Orhan Pamuk - My Name is Red

“Eyüp,” said an ill-tempered, bearded and young dolt.

“Eyüp,” I said turning to the master, but he’d heard what the ill-tempered dolt had said anyway. Then, he looked at me as if to say, “I understand” in a way that let me know he didn’t want our encounter to last a moment longer than it already had.

Without mentioning my influence on Our Sultan’s growing interest in Frankish styles of painting, Master Osman was of course annoyed that Our Sultan had ordered me to oversee the writing out, embellishment and illustration of the illuminated manuscript, which I’ve described as “secret.” On one occasion, the Sultan forced the great Master Osman to copy a portrait of His Highness, which had been commissioned from a Venetian. I know Master Osman holds me responsible for having to imitate that painter, for having to make that strange painting, which he did with disgust, referring to the experience as “torture.” His wrath was justified.

Standing in the middle of the staircase for a while, I looked at the sky. When I was convinced that I’d been left quite behind, I continued down the icy stairs. I’d barely descended-ever so slowly-two steps when a man took me by the arm and embraced me: Black.

“The air is freezing,” he said. “You must be cold.”

I hadn’t the slightest doubt that this was the one who’d muddled Shekure’s mind. The self-confidence with which he took my arm was proof enough. There was something in his demeanor that announced, “I’ve worked for twelve years and have truly grown up.” When we came to the bottom of the stairs, I told him that I’d expect an account later of what he’d learned at the workshop.

“You go ahead, my child,” I said. “Go ahead and catch up to the congregation.”

He was taken aback, but didn’t let on. The way he let go of my arm with reservation and walked ahead of me pleased me, even. If I gave Shekure to him, would he agree to live in the same house with us?

We’d left the city through the Edirne Gate. I saw the coffin on the verge of disappearing into the fog along with the crowd of illustrators, calligraphers and apprentices shouldering it as they quickly descended the hill toward the Golden Horn. They were walking so fast, they’d already traveled half of the muddy road that led down the snow-covered valley to Eyüp. In the silent fog, off to the left, the chimney of the Hanım Sultan Charity candleworks shop happily piped up its smoke. Under the shadow of the walls, there were tanneries and the bustling slaughterhouses that served the Greek butchers of Eyüp. The smell of offal coming from these places had wafted over the valley, which extended to the vaguely discernible domes of the Eyüp Mosque and its cypress-lined cemetery. After walking for a while longer, I heard from below the shouts of children at play coming from the new Jewish quarter in Balat.

When we reached the plain where Eyüp was located, Butterfly approached me, and in his usual fiery manner, abruptly broached his subject:

“Olive and Stork are the ones behind this vulgarity,” he said. “Like everyone else, they knew I had a bad relationship with the deceased. They knew everyone was aware of this. There was jealousy between us, even open animosity and antagonism, over who would assume leadership of the workshop after Master Osman. Now they expect the guilt to fall on my shoulders, or at the least, that the Head Treasurer, and under his influence, Our Sultan, will distance themselves from me, nay, from us.”

“Who is this ”us’ of which you speak?“

“Those of us who believe that the old morality ought to persist at the workshop, that we should follow the path laid by the Persian masters, that an artist shouldn’t illustrate just any scene for money alone. In place of weapons, armies, slaves and conquests, we believe that the old myths, legends and stories ought to be introduced anew into our books. We shouldn’t forgo the old models. Genuine miniaturists shouldn’t loiter at the shops in the bazaar and paint any old thing, depictions of indecency, for a few extra kurush from anybody who happens by. His Excellency Our Sultan would find us justified.”

“You’re incriminating yourself senselessly,” I said so he might be done with his ranting. “I’m convinced that the atelier could not harbor anybody capable of committing such a crime. You’re all brethren. There’s no great harm in illustrating a few subjects that haven’t been depicted previously, at least no harm so great as to be an occasion for enmity.”

As happened when I first heard the horrid news, I had an epiphany of sorts. Elegant Effendi’s murderer was one of the premier masters in the palace workshop and he was a member of the crowd before me, climbing the hill that led to the cemetery. I was also convinced that the murderer would continue with his devilry and sedition, that he was an enemy of the book I was making, and most probably, that he’d visited my house to pick up some work illustrating and painting. Had Butterfly, too, like most of the artists who frequented my house, fallen in love with Shekure? As he made his assertions, had he forgotten the times when I’d requested that he paint pictures that were contrary to his point of view, or was he just needling me with expert skill?

Nay, I thought a little while later, he couldn’t be needling me. Butterfly, like the other master illustrators, obviously owed me a debt of gratitude: With money and gifts to miniaturists dwindling, due to the wars and lack of interest on the part of Our Sultan, the sole significant source of extra income had for some time been what they earned working for me. I knew they were jealous of one another over my attentions, and for this reason-but not only for this reason-I met with them individually at my house, hardly a basis for hostility toward me. All of my miniaturists were mature enough to behave intelligently, to sincerely find a reason to admire a man to whom they were obliged for their own profit.

To relieve the silence and ensure that the previous topic of conversation wouldn’t be revisited, I said, “Oh, will His wonders never cease! They’re able to take the coffin up that hill as fast as they brought it down.”

Butterfly smiled sweetly showing all his teeth: “Due to the cold.”

Could this one actually kill a man, I wondered, for example, out of envy? Might he kill me? He had the following excuse: This man was debasing my religion. Nay, but he’s a great master, a perfect embodiment of talent, why should he resort to murder? Age means not only straining oneself climbing hills, but also, I gather, not being so afraid of death. It means a lack of desire, entering into a slave girl’s bedchamber, not in a fit of excitement, but out of custom. In a burst of intuition, I told him to his face the decision I’d made:

“I’m not continuing with the book any longer.”

“What?” said Butterfly as his expression changed.

“There’s some kind of ill-fortune in it. Our Sultan has cut off the funding. You’re to tell Olive and Stork, as well.”

Perhaps he would have inquired further, but we found ourselves on the slopes of the graveyard amid tightly spaced towering cypresses, high ferns and tombstones. As the great crowd encircled the grave site, my only clue that the body was at that very moment being lowered into the grave was the increasing intensity of the weeping and sobbing and the exclamations of bismillahi and ala milleti Resulullah .

“Uncover his face completely,” someone said.

They were removing the white shroud, and they must’ve been eye to eye with the corpse if indeed there was an eye remaining in that smashed head. I was in the back and I couldn’t see anything. I’d once gazed into the eyes of Death, not at a grave site, in an entirely different place…