Orhan Pamuk - My Name is Red

Pretending not to understand, I said, “Exactly the way we see Shah Ismail ascending the throne in those illustrated books that recount ancient Persian legends. Or when we come across a depiction of Tamerlane, who actually ruled long afterward, in the story of Hüsrev and Shirin .”

Was there a noise somewhere in the house?

“It’s as if the Venetian paintings were made to frighten us,” said my Enishte later. “And it isn’t enough that we be in awe of the authority and money of these men who commission the works, they also want us to know that simply existing in this world is a very special, very mysterious event. They’re attempting to terrify us with their unique faces, eyes, bearing and with their clothing whose every fold is defined by shadow. They’re attempting to terrify us by being creatures of mystery.”

He explained how once he’d gotten lost in the exquisite portrait gallery of a lunatic collector whose opulent estate was perched on the shores of Lake Como; the proprietor had collected the portraits of all the great personages in Frankish history from kings to cardinals, and from soldiers to poets: “When my hospitable host left me alone to roam as I wished throughout his palazzo, which he’d proudly given me a tour of, I saw that these supposedly important infidels-most of whom appeared to be real and some of whom looked me straight in the eye-had attained their importance in this world solely on account of having their portraits made. Their likenesses had imbued them with such magic, had so distinguished them, that for a moment among the paintings I felt flawed and impotent. Had I been depicted in this fashion, it seemed, I’d better understand why I existed in this world.”

He was frightened because he suddenly understood-and perhaps desired-that Islamic artistry, perfected and securely established by the old masters of Herat, would meet its end on account of the appeal of portraiture. “However, it was as if I too wanted to feel extraordinary, different and unique,” he said. As if prodded by the Devil, he felt himself strongly drawn to what he feared. “How should I say it? It’s as if this were a sin of desire, like growing arrogant before God, like considering oneself of utmost importance, like situating oneself at the center of the world.”

Thereafter, this idea dawned on him: These methods which the Frankish artists made use of as if playing a prideful child’s game, could be more than simply magic associated with Our Exalted Sultan-but could in fact become a force meant to serve our religion, bringing under its sway all who beheld it.

I learned that the idea of preparing an illuminated manuscript had arisen then: my Enishte, who’d returned to Istanbul from Venice, suggested it would be excellent indeed for Our Sultan to be the subject of a portrait in the Frankish style. But after His Excellency took exception, a book containing pictures of Our Sultan and the objects that represented Him was agreed upon.

“It is the story that’s essential,” our wisest and most Glorious Sultan had said. “A beautiful illustration elegantly completes the story. An illustration that does not complement a story, in the end, will become but a false idol. Since we cannot possibly believe in an absent story, we will naturally begin believing in the picture itself. This would be no different than the worship of idols in the Kaaba that went on before Our Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him, had destroyed them. If not as part of a story, how would you propose to depict this red carnation, for example, or that insolent dwarf over there?”

“By exposing the carnation’s beauty and uniqueness.”

“In the arrangement of your scene, then, would you situate the flower at the precise center of the page?”

“I was afraid,” my Enishte said. “I panicked momentarily when I realized where Our Sultan’s thoughts were taking me.”

What filled my Enishte with fear was the notion of situating at the center of the page-and thereby, the world-something other than what God had intended.

“Thereafter,” Our Sultan had said, “you’ll want to exhibit a picture in whose center you’ve situated a dwarf.” It was as I had assumed. “But this picture could never be displayed: after a while, we’d begin to worship a picture we’ve hung on a wall, regardless of the original intentions. If I believed, heaven forbid, the way these infidels do, that the Prophet Jesus was also the Lord God himself, then I’d also hold that God could be observed in this world, and even, that He could manifest in human form; only then might I accept the depiction of mankind in full detail and exhibit such images. You do understand that, eventually, we would unthinkingly begin worshiping any picture that is hung on a wall, don’t you?”

My Enishte said: “I understood it quite well, and because I did, I was afraid of what we both were thinking.”

“For this reason,” Our Sultan remarked, “I could never allow my portrait to be displayed.”

“Though this is exactly what he wanted,” whispered my Enishte, with a devilish titter.

It was my turn to be frightened now.

“Nonetheless, it is my desire that my portrait be made in the style of the Frankish masters,” Our Sultan went on. “Such a portrait will, of course, have to be concealed within the pages of a book. Whatever that book might be, you shall be the one to tell me.”

“In an instant of surprise and awe, I considered his statement,” said my Enishte, then grinning more devilishly than before, he seemed, suddenly, to become someone else.

“His Excellency Our Sultan ordered me to start working on His book posthaste. My head spun with joy. He added that it ought to be prepared as a present for the Venetian Doge, whom I was to visit once again. Once the book was completed, it would become a symbol of the vanquishing power of the Islamic Caliph Our Exalted Sultan, in the thousandth year of the Hegira. He requested that I prepare the illuminated manuscript in utmost secrecy, primarily to conceal its purpose as an olive branch extended to the Venetians, but also to avoid aggravating workshop jealousies. And in a state of great elation and sworn to secrecy, I embarked upon this venture.”

And so it was on that Friday morning, I began to describe the book that would contain Our Sultan’s portrait painted in the Venetian style. I broached the topic to Black by recounting how I’d brought it up with Our Sultan and how I’d persuaded him to fund the book. My hidden purpose was to have Black write the stories-which I hadn’t even begun-that were meant to accompany the illustrations.

I told him I’d completed most of the book’s illustrations and that the last picture was nearly finished. “There’s a depiction of Death,” I said, “and I had the most clever of miniaturists, Stork, illustrate the tree representing the peacefulness of Our Sultan’s worldly realm. There’s a picture of Satan and a horse meant to spirit us far far away. There’s a dog, always cunning and wily, and also a gold coin…I had the master miniaturists depict these things with such beauty,” I told Black, “that if you saw them but once, you’d know straightaway what the corresponding text ought to be. Poetry and painting, words and color, these things are brothers to each other, as you well know.”

For a while, I pondered whether I should tell him I might marry off my daughter to him. Would he live together with us in this house? I told myself not to be taken in by his rapt attention and his childlike expression. I knew he was scheming to elope with my Shekure. Still, I could rely on nobody else to finish my book.

Returning together from the Friday prayers, we discussed “shadow,” the greatest of innovations manifest in the paintings of the Venetian masters. “If,” I said, “we intend to make our paintings from the perspective of pedestrians exchanging pleasantries and regarding their world; that is, if we intend to illustrate from the street, we ought to learn how to account for-as the Franks do-what is, in fact, most prevalent there: shadows.”