ground. He takes out his dagger and as he prepares to bring it down on his father’s neck, they say this to him: ‘In Iran it is not the tradition for enemy heroes to take away a head on the first occasion. Don’t kill him; that would be too crude.’ So Suhrab does not kill his father.
“When I read this part I get very confused. I’m full of love for Suhrab. What is the meaning of this fate God has arranged for this father and his son? As for the third day of the fight, a day I have awaited with such trepidation—against all my expectations, it’s over in a moment. Rüstem knocks Suhrab off his horse and, leaping forward, plunges his sword into him and kills him. The speed of the event is horrifying, shocking. When he sees the wristband and realizes that he has killed his son, Rüstem kneels down, takes his son’s bloody corpse onto his lap, and cries.
“At this point in the story I always cry too, not just because I share Rüstem’s grief but because I now understand the meaning of Suhrab’s death. It is Suhrab’s love for his father that kills him. But now I move beyond the childish and good-hearted love Suhrab felt for his beloved father; what I feel most acutely now is the deeper and far more dignified anguish of the father as he struggles to honor both his son and the codes that bind him. My sympathies, which have been throughout with the rebellious and individualistic Suhrab, pass over to Rüstem, the strong responsible father who is his own man.”
Blue paused for a moment. Ka felt very jealous of his ability to tell this story—or, indeed, any story—with such conviction.
“But I didn’t tell you this beautiful story to show you what it means to me or how I relate it to my life; I told it to point out that it’s forgotten,” said Blue. “This thousand-year-old story comes from Firdevsi’s Shehname. Once upon a time, millions of people knew it by heart—from Tabriz to Istanbul, from Bosnia to Trabzon—and when they recalled it they found the meaning in their lives. The story spoke to them in just the same way that Oedipus’ murder of his father and Macbeth’s obsession with power and death speak to people throughout the Western world. But now, because we’ve fallen under the spell of the West, we’ve forgotten our own stories. They’ve removed all the old stories from our children’s textbooks. These days, you can’t find a single bookseller who stocks the Shehname in all of Istanbul! How do you explain this?”
Both men fell silent.
“Let me guess what you’re thinking,” said Blue. “Is this story so beautiful that a man could kill for it? That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” said Ka.
“Then think about it,” said Blue, and he left the room.
CHAPTER NINE
Are You an Atheist?
A NONBELIEVER WHO DOES
NOT WANT TO KILL HIMSELF
When Blue left the room, Ka was not sure what to do. At first he thought Blue was coming back to quiz him on his “thoughts.” But it soon dawned on him that he had misread this man. In his posturing, insinuating way, Blue was giving him a message. Or was it a threat?
In either case, it wasn’t danger Ka sensed but rather the fact of not belonging here. The room in which he had seen the mother and the baby was now empty; so, too, was the entryway. As he closed the front door behind him, it was all he could do not to run down the stai
rs.
When he looked up at the sky, Ka’s first thought was that the snowflakes had stopped moving; as he watched them hover in midair, it seemed as if time itself had stopped. It also seemed that a great deal had changed and a great deal of time had passed while he’d been inside. But Ka’s meeting with Blue had lasted only twenty minutes.
He made his way along the train track, past the snow-covered silo that loomed overhead like a great white cloud, and was soon back inside the station. As he passed through the empty, dirty building, he saw a dog approaching, wagging its curly tail in a friendly way. It was a black dog with a round white patch on its forehead. As he looked across the filthy waiting hall, Ka saw three teenage boys, who were beckoning the dog with sesame rolls. One of them was Necip; he broke away from his friends and ran toward Ka.
“On no account are you to let my classmates know how I knew you’d be coming through here,” he said. “My best friend, Fazιl, has a very important question to ask you. If you can give him a moment of your time, he’ll be very happy.”
“All right,” said Ka, and he walked over to the bench where the other teenagers were sitting.
One poster on the wall behind them urgently reminded travelers how important the railroads were to Atatürk; another sought to strike fear in the heart of any girl contemplating suicide. The boys rose to their feet to shake Ka’s hand, but then shyness overtook them.
“Before Fazιl asks his question, Mesut would like to tell you a story he’s heard,” said Necip.
“No, I can’t tell it myself,” said Mesut, hardly containing his excitement. “Please—could you tell the story for me?”
While Necip told the story, Ka watched the black dog frolicking about the dirty half-lit station.
