My Name is Red

by Orhan Pamuk

“And you’re as timid as a girl,” said Shevket. “You only attack from behind.”

  “My tooth is loose,” said Orhan.

  At the same time, another part of my mind was concentrating on what was transpiring between my father and Black.

  The blue door of the workshop was open, and I could easily hear them: “After beholding the portraits of the Venetian masters, we realize with horror,” said my father, “that, in painting, eyes can no longer simply be holes in a face, always the same, but must be just like our own eyes, which reflect light like a mirror and absorb it like a well. Lips can no longer be a crack in the middle of faces flat as paper, but must be nodes of expression — each a different shade of red — fully expressing our joys, sorrows and spirits with their slightest contraction or relaxation. Our noses can no longer be a kind of wall that divides our faces, but rather, living and curious instruments with a form unique to each of us.”

  Was Black as surprised as I was that my father referred to those infidel gentlemen who had their pictures made as “we?” When I looked through the peephole, I found Black’s face to be so pale that I was momentarily alarmed. My dark beloved, my troubled hero, were you unable to sleep for thinking of me the whole night? Is that why the blush has left your face?

  Perhaps you aren’t aware that Black is a tall, thin and handsome man. He has a broad forehead, almond-shaped eyes and a strong, straight, elegant nose. As in his childhood, his hands are long and thin and his fingers are jittery and agile. He’s wiry, and stands straight and tall, with shoulders on the broad side, but not as broad as those of a water carrier. When he was younger, his body and his face hadn’t yet settled. Twelve years later, when I first laid eyes on him from this dark refuge of mine, I immediately saw that he’d attained a kind of perfection.

  Now, when I bring my eye right up to the hole, I see on his face the worry that plagues him. I felt at once guilty and proud that he’d suffered so on my account. Black listened to what my father said, gazing upon an illustration made for the book, with a look completely innocent and childlike. Just then, when I saw that he’d opened his pink mouth as a child would have, I unexpectedly felt, yes, like putting my breast into it. With my fingers on his nape and tangled in his hair, Black would place his head between my breasts, and as my own children used to do, he’d roll his eyes back into his head with pleasure as he sucked on my nipple: After understanding that only through my compassion would he find peace, he’d become completely bound to me.

  I perspired faintly and imagined Black marveling at the size of my breasts with surprise and intensity — rather than studying the illustration of the Devil that my father was actually showing him. Not only my breasts, but as if drunk with the vision of me, he was gazing at my hair, my neck, at all of me. He was so attracted to me that he was giving voice to those sweet nothings he couldn’t summon as a youth; from his glances, I realized how he was in awe of my proud demeanor, my manners, my upbringing, the way I waited patiently and bravely for my husband, and the beauty of the letter I’d written him.

  I felt anger toward my father, who was setting things up so I wouldn’t be able to marry again. I was also fed up with those illustrations he was having the miniaturists make in imitation of the Frankish masters, and I was sick of his recollections of Venice.

  When I closed my eyes again — Allah, it wasn’t my own desire — in my thoughts, Black had approached me so sweetly that in the dark I could feel him beside me. Suddenly, I sensed that he’d come up from behind me, he was kissing the nape of my neck, the back of my ears, and I could feel how strong he was. He was solid, large and hard, and I could lean on him. I felt secure. My nape tingled, my nipples were stiffening. It seemed as if there in the dark, with my eyes closed, I could feel his enlarged member behind me, close to me. My head spun. What was Black’s like? I wondered.

  At times in my dreams, my husband in his agony shows his to me. I come to the awareness that my husband is struggling to keep his bloody body, lanced and shot with Persian arrows, walking upright as he approaches. But sadly, there is a river between us. As he calls to me from the opposite bank, covered in blood and suffering terribly, I notice that he has become erect. If it’s true what the Georgian bride said at the public bath, and if there’s truth to what the old hags say, “Yes, it grows that large,” then my husband’s wasn’t so big. If Black’s is bigger, if that enormous thing I saw under Black’s belt when he took up the empty piece of paper I’d sent by Shevket yesterday; if that was actually it — and it surely was — I’m afraid I’ll suffer great pain, if it even fits inside me at all.

