by Orhan Pamuk
Children — They represent what is vital in the world.
Sweet memories of handsome boys, beautiful women, painting well and friendships.
Seeing the masterpieces of the old masters of Herat — this cannot be explained to the uninitiated.
The simple meaning of all of this: In Our Sultan’s workshop, which I direct, magnificent works of art can no longer be made as they once were — and the situation will only get worse, everything will dwindle and disappear. I am painfully aware that we quite rarely reach the sublime level of the old masters of Herat, despite having lovingly sacrificed our entire lives to this work. Humbly accepting this truth makes life easier. Indeed, it is precisely because it makes life easier that modesty is such a highly prized virtue in our part of the world.
With an air of such modesty I was touching up an illustration in the Book of Festivities, which described the circumcision ceremonies of our prince, wherein was depicted the Egyptian Governor-General’s presentation of the following gifts: a gold-chased sword decorated with rubies, emeralds, and turquoise on a swatch of red velvet and one of the Governor-General’s proud, lightning fast and spirited Arabian horses with a white blaze on its nose and a silvery, gleaming coat, fully appointed with a gold bit and reins, stirrups of pearl and greenish-yellow chrysoberyl, and a red velvet saddle embellished with silver thread and ruby rosettes. With a flick of my brush, here and there, I was touching up the illustration, whose composition I had arranged while delegating the rendering of the horse, the sword, the prince and the spectator-ambassadors to various apprentices. I applied purple to some of the leaves of the plane tree in the Hippodrome. I dabbed yellow upon the caftan-buttons of the Tatar Khan’s ambassador. As I was brushing a sparse amount of gold wash onto the horse’s reins, somebody knocked at the door. I quit what I was doing.
It was an imperial pageboy. The Head Treasurer had summoned me to the palace. My eyes ached ever so mildly. I placed my magnifying lens in my pocket, and left with the boy.
Oh, how nice it is to walk through the streets after having worked without a break for so long! At such times, the whole world strikes one as original and stunning, as if Allah had created it all the day before.
I noticed a dog, more meaningful than all the pictures of dogs I’d ever seen. I saw a horse, a lesser creation than what my master miniaturists might make. I spied a plane tree in the Hippodrome, the same tree whose leaves I’d just now accented with tones of purple.
Strolling through the Hippodrome, whose parades I’d illustrated over the last two years, was like stepping into my own painting. Let’s say we were to turn down a street: In a Frankish painting, this would result in our stepping outside both the frame and the painting; in a painting made following the example of the great masters of Herat, it’d bring us to the place from which Allah looks upon us; in a Chinese painting, we’d be trapped, because Chinese illustrations are infinite.
The pageboy, I discovered, wasn’t taking me to the Divan Chamber where I often met with the Head Treasurer to discuss one of the following: the manuscripts and ornamented ostrich eggs or other gifts my miniaturists were preparing for Our Sultan; the health of the illustrators or the Head Treasurer’s own constitution and peace of mind; the acquisition of paint, gold leaf or other materials; the usual complaints and requests; the desires, delights, demands and disposition of the Refuge of the World, Our Sultan; my eyesight, my looking glasses or my lumbago; or the Head Treasurer’s good-for-nothing son-in-law or the health of his tabby cat. Silently, we entered the Sultan’s Private Garden. As if committing a crime, but with great delicacy, we serenely descended toward the sea through the trees. “We’re nearing the Sea-Side Kiosk,” I thought, “this means I will see the Sultan. His Excellency must be here.” But we turned off the path. We walked ahead a few steps through the arched doorway of a stone building behind the rowboat and caïque sheds. I could smell the scent of baking bread wafting from the guard’s bakery before catching sight of the Imperial Guard themselves in their red uniforms.
The Head Treasurer and the Commander of the Imperial Guard were together in one room: Angel and Devil!
The Commander, who performed executions in the name of Our Sultan on the palace grounds — who tortured, interrogated, beat, blinded and administered the bastinado — smiled sweetly at me. It was as if some piddling lodger, with whom I was forced to share a caravansary cell, were going to recount a heart-warming story.
