My Name is Red

by Orhan Pamuk

  There was a sudden lull. I sensed their eyes upon me. Should I cry? I caught Black’s eye. That vile scoundrel, he’s peering at us, like someone who’s been sent here by Enishte Effendi to uncover the truth.

  “Who could’ve perpetrated such a horrendous crime?” cried the oldest brother. “What kind of heartless beast could’ve slaughtered our brother, our brother who wouldn’t dare harm an ant?”

  He answered this question with his own tears, and I joined him, feigning grief while I sought my own answer: Who were Elegant’s enemies? If it hadn’t been me, who else could’ve murdered him? I recalled that some time ago — I believe it was when the Book of Skills was being prepared — he would get involved in arguments with certain artists inclined to dismiss the techniques of the old masters and ruin the pages we illustrators had labored extensively over; thus they would spoil the borders with the horrid colors used to embellish more cheaply and quickly. Who were they? Later, however, rumors began to spread that the enmity had arisen not for this reason, but out of competition for the affections of a handsome binder’s apprentice who worked on the ground floor; but this was an old story. And there were those who were annoyed by Elegant’s dignity, his refinement and his erudite feminine demeanor, but this had to do with another matter entirely: Elegant was slavishly bound to the old style, a fanatic about the coordination of color between gilding and illustration, and in the presence of Master Osman, he would, for instance, point out the nonexistent faults of other miniaturists — mine in particular — with gentle conceit. His last quarrel had to do with an issue about which Master Osman had, in past years, grown quite sensitive: royal miniaturists who moonlighted, secretly accepting trivial commissions outside the auspices of the palace. In recent years, after Our Sultan’s interest had begun to wane and, along with it, the money coming from the Head Treasurer, all the miniaturists started paying visits to the two-story houses of the crass young pashas — and the best of the artists would go late at night to visit Enishte.

  I wasn’t at all bothered by Enishte’s decision to stop working on his — on our — book or his excuse that it was ill-omened. He had, of course, guessed that the murderer who did away with brainless Elegant Effendi was one of us who were embellishing his book. Put yourself in his shoes: Would you invite a murderer to your house each fortnight to work on illustrations after dark? Wouldn’t you first determine the identities of the murderer and the best illustrator? I have no doubt that he’ll quickly deduce which of the miniaturists was the most talented and the most skilled in color selection, gilding, page ruling, illustration, face drawing and page composition; and having done so, he’ll continue working with me alone. I can’t imagine he’ll be so petty as to think of me as a common murderer rather than a genuinely talented miniaturist.

  Out of the corner of my eye I am watching that fool Black Effendi whom Enishte brought with him. When these two broke away from the cemetery crowd presently dispersing, and walked down to the Eyüp quay, I followed them. They boarded a four-oared longboat, and afterward, I got into a six-oar along with a few young apprentices who’d forgotten about the deceased and the funeral and were making merry. Within sight of the Phanar Gate, our boats momentarily came so near each other that they were about to lock oars, and I could see clearly that Black was earnestly whispering to Enishte. I thereupon thought how easy it was to end a life. My dear God, you’ve given each of us this unbelievable power, but you’ve also made us afraid to exercise it.

  Still, if a man but once overcomes this fear and acts, he straightaway becomes an entirely different person. There was a time when I was terrified not only of the Devil, but of the slightest trace of evil within me. Now, however, I have the sense that evil can be endured, and moreover, that it’s indispensable to an artist. After I killed that miserable excuse of a man, discounting the trembling in my hands which lasted only a few days, I drew better, I made use of brighter and bolder colors, and most important, realized that I could conjure up wonders in my imagination. But, this begs the question how many men in Istanbul can truly appreciate the magnificence of my illustrations?

  Off the waterfront near Jibali, from all the way in the middle of the Golden Horn, I gazed spitefully at Istanbul. The snow-capped domes shone bright in the sunlight that broke abruptly through the clouds. The larger and more colorful a city is, the more places there are to hide one’s guilt and sin; the more crowded it is, the more people there are to hide behind. A city’s intellect ought to be measured not by its scholars, libraries, miniaturists, calligraphers and schools, but by the number of crimes insidiously committed on its dark streets over thousands of years. By this logic, doubtless, Istanbul is the world’s most intelligent city.

