My Name is Red

by Orhan Pamuk

  I awoke covered in sweat. Had I heard those sounds in my dream or had I been awakened by sounds from somewhere in the house? I couldn’t decide, and so snuggled up with the children, and without moving, I waited. I’d nearly assured myself that the noises were only in my sleep when I heard the same wail. Just then, something large landed in the courtyard with a bang. Was this also a rock, perhaps?

  I was paralyzed with terror. But the situation immediately got worse: I heard noises from within the house. Where was Hayriye? In which room had Black fallen asleep? In what state was my father’s pitiful corpse? My God, I prayed, protect us. The children were deep asleep.

  Had this happened before I was married, I’d have risen from bed, and taking charge of the situation like the man of the house, I’d have suppressed my fears and scared away the jinns and spirits. In my present condition, however, I cowered and hugged the children. It was as if there were no one else in the world. Nobody was going to come to the aid of the children and me. Expecting something awful to happen, I prayed to Allah for deliverance. As in my dreams, I was alone. I heard the courtyard gate open. It was the courtyard gate, wasn’t it? Yes, absolutely.

  I rose abruptly, grabbed my robe and quitted the room without even knowing myself what I was doing.

  “Black!” I hissed from the top of the stairs.

  After hastily donning shoes, I descended the stairs. The candle I’d lit at the brazier blew out as soon as I stepped out onto the courtyard’s stone walkway. A strong wind had begun to blow, though the sky was clear. As soon as my eyes adjusted, I saw that the half-moon was flooding the courtyard with moonlight. My dearest Allah! The courtyard gate was open. I stood stunned, atremble in the cold.

  Why hadn’t I brought a knife with me? Neither did I have a candlestick or even a piece of wood. For a moment, in the blackness, I saw the gate move of its own accord. Later, after it appeared to have stilled, I heard it squeal. I remember thinking, This seems like a dream.

  When I heard a noise from within the house, as if from just beneath the roof, I understood that my father’s soul was struggling to leave his body. Knowing my father’s soul was in such torment both put me at ease and plunged me into agony. If Father is the cause of these noises, I thought, then no evil will befall me. On the other hand, his tormented soul, frantically fluttering about, trying to escape and ascend, so troubled me that I prayed to Allah to comfort him. But when it occurred to me that his soul would protect me and the children, a feeling of great relief washed over me. If there were truly some demon contemplating evil just beyond the gate, let him fear my father’s restless soul.

  Just then, I worried that perhaps it was Black that was upsetting my father so much. Would my father bring evil upon Black? Where was he? Just then, outside the courtyard gate, on the street, I noticed him and froze. He was speaking with somebody.

  A man was talking to Black from the trees in the empty yard on the far side of the street. I was able to infer that the howling I’d heard as I lay in bed had come from this man whom I straightaway knew to be Hasan. There was a plaintive strain, a weeping in his voice, but also a threatening overtone. I listened to them from a distance. Within the silent night they’d given themselves over to settling accounts.

  I understood that I was all alone in the world with my children. I was thinking that I loved Black, but to tell the truth, what I wanted was to love only Black — for Hasan’s melancholy voice singed my heart.

  “Tomorrow, I’ll return with the judge, Janissaries and witnesses who’ll swear that my older brother is alive and still fighting in the mountains of Persia,” he said. “Your marriage is illegitimate. You’re committing adultery in there.”

  “Shekure wasn’t your wife, she was your late brother’s wife,” Black said.

  “My older brother’s still alive,” Hasan said with conviction. “There are witnesses who have seen him.”

  “This morning, based on the fact that he hasn’t returned after four years campaigning, the Üsküdar judge granted Shekure a divorce. If he is alive, have your witnesses tell him that he’s now a divorced man.”

  “Shekure is restricted from remarrying for a month,” said Hasan. “Otherwise it’s a sacrilege contrary to the Koran. How could Shekure’s father consent to such disgraceful nonsense?”

  “Enishte Effendi,” Black said, “is very sick. He’s on his death bed…and the judge sanctified our marriage.”

  “Did you work together to poison your Enishte?” said Hasan. “Did you plan this out with Hayriye?”

  “My father-in-law is deeply distressed by what you’ve done to Shekure. Your brother, if he’s really still alive, could also call you to account for your dishonor.”

  “These are all lies, each one!” said Hasan. “These are only excuses cooked up by Shekure so she could leave us.”

  There came a cry from within the house; it was Hayriye who’d screamed. Next, Shevket screamed. They shouted to each other. Unwitting and afraid, without being able to restrain myself, I shouted too and ran into the house without knowing what I was doing.

  Shevket ran down the stairs and fled out into the courtyard.

  “My grandfather is as cold as ice,” he cried. “My grandfather has died.”

  We hugged each other. I lifted him up. Hayriye was still shouting. Black and Hasan heard the shouts and everything that was said.

  “Mother, they’ve killed grandfather,” Shevket said this time.

  Everyone heard this, too. Had Hasan heard? I squeezed Shevket tightly, and calmly walked with him back inside. At the top of the stairs, Hayriye was wondering how the child had awoken and sneaked out.

