Orhan Pamuk - My Name is Red

“Either our father, Master Osman, will betray and kill us, or we shall betray and kill him.”

We were stricken with horror because what I said rang absolutely true; we fell silent. Still pacing, and panicked by the thought that everything would revert to its former state, I told myself the following: “Tell the story of Afrasiyab’s murder of Siyavush to change the subject. But that’s a betrayal such as fails to frighten me. Recount the death of Hüsrev.” All right then, but should it be the version told by Firdusi in the Book of Kings or the one told by Nizami in Hüsrev and Shirin ? The pathos of the account in the Book of Kings rests in Hüsrev’s tearful realization of the identity of the murderer intruding in his bedroom chamber! As a last resort, saying that he wants to perform his prayers, Hüsrev sends the servant boy attending him to fetch water, soap, clean clothes and his prayer rug; the naive boy, without understanding that his master has sent him for help, goes to gather the requested items. Once alone with Hüsrev, the murderer’s first task is to lock the door from the inside. In this scene at the end of the Book of Kings , the man whom the conspirators found to enact the murder is described by Firdusi with disgust: He is foul smelling, hairy and pot-bellied.

I paced to and fro, my head swarmed with words, but as in a dream, my voice would not take.

Just then I sensed that the others were whispering among themselves, maligning me.

They were so quick to take out my legs that the four of us collapsed to the floor. There was a struggle and fight on the ground, but it was brief. I lay faceup on the floor beneath the three of them.

One of them sat on my knees. Another on my right arm.

Black pressed a knee into each of my shoulders; he firmly situated his weight between my stomach and chest, and sat on me. I was completely immobilized. All of us were stunned and breathing hard. This is what I remembered:

My late uncle had a rogue son two years older than me-I hope he’s been caught in the act of raiding caravans and has long since been beheaded. This jealous beast, realizing I knew more than he and was also more intelligent and refined, would find any excuse to pick a fight, or else he’d insist that we wrestle, and after quickly pinning me, he’d hold me down with his knees on my shoulders in this same way; he’d stare into my eyes, the way Black was now doing, and let a string of saliva hang down, slowly directing it toward my eyes as it gained mass, and he’d be greatly entertained as I tried to avoid it by turning my head to the right and to the left.

Black told me not to hide anything. Where was the last picture? Confess!

I felt suffocating regret and anger for two reasons: First, I’d said everything I had for naught, unaware that they’d come to an agreement beforehand; secondly, I hadn’t fled, unable to imagine that their envy would reach this level.

Black threatened to cut my throat if I didn’t produce the last picture.

How very ridiculous. I firmly closed my lips, as if the truth would escape if I opened my mouth. Part of me also thought that there was nothing left for me to do. If they came to an agreement among themselves and turned me over to the Head Treasurer as the murderer, they’d end up saving their own hides. My only hope lay with Master Osman, who might point out another suspect or another clue; but then, could I be certain what Black said about him was correct? He could kill me here and now, and later place the onus on me, couldn’t he?

They rested the dagger against my throat, and I saw at once how this gave Black a pleasure that he could not conceal. They slapped me. Was the dagger cutting my skin? They slapped me again.

I was able to work through the following logic: If I held my peace, nothing would happen! This gave me strength. They could no longer hide the fact that since the days of our apprenticeships they’d been jealous of me; I, who quite evidently applied paint in the best manner, drew the steadiest line and made the best illuminations. I loved them for their extreme envy. I smiled upon my beloved brethren.

One of them, I don’t want you to know which of them was responsible for this disgrace, passionately kissed me as if he were kissing the beloved he’d long desired. The others watched by the light of the oil lamp that they brought near to us. I could not but respond in kind to this kiss from my beloved brother. If we’re nearing the end of everything, let it be known that I do the best illuminating. Find my pages and see for yourselves.

He began to beat me angrily, as if I’d enraged him by answering his kiss with a kiss. But the others restrained him. They experienced a moment of indecision. Black was upset that there was a scuffle among them. It was as if they weren’t angry with me, but with the direction in which their lives were headed, and as a result, they wanted to take their revenge against the entire world.

Black removed an object from his sash: a needle with a sharpened point. In an instant, he brought it to my face and made a gesture as if to plunge it into my eyes.

“Eighty years ago, the great Bihzad, master of masters, understood that everything was coming to an end with the fall of Herat, and honorably blinded himself so nobody would force him to paint in another way,” he said. “A short while after he deliberately inserted this plume needle into his own eye and removed it, God’s exquisite darkness slowly descended over His beloved servant, this artist with the miraculous hand. This needle which came from Herat to Tabriz with the now drunk and blind Bihzad, was sent as a present by Shah Tahmasp to Our Sultan’s father, along with that legendary Book of Kings . At first, Master Osman was unable to determine why this object was sent. But today, he was able to see the ill will and just logic behind this cruel present. After Master Osman understood that Our Sultan wanted to have His own portrait made in the style of the European masters and that you all, whom he loved more than his own children, had betrayed him, he stuck this needle into each of his eyes last night in the Treasury-in imitation of Bihzad. Now, if I were to blind you, the accursed man responsible for bringing to ruin the workshop Master Osman established at the expense of his entire life, what of it?”

“Whether or not you blind me, in the end, we’ll no longer be able to find a place for ourselves here,” I said. “If Master Osman truly goes blind, or passes away, and we paint the way we feel like painting, embracing our faults and individuality under the influence of the Franks so we might possess a style, we might resemble ourselves, but we won’t be ourselves. No, even if we were to agree to paint like the old masters, reasoning that only in this way could we be ourselves, Our Sultan, who’s turned His back even on Master Osman, will find others to replace us. No one will look at us anymore, we shall only incur pity. The raiding of the coffeehouse merely rubs salt into our wounds, because half the blame for this incident will fall to us miniaturists, who’ve slandered the respected preacher.”

Although I tried at length to persuade them that it would work quite against us to quarrel, it was to no avail. They had no intention of listening to me. They were panicked. If they could only decide quickly, before morning, right or wrong, which of their lot was guilty, they were convinced they could save themselves, be delivered from torture and that everything having to do with the workshop would persist for years to come as it always had.

Nevertheless, what Black threatened to do didn’t please the other two. What if it became evident that somebody else was guilty and Our Sultan learned they blinded me for no reason whatsoever? They were terrified both of Black’s closeness to Master Osman and his insolence toward him. They tried to pull back the needle which Black, in blind rage, persisted in holding before my eyes.