by Orhan Pamuk
Agitated by the thought of resembling that blind old man, I confessed how I did away with Enishte Effendi hurriedly, without savoring any of it. I was neither too honest nor too insincere with them: I found a medium consistency, such that the story wouldn’t trouble my heart too much, and they’d be assured I hadn’t gone to Enishte’s house to murder him. I wanted to make clear that it wasn’t a premeditated murder, which intent they gathered when I reminded them of the following while trying to absolve myself: “Without harboring bad intentions, one never goes to Hell.”
“After surrendering Elegant Effendi to the Angels of Allah,” I said thoughtfully, “what the dearly departed expressed to me in his last moments started to gnaw at me like a worm. Having caused me to bloody my hands, the final painting loomed larger in my mind, and so, resolving to see it, I went to your Enishte, who no longer summoned any of us to his house. Not only did he refuse to reveal the painting, he behaved as if nothing were the matter. There was, he sniffled, neither a painting nor anything else so mysterious that it called for murder! To preempt further humiliation, and to get his attention, I thereupon confessed that I was the one who killed Elegant Effendi and tossed him into a well. Yes, then he took me more seriously, but he continued to humiliate me all the same. How could a man who humiliates his son be a father? Great Master Osman would become irate with us, he’d beat us, but he never once humiliated us. Oh my brothers, we’ve made a grave mistake by betraying him.”
I smiled at my brethren whose attention was focused upon my eyes, listening to me as though I lay on my deathbed. Just as a dying man would, I saw them growing increasingly blurry and moving away from me.
“I murdered your Enishte for two reasons. First, because he shamelessly forced the great Master Osman into aping the Venetian artist, Sebastiano. Second, because in a moment of weakness, I lowered myself to ask him whether I had a style of my own.”
“How did he respond?”
“It seems I am possessed of a style. But coming from him, of course, this was not an insult. I remembered wondering, in my shame, if this were indeed praise: I considered style to be a variety of rootlessness and dishonor, but doubt was eating at me. I wanted nothing to do with style, but the Devil was tempting me and I was, furthermore, curious.”
“Everybody secretly desires to have a style,” said Black smartly. “Everybody also desires to have his portrait made, just as Our Sultan did.”
“Is this affliction impossible to resist?” I said. “As this plague spreads, none of us will be able to stand against the methods of the Europeans.”
No one was listening to me, however. Black was recounting the story of a sad Turkmen chieftain who was sent off on a twelve-year exile to China because he’d prematurely expressed his love for the daughter of the shah. Since he didn’t have a portrait of his beloved, of whom he dreamed for a dozen years, he forgot her face amid the Chinese beauties, and his lovelorn suffering was transformed into a profound trial willed by Allah.
“Thanks to your Enishte, we’ve all learned the meaning of ‘portrait,’ “ I said. “God willing, one day, we’ll fearlessly tell the story of our own lives the way we actually live them.”
“All fables are everybody’s fables,” said Black.
“All illumination is God’s illumination too,” I said, completing the verse by the poet Hatifi of Herat. “But as the methods of the Europeans spread, everyone will consider it a special talent to tell other men’s stories as if they were one’s own.”
“This is nothing but the will of Satan.”
“Unhand me now,” I shouted. “Let me look upon the world one last time.”
They were terrified, and a new confidence rose within me.
“Will you take out the final picture?” Black said.
I gave Black such a look that he was quick to understand I’d do so and he released me. My heart began to beat rapidly.
I’m certain you’ve long ago discovered my identity, which I’ve been trying to conceal. Even so, don’t be surprised that I’m behaving like the old masters of Herat, for they would conceal their signatures not to hide their identities, but out of principle and respect for their masters. Excitedly, I walked through the pitch-black rooms of the lodge, oil lamp in hand, making way for my own pale shadow. Had the curtain of blackness begun to fall over my eyes, or were these rooms and hallways truly this dark? How many days and weeks, how much time did I have before going blind? My shadow and I stopped among the ghosts in the kitchen and lifted up the pages from the clean corner of a dusty cabinet before quickly heading back. Black had followed me as a precaution, but he’d neglected to bring his dagger. Would I, perchance, consider taking up that dagger and blinding him before I myself went blind?
