My Name is Red

by Orhan Pamuk

  After the prayers, while the congregation shouldered the coffin, I was still among all the miniaturists and calligraphers. Stork and I had forgotten that on some nights, when we sat in the dim light of oil lamps working until morning on my book, he’d tried to convince me of the inferiority of Elegant Effendi’s gilding work and of the lack of balance in his use of colors — he colored everything navy blue so it would look richer! We’d both forgotten that I’d actually given him credence, by allowing “But no one else is qualified to do this work,” and we embraced each other anyway, sobbing once more. Later, Olive gave me a friendly and respectful look before hugging me — a man who knows how to embrace is a good man — and these gestures so pleased me that I was reminded how of all the workshop artists, he was the one who most believed in my book.

  On the stairs of the courtyard gate I found myself beside Head Illuminator Master Osman. We were both at a loss for words, a strange and tense moment. One of the deceased’s brothers began to cry and sob, and someone pompously shouted, “God is great.”

  “To which cemetery?” Master Osman asked me for the sake of asking something.

  To respond “I don’t know” seemed hostile for some reason. Flustered, and without thinking, I asked the same question of the man standing next to me on the stairs, “To which cemetery? The one by the Edirne Gate?”

  “Eyüp,” said an ill-tempered, bearded and young dolt.

  “Eyüp,” I said turning to the master, but he’d heard what the ill-tempered dolt had said anyway. Then, he looked at me as if to say, “I understand” in a way that let me know he didn’t want our encounter to last a moment longer than it already had.

  Without mentioning my influence on Our Sultan’s growing interest in Frankish styles of painting, Master Osman was of course annoyed that Our Sultan had ordered me to oversee the writing out, embellishment and illustration of the illuminated manuscript, which I’ve described as “secret.” On one occasion, the Sultan forced the great Master Osman to copy a portrait of His Highness, which had been commissioned from a Venetian. I know Master Osman holds me responsible for having to imitate that painter, for having to make that strange painting, which he did with disgust, referring to the experience as “torture.” His wrath was justified.

  Standing in the middle of the staircase for a while, I looked at the sky. When I was convinced that I’d been left quite behind, I continued down the icy stairs. I’d barely descended — ever so slowly — two steps when a man took me by the arm and embraced me: Black.

  “The air is freezing,” he said. “You must be cold.”

  I hadn’t the slightest doubt that this was the one who’d muddled Shekure’s mind. The self-confidence with which he took my arm was proof enough. There was something in his demeanor that announced, “I’ve worked for twelve years and have truly grown up.” When we came to the bottom of the stairs, I told him that I’d expect an account later of what he’d learned at the workshop.

  “You go ahead, my child,” I said. “Go ahead and catch up to the congregation.”

  He was taken aback, but didn’t let on. The way he let go of my arm with reservation and walked ahead of me pleased me, even. If I gave Shekure to him, would he agree to live in the same house with us?

  We’d left the city through the Edirne Gate. I saw the coffin on the verge of disappearing into the fog along with the crowd of illustrators, calligraphers and apprentices shouldering it as they quickly descended the hill toward the Golden Horn. They were walking so fast, they’d already traveled half of the muddy road that led down the snow-covered valley to Eyüp. In the silent fog, off to the left, the chimney of the Hanim Sultan Charity candleworks shop happily piped up its smoke. Under the shadow of the walls, there were tanneries and the bustling slaughterhouses that served the Greek butchers of Eyüp. The smell of offal coming from these places had wafted over the valley, which extended to the vaguely discernible domes of the Eyüp Mosque and its cypress-lined cemetery. After walking for a while longer, I heard from below the shouts of children at play coming from the new Jewish quarter in Balat.

  When we reached the plain where Eyüp was located, Butterfly approached me, and in his usual fiery manner, abruptly broached his subject:

  “Olive and Stork are the ones behind this vulgarity,” he said. “Like everyone else, they knew I had a bad relationship with the deceased. They knew everyone was aware of this. There was jealousy between us, even open animosity and antagonism, over who would assume leadership of the workshop after Master Osman. Now they expect the guilt to fall on my shoulders, or at the least, that the Head Treasurer, and under his influence, Our Sultan, will distance themselves from me, nay, from us.”

  “Who is this ‘us’ of which you speak?”

  “Those of us who believe that the old morality ought to persist at the workshop, that we should follow the path laid by the Persian masters, that an artist shouldn’t illustrate just any scene for money alone. In place of weapons, armies, slaves and conquests, we believe that the old myths, legends and stories ought to be introduced anew into our books. We shouldn’t forgo the old models. Genuine miniaturists shouldn’t loiter at the shops in the bazaar and paint any old thing, depictions of indecency, for a few extra kurush from anybody who happens by. His Excellency Our Sultan would find us justified.”

  “You’re incriminating yourself senselessly,” I said so he might be done with his ranting. “I’m convinced that the atelier could not harbor anybody capable of committing such a crime. You’re all brethren. There’s no great harm in illustrating a few subjects that haven’t been depicted previously, at least no harm so great as to be an occasion for enmity.”

  As happened when I first heard the horrid news, I had an epiphany of sorts. Elegant Effendi’s murderer was one of the premier masters in the palace workshop and he was a member of the crowd before me, climbing the hill that led to the cemetery. I was also convinced that the murderer would continue with his devilry and sedition, that he was an enemy of the book I was making, and most probably, that he’d visited my house to pick up some work illustrating and painting. Had Butterfly, too, like most of the artists who frequented my house, fallen in love with Shekure? As he made his assertions, had he forgotten the times when I’d requested that he paint pictures that were contrary to his point of view, or was he just needling me with expert skill?

  Nay, I thought a little while later, he couldn’t be needling me. Butterfly, like the other master illustrators, obviously owed me a debt of gratitude: With money and gifts to miniaturists dwindling, due to the wars and lack of interest on the part of Our Sultan, the sole significant source of extra income had for some time been what they earned working for me. I knew they were jealous of one another over my attentions, and for this reason — but not only for this reason — I met with them individually at my house, hardly a basis for hostility toward me. All of my miniaturists were mature enough to behave intelligently, to sincerely find a reason to admire a man to whom they were obliged for their own profit.

  To relieve the silence and ensure that the previous topic of conversation wouldn’t be revisited, I said, “Oh, will His wonders never cease! They’re able to take the coffin up that hill as fast as they brought it down.”

  Butterfly smiled sweetly showing all his teeth: “Due to the cold.”

  Could this one actually kill a man, I wondered, for example, out of envy? Might he kill me? He had the following excuse: This man was debasing my religion. Nay, but he’s a great master, a perfect embodiment of talent, why should he resort to murder? Age means not only straining oneself climbing hills, but also, I gather, not being so afraid of death. It means a lack of desire, entering into a slave girl’s bedchamber, not in a fit of excitement, but out of custom. In a burst of intuition, I told him to his face the decision I’d made:

  “I’m not continuing with the book any longer.”

  “What?” said Butterfly as his expression changed.

  “There’s some kind of ill-fortune in it. Our Sultan has
cut off the funding. You’re to tell Olive and Stork, as well.”

  Perhaps he would have inquired further, but we found ourselves on the slopes of the graveyard amid tightly spaced towering cypresses, high ferns and tombstones. As the great crowd encircled the grave site, my only clue that the body was at that very moment being lowered into the grave was the increasing intensity of the weeping and sobbing and the exclamations of bismillahi and ala milleti Resulullah.

  “Uncover his face completely,” someone said.

  They were removing the white shroud, and they must’ve been eye to eye with the corpse if indeed there was an eye remaining in that smashed head. I was in the back and I couldn’t see anything. I’d once gazed into the eyes of Death, not at a grave site, in an entirely different place…

