Orhan Pamuk - My Name is Red

“We,” Black was referring to Stork and himself, “will search the dervish house for the last picture which was stolen by the accursed man who murdered my Enishte. Did you ever see that last picture?”

“It is nothing that could be accepted by Our Sultan, illuminators like us bound to the old masters or by Muslims bound to their faith,” I said and fell silent.

My statement made him more eager. He and Stork began their search of the premises, turning the whole place upside down. A few times, simply to make their work easier, I went to them. In one of the dervish cells with a leaky ceiling, I pointed out the hole in the floor so they wouldn’t fall and could search it if they so desired. I gave them the large key to the small room in which the sheikh lived thirty years ago, before the adherents of this lodge joined up with the Bektashis and dispersed. They entered eagerly, but when they saw that an entire wall was missing and the room was open to the rain, they didn’t even bother to search it.

It pleased me that Butterfly wasn’t with them, but if evidence implicating me were found, he, too, would join their ranks. Stork was of the same mind as Black, who was afraid that Master Osman would turn us over to the torturers, and maintained that we must support one another and must be united in confronting the Head Treasurer. I sensed Black was not only motivated by the desire to give Shekure a genuine wedding present by finding his Enisthe’s murderer, he also intended to set Ottoman miniaturists on the path of European masters by paying them with the Sultan’s money in order to finish his Enishte’s book in imitation of the Franks (which was not only sacrilegious, but ridiculous). I also understood, with some certainty, that at the root of this scheme was Stork’s desire to be rid of us and even of Master Osman, for he dreamt of being Head Illuminator and (since everyone guessed that Master Osman preferred Butterfly) he was prepared to try anything to increase his chances. I was momentarily confused. Listening to the rain, I deliberated at length. Next, like a man who breaks away from the crowd and struggles to give his petition to the sovereign and grand vizier as they pass on horseback, I had the sudden inspiration to endear myself to Stork and Black. Leading them through a dark hallway and large portal, I took them to a frightening room that was once the kitchen. I asked them if they were able to find anything here among the ruins. Of course, they hadn’t. There was no trace of the kettles, the pots and pans and the bellows that were once used to prepare food for the forsaken and the poor. I never even attempted to clean up this ghastly room covered in cobwebs, dust, mud, debris and the excrement of dogs and cats. As always, a strong wind, rising up as if out of nowhere, dimmed the lamp-making our shadows now lighter, now darker.

“You searched and searched but you couldn’t find my hidden treasure,” I said.

Out of habit, I used the back of my hand as a broom to sweep away the ashes in what used to be a hearth and when an old stove emerged, I lifted up its iron lid with a creak. I held the lamp to the small mouth of the stove. I shall never forget how Stork leapt forward and greedily grabbed the leather pouches within before Black could act. He was about to open the pouches right there in the mouth of the oven, but as I had returned to the large salon, followed by Black who was afraid of remaining here, Stork bounded after us on his long thin legs.

When they saw that one pouch contained a pair of clean woolen socks, my drawstring trousers, my red underwear, the nicest of my undershirts, my silk shirt, my straight razor, my comb and other belongings, they were momentarily at a loss. Out of the other pouch, which Black opened, emerged fifty-three Venetian gold coins, pieces of gold leaf that I’d stolen from the workshop in recent years, my sketchbook of model forms which I concealed from everybody, more stolen gold leaf hidden between the pages, indecent pictures-some of which I’d drawn myself and some I’d collected-a keepsake agate ring from my dear mother along with a lock of her white hair, and my best pens and brushes.

“If I were truly a murderer as you suspect,” I said with stupid pride, “the final picture would’ve emerged from my secret treasury, not these things.”

“Why these things?” asked Stork.

“When the Imperial Guard searched my house, as they did yours, they shamelessly pilfered two of these gold pieces that I’ve spent my entire life collecting. I thought about how we’d be searched again on account of this wretched murderer-and I was right. If that last picture were with me, it would be here.”

It was a mistake to utter this last sentence; nevertheless, I could sense that they were put at ease and no longer afraid that I’d strangle them in a dark corner of the lodge. Have I gained your trust as well?

At this time, however, I was overwhelmed by a severe restlessness; no, it wasn’t that my illuminator friends, whom I’d known since childhood, saw how I’d been greedily squirreling money away for years, how I bought and saved gold, or even that they learned about my sketchbooks and obscene pictures. In truth, I regretted having shown them all of these things in a moment of panic. Only the mysteries of a man who lived quite aimlessly could be exposed so easily.

“Nonetheless,” said Black much later, “we must come to a consensus about what we will say under torture if Master Osman happens to turn us over without any forewarning.”

A hollowness and depression descended upon us. In the pale light of the lamp, Stork and Butterfly were staring at the vulgar pictures in my sketchbook. They displayed an air of complete indifference; in fact, they were even happy in some horrid way. I had a strong urge to look at the picture-I could very well surmise which one it was; I rose and circled around behind them, gazing silently at the obscene picture I’d painted, thrilled as though I were recalling a now distant yet blissful memory. Black joined us. For whatever reason, that the four of us were looking at that illustration relieved me.

“Could the blind and the seeing ever be equal?” said Stork much later. Was he implying that even though what we saw was obscene, the pleasure of sight that Allah had bestowed upon us was glorious? Nay, what would Stork know of such matters? He never read the Koran. I knew that the old masters of Herat would frequently recite this verse. The great masters used this verse as a response to enemies of painting who warned that illustrating was forbidden by our faith and that painters would be sent to Hell on Judgment Day. Until that magical moment, however, I’d never even once heard from Butterfly those words that now emerged from his mouth as if on their own:

“I’d like to depict how the blind and the seeing are not equal!”

“Who are the blind and the seeing?” Black said naively.

“The blind and the seeing are not equal, it’s what ” ve ma yestevil’ama ve’l basiru’nun means,“ Butterfly said and continued:

“…nor are the darkness and the light.

The shade and the heat are not equal,

nor are the living and the dead.“

I shuddered for an instant, thinking of the fates of Elegant Effendi, Enishte and our storyteller brother who was killed tonight. Were the others as frightened as I? Nobody moved for a time. Stork was still holding my book open, but seemed not to see the vulgarity I’d painted though we were all still staring at it!

“I’d want to paint Judgment Day,” said Stork. “The resurrection of the dead, and the separation of the guilty from the innocent. Why is it that we cannot depict the Sacred Word of our faith?”

In our youth, working together in the same room of our workshop, we would periodically lift our faces from our work boards and tables, just as the aging masters would do to rest their eyes, and begin talking about any topic that happened to enter our minds. Back then, just as we now did while looking at the book open before us, we didn’t look at one another as we chatted. For our eyes would be turned toward some distant spot outside an open window. I’m not sure if it was the excitement of recalling something remarkably beautiful from my halcyon apprenticeship days, or the sincere regret I felt at that moment because I hadn’t read the Koran for so long, or the horror of the crime I’d seen at the coffeehouse that night, but when my turn came to speak, I grew confused, my heart quickened as if I’d come under the threat of some danger, and as nothing else came to mind, I simply said the following: