Orhan Pamuk - My Name is Red

Simply declaring that the great master was mistaken and that he’d become senile would surely arouse Butterfly’s enmity. For in the watery eyes of the handsome illuminator, whose eyelashes fluttered like the insect he was named for as he banged upon my armor with his dagger, I could still make out the pale fire of love he felt for the great master, whose favorite he had been. In my youth, the closeness of those two, master and apprentice, was enviously ridiculed by the others; but they themselves paid no mind, they’d stare into each other’s eyes at length and fondle each other in front of everybody; later still, Master Osman would declare tactlessly that Butterfly was possessed of the most agile pen and the most mature color brush. This declaration-often quite true-became the source of endless puns among the jealous miniaturists using pens, brushes, inkpots and pen boxes in vulgar allusions, devilish comparisons and indecent metaphors. For this reason, I’m not the only one who senses that Master Osman wants Butterfly to succeed him as head of the workshop. I’ve long understood from the way he talks to others about my belligerence, incompatibility and stubbornness that this is what the great master has hidden in the back of his mind. He thinks, justifiably, that I tend far more toward the European methods than Olive or Butterfly, and could never resist Our Sultan’s new desires by saying, “The great masters of old would never paint this way.”

I knew I’d be able to cooperate closely with Black because our eager new groom must’ve wanted to complete his deceased Enishte’s book, not only to conquer beautiful Shekure’s heart and show her that he could fill her father’s shoes, but also, most probably, to ingratiate himself with Our Sultan by the quickest means possible.

Therefore, I introduced the matter quite unexpectedly by saying that Enishte’s book was a blissful miracle without equal in the world. When this masterpiece was completed, in keeping with Our Sultan’s decree and the late Enishte Effendi’s desire, the whole world would marvel over the Ottoman Sultan’s power and wealth as well as the talent, elegance and ability of us, His master miniaturists. Not only would they fear us, our power and our relentlessness, they’d be bewildered, seeing how we laughed and cried, how we stole from the Frankish masters, how we saw the most buoyant colors and the minutest of details; and ultimately, they would acknowledge with terror what only the most intelligent sultans understood: that we were situated both within the world of our paintings and far far away in the company of the old masters.

Butterfly had been striking me all along, first like a child eager to determine whether or not my armor was genuine; next, like a friend who wanted to test its strength; and finally, like an incorrigible and jealous foe who wanted to do me harm. In truth, he understood that I was more talented than he; even worse, he probably sensed that Master Osman knew this too. With his God-given talent, Butterfly was a superb master, and his envy made me prouder: Unlike him, I became a master through the strength of my own “reed,” not by holding my master’s, and I sensed that I could force him to accept my superiority.

Raising my voice, I explained how pitiful it was that there were men who wanted to undermine Our Sultan and the late Enishte’s miraculous book. Master Osman was like a father to us all; he was everyone’s superior; we learned everything from him! Yet, after tracing the clues in Our Sultan’s Treasury, for some unknown reason, Master Osman tried to conceal his realization that Olive was the despicable murderer. I said I was certain that Olive, who couldn’t be found at home, was hiding away in the deserted Kalenderi dervish house near the Phanar Gate. This dervish lodge was closed during the reign of Our Sultan’s grandfather, not because it was a den of degradation and immorality, but rather, as a result of the endless wars with the Persians, and, I added, there was even a time when Olive boasted that he was keeping guard over the forbidden dervish lodge. If they didn’t trust me, suspecting some ruse behind my words, the dagger was in their hands, they were free to mete out my punishment then and there.

Butterfly landed two more heavy blows of the dagger that most armor could not have withstood. He turned to Black, who believed what I told them, and screamed at him childishly. I came up from behind, put my armor-plated arm around Butterfly’s neck and drew him toward me. Bending his other arm back with my free hand, I made him drop the dagger. We weren’t quite struggling, nor were we entirely playing. I recounted a similar, little-known scene in the Book of Kings .

“On the third day of a confrontation between Persian and Turanian armies fully equipped in armor and weaponry and arrayed at the foot of Mount Hamaran, the Turanians sent the wily Shengil into the field to learn the identity of a mysterious Persian who’d killed a great Turanian warrior on each of the previous two days,” I began. “Shengil challenged the mysterious warrior, and he accepted. The armies, their armor glimmering brightly in the afternoon sun, watched with bated breath. The armored horses of the two warriors engaged each other with such speed that sparks flying from the clash of metal singed the hides of the horses which gave off smoke. The fight was a lengthy one. The Turanian shot arrows; the Persian maneuvered his sword and horse skillfully; and finally, the mysterious Persian felled the Turanian after catching him by the tail of his steed. He then chased after Shengil who was trying to escape, and grabbed him by his armor from behind before taking him by the neck. As he accepted his defeat, the Turanian, still curious about the identity of the mysterious warrior, asked without hope what everybody had wondered for days, ”Who are you?“ ”To you,“ replied the mysterious warrior, ”my name is Death.“ Tell me then, my friends, who was he?”

“The legendary Rüstem,” said Butterfly with childlike glee.

I kissed him on the neck. “We’ve all betrayed Master Osman,” I said. “Before he metes out his punishment, we must find Olive, rid ourselves of this venom in our midst and come to an agreement so we can stand strong against the eternal enemies of art and those who long to send us directly to dungeons of torture. Perhaps, when we arrive at Olive’s abandoned dervish house, we’ll learn that the cruel murderer isn’t even one of our lot.”

Poor Butterfly uttered not a sound. Regardless of how talented, confident or well supported he might be, just like all illuminators who sought one another’s company depite their mutual loathing and envy, he was deathly afraid of being left alone in this world and of going to Hell.

On the route to the Phanar Gate, there was an eerie greenish-yellow light above us, but it wasn’t the light of the moon. In this light, the old, faithful nighttime appearance of Istanbul comprised of cypress trees, leaden domes, stone walls, wooden houses and tracts ravaged by fire was overtaken by an unfamiliarity such as might be caused by an enemy fortress. As we ascended the hill, in the distance we saw the fire that burned somewhere beyond the Bayazid Mosque.

In the heavy darkness, we came across an oxcart half-loaded with sacks of flour heading toward the city walls, and parting with two silver coins, we procured a ride. Black had the pictures with him, and he sat down carefully. As I lay back and watched the low clouds glow from the fire, two raindrops fell upon my helmet.

After a long journey, as we searched for the deserted dervish lodge we roused all the dogs in the neighborhood which, in the middle of the night, seemed to be abandoned. Although we saw that lamps were now burning in a few stone houses in response to our clamor, it was only the fourth door we knocked upon that opened to us, and a man in skullcap, gaping at us by the light of his lamp as if we were the living dead, gave us directions to the deserted dervish lodge without even sticking his nose out into the quickening rain-merrily adding that once there, we’d have no peace from the evils of jinns, demons and ghosts.