The Head Treasurer diffidently said, “Our Sultan, one year prior, charged me with having an illuminated manuscript prepared under conditions of the utmost privacy, a manuscript that would be included among the gifts meant for an ambassadorial delegation. In light of the secrecy of the book, His Excellency did not deem it appropriate that Master Lokman the Royal Historian be enlisted to write the manuscript. Similarly, He did not venture to involve you, whose artistry He quite admires. Indeed, He supposed that you were already fully engaged with the Book of Festivities.”
Upon entering this room I had abruptly assumed that some wretch had slandered me, claiming that I was committing heresy in such-and-such an illustration and that I’d lampooned the Sovereign in another; I imagined with horror that this tattler had been able to convince the Sovereign of my guilt and that I was about to be laid out for torture with no consideration for my age. And so to hear that the Head Treasurer was simply trying to make amends for Our Sultan’s having commissioned a manuscript from an outsider — these words were sweeter than honey indeed. Without learning anything new, I listened to an account of the manuscript, about which I was already well aware. I was privy to the rumors about Nusret Hoja of Erzurum, and naturally, to the intrigues within the workshop.
“Who is responsible for preparing the manuscript?” I asked.
“Enishte Effendi, as you know,” said the Head Treasurer. Fixing his gaze into my eyes, he added, “You were aware that he died an untimely death, that is to say, that he was murdered, weren’t you?”
“Nay,” I said simply, like a child, and fell quiet.
“Our Sultan is quite furious,” the Head Treasurer said.
That Enishte Effendi was a dunce. The master miniaturists always mocked him for being more pretentious than knowledgeable, more ambitious than intelligent. I knew something was rotten at the funeral anyway. How was he killed, I wondered?
The Head Treasurer explained exactly how. Appalling. Dear God protect us. Yet who could be responsible?
“The Sultan has decreed,” said the Head Treasurer, “that the book in question should be finished as soon as possible, as with the Book of Festivities manuscript…”
“He has also made a second decree,” said the Commander of the Imperial Guard. “If, indeed, this unspeakable murderer is one of the miniaturists, He wants the black-hearted devil found. He intends to sentence him to a punishment such as will stand as a deterrent to one and all.”
An expression of such excitement appeared on the face of the Commander as if to suggest he already knew the monstrous punishment Our Sultan had decreed.
I knew that Our Sultan had only recently charged these two men with this task, thereby forcing them to cooperate — on which account they couldn’t hide their distaste even now. Seeing this inspired in me a love for the Sultan that went beyond mere awe. A servant boy served coffee and we sat for a while.
I was told that Enishte Effendi had a nephew named Black Effendi whom he’d cultivated, a man trained in illumination and book arts. Had I met him? I remained silent. A short while ago, upon the invitation of his Enishte, Black had returned from the Persian front, where he was under Serhat Pasha’s command — the Commander shot me a look of suspicion. Here, in Istanbul, he worked himself into his Enishte’s good graces and learned the story of the book whose creation Enishte was overseeing. Black claimed that after Elegant Effendi was killed, Enishte suspected one of the master miniaturists who visited him at night to work on this manuscript. He’d seen the illustrations these masters had made and said that Enishte’s murderer — th
e selfsame painter who stole the Sultan’s illustration with the lion’s share of gold leaf — was one of them. For two days, this young Black Effendi had concealed the death of Enishte from the palace and the Head Treasurer. Within that very two-day period, he’d rushed ahead with a marriage to Enishte’s daughter, an ethically and religiously dubious affair, and settled into Enishte’s house; thus, both the men before me considered Black a suspect.
“If their houses and workplaces are searched and the missing page turns up with one of my master miniaturists, Black’s innocence will be established at once,” I said. “Frankly, however, I can tell you that my dearest children, my divinely inspired miniaturists, whom I’ve known since they were apprentices, are incapable of taking the life of another man.”