  “You promised you wouldn’t leave us,” said Shevket, who began to cry.

  My mind was preoccupied now with Black. Because he was busy with Hasan, he didn’t think to close the gate. I kissed Shevket on either cheek and hugged him even tighter, taking in the scent of his neck, consoling him and, finally handing him over to Hayriye, I whispered, “You two go upstairs.”

  They went upstairs. I returned and stood a few steps behind the gate. I assumed Hasan couldn’t see me. Had he changed his position in the darkened garden across the way, perhaps moving behind the trees that lined the street? As it happened, however, he could see me, and as he spoke he addressed me, too. It was unnerving to convene in the dark with somebody whose face I couldn’t see, but it was even worse, as Hasan accused me, accused us, to realize deep down that he was justified. With him, as with my father, I always felt guilty, always in the wrong. And now, moreover, I knew with great sadness that I was in love with the man who was incriminating me. My beloved Allah please help me. Love isn’t suffering for the sake of suffering, but a means to reach You, is it not?

  Hasan claimed that I’d killed my father in league with Black. He said he’d heard what Shevket had said, adding that everything had been laid bare and that we’d committed an unpardonable sin deserving of the torments of Hell. Come morning he’d go to the judge to explain it all. If I were found to be innocent, if my hands weren’t red with my father’s blood, he swore to have me and the children returned to his house where he’d serve as father until his older brother came back. If, however, I were found guilty, a woman like me, who’d mercilessly abandoned her husband — a man willing to make the highest sort of sacrifice — for her no punishment was too severe. We patiently listened to his fury, then noticed that there was an abrupt silence amid the trees.

  “If you return of your own free will to the home of your true husband, now,” said Hasan, assuming a completely different tone, “if you silently pitter-patter back with your children without being seen by anyone, I’ll forget the fake wedding ploy, the crimes you’ve committed, all of it, I’ll forgive it all. And, we’ll wait together, Shekure, year after year, patiently, for my brother’s return.”

  Was he drunk? There was something so infantile in his voice and what he was now proposing to me in front of my husband that I feared it might cost him his life.

  “Do you understan
d?” he called out from among the trees.

  I couldn’t determine exactly where he was in the blackness. My dear God, come to our aid, to us, Your sinning servants.

  “Because you won’t be able to live under the same roof with the man who killed your father, Shekure. This I know.”

  I momentarily thought that he could’ve been the one who killed my father, and that he was now mocking us, perhaps. This Hasan was the Devil incarnate. But I couldn’t be certain of anything.

  “Listen to me, Hasan Effendi,” Black called out to the darkness. “My father-in-law was murdered, this much is true. The most despicable of men killed him.”

  “He’d been murdered before the wedding, isn’t that so?” said Hasan. “You two killed him because he opposed this marriage sham, this fake divorce, the false witnesses and all your deceits. If he’d considered Black to be appropriate, he’d have given his daughter to him years ago.”

  Having lived for years with my late husband, with us, Hasan knew our past as well as we ourselves did. And with the passion of a spurned lover, he remembered every last detail of everything I’d discussed with my husband at home, but had subsequently forgotten, or now wanted to forget. Over the years, we’d shared so many memories — he, his brother and I — that I worried how strange, new and distant Black would seem to me if Hasan were to begin recounting the past.

  “We suspect that you were the one who killed him,” Black said.

  “On the contrary, you were the ones who killed him so you could marry. This is evident. As for me, I have no motive.”

  “You killed him so we wouldn’t get married,” said Black. “When you learned that he’d permitted Shekure’s divorce and our marriage, you lost your mind. Besides, you were furious with Enishte Effendi because he’d encouraged Shekure to return home to live with him. You wanted revenge. As long as he remained alive, you knew you’d never get your hands on Shekure.”

  “Be done with your stalling,” Hasan said decisively. “I refuse to listen to this prattle. It’s very cold here. I froze out here trying to get your attention with the rocks — didn’t you hear them?”

  “Black had lost himself in my father’s illustrations,” I said.

  Had I done wrong in saying this?

  Hasan spoke in precisely the same false tone that I sometimes resorted to with Black: “Shekure, as you are my brother’s wife, your best course of action is to return now with your children to the house of the hero spahi cavalryman to whom you’re still wed according to the Koran.”

  “I refuse,” I said, as if hissing into the heart of the night. “I refuse, Hasan. No.”

  “Then, my responsibility and devotion to my brother forces me to alert the judge first thing tomorrow morning of what I’ve heard here. Otherwise, they’ll call me to account.”

  “They’re going to call you to account anyway,” said Black. “The moment you go to the judge, I’ll reveal that you’re the one who murdered Our Sultan’s cherished servant, Enishte Effendi. This very morning.”

  “Very well,” said Hasan calmly. “Make that revelation.”

  I shrieked. “They’ll torture the both of you!” I shouted. “Don’t go to the judge. Wait. Everything will become clear.”