  “Mother, Shevket is mocking me.”

  I left the black corner of the closet, quietly passing into the room across the hall, where I removed the red broadcloth vest from the chest and put it on. They’d spread out my mattress and were shouting and frolicking on it.

  “Didn’t I warn you that when Black visits you aren’t to shout, did I not?”

  “Mama, why did you put that red vest on?” Shevket asked.

  “But Mother, Shevket was mocking me,” Orhan said.

  “Didn’t I tell you not to mock him? And what’s this foul thing doing here?” Off to the side there was a piece of animal hide.

  “It’s a carcass,” Orhan said. “Shevket found it on the street.”

  “Quick, take it and throw it back where you found it, now.”

  “Let Shevket do it.”

  “I said now!”

  As I would do before I slapped them, I bit my lower lip angrily, and seeing how serious I really was, they fled in fright. I hope they return soon so they don’t catch cold.

  Of all the miniaturists, I liked Black the best. He liked me more than the others did and I understood his soul. I took out pen and paper, and in one sitting, without having to think, I wrote the following:

  All right then, before the evening prayer is called, I’ll meet you at the house of the Hanged Jew. Finish my father’s book as soon as possible.

  I did not reply to Hasan. Even if he was actually going to the judge today, I didn’t believe that the men he and his father were assembling would raid our house immediately. If he were indeed ready to take such action he’d have done so without writing a letter or awaiting my reply. He’s surely awaiting my response, and, when it doesn’t arrive, it’ll drive him mad. Only then will he begin assembling people and prepare to abduct me. Don’t think I’m not afraid of him at all. But, I’m counting on Black to protect me. Anyway, let me tell you what’s going on in my heart just now: I believe I’m not so afraid of Hasan because I love him as well.

  If you object and think to yourselves, “Now what is this love about?” I’d find you justified. It’s not that I failed to notice during the years we waited under the same roof for my husband’s return, how pitiful, weak and selfish this man was. But now that Esther tells me he earns a lot of money — and I can always tell when she’s being truthful from her raised eyebrows — since he has money, and with it self-confidence, the overbearing Hasan has surely disappeared, exposing the dark, jinnlike peculiarity that attracts me to him. I discovered this side of him through the letters he stubbornly sent to me.

  Both Black and Hasan have suffered for their love of me. Black disappeared, traveling for twelve years. The other, Hasan, sent me letters every day, in the corners of which he’d illustrated birds and gazelles. At first I was frightened of him, but later, I loved to read his letters again and again.

  As I well knew that Hasan was thoroughly curious about everything having to do with me, I wasn’t surprised that he knew I’d seen my husband’s corpse in a dream. What I suspected was that Esther was letting Hasan read the letters I’d sent to Black. That’s why I sent no response to Black by way of Esther. You know better than I whether my suspicions are justified.

  “Where were you?” I said to the children when they returned.

  They quickly understood that I wasn’t really angry. Discreetly, I pulled Shevket aside, to the edge of the darkened closet. I lifted him onto m
y lap. I kissed his head and the nape of his neck.

  “You’re cold, my dear,” I said. “Give me those pretty hands of yours so Mother can warm them up…”

  His hands had a foul smell, but I didn’t comment. Pressing his head to my bosom, I gave him a long hug. In a short time he warmed up, relaxing like a kitten, sweetly mewling with pleasure.

  “So then, you love your mother quite a lot, don’t you?”

  “Ummmhmmm.”

  “Is that a “yes?””

  “Yes.”

  “More than anybody else?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’m going to tell you something,” I said as if divulging a secret. “But you won’t tell anyone, all right?” I whispered in his ear: “I love you more than anyone, you know that?”

  “More than Orhan, even?”