“As for Olive, Stork and Butterfly,” said the Commander, mockingly using the nicknames I’d affectionately given to them, “we intend to comb their homes, haunts, places of work and, if applicable, shops, leaving no stone unturned. And that includes Black…” His expression bespoke resignation: “Given such troublesome circumstances, thank God, the judge has granted us permission to resort to torture if necessary during the interrogation of Black Effendi. Torture was deemed lawfully permissible because a second murder had been committed against someone with a link to the miniaturists guild, making suspects of them all, from apprentice to master.”
I mulled this over silently: 1. The phrase “lawfully permissible” made clear that Our Sultan wasn’t the one who’d granted the permission for torture. 2. Because all the miniaturists were under suspicion of double murder in the eyes of the judge, and because I, though Head Illuminator, had been unable to identify the criminal in our midst, I, too, was suspect. 3. I understood that they wanted my explicit or implicit approval to go ahead with the torture of my beloved Butterfly, Olive, Stork and the others, all of whom, in recent years, had betrayed me.
“Since Our Sultan desires both the satisfactory completion of the Book of Festivities and this book — which is evidently only half finished,” said the Head Treasurer, “we’re worried that torture might damage the masters’ hands and eyes, destroying their agility.” He faced me. “Isn’t this so?”
“There was similar worry over another incident recently,” said the Commander brusquely. “A goldsmith and a jeweler who did repairs fell sway to the Devil. They were childishly enchanted with a ruby-handled coffee cup belonging to Our Sultan’s younger sister Nejmiye Sultan, and ended up stealing it. Since the theft of the cup, which overwhelmed Our Sultan’s sister with grief — she was quite fond of the piece — occurred in the Üsküdar Palace, the Sovereign appointed me to investigate. It became apparent that both Our Sultan and Nejmiye Sultan wanted no harm to come to the eyes and fingers of the master gold- and jewelry smiths lest their skills be affected. So, I had all the master jewelry smiths stripped naked and thrown into the freezing pool in the yard among pieces of ice and frogs. Periodically, I’d have them taken out and lashed forcefully, taking care that their faces and hands remained unharmed. Within a short period, the jeweler who’d been duped by the Devil confessed and accepted his punishment. Despite the ice-cold water, the frozen air and all the lashings, no lasting injury came to the eyes and fingers of the master jewelers because they were pure of heart. Even the Sultan mentioned that His sister was quite pleased with my work and that the jewelers were working with more zeal now that the bad apple was out of the barrel.”
I was certain that the Commander would treat my master illustrators more severely than he had the jewelers. Though he had respect for Our Sultan’s enthusiasm for illuminated manuscripts, like many others, he deemed calligraphy the only respectable art form, belittling embellishment and illustration as flirtations with heresy, fit for women and deserving of nothing but rebuke. In order to provoke me, he said, “While you’ve been absorbed in your work, your beloved miniaturists have already begun scheming to see who’ll become Head Miniaturist upon your death.”
Was this gossip I hadn’t already heard? Had he informed me of something new? Restraining myself, I didn’t respond. The Head Treasurer was more than aware of the fury I felt toward him for commissioning a manuscript from that deceased half-wit behind my back, and toward my ingrate miniaturists, who’d secretly prepared these illustrations to curry favor and earn a few extra silver coins.
I caught myself pondering the methods of torture that might be inflicted. They wouldn’t resort to flaying during the interrogation, because that inevitably leads to death. They wouldn’t impale anyone, either, as they do with rebels, because that’s used as a deterrent. Cracking and splintering the fingers, arms or legs of these miniaturists was also out of the question. Of course, the removal of an eye — which I gathered was a measure of increasing frequency these days, to judge by the growing numbers of one-eyed people on the streets of Istanbul — would be inappropriate for master artists. So, as I imagined my dear miniaturists in a secluded corner of the Royal Private Garden, there in the ice-cold pool among the water lilies, shivering violently and glaring hatefully at one another, I had the passing urge to laugh. Nevertheless, it caused me agony to imagine how Olive would shriek when his hindquarters were branded with a hot iron and how dear Butterfly’s skin would pale when he was shackled. I couldn’t bear to conjure the scene of dear Butterfly — whose skill and love for illumination brought tears to my eyes — as he was given the bastinado like a common thieving apprentice. I just stood there dumbfounded and hollow.