  “I have no fear of torture,” Hasan said. “I’ve been tortured twice before, and both times I understood it was the only way the guilty could be culled from the innocent. Let the slanderers fear torture. I’m going to tell the judge, the captain of the Janissaries, the Sheikhulislam, everybody about poor Enishte Effendi’s book and its illustrations. Everybody is talking about those illustrations. What is it about them? What’s in those pictures?”

  “There’s nothing in them,” Black said.

  “Which means you examined them at the first opportunity.”

  “Enishte Effendi wants me to finish the book.”

  “Very well. I hope, God willing, that they’ll torture the both of us.”

  The two of them fell silent. Next, Black and I heard footsteps in the empty yard. Were they leaving or approaching us? We could neither see Hasan nor tell what he was doing. It would’ve been senseless for him to push through the thorns, shrubs and brambles lining the far end of the garden in the pitch-blackness. He could’ve easily left without being seen, had he passed through the trees and wound his way before us, but we didn’t hear any footsteps nearing us. I boldly shouted, “Hasan!” There was no response.

  “Hush,” said Black.

  We were both trembling from the cold. Without hesitating too long, we closed the gate and the doors tightly behind us. Before entering my bed warmed by the children, I checked on my father again. Meanwhile, Black once again seated himself before the pictures.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  I AM A HORSE

  Ignore the fact that I’m standing here placid and still; if truth be told, I’ve been galloping for centuries; I’ve passed over plains, fought in battles, carried off the melancholy daughters of shahs to be wed; I’ve galloped tirelessly page by page from story to history, from history to legend and from book to book; I’ve appeared in countless stories, fables, books and battles; I’ve accompanied invincible heroes, legendary lovers and fantastic armies; I’ve galloped from campaign to campaign with our victorious sultans, and as a result, I’ve appeared in countless illustrations.

  How does it feel, you ask, to be painted so often?

  Of course, I’m proud of myself. Yet, I also question whether, indeed, it is I being depicted in all cases. It is evident from these pictures that I’m perceived differently by everyone. Still, I have the strong sense that there’s a commonality, a unity to the illustrations.

  My miniaturist friends were recounting a story recently, and from it, I learned the following: The king of the Frankish infidels was considering marriage to the daughter of the Venetian Doge. He was considering it, but then he was plagued with the thought, “What if this Venetian is poor and his daughter ugly?” To reassure himself, he ordered his best artist to paint the Venetian Doge’s daughter, possessions, property and belongings. The Venetians could care less about gross indecency: They’ll expose not only their daughters to the prying eyes of the artist, but their horses and palazzos, as well. The gifted infidel artist could depict a maiden or a horse in such a way that you’d be able to pick either out of a crowd. Back in his courtyard, as the Frankish king examined the pictures from Venice, pondering whether he should take the maiden as his wife, his stallion, suddenly aroused, attempted to mount the attractive mare in the painting, and the horse grooms were hard pressed to bring the ferocious animal under control before he destroyed the picture and its frame with his huge member.

  They say that it wasn’t the beauty of the Venetian mare that had aroused the Frankish stallion — though she was indeed striking — but the act of taking a particular mare and painting a picture in her exact likeness. Now, the question arises: Is it sinful to be depicted as that mare had been, that is, like a real mare? In my case, as you can see, there is very little difference between my image and other pictures of horses.

  Actually, those of you who pay particular attention to the grace of my midsection, the length of my legs and the pride of my bearing will understand that I am indeed unique. But these excellent features point to the uniqueness of the miniaturist who illustrated me, not to my uniqueness as a horse. Everyone knows that there’s no horse exactly like me. I’m simply the rendering of a horse that exists in a miniaturist’s imagination.

  Looking at me, observers frequently say, “Good God, what a gorgeous horse!” But they’re actually praising the artist, not me. All horses are in fact distinct, and the miniaturist, above all, ought to know this.

  Take a close look, even a given stallion’s organ doesn’t resemble another’s. Don’t be afraid, you can examine it up close, and even take it in your hands: My God-given marvel has a shape and curve all its own.

  Now then, all miniaturists illustrate all horses from memory in the same way, even though we’ve each been uniquely created by Allah, G
reatest of all Creators. Why do they take pride in simply rendering thousands and tens of thousands of horses in the same way without ever truly looking at us? I’ll tell you why: Because they’re attempting to depict the world that God perceives, not the world that they see. Doesn’t that amount to challenging God’s unity, that is — Allah forbid — isn’t it saying that I could do the work of God? Artists who are discontent with what they see with their own eyes, artists who draw the same horse a thousand times asserting that what rests in their imagination is God’s horse, artists who claim that the best horse is what blind miniaturists draw from memory, aren’t they all committing the sin of competing with Allah?

  The new styles of the Frankish masters aren’t blasphemous, quite the opposite, they’re the most in keeping with our faith. I pray that my Erzurumi brethren don’t misunderstand me. It displeases me that Frankish infidels parade their women around half naked, indifferent to pious modesties, that they don’t understand the pleasures of coffee and handsome boys, and that they roam about with clean-shaven faces, yet with hair as long as women’s, claiming that Jesus is also the Lord God — Allah protect us. I become so aggravated by these Franks that if I ever came across one, I’d give him a good mule kick.