Orhan Pamuk - My Name is Red

We were two men in love with the same woman; he was in front of me and completely unaware of my presence as we walked through the turning and twisting streets of Istanbul, climbing and descending, we traveled like brethren through deserted streets given over to battling packs of stray dogs, passed burnt ruins where jinns loitered, mosque courtyards where angels reclined on domes to sleep, beside cypress trees murmuring to the souls of the dead, beyond the edges of snow-covered cemeteries crowded with ghosts, just out of sight of brigands strangling their victims, passed endless shops, stables, dervish houses, candle works, leather works and stone walls; and as we made ground, I felt I wasn’t following him at all, but rather, that I was imitating him.

I am Death, as you can plainly see, but you needn’t be afraid, I’m just an illustration. Be that as it may, I read terror in your eyes. Though you know very well that I’m not real-like children who give themselves over to a game-you’re still seized by horror, as if you’d actually met Death himself. This pleases me. As you look at me, you sense that you’ll soil yourselves out of fear when that unavoidable last moment is upon you. This is no joke. When faced with Death, people lose control of their bodily functions-particularly the majority of those men who are known to be brave-hearted. For this reason, the corpse-strewn battlefields that you’ve depicted thousands of times reek not of blood, gunpowder and heated armor as is assumed, but of shit and rotting flesh.

I know this is the first time you’ve seen a depiction of Death.

One year ago, a tall, thin and mysterious old man invited to his house the young master miniaturist who would soon enough illustrate me. In the half-dark workroom of the two-story house, the old man served an exquisite cup of silky, amber-scented coffee to the young master, which cleared the youth’s mind. Next, in that shadowy room with the blue door, the old man excited the master miniaturist by flaunting the best paper from Hindustan, brushes made of squirrel hair, varieties of gold leaf, all manner of reed pens and coral-handled penknives, indicating that he would be able to pay handsomely.

“Now then, draw Death for me,” the old man said.

“I cannot draw a picture of Death without ever, not once in my entire life, having seen a picture of Death,” said the miraculously sure-handed miniaturist, who would shortly, in fact, end up doing the drawing.

“You do not always need to have seen an illustration of something in order to depict that thing,” objected the refined and enthusiastic old man.

“Yes, perhaps not,” said the master illustrator. “Yet, if the picture is to be perfect, the way the masters of old would’ve made it, it ought to be drawn at least a thousand times before I attempt it. No matter how masterful a miniaturist might be, when he paints an object for the first time, he’ll render it as an apprentice would, and I could never do that. I cannot put my mastery aside while illustrating Death; this would be equivalent to dying myself.”

“Such a death might put you in touch with the subject matter,” quipped the old man.

“It’s not experience of subject matter that makes us masters, it’s never having experienced it that makes us masters.”

“Such mastery ought to be acquainted with Death then.”

In this manner, they entered into an elevated conversation with double entendre, allusions, puns, obscure references and innuendos, as befit miniaturists who respected both the old masters as well as their own talent. Since it was my existence that was being discussed, I listened intently to the conversation, the entirety of which, I know, would bore the distinguished miniaturists among us in this good coffeehouse. Let me just say that there came a point when the discussion touched upon the following:

“Is the measure of a miniaturist’s talent the ability to depict everything with the same perfection as the great masters or the ability to introduce into the picture subject matter which no one else can see?” said the sure-handed, stunning-eyed, brilliant illustrator, and although he himself knew the answer to this question, he remained quite reserved.

“The Venetians measure a miniaturist’s prowess by his ability to discover novel subject matter and techniques that have never before been used,” insisted the old man arrogantly.

“Venetians die like Venetians,” said the illustrator who would soon draw me.

“All our deaths resemble one another,” said the old man.

“Legends and paintings recount how men are distinct from one another, not how everybody resembles one another,” said the wise illustrator. “The master miniaturist earns his mastery by depicting unique legends as if we were already familiar with them.”

In this manner, the conversation turned to the differences between the deaths of Venetians and Ottomans, to the Angel of Death and the other angels of Allah, and how they could never be appropriated by the artistry of the infidels. The young master who is presently staring at me with his beautiful eyes in our dear coffeehouse was disturbed by these weighty words, his hands grew impatient, he longed to depict me, yet he had no idea what kind of entity I was.

The sly and calculating old man who wanted to beguile the young master caught the scent of the young man’s eagerness. In the shadowy room, the old man bore his eyes, which glowed in the light of the idly burning oil lamp, into the miracle-handed young master.

“Death, whom the Venetians depict in human form, is to us an angel like Azrael,” he said. “Yes, in the form of a man. Just like Gabriel, who appeared as a person when he delivered the Sacred Word to Our Prophet. You do understand, don’t you?”

I realized that the young master, whom Allah had endowed with astonishing talent, was impatient and wanted to illustrate me, because the devilish old man had succeeded in arousing him with this devilish idea: What we essentially want is to draw something unknown to us in all its shadowiness, not something we know in all its illumination.

“I am not, in the least, familiar with Death,” said the miniaturist.

“We all know Death,” said the old man.

“We fear it, but we don’t know it.”

“Then it falls to you to draw that fear,” said the old man.

He was about to create me just then. The great master miniaturist’s nape was tingling; his arm muscles were tensing up and his fingers yearned for a reed pen. Yet, because he was the most genuine of great masters, he restrained himself, knowing that this tension would further deepen the love of painting in his soul.

The wily old man understood what was happening, and aiming to inspire the youth in his rendition of me, which he was certain would be completed before long, he began to read passages about me from the books before him: El-Jevziyye’s Book of the Soul , Gazzali’s Book of the Apocalypse and Suyuti.

And so, as the master miniaturist with the miracle touch was making this portrait, which you now so fearfully behold, he listened to how the Angel of Death had thousands of wings which spanned Heaven and Earth, from the farthest point in the East to the farthest point in the West. He heard how these wings would be a great comfort to the truly faithful yet for sinners and rebels as painful as a spike through the flesh. Since a majority of you miniaturists are bound for Hell, he depicted me laden with spikes. He listened to how the angel sent to you by Allah to take your lives would carry a ledger wherein all your names appeared and how, some of your names would be circled in black. Only Allah has knowledge of the exact moment of death: When this moment arrives, a leaf falls from the tree located beneath His throne and whoever lays hold of this leaf can read for whom Death has come. For all these reasons, the miniaturist depicted me as a terrifying being, but thoughtful, too, like one who understands accounts. The mad old man continued to read: when the Angel of Death, who appeared in human form, extended his hand and took the soul of the person whose time on Earth had ended, an all-encompassing light reminiscent of the light of the sun shone, and thus, the wise miniaturist depicted me bathed in light, for he also knew that this light wouldn’t be visible to those who had gathered beside the deceased. The impassioned old man read from the Book of the Soul about ancient grave robbers who had witnessed, in place of bodies riddled with spikes, only flames and skulls filled with molten lead. Hence, the wondrous illustrator, listening intently to such accounts, depicted me in a manner that would terrify whoever laid eyes on me.