Orhan Pamuk - My Name is Red

“Children,” I said in the cadence Orhan and Shevket recognized as the one I used to announce something, “come here, the both of you.”

They did so.

“Black is now your father. Let’s see you kiss his hand.”

They did so, quietly and docilely. “Since they’ve grown up without a father, my unfortunate children know nothing of obeying one, of heeding his words while looking into his eyes, or of trusting in him,” I said to Black. “Thus, if they behave disrespectfully, wildly, immaturely or childishly toward you, I know that you’ll show them tolerance at first, understanding that they’ve been raised without ever once obeying their father, whom they do not even remember.”

“I remember my father,” said Shevket.

“Hush…and listen,” I said. “From now on Black’s word carries more weight than even my own.” I faced Black. “If they refuse to listen to you, if they are disobedient or show even the slightest sign of being rude, spoiled or ill-mannered, first warn them, but forgive them,” I said, forgoing the mention of beatings that was on the tip of my tongue. “Whatever space I occupy in your heart, they shall share that space, too.”

“I didn’t marry you solely to be your husband,” said Black, “but also to be father to these dear boys.”

“Did you two hear that?”

“Oh my Lord, I pray you never neglect to shine your light down upon us,” Hayriye interjected from a corner. “My dear God, I pray you protect us, my Lord.”

“You two did hear, didn’t you?” I said. “Good for you, my pretty young men. Since your father loves you like this, should you suddenly lose control and disregard his words, he will have forgiven you for it beforehand.”

“And I’ll forgive them afterward, as well,” said Black.

“However, if you two defy his warning a third time…then, you’ll have earned the right to a beating,” I said. “Are we understood? Your new father, Black, has come here from the vilest, the worst of battles, from wars that were the very wrath of God and from which your late father did not return; yes, he’s a hardened man. Your grandfather has spoiled you and indulged you. Your grandfather is now very ill.”

“I want to go and be with him,” Shevket said.

“If you’re not going to listen, Black will teach you what it means to get a beating from Hell. Your grandfather won’t be able to save you from Black the way he used to protect you from me. If you don’t want to suffer your father’s wrath, you’re not to fight anymore, you’re to share everything, tell no lies, perform your prayers, not go to bed before memorizing your lessons and you’re not to speak roughly to Hayriye or tease her…Are we understood?”

In one movement, Black crouched down and took Orhan up in his arms. Shevket kept his distance. I had the fleeting urge to embrace him and weep. My poor forlorn and fatherless son, my poor solitary Shevket, you’re so alone in this immense world. I thought of myself as a small child, like Shevket, a child all alone in the world, and remembered how once I’d been held in my dear father’s arms the way Orhan was now being held by Black. But unlike Orhan, I wasn’t awkward in my father’s embrace, like a fruit unaccustomed to its tree. I was delighted; I recalled how my father and I would often embrace, sniffing each other’s skin. I was on the verge of tears, but restrained myself. Though I hadn’t planned to say anything of the sort, I said:

“Come now, let’s hear you call Black ”Father.“”

The night was so cold and our courtyard was so very silent. In the distance dogs were barking and howling pitifully and sorrowfully. A few more minutes passed. The silence bloomed and spread secretly like a black flower.

“All right, children,” I said much later. “Let’s go inside so we all don’t catch cold out here.”

It wasn’t only Black and I who felt the timidity of a bride and groom left alone after the wedding, but Hayriye and the children, all of us, entered our home hesitantly as though it were the darkened house of a stranger. We were met with the smell of my father’s corpse, but nobody seemed to be aware of it. We silently climbed the stairs, and the shadows cast onto the ceiling by our oil lamps, as always, spun and merged, now expanding, now shrinking, yet seemed somehow to be doing so for the first time. Upstairs, as we were removing our shoes in the hall, Shevket said:

“Before I go to sleep can I kiss my grandfather’s hand?”

“I checked in on him just now,” Hayriye said. “Your grandfather is in such pain and discomfort it’s clear that evil spirits have taken hold of him. The fever of the illness has consumed him. Go to your room so I can prepare your bed.”

Hayriye herded them into the room. As she laid out the mattress and spread out the sheets and quilts, she was going on as if every object she held was a marvel unique to the world, and muttering about how sleeping here in a warm room between clean sheets and under warm down quilts would be like spending the night in a sultan’s palace.

“Hayriye, tell us a story,” said Orhan as he sat on his chamber pot.

“Once upon a time there was a blue man,” said Hayriye, “and his closest companion was a jinn.”

“Why was the man blue?” said Orhan.

“For goodness sake, Hayriye,” I said. “Tonight at least don’t tell a story about jinns and ghosts.”

“Why shouldn’t she?” said Shevket. “Mother, after we fall asleep do you leave the bed and go to be with Grandfather?”

“Your grandfather, Allah protect him, is gravely ill,” I said. “Of course I go to his bedside at night to look after him. Then, I return to our bed, don’t I?”

“Have Hayriye look after Grandfather,” said Shevket. “Doesn’t Hayriye look after my grandfather at night anyway?”

“Are you finished?” Hayriye asked of Orhan. As she wiped Orhan’s behind with a wet rag, his face was overcome with a sweet lethargy. She glanced into the pot and wrinkled up her face, not due to the smell, but as if what she saw wasn’t sufficient.

“Hayriye,” I said. “Empty the chamber pot and bring it back. I don’t want Shevket to leave the room in the middle of the night.”

“Why shouldn’t I leave the room?” asked Shevket. “Why shouldn’t Hayriye tell us a story about jinns and fairies?”

“Because there are jinns in the house, you idiot,” Orhan said, not so much out of fear, but with the dumb optimism I always noticed in his expression after he’d relieved himself.

“Mother, are there jinns here?”

“If you leave the room, if you attempt to see your grandfather, the jinn will catch you.”

“Where will Black lay out his bed?” said Shevket. “Where will he sleep tonight?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “Hayriye will be preparing his bed.”

“Mother, you’re still going to sleep with us, aren’t you?” said Shevket.

“How many times do I have to tell you? I’ll sleep together with you two as before.”

“Always?”

Hayriye left carrying the chamber pot. From the cabinet where I’d hidden them, I removed the remaining nine illustrations left behind by the unspeakable murderer and sat on the bed. By the light of a candle, I stared at them for a long time trying to fathom their secret. These illustrations were beautiful enough that you might mistake them for your own forgotten memories; and as with writing, as you looked at them, they spoke.

I’d lost myself in the pictures. I understood from the scent of Orhan’s beautiful head, upon which I’d rested my nose, that he, too, was looking at that odd and suspicious Red. As occasionally happened, I had the urge to take out my breast and nurse him. Later, when Orhan was frightened by the terrifying picture of Death, gently and sweetly breathing through his reddish lips, I suddenly wanted to eat him.