“I’m pleased that I will see this once again before going blind,” I said with pride. “I want you all to see it as well. Look here.”
Under the light of the oil lamp, I showed them the final picture, which I’d taken from Enishte’s house the day I killed him. At first, I watched their curious and timid expressions as they looked at the double-leaf picture. I circled around and joined them, and I was ever so faintly trembling as I stared. The lancing of my eyes, or perhaps a sudden rapture, made me feverish.
The pictures we made on various parts of the two pages over the past year — tree, horse, Satan, Death, dog and woman — were arranged, large and small, according to Enishte’s albeit inept new method of composition, in such a way that the dearly departed Elegant Effendi’s gilding and borders made us feel we were no longer looking at a page from a book but at the world seen through a window. In the center of this world, where Our Sultan should’ve been, was my own portrait, which I briefly observed with pride. I was somewhat unsatisfied with it because after laboring in vain for days, looking into a mirror and erasing and reworking, I was unable to achieve a good resemblance; still, I felt unbridled elation because the picture not only situated me at the center of a vast world, but for some unaccountable and diabolic reason, it made me appear more profound, complicated and mysterious than I actually was. I wanted only that my artist brethren recognize, understand and share in my exuberance. I was both the center of everything, like a sultan or a king, and, at the same time, myself. The situation fed my pride as it increased my embarrassment. Finally these two feelings balanced each other, and I was able to relax and take dizzying pleasure in the picture. But for this pleasure to be complete, I knew every mark on my face and shirt, all of the wrinkles, shadows, moles and boils, every detail from my whiskers to the weave of my clothes and all their colors in all their shades had to be perfect, down to the minutest details, as much as the skill of Frankish painters would allow.
I noted in the faces of my old companions fear, bewilderment and the inescapable feeling devouring us all: jealousy. Along with the angry revulsion they felt toward a man hopelessly mired in sin, they were also envious.
“During the nights I spent here staring at this picture by the light of an oil lamp, I felt for the first time that God had forsaken me and only Satan would befriend me in my isolation,” I said. “I know that even if I were truly the center of the world — and each time I looked at the picture this is precisely what I wanted — despite the splendor of the red that ruled the painting, despite being surrounded by all of these things I loved, including my dervish companions and the woman who resembled beautiful Shekure, I’d still be lonely. I’m not afraid of possessing character and individuality, nor do I fear others bowing down and worshiping me; on the contrary, this is what I desire.”
“You mean to say that you feel no remorse?” said Stork like a man who’d just left a Friday sermon.
“I feel like the Devil not because I’ve murdered two men, but because my portrait has been made in this fashion. I suspect that I did away with them so I could make this picture. But now the isolation I feel terrifies me. Imitating the Frankish masters without having attained their expertise makes a miniaturist even more of a slave. Now I’m desperate to escape this trap. Of course
, all of you know: After all is said and done, I killed them both so the workshop might persist as it always has, and Allah certainly knows this too.”
“Yet this will bring even greater trouble upon us,” said my beloved Butterfly.
I abruptly grabbed the wrist of that fool Black, who was still looking at the picture, and with all my strength, digging my nails into his flesh, I angrily squeezed and twisted it. The dagger that he rather timidly held dropped from his hand. I grabbed it from the ground.
“But now you won’t be able to resolve your troubles by handing me over to the torturer,” I said. As if to poke out his eye, I brought the point of the dagger toward Black’s face. “Give me the plume needle.”
He took it out and handed it to me with his good hand, and I stuck it into my sash. I focused my gaze into his lamblike eyes.
