Orhan Pamuk - My Name is Red

“How does one depict shadow?” asked Black.

From time to time, as my nephew listened, I perceived impatience in him. He’d begin to fiddle with the Mongol inkpot he’d given me as a present. At times, he’d take up the iron poker and stoke the fire in the stove. Now and then I imagined that he wanted to lower that poker onto my head and kill me because I dared to move the art of illustrating away from Allah’s perspective; because I would betray the dreams of the masters of Herat and their entire tradition of painting; because I’d duped Our Sultan into already doing so. Occasionally, Black would sit dead still for long stretches and fix his eyes deeply into mine. I could imagine what he was thinking: “I’ll be your slave until I can have your daughter.” Once, as I would do when he was a child, I took him out into the yard and tried to explain to him, as a father might, about the trees, about the light falling onto the leaves, about the melting snow and why the houses seemed to shrink as we moved away from them. But this was a mistake: It proved only that our former filial relationship had long since collapsed. Now patient sufferance of the rantings of a demented old man had taken the place of Black’s childhood curiosity and passion for knowledge. I was just an old man whose daughter was the object of Black’s love. The influence and experience of the countries and cities that my nephew had traveled through for a dozen years had been fully absorbed by his soul. He was tired of me, and I pitied him. And he was angry, I assumed, not only because I hadn’t allowed him to marry Shekure twelve years ago-after all, there was no other choice then-but because I dreamed of paintings whose style transgressed the precepts of the masters of Herat. Furthermore, because I raved about this nonsense with such conviction, I imagined my death at his hands.

I was not, however, afraid of him; on the contrary, I tried to frighten him. For I believed that fear was appropriate to the writing I’d requested of him. “As in those pictures,” I said, “one ought to be able to situate oneself at the center of the world. One of my illustrators brilliantly depicted Death for me. Behold.”

Thus I began to show him the paintings I’d secretly commissioned from the master miniaturists over the last year. At first, he was a tad shy, even frightened. When he understood that the depiction of Death was inspired by familiar scenes that could be found in many Book of Kings volumes-from the scene of Afrasiyab’s decapitation of Siyavush, for example, or Rüstem’s murder of Suhrab without realizing this was his son-he quickly became interested in the subject. Among the pictures that depicted the funeral of the late Sultan Süleyman was one I’d made with bold but sad colors, combining a compositional sensibility inspired by the Franks with my own attempt at shading-which I’d added later. I pointed out the diabolic depth evoked by the interplay of cloud and horizon. I reminded him that Death was unique, just like the portraits of infidels I had seen hanging in Venetian palazzos; all of them desperately yearned to be rendered distinctly. “They want to be so distinct and different, and they want this with such passion that,” I said, “look, look into the eyes of Death. See how men do not fear Death, but rather the violence implicit in the desire to be one-of-a-kind, unique and exceptional. Look at this illustration and write an account of it. Give voice to Death. Here’s paper and pen. I shall give what you write to the calligrapher straightaway.”

He stared at the picture in silence. “Who painted this?” he asked later.

“Butterfly. He’s the most talented of the lot. Master Osman had been in love with and awed by him for years.”

“I’ve seen rougher versions of this depiction of a dog at the coffeehouse where the storyteller performs,” Black said.

“My illustrators, most of whom are spiritually bound to Master Osman and the workshop, take a dim view of the labors performed for my book. When they leave here at night I imagine they have their vulgar fun over these illustrations which they draw for money and ridicule me at the coffeehouse. And who among them will ever forget the time Our Sultan had the young Venetian artist, whom He’d invited from the embassy at my behest, paint His portrait. Thereafter, He had Master Osman make a copy of that oil painting. Forced to imitate the Venetian painter, Master Osman held me responsible for this unseemly coercion and the shameful portrait that came of it. He was justified.”

All day long, I showed him every picture-except the final illustration that I cannot, for whatever reason, finish. I prodded him to write. I discussed the temperaments of the miniaturists, and I enumerated the sums of money I meted out to them. We discussed “perspective” and whether the diminutive objects in the background of Venetian pictures were sacrilegious, and equally, we talked about the possibility that unfortunate Elegant Effendi had been murdered for excessive ambition and out of jealousy over his wealth.

As Black returned home that night, I was confident he’d come again the next morning as promised and that he’d once again listen to me recount the stories that would constitute my book. I listened to his footsteps fading beyond the open gate; there was something to the cold night that seemed to make my sleepless and troubled murderer stronger and more devilish than me and my book.

I closed the courtyard gate tightly behind him. I placed the old ceramic water basin that I used as a basil planter behind the gate as I did each night. Before I reduced the stove to smoldering ashes and went to bed, I glanced up to see Shekure in a white gown looking like a ghost in the blackness.

“Are you absolutely certain that you want to marry him?” I asked.

“No, dear Father. I’ve long since forgotten about marriage. Besides, I am married.”

“If you still want to marry him, I’m willing to give you my blessing now.”

“I wish not to be wed to him.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s against your will. In all sincerity, I desire nobody that you do not want.”

I noticed, momentarily, the coals in the stove reflected in her eyes. Her eyes had aged, not out of unhappiness, but anger; yet there was no trace of offense in her voice.

“Black is in love with you,” I said as if divulging a secret.

“I know.”

“He listened to all I had to say today not out of his love of painting, but out of his love for you.”

“He will complete your book, this is what matters.”

“Your husband might return one day,” I said.

“I’m not certain why, perhaps it’s the silence, but tonight I’ve realized once and for all that my husband will never return. What I’ve dreamt seems to be the truth: They must’ve killed him. He’s long since turned to dust.” She whispered the last statement lest the sleeping children hear. And she said it with a peculiar tinge of anger.

“If they happen to kill me,” I said, “I want you to finish this book to which I’ve dedicated everything. Swear that you will.”

“I give my word. Who will be the one to complete your book?”

“Black! You can ensure that he does so.”

“You are already ensuring that he does so, dear Father,” she said. “You have no need for me.”

“Agreed, but he’s giving in to me because of you. If they kill me, he might be afraid to continue on.”

“In that case, he won’t be able to marry me,” said my clever daughter, smiling.

Where did I come up with the detail about her smiling? During the entire conversation, I noticed nothing except an occasional glimmer in her eyes. We were standing tensely facing one another in the middle of the room.

“Do you communicate with each other, exchange signals?” I asked, unable to contain myself.