Orhan Pamuk - My Name is Red

Let them misunderstand you, so you can dupe them all the more easily, you might suggest. True. But let me remind you, I have my pride, which is what caused me to fall out with the Almighty in the first place. Even though I can assume every imaginable form, and though it’s been recorded in numerous books tens of thousands of times that I’ve successfully tempted the pious, especially in the lust-kindling guise of a beautiful woman, can the miniaturist brethren before me tonight please explain why they persist in picturing me as a misshapen, horned, long-tailed and gruesome creature with a face covered with protruding moles?

Like so, we arrive at the heart of the matter: figurative painting. An Istanbul street mob incited by a preacher whose name I won’t mention so he won’t bother you later on, condemns the following as being contrary to the word of God: the calling of the azan like a song; the gathering of men in dervish lodges, sitting in each other’s laps, and chanting with abandon to the accompaniment of musical instruments; and the drinking of coffee. I’ve heard that some of the miniaturists among us who fear this preacher and his mob claim that I’m the one behind all this painting in the Frankish style. For centuries, countless accusations have been leveled at me, but none so far from the truth.

Let’s start from the beginning. Everybody gets caught up in my provoking Eve to eat of the forbidden fruit and forgets about how this whole matter began. No, it doesn’t begin with my hubris before the Almighty, either. Before anything else, there’s the matter of His presenting man to us and expecting us to bow down to him, which met with my quite appropriate and decisive refusal-though the other angels obeyed. Do you think it fitting that, after creating me from fire, He require me to bow before man, whom He created out of the crudest mud? Oh my brethren, speak the truth of your conscience. All right, then, I know you’ve been thinking about it and fear that anything said here will not just remain between us: He will hear it all and one day He’ll call you to account. Fine, never mind why He’s provided you with that conscience in the first instance; I agree, you’re justified in being afraid, and I’ll forget about this question and the mud-versus-fire debate. But there’s something I’ll never forget-yes indeed, something I’ll always be proud of: I never bowed down before man.

This, however, is precisely what the new European masters are doing, and they’re not satisfied with merely depicting and displaying every single detail down to the eye color, complexion, curvy lips, forehead wrinkles, rings and disgusting ear hair of gentlemen, priests, wealthy merchants and even women-including the lovely shadows that fall between their breasts. These artists also dare to situate their subjects in the center of the page, as if man were meant to be worshiped, and display these portraits like idols before which we should prostrate ourselves. Is man important enough to warrant being drawn in every detail, including his shadow? If the houses on a street were rendered according to man’s false perception that they gradually diminish in size as they recede into the distance, wouldn’t man then effectively be usurping Allah’s place at the center of the world? Well, Allah, almighty and omnipotent, would know better than I. But surely it’s absurd on the face of it to credit me with the idea of these portraits; I, who having refused to prostrate myself before man suffered untold pain and isolation; I, who fell from God’s grace to become the subject of curses. It would be more reasonable to hold me responsible, as some mullahs and preachers do, for all the children who play with themselves and everyone who farts.

I have one last comment on this subject, but my words aren’t for men who can’t think beyond their eagerness to show off, their carnal desires, lust for money or other absurd passions! Only God, in His infinite wisdom, will understand me: Was it not You who instilled man with pride by making the angels bow before him? Now they regard themselves as Your angels were made to regard them; men are worshiping themselves, placing themselves at the center of the world. Even your most devoted servants want to be depicted in the style of the Frankish masters. I know it as well as I know my own name that this narcissism will end in their forgetting You entirely. And I’m the one who’ll be blamed.

How might I convince you that I don’t take all of this to heart? Naturally, by standing firmly on my own two feet despite centuries of merciless stonings, curses, damnings and denouncements. If only my angry and shallow enemies, who never tire of condemning me, would remember that it was the Almighty Himself who granted me life until Judgment Day, while allotting them no more than sixty or seventy years. If I were to advise them that they could extend this period by drinking coffee, I know quite well that some, because it was Satan speaking, would do the exact opposite and refuse coffee entirely, or worse yet, stand on their heads and try pouring it into their asses.

Don’t laugh. It’s not the content, but the form of thought that counts. It’s not what a miniaturist paints, but his style. Yet these things should be subtle. I was going to conclude with a love story, but it’s gotten quite late. The honey-tongued master storyteller who’s given me voice tonight promises to tell this story of love when he hangs up the picture of a woman the day after tomorrow, on Wednesday night.

I dreamed that my father was telling me incomprehensible things, and it was so terrifying that I woke up. Shevket and Orhan were clinging tightly to me on either side, and their warmth made me sweat. Shevket had his hand on my stomach. Orhan was resting his sweaty head on my bosom. Somehow, I was able to get out of bed and leave the room without waking them.

I crossed the wide hallway and silently opened Black’s door. In the light cast by my candle, I couldn’t see him, only the edge of his white mattress which lay like a shrouded body in the middle of the dark, cold room. The candlelight seemed unable to reach the mattress.

When I brought my hand even closer, the reddish-orange light of the candle struck Black’s weary, unshaven face and naked shoulders. I drew near to him. Just as Orhan did, he slept curled up like a pill bug, and he wore the expression of a sleeping maiden.

“This is my husband,” I said to myself. He seemed so distant, so much a stranger, that I was filled with sorrow. If I’d had a dagger with me, I would’ve murdered him-no, I didn’t actually want to do such a thing; I was only wondering, the way children do, how it’d be if I killed him. I didn’t believe he’d lived for years through thoughts of me, neither in his innocent childlike expression.

Prodding his shoulder with the edge of my bare foot, I woke him. When he saw me, he was startled more than enchanted and excited, if only for a moment, just as I’d hoped. Before he’d completely come to his senses, I said:

“I dreamed I saw my father. He confided something horrible to me: You were the one who killed him…”

“Weren’t we together when your father was murdered?”

“I’m aware of this,” I said. “But you knew that my father would be at home all alone.”

“I did not. You were the one who sent the children out with Hayriye. Only Hayriye, and perhaps Esther, knew about it. And as for whoever else might’ve known, you’d have a better idea than I.”

“There are times I feel an inner voice is about to tell me why everything has gone so badly, the secret of all of our misfortune. I open my mouth so that voice might speak, but as in a dream, I make no sound. You’re no longer the good and naive Black of my childhood.”