“I pity beautiful Shekure because she had no alternative but to marry you,” I said. “If I hadn’t been forced to kill Elegant Effendi to save you all from ruin, she would’ve married me and been happy. Indeed, I was the one who most fully understood the tales and talents of the Europeans as her father recounted them to us. So, listen carefully to the last of what I will tell you: There is no longer any place here in Istanbul for us master miniaturists who wish to live by skill and honor alone. Yes, this is what I’ve realized. If we’re reduced to imitating the Frankish masters, as the late Enishte and Our Sultan desired, we will be restrained, if not by the Ezurumis and those like Elegant Effendi, then by the justified cowardice within us, and we won’t be able to continue. If we fall sway to the Devil and continue, betraying everything that has come before in a futile attempt to attain a style and European character, we will still fail — just as I failed in making this self-portrait despite all my proficiency and knowledge. This primitive picture I’ve made, without even achieving a fair resemblance of myself, revealed to me what we’ve know all along without admitting it: The proficiency of the Franks will take centuries to attain. Had Enishte Effendi’s book been completed and sent to them, the Venetian masters would’ve smirked, and their ridicule would’ve reached the Venetian Doge — that is all. They’d have quipped that the Ottomans have given up being Ottoman and would no longer fear us. How wonderful it would be if we could persist on the path of the old masters! But no one wants this, neither His Excellency Our Sultan, nor Black Effendi — who is melancholy because he has no portrait of his precious Shekure. In that case, sit yourselves down and do nothing but ape the Europeans century after century! Proudly sign your names to your imitation paintings. The old masters of Herat tried to depict the world the way God saw it, and to conceal their individuality they never signed their names. You, however, are condemned to signing your names to conceal your lack of individuality. But there is an alternative. Each of you has perhaps been summoned, and if so, you’re hiding it from me: Akbar, Sultan of Hindustan, is strewing about money and blandishments, trying to gather in his court the most talented artists in the world. It’s quite apparent that the book to be completed for the thousandth year of Islam will not be prepared here in Istanbul, but in the workshops of Agra.”
“Must an artist first become a murderer to be as high and mighty as you?” asked Stork.
“Nay, it’s enough to be the most gifted and the most talented,” I said heedlessly.
A proud cockerel crowed twice in the distance. I gathered my bundle and my gold pieces, my notebook of forms, and put my illustrations into my portfolio. I considered how I might kill each of them one by one with the dagger, whose point I held at Black’s throat, but I felt nothing but affection for my boyhood friends — including Stork, who’d stuck the plume needle into my eyes.
I screamed at Butterfly, who had stood up, and thus scared him into sitting back down. Now, confident I’d be able to escape the lodge safely, I hastened toward the door; and at the threshold, I impatiently uttered the momentous words I’d been planning to say:
“My flight from Istanbul shall resemble Ibn Shakir’s flight from Baghdad under Mongol occupation.”
“In that case, you must head West instead of East,” said jealous Stork.
“To God belongs the East and the West,” I said in Arabic like the late Enishte.
“But East is east and West is west,” said Black.
“An artist should never succumb to hubris of any kind,” said Butterfly, “he should simply paint the way he sees fit rather than troubling over East or West.”
“So very true,” I said to beloved Butterfly. “Accept my kiss.”
I’d hardly taken two steps toward him when Black dutifully pounced upon me. In one hand I held my satchel containing my clothes and gold coins, and under my other arm, the portfolio filled with pictures. Taking care to protect my belongings, I failed to protect myself. I couldn’t prevent him from grabbing the forearm of the hand that held the dagger. But luck did not shine upon him, either; he tripped slightly over a low worktable and momentarily lost his balance. Instead of taking control of my arm, he ended up hanging by it. Kicking him with all my might and biting his fingers, I freed myself. He howled, fearing for his life. Then, I stepped on the same hand, causing him great pain. Brandishing the dagger before the other two, I shouted:
“Halt!”
They stayed seated where they were. I stuck the point of the dagger into one of Black’s nostrils, the way Keykavus had done in the legend. When it began to bleed, bitter tears flowed from his imploring eyes.
“Now, tell me then,” I said, “shall I go blind?”
“According to legend, blood clots in the eyes of some and not in others. If Allah is pleased with your artistry, he’ll bestow His own magnificent blackness upon you and take you under His care. In that case, you shall behold not this wretched world, but the exquisite vistas that He sees. If He is displeased, you shall continue to see the world the way you now do.”
