Orhan Pamuk - My Name is Red

“How much I loved your Enishte, may he rest in peace,” He said. Yes, He was speaking to me. In my excitement, I missed some of what He was saying.

“…I was quite aggrieved. However, it’s quite a comfort to see that each of these pictures he made is a masterpiece. When the Venetian giaour sees these, he will be stunned and fear my wisdom. You shall determine who the accursed miniaturist is by this horse’s nose. Otherwise, however merciless, it’ll be necessary to torture all the master miniaturists.”

“Sovereign Refuge of the World Your Excellency My Sultan,” said Master Osman. “Perhaps we can better catch the man responsible for this slip of the brush, if my master miniaturists are forced to draw a horse on a blank sheet of paper, quickly, without any story in mind.”

“Only, of course, if this is really a slip of the brush and not an actual nose,” said Our Sultan shrewdly.

“My Sultan,” said Master Osman, “to this end, if a competition by express command of Your Highness were announced tonight; if a guard were to visit Your miniaturists, requesting them to draw a horse quickly on a blank sheet for this contest…”

Our Sultan looked at the Commander of the Imperial Guard with an expression that said, “Did you hear that?” Then he said, “Do you know which of the Poet Nizami’s stories of rivalry I like best of all?”

Some of us said, “We know.” Some said, “Which one?” Some, including myself, fell silent.

“I’m not fond of the contest of poets or the story about the contest between Chinese and Western painters and the mirror,” said the handsome Sultan. “I like best the contest of doctors who compete to the death.”

After He’d said this, He abruptly took leave of us for His evening prayers.

Later, as the evening azan was being called, in the half dark, after exiting the gates of the palace, I hurried toward my neighborhood happily imagining Shekure, the boys and our house, when I recalled with horror the story of the contest of doctors:

One of the two doctors competing in the presence of their sultan-the one often depicted in pink-made a poison green pill strong enough to fell an elephant, which he gave to the other doctor, the one in the navy-blue caftan. That doctor first swallowed the poisonous pill, and afterward, swallowed a navy-blue antidote that he’d just made. As could be understood from his gentle laughter, nothing at all happened to him. Furthermore, it was now his turn to give his rival a whiff of death. Moving ever so deliberately, savoring the pleasure of taking his turn, he plucked a pink rose from the garden, and bringing it to his lips, inaudibly whispered a mysterious poem into its petals. Next, with gestures that bespoke extreme confidence, he extended the rose to his rival so he might take in its bouquet. The force of the whispered poem so agitated the doctor in pink that upon bringing the flower to his nose, which bore nothing but its regular scent, he collapsed out of fear and died.

Prior to the evening prayers, there came a knock at the door and I opened it without ceremony: It was one of the Commander’s men from the palace, a clean, handsome, cheerful and becoming youth. In addition to paper and a writing board, he carried an oil lamp in his hand, which cast shadows over his face rather than illuminating it. He quickly apprised me of the situation: Our Sultan had declared a contest among the master miniaturists to see who could draw the best horse in the shortest time. I was asked to sit on the floor, arrange paper on the board and the board on my knees and quickly depict the world’s most beautiful horse in the space indicated within the borders of the page.

I invited my guest inside. I ran and fetched my ink and the finest of my brushes made from hair clipped from a cat’s ear. I sat down on the floor and froze! Might this contest be a ruse or ploy that I’d end up paying for with my blood or my head? Perhaps! But hadn’t all the legendary illustrations by the old masters of Herat been drawn with fine lines that ran between death and beauty?

I was filled with the desire to illustrate, yet I was seemingly afraid to draw exactly like the old masters, and I restrained myself.

Looking at the blank sheet of paper, I paused so that my soul might rid itself of apprehension. I ought to have focused solely on the beautiful horse I was about to render; I ought to have mustered my strength and concentration.

All the horses I’d ever drawn and seen began to gallop before my eyes. Yet one was the most flawless of all. I was presently going to render this horse which nobody had been able to draw before. Decisively, I pictured it in my mind’s eye. The world faded away, as if I’d suddenly forgotten myself, forgotten that I was sitting here, and even that I was about to draw. My hand dipped the brush into the inkwell of its own accord, taking up just the right amount. Come now, my good hand, bring the wonderful horse of my imagination into this world! The horse and I had seemingly become one and we were about to appear.

Following my intuition, I searched for the appropriate place within the bordered blank page. I imagined the horse standing there, and suddenly:

Even before I was able to think, my hand set forth decisively of its own volition-see how gracefully-curling quickly from the hoof, it rendered that beautiful thin lower leg, and moved upward. As it curved with the same decisiveness past the knee and rose quickly to the base of the chest, I grew elated! Arching from here, it moved victoriously higher: How beautiful the animal’s chest was! The chest tapered to form the neck, exactly like that of the horse in my mind’s eye. Without lifting my brush, I came down from the cheek, reaching the powerful mouth, which I’d left open after a moment’s thought; I entered the mouth-this is how it’s going to be then, open your mouth wider now, horsey-and I brought out its tongue. I slowly turned out the nose-no room for indecision! Angling up steadily, I looked momentarily at the whole image, and when I saw that I’d made my line exactly as I’d imagined it, I forgot entirely what I was drawing, and the ears and the magnificent curve of the spectacular neck were rendered by my hand alone. As I drew the backside from memory, my hand stopped on its own to let the bristles of the brush sip from the inkwell. I was quite content while rendering the rump, and the forceful and protruding hindquarters; I was completely engrossed in the picture. I seemed to be standing beside the horse I was drawing as I joyously began the tail. This was a war steed, a racehorse; making a knot of its tail and winding it around, I exuberantly moved upward; as I was drawing the dock and buttocks I felt a pleasant coolness on my own ass and anus. Pleased by that feeling, I gleefully completed the splendid softness of the rump, the left hind leg that was slightly behind the right, and then the hooves. I was astonished by the horse I’d drawn and by my hand, which had rendered the elegant positioning of the left foreleg exactly as I had conceived it.

I lifted my hand from the page and quickly drew the fiery, sorrowful eyes; with but a moment’s hesitation, I made the nostrils and the saddle blanket. I hatched in the mane strand by strand, as if tenderly combing it with my fingers. I fitted the beast with stirrups, added a white blaze to his forehead and finished him off properly by eagerly, measuredly, yet in full proportion drawing his balls and cock.

When I draw a magnificent horse, I become that magnificent horse.

I believe it was about the time of the evening prayer. Someone was at the door. He explained that the Sultan had announced a competition. As you command, my dear Sultan; indeed, who could draw a more beautiful horse than I?