Orhan Pamuk - My Name is Red

“I’m aware of all that, but are these dogs and trees the most valuable and vital aspects of the Exalted House of Osman?” he said, gesturing wildly at the illustrations.

“My Enishte, may he rest in peace, insisted that the book show not Our Sultan’s wealth alone, but His spiritual and moral strength along with His hidden sorrows.”

“And Our Sultan’s portrait?”

“I haven’t seen it. It’s probably wherever that heretic murderer has hidden it. Who knows, it’s probably in his house at this very moment.”

My late Enishte had been diminished to the status of a man who’d commissioned a menagerie of odd pictures that the Head Treasurer deemed worthless, rather than one who’d struggled to complete a book worthy of the gold he’d been paid. Was the Head Treasurer thinking I’d murdered an inept and untrustworthy man in order to marry Enishte’s daughter, or for some other reason-perhaps to sell off the gold leaf? From his glances, I read that my case was about to be closed, so speaking nervously and with the last of my strength, I tried to clear my name: I told him that my Enishte had confided to me that one of the master miniaturists he hired might’ve murdered poor Elegant Effendi. Keeping my declaration brief, I told him how my Enishte suspected Olive, Stork or Butterfly. I neither had much proof nor felt much self-confidence. Afterward, I sensed that the Head Treasurer considered me nothing but a base slanderer and a foolish gossip.

Finally, I was elated when the Head Treasurer said we must conceal the details of Enishte’s mysterious death from the workshop; I took this as a sign that he believed my story. The pictures remained with the Head Treasurer and I passed through the Gate of Salutation-which had earlier felt like the Gate of Heaven. After exiting under the scrutiny of the guards, I immediately relaxed, like a soldier returned home after an absence of many years.

My funeral was splendid, exactly as I’d wanted. It made me proud that everybody I’d wished would attend came. Of the viziers who were in Istanbul at the time of my death, Haji Hüseyin Pasha of Cyprus and Baki Pasha the Lame loyally remembered that I’d rendered extensive services to them at one time or another. The presence of the Minister of Accounts, Red Melek Pasha, who, at the time of my death was both in high favor and much criticized, enlivened the humble courtyard of our neighborhood mosque. Had I lived and continued an active political life, I would’ve been promoted to the same rank as Mustafa Agha, the Sultan’s Chief Herald, whose presence especially delighted me. The mourners constituted a large, dignified and impressive group that included the Divan Secretary Kemalettin Effendi, Chief Secretary Salim Effendi the Austere, the heralds of the Divan-each of whom was either a dear friend or an archenemy-a group of former Divan councillors who’d resigned early from active political life, my school friends, others who’d somehow learned of my death-I cannot imagine how or where-and various other relatives, in-laws and youths.

I also took pride in the congregation, its seriousness and its grief. The presence of the Head Treasurer Hazım Agha and the Commander of the Imperial Guard made clear to all in attendance that His Excellency Our Sultan was sincerely aggrieved by my untimely death. I was, indeed, very pleased by this. I don’t know whether the sorrow of Our Glorious Sultan means great efforts will be made to catch my rogue murderer, including the mobilization of torturers, but I do know this: that accursed man is now in the courtyard, among the other miniaturists and calligraphers, wearing a dignified and exceedingly tormented expression as he gazes at my coffin.

Pray, don’t think that I’m infuriated by my murderer or that I’m set on a path of revenge, or even that my soul is restless because I’ve been treacherously and cruelly slain. I am, at present, on a completely different plane of being, and my soul is quite at peace, having returned to its former glory after years of suffering on Earth.

My soul temporarily quitted my body, which was writhing in pain as it lay covered in blood from the blows of the inkpot, and quivered for a while within an intense light; afterward, two beautiful and smiling angels with faces bright as the sun-such as I’d read about countless times in the Book of the Soul -slowly approached me within this ethereal brilliance, grabbed me by my arms, as if I were still a body, and began their ascent. Ever so serenely and gently, ever so quickly we ascended as if in a blissful dream! We passed through forests of fire, forded rivers of light and forged dark seas and mountains of snow and ice. Each crossing took us thousands of years, though it seemed no more than the blink of an eye.

We ascended through the seven Heavens, passing varieties of gatherings, peculiar creatures, marshes and clouds swarming with an infinite variety of insects and birds. At each level of Heaven, the angel who led the way would knock on a portal, and when the question, “Who goes there?” came from beyond, the angel would describe me including all my names and attributes, summing up by saying, “An obedient servant of Exalted Allah!”-which would bring tears of joy to my eyes. I knew, however, that there were yet thousands of years before the Day of Judgment when those destined for Heaven would be separated from those destined for Hell.

My ascension, except for a few minor differences, happened just the way Gazzali, El Jevziyye and other legendary scholars described in their passages on death. Eternal puzzles and dark enigmas that only the dead might understand were now being revealed and illuminated, bursting forth brilliantly one by one in thousands of colors.

Oh, how might I adequately describe the hues I saw during this exquisite journey? The whole world was made up of color, everything was color. Just as I sensed that the force separating me from all other beings and objects consisted of color, I now knew that it was color itself that had affectionately embraced me and bound me to the world. I saw orange-hued skies, beautiful leaf-green bodies, brown eggs and legendary sky-blue horses. The world was faithful to the illustrations and legends that I’d avidly scrutinized over the years. I beheld Creation with awe and surprise as if for the first time, but also as if it’d somehow emerged from my memory. What I called “memory” contained an entire world: With time spread out infinitely before me in both directions, I understood how the world as I first experienced it could persist afterward as memory. As I died surrounded by this festival of color, I also discovered why I felt so relaxed, as if I’d been liberated from a straitjacket: From now on, nothing was restricted, and I had unlimited time and space in which to experience all eras and all places.

As soon as I realized this freedom, with fear and ecstasy I knew I was close to Him; at the same time, I humbly felt the presence of an absolutely matchless red.

Within a short period, red imbued all. The beauty of this color suffused me and the whole universe. As I approached His Being in this manner, I had the urge to cry out in jubilation. I was suddenly ashamed to be taken into His presence, drenched in blood as I was. Another part of my mind recalled what I’d read in books on death, that He would enlist Azrael and His other angels to summon me to His presence.

Would I be able to see Him? I wasn’t able to breathe out of excitement.

The red approaching me-the omnipresent red within which all the images of the universe played-was so magnificent and beautiful that it quickened my tears to think I would become part of it and be so close to Him.

But I also knew He’d come no closer to me than He already had; He’d inquired about me from His angels and they’d praised me; He saw me as a loyal servant bound to His commandments and prohibitions; and He loved me.