“I shall practice genuine artistry in Hindustan,” I said. “I’ve yet to make the picture Allah will judge me by.”
“Don’t nourish the illusion over much that you’ll be able to escape Frankish methods,” said Black. “Did you know that Akbar Khan encourages all his artists to sign their work? The Jesuit priests of Portugal long ago introduced European painting and methods there. They are everywhere now.”
“There’s always work for the artist who wants to remain pure, there’s always a place to find shelter,” I said.
“Aye,” said Stork, “going blind and fleeing to nonexistent countries.”
“Why is it that you want to remain pure?” said Black. “Stay here with us.”
“For the rest of your lives you’ll do nothing but emulate the Franks for the sake of an individual style,” I said. “But precisely because you emulate the Franks you’ll never attain individual style.”
“There’s nothing else left to do,” said Black dishonorably.
Of course, it wasn’t artistry but beautiful Shekure that was his sole source of happiness. I removed the bloodstained dagger from Black’s bleeding nose and raised it over his head like the sword of an executioner preparing to behead a condemned man.
“If I so desired, I could cut off your head this instant,” I said, announcing what was already apparent. “But I’m prepared to spare you for the sake of Shekure’s children and her happiness. Be good to her and don’t act crudely and ignorantly toward her. Promise me!”
“I give my word,” he said.
“I hereby grant you Shekure,” I said.
Yet my arm acted of its own accord, heedless of my words. I drove the dagger down upon Black with all my might.
At the last moment, both because Black moved and because I altered the path of my blow, the dagger struck his shoulder, not his neck. I watched in terror, the deed enacted by my arm alone. Once I removed the dagger, sunk to its handle in Black’s flesh, the spot bloomed a pure red. What I’d done both frightened and shamed me. But if I went blind on the ship, perhaps on the Arabian seas, I knew that I could not then take revenge upon any of my miniaturist brethren.
Stork, afraid that his turn had come, and justifiably so, fled into the blackened rooms within. Holding the lamp aloft, I went after him, but soon grew frightened and turned back. My last gesture was to kiss Butterfly, and saying farewell, to take my leave of him. Since the tang of blood had come between us, I couldn’t kiss him to my heart’s content. But he noticed that tears flowed from my eyes.
I left the lodge within a kind of deathly silence punctuated by Black’s moaning. Nearly running, I fled the wet and muddy garden, the dark neighborhood. The ship that was to take me to Akbar Khan’s workshop would depart after the morning azan; at that hour the last rowboat would leave for the ship from Galleon Harbor. As I ran, tears poured from my eyes.
As I passed through Aksaray like a thief, I could faintly make out the first light of day on the horizon. Opposite the first neighborhood fountain I encountered, among the side streets, narrow passages and walls, was the stone house in which I’d spent the night of my first day in Istanbul twenty-five years ago. There, through the yawning courtyard gate, I saw once again the well into which I wished to hurl myself in the middle of the night, tormented by guilt for having at the age of eleven wet the mattress that a distant relative spread out for me in a show of kind and generous hospitality. By the time I reached Bayazid, the watchmaker’s shop (where I often came to fix the mechanism of my broken clock), the bottle seller’s shop (where I purchased the empty crystal lamps and sherbet cups I embellished and the little bottles I decorated with floral designs and secretly sold to the gentry) and the public baths (where my feet went out of habit for a time because it was both inexpensive and empty) were all respectfully standing at attention before me and my tearful eyes.
There was nobody in the vicinity of the ravaged and burned coffeehouse, nor anyone at the house of beautiful Shekure and her new husband, who was perhaps in the throes of death at this very moment. I heartily wished them nothing but happiness. While roaming the streets in the days after I’d tainted my hands with blood, all of Istanbul’s dogs, its shadowy trees, shuttered windows, black chimneys, ghosts and hardworking, unhappy early risers hurrying toward mosques to perform their morning prayers always stared at me with animosity; yet, from the moment I confessed my crimes and resolved to abandon the only city I’d ever known, they all regarded me with friendship.
