Orhan Pamuk - My Name is Red

As I gazed at the road along which we’d advanced and were now, thank God, finally winding our way back toward the house, my heart was with Shekure and her sorrow. Actually, it wasn’t her misfortune in having to wed within a day of her father’s murder that saddened me, it was that the wedding was so unadorned and meager. My dear Shekure was worthy of horses with silver reins and ornamented saddles, mounted riders outfitted in sable and silk with gold embroidery, and hundreds of carriages laden with gifts and dowry; she deserved to lead an endless procession of pasha’s daughters, sultans and carriages full of elderly harem women chattering about the extravagances of days bygone. But Shekure’s wedding lacked even the four pole bearers to hold aloft the red silk canopy that ordinarily protected rich maidens from prying eyes; for that matter, there wasn’t even one servant to lead the procession bearing large wedding candles and tree-shaped decorations ornamented with fruit, gold, silver leaf and polished stones. More than embarrassment, I felt a sadness that threatened to fill my eyes with tears each time the disrespectful hand-drum and zurna players simply stopped playing when our procession got swallowed up in crowds of market-goers or servants fetching water from the fountain in the square because we had no one clearing the way with shouts of “Here comes the bride.” As we were nearing the house, I mustered the courage to turn in my saddle and gaze at her, and was relieved that beneath her pink bride’s tinsel and red veil, far from being saddened by all these pitiful shortcomings, she seemed heartened to know that we’d concluded our procession and our journey with neither accident nor mishap. So, like all grooms, I lowered my beautiful bride, whom I would shortly wed, from her horse, took her by the arm, and handful by handful, slowly emptied a bag of silver coins over her head before the gleeful crowd. While the children who’d followed behind our meager parade scrambled for the coins, Shekure and I entered the courtyard and crossed the stone walkway, and as soon as we entered the house, we were struck not only by the heat, but the horror of the heavy smell of decay.

While the throng from the procession was making itself comfortable in the house, Shekure and the crowd of elders, women and children (Orhan was glaring suspiciously at me from the corner) carried on as if nothing were amiss, and momentarily I doubted my senses; but I knew how corpses left under the sun after battle, their clothes tattered, boots and belts stolen, and their faces, their eyes and lips ravaged by wolves and birds smelled. It was a stench that had so often filled my mouth and lungs to the point of suffocation that I could not mistake it.

Downstairs in the kitchen, I asked Hayriye about Enishte Effendi’s body, aware that I was speaking to her for the first time as master of the house.

“As you asked, we laid out his mattress, dressed him in his nightclothes, drew his quilt over him and placed bottles of syrup beside him. If he’s giving off an unpleasant smell, it’s probably due to the heat from the brazier in the room,” the woman said through tears.

One or two of her tears fell, sizzling into the pot she was using to fry the mutton. From the way she was crying, I supposed that Enishte Effendi had been taking her into his bed at night. Esther, who was quietly and proudly sitting in a corner of the kitchen, swallowed what she was chewing and stood.

“Make her happiness your foremost concern,” she said. “Recognize her worth.”

In my thoughts I heard the lute I’d heard on the street the first day I’d come to Istanbul. More than sadness, there was vigor in its melody. I heard the melody of that music again later, in the half-darkened room where my Enishte lay in his white nightgown, as the Imam Effendi married us.

Because Hayriye had furtively aired out the room beforehand and placed the oil lamp in a corner so its light was dimmed, one could scarcely tell that my Enishte was sick let alone dead. Thus, he served as Shekure’s legal guardian during the ceremony. My friend the barber, along with a know-it-all neighborhood elder, served as witnesses. Before the ceremony ended with the hopeful blessings and advice of the preacher and the prayers of all in attendance, a nosy old man, concerned about the state of my Enishte’s health, was about to lower his skeptical head toward the deceased; but as soon as the preacher completed the ceremony, I leapt from my spot, grabbed my Enishte’s rigid hand and shouted at the top of my voice:

“Put your worries to rest, my sir, my dear Enishte. I’ll do everything within my power to care for Shekure and her children, to see they’re well clothed and well fed, loved and untroubled.”

Next, to suggest that my Enishte was trying to whisper to me from his sickbed, I carefully and respectfully pressed my ear to his mouth, pretending to listen to him intently and wide-eyed, as young men do when an elder they respect offers one or two words of advice distilled from an entire lifetime, which they then imbibe like some magic elixir. The Imam Effendi and the neighborhood elder appeared to appreciate and approve of the loyalty and eternal devotion I showed my father-in-law. I hope that nobody still thinks I had a hand in his murder.

I announced to the wedding guests still in the room that the afflicted man wished to be left alone. They abruptly began to leave, passing into the next room where the men had gathered to feast on Hayriye’s pilaf and mutton (at this point I could scarcely distinguish the smell of the corpse from the aroma of thyme, cumin and frying lamb). I stepped into the wide hallway, and like some morose patriarch roaming absentmindedly and wistfully through his own house, I opened the door to Hayriye’s room, paying no mind to the women who were horrified to have a man in their midst, and gazing sweetly at Shekure, whose eyes beamed with bliss to see me, said:

“Your father’s calling for you, Shekure. We’re married now, you’re to kiss his hand.”

The handful of neighborhood women to whom Shekure had sent last-minute invitations and the young maidens I assumed were relatives motioned to collect themselves and cover their faces, all the while scrutinizing me to their heart’s content.

Not long after the evening call to prayer the wedding guests dispersed, having heartily partaken of the walnuts, almonds, dried fruit leather, comfits and clove candy. In the women’s quarters, Shekure’s incessant crying and the bickering of the unruly children had dampened the festivity. Among the men, my stony-faced silence in response to the mirthful wedding-night gibes of the neighbors was attributed to my preoccupation with my father-in-law’s illness. Amid all the distress, the scene most clearly ingrained in my memory was my leading Shekure to Enishte’s room before dinner. We were alone at last. After both of us kissed the dead man’s cold and rigid hand with sincere respect, we withdrew to a dark corner of the room and kissed each other as if slaking a great thirst. Upon my wife’s fiery tongue, which I’d successfully taken into my mouth, I could taste the hard candies that the children greedily ate.

The last guests of our woeful wedding veiled and covered themselves, put on their shoes, dragged off their children, who were tossing a last piece of candy into their mouths, and left us to a penetrating silence. We were all in the courtyard, nothing could be heard but the faint noise of a sparrow gingerly drinking water from the half-filled well bucket. This sparrow, whose tiny head feathers gleamed in the light of the stone hearth, abruptly vanished into the blackness, and I felt the insistent presence of the corpse in my father’s bed within our emptied house, now swallowed by night.