  “More than Orhan, even. Orhan’s young, like a small bird, he doesn’t understand anything. You’re smarter, you’re able to understand.” I kissed and smelled his hair. “So, I’m going to ask you a favor. Remember how you secretly brought Black a blank piece of paper yesterday? You’ll do the same today, all right?”

  “He’s the one who killed Father.”

  “What?”

  “He killed my father. He himself said so yesterday in the house of the Hanged Jew.”

  “What did he say?”

  “ “I killed your father,” he said. “I’ve killed plenty of men,” he said.”

  Suddenly something happened. Shevket slid down my lap and began to cry. Why was this child crying now? All right then, I confess, I must’ve been unable to control myself just then, and I slapped him. I wouldn’t want anyone to think I was hard-hearted. But how could he say such nonsense about a man I’d been making arrangements to marry — and that, with the well-being of these boys in mind.

  My poor little fatherless boy was still crying, and all at once, this upset me greatly. I, too, was on the verge of tears. We hugged each other. He hiccuped occasionally. Did this slap merit so much crying? I stroked his hair.

  This is how it all began: The previous day, as you know, I’d told my father in passing that I’d dreamed my husband had died. Actually, as happened quite frequently over these four years during which my husband never returned from battling the Persians, I dreamed of him fleetingly, and there was also a corpse, but was he the corpse? This was a mystery to me.

  Dreams are always used as a means to other ends. In Portugal, from where Esther’s grandmother had emigrated, it seems dreams were used as an excuse to prove heretics met with the Devil and made love. For example, even if Esther’s forebears denied their Jewishness by declaring, “We’ve become Catholics like you,” the Jesuit torturers of the Portuguese Church, unconvinced, would torture them, forcing them to describe the jinns and demons of their dreams, as well as burdening them with dreams they never had. Then they’d force the Jews to confess these dreams so in the end they could burn them at the stake. In this way, dreams could be manipulated over there, to show that people were having sex with the Devil and to accuse and condemn Jews.

  Dreams are good for three things:

  ALIF:

  You want something but you just can’t ask for it. So you’ll say that you’ve dreamed about it. In this manner, you can ask for what you want without actually asking for it.

  BA:

  You want to harm someone. For example, you want to slander a woman. So, you’ll say that such-and-such woman is committing adultery or that such-and-such pasha is pilfering wine by the jug. I dreamed it, you’ll say. In this fashion, even if they don’t believe you, the mere mention of the sinful deed is almost never forgotten.

  DJIM:

  You want something, but you don’t even know what it is. So, you’ll describe a confusing dream. Your friends or family will immediately interpret the dream and tell you what you need or what they can do for you. For example, they’ll say: You need a husband, a child, a house…

  The dreams we recount are never the ones we actually see in our sleep. When people say they’ve “seen it,” they simply describe the dream that is “dreamed” during the day, and there’s always an underlying purpose. Only an idiot would describe his actual nighttime dreams exactly as he’s had them. If you do, everyone will make fun of you or, as always, interpret the dream as a bad omen. No one takes real dreams seriously, including those who dream them. Or, pray tell, do you?

  Through a dream that I half-heartedly recounted, I hinted that my husband might truly be dead. Though my father at first wouldn’t accept this as an indication of the truth, after returning from the funeral, he was suddenly persuaded by the evidence of the dream, and concluded that my husband was indeed dead. Thus, everyone not only believed that my husband, who was virtually immortal these past four years, had died in a dream, they couldn’t have been more certain of his death had it been officially announced. It was only then that the boys truly realized that they’d been left fatherless. It was then that they truly began to grieve.

  “Do you ever have dreams?” I asked Shevket.

  “Yes,” he said smiling. “My father doesn’t return home, and I end up marrying you.”

  His narrow nose, dark eyes and broad shoulders resemble me more than his father. Occasionally, I feel guilty that I wasn’t able to pass on to my children their father’s high, broad forehead.

  “Go on then, play “swordsman” with your brother.”

  “Can we use father’s old sword?”

  “Yes.”

