Orhan Pamuk - My Name is Red

I set out on my way again. I passed through side streets and through ominous alleyways that were frozen, muddy and nearly impassable. As I was knocking on the door, mirth took hold of me and I began to shout.

“The clothier is here! Clothierrr!” I said. “Come and see the best of my ruffled muslin fit for a sultan. Come get my stunning shawls from Kashmir, my Bursa velvet sash cloth, my superb silk-edged Egyptian shirt cloth, my embroidered muslin tablecloths, my mattress and bedsheets, and my colorful handkerchiefs. Clothierrr!”

The door opened. I entered. As always, the house smelled of bedding, sleep, frying oil and humidity, that terrible smell peculiar to aging bachelors.

“Old hag,” he said. “Why are you shouting?”

I silently removed the letter and handed it to him. In the half-lit room, he stealthily and quietly approached me and snatched it from my hand. He passed into the next room where an oil lamp always burned. I waited at the threshold.

“Isn’t your dear father home?”

He didn’t answer. He’d lost himself in the letter. I left him alone so he could read. He stood behind the lamp, and I couldn’t see his face. After finishing the letter, he read it anew.

“Yes,” I said, “and what has he written?”

Hasan read:

My Dearest Shekure, as I too have for years now sustained myself through my dreams of one single person, I respectfully understand your waiting for your husband without considering another. What else could one expect from a woman of your stature besides honesty and virtue ? [Hasan cackled!] My coming to visit your father for the sake of painting, however, does not amount to harassing you. This would never even cross my mind. I make no claim at having received a sign from you or any other encouragement. When your face appeared to me at the window like divine light, I considered it nothing but an act of God’s grace. The pleasure of seeing your face is all I need . [“He took that from Nizami,” Hasan interrupted, annoyed.] But you ask me to keep my distance; tell me then, are you an angel that approaching you should be so terrifying? Listen to what I have to say, listen: I used to try to sleep watching the moonlight fall onto the naked mountains from remote and godforsaken caravansaries where nobody but a desperate han keeper and a few thugs fleeing the gallows lodged, and there, in the middle of the night, listening to the howling of wolves even lonelier and more unfortunate than myself, I used to think that one day you would suddenly appear to me, just as you did at the window. Read closely: Now that I’ve returned to your father for the sake of the book, you’ve sent back the picture I made in my childhood. I know this is not a sign of your death but a sign that I’ve found you again. I saw one of your children, Orhan. That poor fatherless boy. One day I will become his father !

“God protect him, he’s written well,” I said, “this one has become quite the poet.”

“”Are you an angel that approaching you should be so terrifying?“” he repeated. “He stole that line from Ibn Zerhani. I could do better.” He took his own letter out of his pocket. “Take this and deliver it to Shekure.”

For the first time, accepting money along with the letters disturbed me. I felt something like disgust toward this man and his mad obsession, his unrequited love. Hasan, as if to confirm my hunch, for the first time in a long while set aside his good etiquette and said quite rudely:

“Tell her that if we so desire, we’ll force her back here under pressure of the judge.”

“You really want me to say that?”

Silence. “Nay,” he said. The light from the oil lamp illuminated his face, allowing me to see him lower his head like a guilty child. It’s because I know this side of Hasan’s character as well that I have some respect for his feelings and deliver his letters. It’s not only for the money, as you might think.

I was leaving the house, and he stopped me at the door.

“Do you let Shekure know how much I love her?” he asked me excitedly and foolishly.

“Don’t you tell her so in your letters?”

“Tell me how I might convince her and her father? How might I persuade them?”

“By being a good person,” I said and walked to the door.

“At this age, it’s too late…” he said with sincere anguish.

“You’ve begun to earn a lot of money, Customs Officer Hasan. This makes one a good person…” I said and fled.

The house was so dark and melancholy that the air outside seemed warmer. The sunlight hit my face. I wished for Shekure’s happiness. But I also felt something for that poor man in that damp, chilly and dark house. On a whim, I turned into the Spice Market in Laleli thinking the smells of cinnamon, saffron and pepper would restore my spirits. I was mistaken.

At Shekure’s house, after she took up the letters, she immediately asked after Black. I told her that the fire of love had mercilessly engulfed his entire being. This news pleased her.

“Even lonely spinsters busy with their knitting are discussing why Elegant Effendi might’ve been killed,” I said later, changing the subject.

“Hayriye, make some halva as a present of condolence and take it over to Kalbiye, poor Elegant Effendi’s widow,” said Shekure.

“All the Erzurumis and quite a crowd of others will be attending his funeral service,” I said. “His relatives swear they’ll avenge his spilt blood.”

Shekure had already begun to read Black’s letter. I looked into her face intently and angrily. This woman was probably such a fox that she could control how her passions were reflected in her face. As she read I sensed that my silence pleased her, that she regarded it as my approval of the special import she gave to Black’s letter. Shekure finished the letter and smiled at me; to meet with her satisfaction, I felt forced to ask, “What has he written?”

“Just as in his childhood…He’s in love with me.”

“What are your thoughts?”

“I’m a married woman. I’m waiting for my husband.”

Contrary to your expectations, the fact that she’d lie to me after asking me to get involved in her affairs didn’t anger me. Actually, this comment relieved me. If more of the young maidens and women I’ve carried letters for and advised in the ways of the world attended to details the way Shekure did, they would’ve lessened the work for us both by half. More importantly, they would’ve ended up in better marriages.

“What does the other one write?” I asked anyway.

“I don’t intend to read Hasan’s letter right now,” she answered. “Does Hasan know that Black’s returned to Istanbul?”

“He doesn’t even know he exists.”

“Do you speak with Hasan?” she asked, opening wide her beautiful black eyes.

“As you’ve requested.”

“Yes?”

“He’s in agony. He’s deeply in love with you. Even if your heart belongs to another, it’ll be difficult ever to be free of him now. By accepting his letters you’ve greatly encouraged him. Be wary of him, however. For not only does he want to make you return there, but by establishing that his older brother has died, he’s preparing to marry you.” I smiled to soften the weight of these words and so as not to be reduced to being that malcontent’s mouthpiece.

“What’s the other one say, then?” she asked, but did she herself know whom she was inquiring after?

“The miniaturist?”

“My mind’s all ajumble,” she said suddenly, perhaps afraid of her own thoughts. “It seems that matters will become even more confused. My father’s growing older. What’ll become of us, of these fatherless children? I sense an evil approaching, that the Devil is preparing some mischief for us. Esther, tell me something that will hearten me.”