  At the Unkapani quay, I left my longboat a little after Black and his Enishte had left theirs. I was behind them as they leaned on one another and mounted the hill. At the site of a recent fire in the shadow of the Sultan Mehmet Mosque, they stopped and exchanged parting words. Enishte Effendi was alone, and he appeared for an instant like a helpless old man. I was tempted to run to him and tell him what that barbarian, from whose funeral we were returning, had slanderously confided in me; I was going to confess what I’d done to protect us, and to ask him: “Is it true what Elegant Effendi had claimed? Are we abusing Our Sultan’s trust through the illustrations we’ve made? Are our painting techniques traitorous and an affront to our religion? And have you finished that last large painting?”

  I stood in the middle of the snowy street as evening fell and gazed down the dark road which had been abandoned along with me to jinns, fairies, brigands, thieves, to the grief of fathers and children returning home and to the sorrow of snow-covered trees. At the end of the street, inside Enishte Effendi’s grandiose two-story house, beneath the roof, which I can now see through the bare branches of the chestnut trees, there lives the most beautiful woman in the world. But, no, why should I drive myself mad?

  NINETEEN

  I AM A GOLD COIN

  Behold! I am a twenty-two-carat Ottoman Sultani gold coin and I bear the glorious insignia of His Excellency Our Sultan, Refuge of the World. Here, in the middle of the night in this fine coffeehouse overcome with funereal melancholy, Stork, one of Our Sultan’s great masters, has just finished drawing my picture, though he hasn’t yet been able to embellish me with gold wash — I’ll leave that to your imagination. My image is here before you, yet I myself can be found in the money purse of your dear brother, Stork, that illustrious miniaturist. He’s rising now, removing me from his purse and showing me off to each of you. Hello, hello, greetings to all the master artists and assorted guests. Your eyes widen as you behold my glimmer, you thrill as I shimmer in the light of the oil lamp, and finally, you bristle with envy at my owner, Master Stork. You’re justified in behaving so, for there’s no better measure of an illustrator’s talent than I.

  In the past three months, Master Stork has earned exactly forty-seven gold pieces like myself. We’re all in this money-purse and Master Stork, see for yourself, isn’t hiding us from anyone; he knows there’s none among the miniaturists of Istanbul who earns more than he does. I take pride in being recognized as a measure of talent among artists and in putting an end to unnecessary disagreements. In the past, before we got used to coffee and our minds sharpened, these dim-witted miniaturists weren’t satisfied with spending their evenings arguing about who was the most talented or who had the best sense of color, who could draw the best tree or who was most expert in the depiction of clouds; no, they’d also come to blows over such issues, knocking out each other’s teeth in the process. Now that my judgment decides everything, there’s a sweet harmony in the workshop, and what’s more, an air that would suit the old masters of Herat.

  In addition to noting the harmony and ambience brought about by my judgment, let me list for you the various things I might be exchanged for: the foot of a young and beautiful slave girl, which amounts to about one-fiftieth of her person; a good-quality walnut-handled barber’s mirror, edges inlaid with bo
ne; a well-painted chest of drawers decorated with sunburst designs and silver leaf worth ninety silver pieces; 120 fresh loaves of bread; a grave site and coffins for three; a silver armband; one-tenth of a horse; the legs of an old and fat concubine; one buffalo calf; two high-quality pieces of china; the monthly wage of Persian miniaturist Mehmet the Dervish of Tabriz and the majority of those of his like who work in Our Sultan’s workshop; one good hunting falcon with cage; ten jugs of Panayot’s wine; a heavenly hour with Mahmut, one of those young boys world-renowned for his beauty, and many other opportunities too numerous to specify.

