Orhan Pamuk - My Name is Red

Accordingly, upon their asking, I said that, yes, when the Erzurumis began their raid, there was, as on most evenings, a crowd of about forty in the coffeehouse, which included, besides myself, Olive, Nasır the Limner, Jemal the calligrapher, two young assistant illustrators, the young calligraphers who were now spending their days and nights with them, Rahmi the apprentice of unsurpassed beauty, other handsome novices, six or seven men belonging to the lot of poets, drunks, hashish addicts and dervishes and others who cunningly charmed the proprietor into allowing them to join this mirthful and witty group. I explained how confusion reigned as soon as the raid began. When the crowd of onlookers gathered by the proprietor for some bawdy entertainment began to leave in a panic, no one thought to mount a defense of the establishment or of the poor old storyteller dressed as a woman. Did I grieve over this calamity? “Yes! I, Mustafa the Painter, also known as ”Stork,“ who have truly devoted my entire life to illumination, find it necessary, each night, to sit together with my artist brethren and converse, joke, ridicule, pay compliments, recite poems and speak in innuendos,” I confessed, looking directly into the eyes of dim-witted Butterfly, shrouded in the air of a plump, moist-eyed boy plagued by envy. Even as an apprentice, this Butterfly of ours, whose eyes were still as lovely as a child’s, was a sensitive, fine-skinned beauty.

Again, upon their asking me, I described how on the second day that the storyteller, may his soul find peace in Heaven, wandering the city and neighborhoods began plying his trade in the coffeehouse, one of the miniaturists, perhaps under the influence of coffee, hung a picture on the wall to be amusing; the glib storyteller took notice and, as a joke of his own, began a monologue as if he were the dog in the picture, which met with great success; thenceforth, every night he continued to feature pictures drawn by the master miniaturists and to tell witty tales they whispered into his ear. Because the jibes at the preacher from Erzurum at once exhilarated the artists, who lived in terror of the preacher’s wrath, and drew more customers to the coffeehouse, the proprietor from Edirne encouraged the performances.

They asked me my interpretation of the pictures the storyteller hung up behind himself each night, the ones they found during their raid of brother Olive’s empty house. I explained that there was no need for interpretation because the proprietor, like Olive himself, was a begging, thieving, wild wretch of a Kalenderi dervish. The simple-minded Elegant Effendi, terrified of Hoja Effendi’s exhortations, and especially of his fire-and-brimstone Friday sermons, must’ve complained of them to the Erzurumis. Or even more probable, when Elegant warned them to stop in their mischief, the proprietor and Olive, both of the same temperament, conspired to cruelly do away with the ill-fated gilder. The Erzurumis, incited by Elegant’s murder, and perhaps because Elegant Effendi had described Enishte’s book to them, held Enishte responsible for the murder and killed him; and, they must’ve raided the coffeehouse to complete their revenge.

How much attention were chubby Butterfly and grave Black (he was like a ghost) paying to what I said as they ransacked my possessions, gleefully lifting every lid and leaving not a stone unturned? When they came across my boots, armor and warrior’s equipage in the embellished walnut trunk, a look of envy blossomed on Butterfly’s childish face, and I once again declared what everybody already knew quite well. I was the first Muslim illustrator to set out on campaign with the army and the first to carefully study and depict what I’d witnessed in various victory Chronicles -the firing of cannon, the towers of enemy castles, the colors of infidel soldiers’ uniforms, the sprawl of corpses, the piles of severed heads along riverbanks and the order and charge of armored cavalry!

When Butterfly asked me to show him how I donned my armor, I forthwith and without embarrassment took off my overshirt, my black rabbit-fur-lined undershirt, my trousers and my underwear. Pleased with the way they watched me by the light of the stove, I pulled on my clean long underwear, the thick shirt of red broadcloth worn under armor in cold weather, woolen socks, the boots of yellow leather, and over them, my gaiters. Removing it from its case, I was delighted to put on my breastplate, then I turned my back toward Butterfly and as if ordering a pageboy, had him do up the laces of the armor tightly and ordered him to attach my shoulder plates. As I was putting on my vambraces, gloves, the camel hair sword belt and finally the gold-worked helmet that I wore for ceremonies, I proudly declared that henceforth battle scenes would never again be depicted as they’d been in days of old. “It is no longer permissible to depict the cavalries of two opposing armies uniformly using the same pattern as a guide and simply flipping it over to draw the enemy’s forces,” I said. “From now on, the battle scenes made in the workshops of the Ottomans will be drawn the way I’ve seen them and drawn them: a tumult of armies, horses, armor-clad warriors and bloodied bodies!”

Seized by envy, Butterfly said, “The illuminator draws not what he sees, but what Allah sees.”

“Yes,” I said, “however, exalted Allah certainly sees everything we see.”

“Of course, Allah sees what we see, but He doesn’t perceive it the way we do,” said Butterfly as if chastising me. “The confused battle scene that we perceive in our bewilderment, He perceives in His omniscience as two opposing armies in an orderly array.”

Naturally, I had a response. I wanted to say, “It falls to us to believe in Allah and to depict only what He reveals to us, not what He conceals,” but I held my peace. And I hadn’t kept quiet because Butterfly would otherwise accuse me of imitating the Europeans or because he was relentlessly striking one end of his dagger against my helmet and back, supposedly to test my armor, but because I calculated that only if I restrained myself and won over Black and this pretty-eyed oaf could we deliver ourselves from Olive’s scheming.

Once they knew they wouldn’t find what they were looking for here, they told me what they were after. There was a picture that the unspeakable murderer had absconded with…I said that my house was already searched for the same reason; as a result, the wise murderer most certainly would’ve hid that picture where nobody could ever find it (I was thinking of Olive), but did they heed my words? Black explained the horse drawn with clipped nostrils and how the three-day period Our Sultan had granted Master Osman was well nigh over. When I inquired further about the significance of the clipped nostrils, Black told me, looking straight into my eyes, how Master Osman, analyzing them as a clue, linked them to Olive, although he suspected me even more, being no stranger to my ambitions.

At first, it appeared they’d come here prepared to believe that I was the murderer and to find proof of it, but in my opinion, this wasn’t the sole reason for their visit. They’d also come knocking at my door out of loneliness and desperation. When I opened the door, the dagger that Butterfly pointed at me shook in his hand. Not only were they terrified, thinking that the despicable murderer, whose identity they were at such pains to uncover, might corner them in the darkness, smiling like an old friend, and swiftly cut their throats, they were also losing sleep for fear that Master Osman might conspire with Our Sultan and the Head Treasurer to turn them over to the torturer-not to mention the mob of Erzurumis roaming the streets, which demoralized them. In short, they desired my friendship. But Master Osman had instilled in them the opposite notion. It was my present obligation to show them sincerely how Master Osman was mistaken, which is what they’d hoped for deep down anyway.