  A memory: Thirty years ago, Our Sultan’s grandfather, Denizen of Paradise, decided once and for all to take Cyprus from the Venetians. Sheikhulislam Ebussuut Effendi, recalling that this island was once designated a commissariat for Mecca and Medina, issued a fatwa which more or less stated that it was inappropriate for an island which had helped sustain holy sites to remain under Christian infidel control. In turn, the difficult task of informing the Venetians of this unforeseen decision, that they must surrender their island, fell to me. As a result, I was able to tour the cathedrals of Venice. Though I marveled at their bridges and palazzos, I was most enchanted by the pictures hanging in Venetian homes. Nevertheless, in the midst of this bewilderment, trusting in the hospitality displayed by the Venetians, I delivered the menacing correspondence, informing them in a haughty, supercilious fashion that Our Sultan desired Cyprus. The Venetians were so angry that in their congress, which had been hastily convened, it was decided that even to discuss such a letter was unacceptable. Furious mobs had forced me to confine myself to the Doge’s palazzo. And when some rogues managed to get past the guards and doorkeepers and had set to strangling me, two of the Doge’s personal musketeers succeeded in escorting me out one of the secret passageways to an exit that opened onto the canal. There, in a fog not unlike this one, I thought for an instant that the tall and pale gondolier dressed in white, who’d taken me by the arm, was none other than Death. I caught sight of my reflection in his eyes.

  Longingly, I dreamed of finishing my book in secret and returning to Venice. I approached the grave, which had been carefully covered with dirt: At this moment, angels are interrogating him above, asking him whether he is male or female, his religion and whom he recognizes as his prophet. The possibility of my own death came to mind.

  A crow alighted beside me. I gazed lovingly into Black’s eyes and asked him to take my arm and accompany me on the way back. I told him I expected him at the house early the next morning to continue working on the book. I had indeed imagined my own death, and realized, once again, that the book must be completed, whatever the cost.

  EIGHTEEN

  I WILL BE CALLED A MURDERER

  They threw cold, muddy earth onto the battered and disfigured corpse of ill-fated Elegant Effendi and I wept more than any of them. I shouted, “I want to die with him!” and “Let me share his grave!” and they held me by the waist so I wouldn’t fall in. I gasped for air and they pressed their palms to my forehead, drawing my head back so I might breathe. By the glances of the deceased’s relatives, I sensed I might have exaggerated my sobs and wailing; I pulled myself together. Based upon my excessive sorrow the workshop gossips might suppose that Elegant Effendi and I had been in love.

  I hid behind a plane tree until the funeral ended to avoid drawing more attention to myself. A relative of the oaf I’d sent to Hell — an even bigger idiot than the deceased — discovered me behind the tree and stared deep into my eyes with a look he assumed was meaningful. He held me in his embrace for a while, then the ignoramus said the following: “Were you ‘Saturday’ or ‘Wednesday’?”

  “‘Wednesday’ was the workshop name of the dearly departed for a time,” I said. He fell silent.

  The story behind these workshop names, which bound us to one another like a secret pact, was simple: During our apprenticeships, when Osman the miniaturist had newly graduated from assistant master to the level of master, we all shared a great respect, admiration and love for him. He was a virtuoso and he taught us everything, for God had blessed him with an enchanting artistic gift and the intellect of a jinn. Early each morning, as was demanded of apprentices, one of us would go to the master’s home, and following respectfully behind him on the way to the workshop, carry his pen and brush box, his bag and his portfolio full of papers. So desperate were we to be near him that we’d argue and fight among ourselves to determine who would go that day.

  Master Osman had a favorite. But if he were always to go, it would fan the flames of the never-ending gossip and tasteless jokes that inevitably filled the workshop, and so the great master decided that each of us would be assured a specified day of the week. The great master worked on Fridays and stayed at home Saturdays. His son, whom he loved dearly — who later betrayed him and us by quitting the trade — would accompany his father on Mondays like a common apprentice. There was also a tall thin brother of ours known as “Thursday,” a miniaturist more gifted than any of us, who passed away at a young age, succumbing to the fever brought on by a mysterious illness. Elegant Effendi, may he rest in peace, would go on Wednesdays, and was therefore known as “Wednesday.” Later, our great master meaningfully and lovingly changed our names from “Tuesday” to “Olive,” from “Friday” to “Stork,” and from “Sunday” to “Butterfly,” renaming the dearly departed as “Elegant” in allusion to the finesse of his gilding work. The great master must have said, “Welcome “Wednesday,” how are you this morning?” to the late Elegant just as he used to greet all of us back then.