  Before I arrived here, I spent ten days in the dirty sock of a poor shoemaker’s apprentice. Each night the unfortunate man would fall asleep in his bed, naming the endless things he could buy with me. The lines of this epic poem, sweet as a lullaby, proved to me that there was no place on Earth a coin couldn’t go.

  Which reminds me. If I recited all that happened to me before I came here, it’d fill volumes. There are no strangers among us, we’re all friends; as long as you promise not to tell anyone, and as long as Stork Effendi won’t take offense, I’ll tell you a secret. Do you swear not to tell?

  All right then, I confess. I’m not a genuine twenty-two-carat Ottoman Sultani gold coin minted at the Chemberlitash Mint. I’m counterfeit. They made me in Venice using adulterated gold and brought me here, passing me off as twenty-two-carat Ottoman gold. Your sympathy and understanding are much obliged.

  Based on what I could gather from being in the mint in Venice, this business has been going on for years. Until recently, the debased gold pieces that the Venetian infidels brought to the East and spent were Venetian ducats which they minted in that same mint. We Ottomans, forever respectful of whatever is written, paid no heed to the amount of gold in each ducat — so long as the inscription remained the same — and these fake Venetian gold pieces flooded Istanbul. Later, noting that coins with less gold and more copper were harder, we began to distinguish the coins by biting them. For example, you’re burning with love; you go running to Mahmut, that youth of unsurpassed beauty, beloved by all; first, he takes into his soft mouth the coin — not the other thing — and biting it, declares it counterfeit. As a consequence, he’ll take you to Heaven for only half an hour instead of one full hour. The Venetian infidels, realizing that their counterfeit coins presented such disadvantages, decided that they might as well counterfeit Ottoman coins, reasoning that the Ottomans would be fooled again.

  Now, let me draw your attention to something quite bizarre: When these Venetian infidels paint, it’s as if they’re not making a painting but actually creating the object they’re painting. When it comes to money, however, rather than making the real thing, they make its counterfeit.

  We were loaded into iron chests, hauled onto ships and pitching to and fro traveled from Venice to Istanbul. I found myself in a money changer’s shop, in the garlicky mouth of its proprietor. We waited for a while, and a simple-minded peasant entered, hoping to exchange some gold. The master money changer, who was a genuine trickster, declared that he needed to bite the gold piece to see if it was counterfeit. So he took the peasant’s coin and tossed it into his mouth.

  When we met inside his mouth, I realized that the peasant’s coin was a genuine Ottoman Sultani. He saw me within that stench of garlic and said, “You’re nothing but a counterfeit.” He was right, but his arrogant manner offended my pride and I lied to him: “Actually, my brother, you’re the one who’s counterfeit.”

  Meanwhile, the peasant was proudly insisting, “How could my gold coin possibly be counterfeit? I buried it in the ground twenty years ago, did a vice like counterfeiting exist back then?”

  I was wondering what the outcome would be when the money changer took me out of his mouth instead of the peasant’s gold coin. “Take your gold coin, I don’t want any vile Venetian infidel’s fake money,” he said, “have you no shame?” The peasant responded with some biting words of his own, then took me with him out the door. After hearing the same pronouncement from other money changers, the peasant’s spirit broke and he exchanged me as a debased coin for only ninety silver pieces. This is how my seven-year saga of endless wandering from hand to hand began.

  Allow me to admit proudly that I’ve spent most of my time in Istanbul wandering from purse to purse, and from sash to pocket, as befits an intelligent coin. My worst nightmare is to be stored in a jug and languish for years beneath a rock, buried in some garden; not that it hasn’t happened to me, but for whatever reason, these periods have never lasted long. Many of the people who hold me want to be rid of me as soon as possible, especially if they discover I’m fake. Nonetheless, I have yet to come across someone who’ll warn an unsuspecting buyer that I’m counterfeit. A broker, not recognizing that I’m counterfeit, who has counted out 120 silver coins in exchange for me, will berate himself in fits of anger, sorrow and impatience as soon as he learns he’s been cheated, and these fits won’t subside until he rids himself of me by cheating another. During this crisis, even as he attempts to repeatedly swindle others, failing each time on account of his haste and anger, he’ll continue all the while to curse the “immoral” person who had originally conned him.