  For some time, I gazed at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the boys’ swords striking each other, as I struggled to quell the fear and anxiety that was brewing within me. I went down to the kitchen and said to Hayriye: “My father’s been asking for fish soup for quite some time now. Maybe I ought to send you to Galleon Harbor. Why don’t you take a few strips of that dried fruit pulp that Shevket likes out of its hiding place and let the kids have some.”

  While Shevket was eating in the kitchen, Orhan and I went upstairs. I lifted him onto my lap and kissed his neck.

  “You’re covered in sweat,” I said. “What happened here?”

  “Shevket hit me with our uncle’s red sword.”

  “It’s bruised,” I said and touched the spot. “Does it hurt? How thoughtless our Shevket is. Listen to what I have to say. You’re very smart and sensitive. I have a request to make of you. If you do what I say, I’ll tell you a secret that I won’t tell Shevket or anyone else.”

  “What is it?”

  “Do you see this piece of paper? You’re to go to your grandfather, and without letting him see, you’re to place this in Black Effendi’s hand. Do you understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “Will you do it?”

  “What’s the secret?”

  “Just take him the paper,” I said. I once again kissed his neck, which smelled fragrantly. And while we’re on the subject of fragrance, it’s been so very long since Hayriye has taken these boys to the public bath. They haven’t gone since Shevket’s thing began to rise in front of the women there. “I’ll tell you the secret later.” I kissed him. “You’re very bright and very pretty. Shevket’s a nuisance. He’d even have the audacity to lift a hand against his mother.”

  “I’m not going to deliver this,” he said. “I’m afraid of Black Effendi. He’s the one who killed my father.”

  “Shevket told you this, didn’t he?” I said. “Quick, go downstairs and tell him to come here.”

  Orhan could see the rage in my face. Terrified, he slid off my lap and ran out of the room. Maybe he was even slightly pleased that Shevket was in trouble. A while later, both of them returned flushed and blushing. Shevket was holding a strip of dried fruit in one hand and a sword in the other.

  “You’ve told your brother that Black was the one who killed your father,” I said. “I don’t ever want you to say such a thing in this house again. You should both show respect and affection to Black. Do we understand each other? I won’t allow you to live your entire li
ves without a father.”

  “I don’t want him. I’d rather return to our house, where Uncle Hasan lives, and wait for my father,” Shevket said brazenly.

  This made me so irate that I slapped him. He hadn’t put the sword down; it fell from his hand.

  “I want my father,” he said through his tears.

  But I was crying more than he was.

  “You have no father anymore, he won’t be coming back,” I said tearfully. “You’re fatherless, don’t you understand, you bastards.” I was crying so much that I was afraid they’d heard me from within.

  “We aren’t bastards,” said Shevket, crying.

  We all cried long and hard. Weeping softened my heart and I sensed that I was crying because it made me a better person. In our communal fit of tears, we embraced each other and lay upon the roll-up mattress. Shevket had snuggled his head down between my breasts as if to nap. Sometimes, he’d cuddle up with me like this, as if we were stuck together, but I could sense that he wasn’t sleeping. I might’ve dozed off with them, except that my mind was preoccupied with what was going on downstairs. I could smell the sweet aroma of boiling oranges. I abruptly sat up in bed and made such a sound that the boys awoke.

  “Go downstairs, have Hayriye fill your stomachs.”

  I was alone in the room. Snow had begun to fall outside. I begged for Allah’s help. Then I opened the Koran, and after once again reading the section in the “Family of Imran” chapter which stated that those who were killed in battle, who were killed on the path of Allah, would join Him, I put myself at ease with regard to my deceased husband. Had my father shown Black Our Sultan’s as yet unfinished portrait? My father claimed that this portrait would be so lifelike that whoever beheld it would avert his eyes out of fear, as happened to those who tried to look directly into Our Glorious Sultan’s eyes.

  I called for Orhan, and without lifting him onto my lap, kissed him at length on the forehead, crown and cheeks. “Now then, without being scared, and without letting your grandfather see, you’re to give this paper to Black. Do you understand?”