  When I recalled how he would address me, I thought my eyes might fill with tears: Master Osman admired us, and his own eyes would tear when he beheld the beauty of our work; he’d kiss our hands and arms, and despite the beatings, we felt as if we were in Heaven as apprentices; and so our talent blossomed with his love. Even jealousy, which cast its shadow over those happy years, had a different hue then.

  Now I am completely divided, just like those figures whose head and hands are drawn and painted by one master while their bodies and clothes are depicted by another. When a God-fearing man like myself unexpectedly becomes a murderer, it takes time to adjust. I’ve adopted a second voice, one befitting a murderer, so that I might still carry on as though my old life continued. I am speaking now in this derisive and devious second voice, which I keep out of my regular life. From time to time, of course, you’ll hear my familiar, regular voice, which would’ve remained my only voice had I not become a murderer. But when I speak under my workshop name, I’ll never admit to being “a murderer.” Let no one try to associate these two voices, I have no individual style or flaws in artistry to betray my hidden persona. Indeed, I believe that style, or for that matter, anything that serves to distinguish one artist from another, is a flaw — not individual character, as some arrogantly claim.

  I do admit that in my own situation, this presents a problem. For though I might speak through my workshop name, lovingly given to me by Master Osman and used by Enishte Effendi, who also admired it, in no wise do I want you to figure out whether I am Butterfly, Olive or Stork. For if you do you won’t hesitate to turn me over to the torturers of the Sultan’s Commander of the Imperial Guard.

  And, I must mind what I think about and say. Actually, I know that you’re listening to me even when I’m mulling over matters in private. I can’t afford careless contemplation of my frustrations or the incriminating details of my life. Even when recounting the “Alif,” “Ba” and “Djim” stories. I was always mindful of your gaze.

  One side of the warriors, lovers, princes and legendary heroes that I’ve illustrated tens of thousands of times faces whatever is depicted there, in that mythical time — the enemies they’re battling, for example, or the dragons they’re slaying, or the b
eautiful maidens over whom they weep. But another aspect, and another side of their bodies, faces the book lover who happens to be gazing at the magnificent painting. If I do have style and character, it’s not only hidden in my artwork, but in my crime and in my words as well! Yes, try to discover who I am from the color of my words!

  I, too, know that if you catch me, it’ll bring consolation to unfortunate Elegant Effendi’s miserable soul. They’re shoveling dirt on him as I stand here beneath trees, amid chirping birds, watching the gilded waters of the Golden Horn and the leaden domes of Istanbul, and discovering anew how wonderful it is to be alive. Pathetic Elegant Effendi, soon after he joined the circle of that fierce-browed preacher from Erzurum, he stopped liking me completely; yet, in the twenty-five years that we illustrated books for Our Sultan, there were times when we felt very close to each other. Twenty years ago, we became friends while working on a royal history in verse for the late father of our present sultan. But we were never closer than when working on the eight illustrated plates that were to accompany a collection of Fuzuli poems. One summer evening back then, as a concession to his understandable but illogical desires — apparently a miniaturist ought to feel in his soul the text he’s illustrating — I came here and patiently listened to him pretentiously recite lines from Fuzuli’s collected works as flocks of swallows fluttered above us in a frenzy. I still recall a line recited that evening: “I am not me but eternally thee.” I’ve always wondered how one might illustrate this line.

  I ran to his house as soon as I learned that his body had been found. There, the diminutive garden where we once sat and recited poetry, now covered in snow, seemed diminished, just like any garden revisited after a period of years. His house was that way, too. From the next room, I could hear the wails of women, and their exaggerated exclamations, mounting as if they were competing with each other. When his eldest brother spoke, I listened intently: The face of our forlorn brother Elegant was practically destroyed, and his head was smashed. After he was removed from the bottom of the well where he’d lain for four days, his brothers scarcely knew him, and his poor wife, Kalbiye, whom they’d brought from the house, was forced to identify the unrecognizable body in the dark of night by its torn and tattered clothing. I was reminded of a depiction of the Midian merchants pulling Joseph from the pit into which he’d been cast by his jealous brothers. I quite enjoy painting this scene from the romance of Joseph and Zuleyha, for it reminds us that envy is the prime emotion in life.