  Over the last seven years in Istanbul, I’ve changed hands 560 times, and there’s not a house, shop, market, bazaar, mosque, church or synagogue I haven’t entered. As I’ve roamed about, I’ve learned that much more gossip has been spread, many more legends told and lies spun in my name than I’d ever suspected. I’ve constantly had my nose rubbed in it: Nothing’s considered valuable anymore besides me, I’m merciless, I’m blind, I myself am even enamored of money, the unfortunate world revolves around, not God, but me, and there’s nothing I can’t buy — all this is to say nothing of my dirty, vulgar and base nature. And those who know that I’m fake are given to even harsher judgments. As my actual value drops, however, my metaphorical value increases — proof that poetry is consolation to life’s miseries. But despite all such heartless comparison and thoughtless slander, I’ve realized that a large majority do sincerely love me. In this age of hatred, such heartfelt — even impassioned — affection ought to gladden us all.

  I’ve seen every square inch of Istanbul, street by street and district by district; I’ve known all hands from Jews to Abkhazians and from Arabs to Mingerians. I once left Istanbul in the purse of a preacher from Edirne who was going to Manisa. On the way, we happened to be attacked by thieves. One of them shouted, “Your money or your life!” Panicking, the miserable preacher hid us in his asshole. This spot, which he assumed was the safest, smelled worse than the mouth of the garlic lover and was much less comfortable. But the situation quickly grew worse when instead of “Your money or your life!” the thieves began to shout “Your honor or your life!” Lining up, they took him by turns. I don’t dare describe the agony we suffered in that cramped hole. It’s for this reason that I dislike leaving Istanbul.

  I’ve been well received in Istanbul. Young girls kiss me as if I were the husband of their dreams; they hide me beneath their pillows, between their huge breasts, and in their underwear; they even fondle me in their sleep to make certain I’m still there. I’ve been stored next to the furnace in a public bath, in a boot, at the bottom of a small bottle in a wonderful-smelling musk seller’s shop and in the secret pocket sewn into a chef’s lentil sack. I’ve wandered through Istanbul in belts made of camel leather, jacket linings made from checkered Egyptian cloth, in the thick fabric of shoe lining and in the hidden corners of multicolored shalwars. The master watchmaker Petro hid me in a secret compartment of a grandfather clock, and a Greek grocer stuck me directly into a wheel of kashari cheese. I hid together with jewelry, seals and keys wrapped in pieces of thick cloth stowed away in chimneys, in stoves, beneath windowsills, inside cushions stuffed with rough straw, in underground chambers and in the hidden compartments of chests. I’ve known fathers who frequently stood up from the dinner table to check whether I was still where I was supposed to be, women who sucke
d on me like candy for no reason, children who sniffed at me as they stuck me up their noses and old people with one foot in the grave who couldn’t relax unless they removed me from their sheepskin purses at least seven times a day. There was a meticulous Circassian woman who, after spending the whole day cleaning the house, took us coins out of her purse and scrubbed us with a coarse brush. I remember the one-eyed money changer who constantly stacked us up into towers; the porter who smelled of morning glories and who, along with his family, watched us as if looking out over a stunning landscape; and the gilder, no longer among us — no need to name names — who spent his evenings arranging us into various designs. I’ve traveled in mahogany skiffs; I’ve visited the Sultan’s palace; I’ve hidden within Herat-made bindings, in the heels of rose-scented shoes and in the covers of packsaddles. I’ve known hundreds of hands: dirty, hairy, plump, oily, trembling and old. I’ve been redolent of opium dens, candle-makers’ shops, dried mackerel and the sweat of all of Istanbul. After experiencing such excitement and commotion, a base thief who had slit his victim’s throat in the blackness of night and tossed me into his purse, once back in his accursed house, spat in my face and grunted, “Damn you, it’s all because of you.” I was so offended, so hurt, that I wanted nothing more than to disappear.