Orhan Pamuk - My Name is Red

A memory: Thirty years ago, Our Sultan’s grandfather, Denizen of Paradise, decided once and for all to take Cyprus from the Venetians. Sheikhulislam Ebussuut Effendi, recalling that this island was once designated a commissariat for Mecca and Medina, issued a fatwa which more or less stated that it was inappropriate for an island which had helped sustain holy sites to remain under Christian infidel control. In turn, the difficult task of informing the Venetians of this unforeseen decision, that they must surrender their island, fell to me. As a result, I was able to tour the cathedrals of Venice. Though I marveled at their bridges and palazzos, I was most enchanted by the pictures hanging in Venetian homes. Nevertheless, in the midst of this bewilderment, trusting in the hospitality displayed by the Venetians, I delivered the menacing correspondence, informing them in a haughty, supercilious fashion that Our Sultan desired Cyprus. The Venetians were so angry that in their congress, which had been hastily convened, it was decided that even to discuss such a letter was unacceptable. Furious mobs had forced me to confine myself to the Doge’s palazzo. And when some rogues managed to get past the guards and doorkeepers and had set to strangling me, two of the Doge’s personal musketeers succeeded in escorting me out one of the secret passageways to an exit that opened onto the canal. There, in a fog not unlike this one, I thought for an instant that the tall and pale gondolier dressed in white, who’d taken me by the arm, was none other than Death. I caught sight of my reflection in his eyes.

Longingly, I dreamed of finishing my book in secret and returning to Venice. I approached the grave, which had been carefully covered with dirt: At this moment, angels are interrogating him above, asking him whether he is male or female, his religion and whom he recognizes as his prophet. The possibility of my own death came to mind.

A crow alighted beside me. I gazed lovingly into Black’s eyes and asked him to take my arm and accompany me on the way back. I told him I expected him at the house early the next morning to continue working on the book. I had indeed imagined my own death, and realized, once again, that the book must be completed, whatever the cost.

They threw cold, muddy earth onto the battered and disfigured corpse of ill-fated Elegant Effendi and I wept more than any of them. I shouted, “I want to die with him!” and “Let me share his grave!” and they held me by the waist so I wouldn’t fall in. I gasped for air and they pressed their palms to my forehead, drawing my head back so I might breathe. By the glances of the deceased’s relatives, I sensed I might have exaggerated my sobs and wailing; I pulled myself together. Based upon my excessive sorrow the workshop gossips might suppose that Elegant Effendi and I had been in love.

I hid behind a plane tree until the funeral ended to avoid drawing more attention to myself. A relative of the oaf I’d sent to Hell-an even bigger idiot than the deceased-discovered me behind the tree and stared deep into my eyes with a look he assumed was meaningful. He held me in his embrace for a while, then the ignoramus said the following: “Were you ”Saturday“ or ”Wednesday‘?“

“”Wednesday“ was the workshop name of the dearly departed for a time,” I said. He fell silent.

The story behind these workshop names, which bound us to one another like a secret pact, was simple: During our apprenticeships, when Osman the miniaturist had newly graduated from assistant master to the level of master, we all shared a great respect, admiration and love for him. He was a virtuoso and he taught us everything, for God had blessed him with an enchanting artistic gift and the intellect of a jinn. Early each morning, as was demanded of apprentices, one of us would go to the master’s home, and following respectfully behind him on the way to the workshop, carry his pen and brush box, his bag and his portfolio full of papers. So desperate were we to be near him that we’d argue and fight among ourselves to determine who would go that day.

Master Osman had a favorite. But if he were always to go, it would fan the flames of the never-ending gossip and tasteless jokes that inevitably filled the workshop, and so the great master decided that each of us would be assured a specified day of the week. The great master worked on Fridays and stayed at home Saturdays. His son, whom he loved dearly-who later betrayed him and us by quitting the trade-would accompany his father on Mondays like a common apprentice. There was also a tall thin brother of ours known as “Thursday,” a miniaturist more gifted than any of us, who passed away at a young age, succumbing to the fever brought on by a mysterious illness. Elegant Effendi, may he rest in peace, would go on Wednesdays, and was therefore known as “Wednesday.” Later, our great master meaningfully and lovingly changed our names from “Tuesday” to “Olive,” from “Friday” to “Stork,” and from “Sunday” to “Butterfly,” renaming the dearly departed as “Elegant” in allusion to the finesse of his gilding work. The great master must have said, “Welcome ”Wednesday,“ how are you this morning?” to the late Elegant just as he used to greet all of us back then.

When I recalled how he would address me, I thought my eyes might fill with tears: Master Osman admired us, and his own eyes would tear when he beheld the beauty of our work; he’d kiss our hands and arms, and despite the beatings, we felt as if we were in Heaven as apprentices; and so our talent blossomed with his love. Even jealousy, which cast its shadow over those happy years, had a different hue then.

Now I am completely divided, just like those figures whose head and hands are drawn and painted by one master while their bodies and clothes are depicted by another. When a God-fearing man like myself unexpectedly becomes a murderer, it takes time to adjust. I’ve adopted a second voice, one befitting a murderer, so that I might still carry on as though my old life continued. I am speaking now in this derisive and devious second voice, which I keep out of my regular life. From time to time, of course, you’ll hear my familiar, regular voice, which would’ve remained my only voice had I not become a murderer. But when I speak under my workshop name, I’ll never admit to being “a murderer.” Let no one try to associate these two voices, I have no individual style or flaws in artistry to betray my hidden persona. Indeed, I believe that style, or for that matter, anything that serves to distinguish one artist from another, is a flaw-not individual character, as some arrogantly claim.

I do admit that in my own situation, this presents a problem. For though I might speak through my workshop name, lovingly given to me by Master Osman and used by Enishte Effendi, who also admired it, in no wise do I want you to figure out whether I am Butterfly, Olive or Stork. For if you do you won’t hesitate to turn me over to the torturers of the Sultan’s Commander of the Imperial Guard.

And, I must mind what I think about and say. Actually, I know that you’re listening to me even when I’m mulling over matters in private. I can’t afford careless contemplation of my frustrations or the incriminating details of my life. Even when recounting the “Alif,” “Ba” and “Djim” stories. I was always mindful of your gaze.

One side of the warriors, lovers, princes and legendary heroes that I’ve illustrated tens of thousands of times faces whatever is depicted there, in that mythical time-the enemies they’re battling, for example, or the dragons they’re slaying, or the beautiful maidens over whom they weep. But another aspect, and another side of their bodies, faces the book lover who happens to be gazing at the magnificent painting. If I do have style and character, it’s not only hidden in my artwork, but in my crime and in my words as well! Yes, try to discover who I am from the color of my words!