My elderly mind was mute under the spell of its own internal silence. There was a time when we’d paint together with a passion that made us forget everything.
“These men are the most expert miniaturists serving Our Sultan,” I said. “Make certain no harm befalls them.”
Pleased, the Head Treasurer rose, grabbed a number of pages from the worktable at the other end of the room and arranged them in front of me. Next, as if the room were dark, he placed beside me two large candle holders whose portly tapers burned with bobbing and twittering flames so I could study the paintings in question.
How might I explain what I saw as I moved the magnifying lens over them? I felt like laughing — and not because they were humorous. I was incensed — it seemed that Enishte Effendi had instructed my masters as follows: “Don’t paint like yourselves, paint as if you were someone else.” He’d forced them to recall nonexistent memories, to conjure and paint a future, which they’d never want to live. What was even more incredible was that they were killing each other over this nonsense.
“By looking at these illustrations, can you tell me which miniaturist worked on which picture?” asked the Head Treasurer.
“Yes,” I said angrily. “Where did you find these paintings?”
“Black brought them of his own accord and left them with me,” said the Head Treasurer. “He’s bent on proving that he and his late Enishte are innocent.”
“During the interrogation, torture him,” I said. “That way we’ll learn what other secrets our late Enishte was harboring.”
“We’ve sent for him,” said the Commander of the Imperial Guard. “Afterward, we’ll thoroughly search the house of that newlywed.”
Both their faces were strangely illuminated, a flicker of fear and awe overcame them, and they snapped to their feet.
Without having to turn around I knew we were in the presence of His Excellency, Our Sultan, the Refuge of the World.
THIRTY-NINE
I AM ESTHER
Oh, how wonderful it is to cry along with the rest of them! While the men were at the funeral of my dear Shekure’s father, the women, kith and kin, spouses and friends, gathered in the house and shed their tears, and I, too, beat my chest in mourning and wept with them. Now wailing in unison with the pretty maiden beside me, leaning on her and swaying back and forth; now crying in a completely different frame of mind, I was deeply touched by my own woes and pitiful life. If I could cry like this just once a week, I thought, I might forget how I had to roam the streets all day just to make ends meet
, forget being mocked for my weight and my Jewishness and be reborn an even more chattermouth Esther.
I like social gatherings because I can eat to my heart’s content, and, at the same time, forget that I’m the black sheep of the crowd. I love the baklava, mint candy, marzipan bread and fruit leather of holidays; the pilaf with meat and the tea-cup pastries of circumcision ceremonies; drinking sour-cherry sherbet at celebrations held by the Sultan in the Hippodrome; eating everything at weddings; and tossing down the sesame, honey or variously flavored condolence halvas sent by the neighbors at wakes.
I quietly slipped into the hallway, put on my shoes and went downstairs. Before I turned into the kitchen, I grew curious about an odd noise coming through the half-open door of the room next to the stable. I took a few steps in that direction and glanced inside to discover that Shevket and Orhan had tied up the son of one of the women mourners and were in the midst of painting his face with their late grandfather’s paints and brushes. “If you try to escape, we’ll hit you like this,” Shevket said and slapped the boy.
“My dear child, play nice and gentle now, don’t hurt each other, all right?” I said in a voice as velvety as I could muster.
“Mind your own affairs!” Shevket shouted.
I noticed the small, frightened, blond-haired sister of the boy they were tormenting standing beside them, and for whatever reason, I felt for her completely. Forget about it, now, Esther!
In the kitchen, Hayriye peered at me suspiciously.
“I’ve cried myself dry, Hayriye,” I said. “For God’s sake, pour me a glass of water.”
She did so, silently. Before I drank it, I stared into her eyes, swollen from weeping.
“Poor Enishte Effendi, they say he was already dead before Shekure’s wedding,” I commented. “People’s mouths aren’t like bags that can be cinched up, some even claim there was foul play involved.”
In an exaggerated gesture, she looked down at her toes. Then she lifted her head and without looking at me said, “May God protect us from baseless slander.”
