Orhan Pamuk - My Name is Red

The third illustration should show the same scene, but this time the wall ornamentation should be darker and rendered in the Chinese style, the curly branches being more intricate and dense, and colorful clouds should appear above the judge’s proxy so the chicanery in the story might be apparent. Though the Imam Effendi and his brother have actually testified separately before the judge’s proxy, in the illustration they are shown together explaining how the husband of anguished Shekure hasn’t returned from war for four years, how she is in a state of destitution without a husband to look after her, how her two fatherless children are perpetually in tears and hungry, how there is no prospect for remarriage because she’s still considered married, and how in this state she can’t even receive a loan without permission from her husband. They’re so convincing that even a man as deaf as a stone would grant her a divorce through a cascade of tears. The heartless proxy, however, having none of it, asks about Shekure’s legal guardian. After a moment of hesitation, I immediately interrupt, declaring that her esteemed father, who has served as herald and ambassador for Our Sultan, is still alive.

“Until he testifies in court, I’ll never grant her a divorce!” said the proxy.

Thereupon, thoroughly flustered, I explained how my Enishte Effendi was ill, bed-ridden and struggling for his life, how his last wish to God was to see his daughter divorced, and how I was his representative.

“What does she want with a divorce?” asked the proxy. “Why would a dying man want to see his daughter divorced from her husband who’s long vanished at war anyway? Listen, I’d understand if there were a good, trustworthy candidate for son-in-law, because then he wouldn’t pass away with his wish unfulfilled.”

“There is a prospect, sir,” I said.

“Who might that be?”

“It is I!”

“Come now! You’re the guardian’s representative!” said the judge’s proxy. “What line of work are you in?”

“In the eastern provinces, I served as secretary, chief secretary and assistant treasurer to various pashas. I completed a history of the Persian wars that I intend to present to Our Sultan. I’m a connoisseur of illustrating and decoration. I’ve been burning with love for this woman for twenty years.”

“Are you a relative of hers?”

I was so embarrassed at having fallen so abruptly and unexpectedly into groveling meekness before the judge’s proxy, at having bared my life like some dull object devoid of any mystery, that I fell completely silent.

“Instead of turning beet red, give me an answer, young man, lest I refuse to grant her a divorce.”

“She’s the daughter of my maternal aunt.”

“Hmmm, I see. Will you be able to make her happy?”

When he asked the question he made a vulgar hand gesture. The miniaturist should omit this indelicacy. It’d be enough for him to show how much I blushed.

“I make a decent living.”

“As I belong to the Shafü sect, there is nothing contrary to the Holy Book or my creed in my granting the divorce of this unfortunate Shekure, whose husband has been missing at the front for four years,” said the Proxy Effendi. “I grant the divorce. And I rule that her husband no longer has any superceding rights should he return.”

The subsequent illustration, that is, the fourth, ought to depict the proxy recording the divorce in the ledger, unleashing obedient armies of black-ink letters, before presenting me with the document declaring that my Shekure is now a widow and there is no obstacle to her immediate remarriage. Neither by painting the walls of the courtroom red, nor by situating the picture within bloodred borders could the blissful inner radiance I felt at that moment be expressed. Running back through the crowd of false witnesses and other men gathering before the judge’s door seeking divorces for their sisters, daughters or even aunts, I set out on my return journey.

After I crossed the Bosphorus and headed directly to the Yakutlar neighborhood, I dismissed both the considerate Imam Effendi, who wanted to perform the marriage ceremony, and his brother. Since I suspected everyone I saw on the street of hatching some mischief out of jealousy over the incredible happiness I was on the verge of attaining, I ran straight to Shekure’s street. How had the ominous crows divined the presence of a body in the house and taken to hopping around excitedly on the terra-cotta shingles? I was overcome by guilt because I hadn’t been able to grieve for my Enishte or even shed a single tear; even so, I knew from the tightly closed shutters and door of the house, from the silence, and even from the look of the pomegranate tree that everything was proceeding as planned.

I was acting intuitively in a great haste. I tossed a stone at the courtyard gate but missed! I tossed another at the house. It landed on the roof. Frustrated, I began pelting the house with stones. A window opened. It was the second-story window where four days ago, on Wednesday, I’d first seen Shekure through the branches of the pomegranate tree. Orhan appeared, and from the gap in the shutters I could hear Shekure scolding him. Then I saw her. For a moment, we gazed hopefully at each other, my fair lady and I. She was so beautiful and becoming. She made a gesture that I took to mean “wait” and shut the window.

There was still plenty of time before evening. I waited hopefully in the empty garden, awestruck by the beauty of the world, the trees and the muddy street. Before long, Hayriye came in, dressed and covered not like a servant, but rather, like a lady of the house. Without nearing each other, we removed ourselves to the cover of the fig trees.

“Everything is progressing as planned,” I said to her. I showed her the document I’d obtained from the proxy. “Shekure is divorced. As for the preacher from another neighborhood…” I was going to add, “I’ll see to that,” but instead blurted out, “He’s on his way. Shekure should be ready.”

“No matter how small, Shekure wants a bride’s procession, followed by a neighborhood reception with a wedding repast. We’ve prepared a stewpot of pilaf with almonds and dried apricots.”

In her excitement, she seemed prepared to tell me everything else she’d cooked but I cut her off. “If the wedding is going to be such an elaborate affair,” I cautioned, “Hasan and his men will hear of it; they’ll raid the house, disgrace us, have the marriage nullified and we’ll be able to do nothing about it. All our efforts will have been in vain. We need to protect ourselves not only from Hasan and his father, but from the devil who murdered Enishte Effendi as well. Aren’t you afraid?”

“How could we not be?” she said and began to cry.

“You’re not to tell anyone a thing,” I said. “Dress Enishte in his nightclothes, spread out his mattress and lay him upon it, not as a dead man, but as though he were sick. Arrange glasses and bottles of syrup by his head, and draw the shutters closed. Make certain there are no lamps in his room so that he can act as Shekure’s guardian, her sick father, during the ceremony. There’s no place now for a bride’s procession. You can invite a handful of neighbors at the last minute, that’s all. While you’re inviting them, say that this was Enishte Effendi’s last wish…It won’t be a joyous wedding, but a melancholy one. If we don’t see ourselves through this affair, they’ll destroy us, and they’ll punish you as well. You understand, don’t you?”

She nodded as she wept. Mounting my white horse, I said I’d secure the witnesses and return before long, that Shekure ought to be ready, that hereafter, I would be master of the house, and that I was going to the barber. I hadn’t thought through any of this beforehand. As I spoke, the details came to me, and just as I’d felt during battles from time to time, I had the conviction that I was a cherished and favored servant of God and He was protecting me; thus, everything was going to turn out fine. When you feel this trust, do whatever comes to mind, follow your intuition and your actions will prove correct.