Orhan Pamuk - My Name is Red

“If their houses and workplaces are searched and the missing page turns up with one of my master miniaturists, Black’s innocence will be established at once,” I said. “Frankly, however, I can tell you that my dearest children, my divinely inspired miniaturists, whom I’ve known since they were apprentices, are incapable of taking the life of another man.”

“As for Olive, Stork and Butterfly,” said the Commander, mockingly using the nicknames I’d affectionately given to them, “we intend to comb their homes, haunts, places of work and, if applicable, shops, leaving no stone unturned. And that includes Black…” His expression bespoke resignation: “Given such troublesome circumstances, thank God, the judge has granted us permission to resort to torture if necessary during the interrogation of Black Effendi. Torture was deemed lawfully permissible because a second murder had been committed against someone with a link to the miniaturists guild, making suspects of them all, from apprentice to master.”

I mulled this over silently: 1. The phrase “lawfully permissible” made clear that Our Sultan wasn’t the one who’d granted the permission for torture. 2. Because all the miniaturists were under suspicion of double murder in the eyes of the judge, and because I, though Head Illuminator, had been unable to identify the criminal in our midst, I, too, was suspect. 3. I understood that they wanted my explicit or implicit approval to go ahead with the torture of my beloved Butterfly, Olive, Stork and the others, all of whom, in recent years, had betrayed me.

“Since Our Sultan desires both the satisfactory completion of the Book of Festivities and this book-which is evidently only half finished,” said the Head Treasurer, “we’re worried that torture might damage the masters’ hands and eyes, destroying their agility.” He faced me. “Isn’t this so?”

“There was similar worry over another incident recently,” said the Commander brusquely. “A goldsmith and a jeweler who did repairs fell sway to the Devil. They were childishly enchanted with a ruby-handled coffee cup belonging to Our Sultan’s younger sister Nejmiye Sultan, and ended up stealing it. Since the theft of the cup, which overwhelmed Our Sultan’s sister with grief-she was quite fond of the piece-occurred in the Üsküdar Palace, the Sovereign appointed me to investigate. It became apparent that both Our Sultan and Nejmiye Sultan wanted no harm to come to the eyes and fingers of the master gold- and jewelry smiths lest their skills be affected. So, I had all the master jewelry smiths stripped naked and thrown into the freezing pool in the yard among pieces of ice and frogs. Periodically, I’d have them taken out and lashed forcefully, taking care that their faces and hands remained unharmed. Within a short period, the jeweler who’d been duped by the Devil confessed and accepted his punishment. Despite the ice-cold water, the frozen air and all the lashings, no lasting injury came to the eyes and fingers of the master jewelers because they were pure of heart. Even the Sultan mentioned that His sister was quite pleased with my work and that the jewelers were working with more zeal now that the bad apple was out of the barrel.”

I was certain that the Commander would treat my master illustrators more severely than he had the jewelers. Though he had respect for Our Sultan’s enthusiasm for illuminated manuscripts, like many others, he deemed calligraphy the only respectable art form, belittling embellishment and illustration as flirtations with heresy, fit for women and deserving of nothing but rebuke. In order to provoke me, he said, “While you’ve been absorbed in your work, your beloved miniaturists have already begun scheming to see who’ll become Head Miniaturist upon your death.”

Was this gossip I hadn’t already heard? Had he informed me of something new? Restraining myself, I didn’t respond. The Head Treasurer was more than aware of the fury I felt toward him for commissioning a manuscript from that deceased half-wit behind my back, and toward my ingrate miniaturists, who’d secretly prepared these illustrations to curry favor and earn a few extra silver coins.

I caught myself pondering the methods of torture that might be inflicted. They wouldn’t resort to flaying during the interrogation, because that inevitably leads to death. They wouldn’t impale anyone, either, as they do with rebels, because that’s used as a deterrent. Cracking and splintering the fingers, arms or legs of these miniaturists was also out of the question. Of course, the removal of an eye-which I gathered was a measure of increasing frequency these days, to judge by the growing numbers of one-eyed people on the streets of Istanbul -would be inappropriate for master artists. So, as I imagined my dear miniaturists in a secluded corner of the Royal Private Garden, there in the ice-cold pool among the water lilies, shivering violently and glaring hatefully at one another, I had the passing urge to laugh. Nevertheless, it caused me agony to imagine how Olive would shriek when his hindquarters were branded with a hot iron and how dear Butterfly’s skin would pale when he was shackled. I couldn’t bear to conjure the scene of dear Butterfly-whose skill and love for illumination brought tears to my eyes-as he was given the bastinado like a common thieving apprentice. I just stood there dumbfounded and hollow.

My elderly mind was mute under the spell of its own internal silence. There was a time when we’d paint together with a passion that made us forget everything.

“These men are the most expert miniaturists serving Our Sultan,” I said. “Make certain no harm befalls them.”

Pleased, the Head Treasurer rose, grabbed a number of pages from the worktable at the other end of the room and arranged them in front of me. Next, as if the room were dark, he placed beside me two large candle holders whose portly tapers burned with bobbing and twittering flames so I could study the paintings in question.

How might I explain what I saw as I moved the magnifying lens over them? I felt like laughing-and not because they were humorous. I was incensed-it seemed that Enishte Effendi had instructed my masters as follows: “Don’t paint like yourselves, paint as if you were someone else.” He’d forced them to recall nonexistent memories, to conjure and paint a future, which they’d never want to live. What was even more incredible was that they were killing each other over this nonsense.

“By looking at these illustrations, can you tell me which miniaturist worked on which picture?” asked the Head Treasurer.

“Yes,” I said angrily. “Where did you find these paintings?”

“Black brought them of his own accord and left them with me,” said the Head Treasurer. “He’s bent on proving that he and his late Enishte are innocent.”

“During the interrogation, torture him,” I said. “That way we’ll learn what other secrets our late Enishte was harboring.”

“We’ve sent for him,” said the Commander of the Imperial Guard. “Afterward, we’ll thoroughly search the house of that newlywed.”

Both their faces were strangely illuminated, a flicker of fear and awe overcame them, and they snapped to their feet.

Without having to turn around I knew we were in the presence of His Excellency, Our Sultan, the Refuge of the World.

Oh, how wonderful it is to cry along with the rest of them! While the men were at the funeral of my dear Shekure’s father, the women, kith and kin, spouses and friends, gathered in the house and shed their tears, and I, too, beat my chest in mourning and wept with them. Now wailing in unison with the pretty maiden beside me, leaning on her and swaying back and forth; now crying in a completely different frame of mind, I was deeply touched by my own woes and pitiful life. If I could cry like this just once a week, I thought, I might forget how I had to roam the streets all day just to make ends meet, forget being mocked for my weight and my Jewishness and be reborn an even more chattermouth Esther.