My Name is Red

I WILL BE CALLED A MURDERER

They threw cold, muddy earth onto the battered and disfigured corpse of ill-fated Elegant Effendi and I wept more than any of them. I shouted, “I want to die with him!” and “Let me share his grave!” and they held me by the waist so I wouldn’t fall in. I gasped for air and they pressed their palms to my forehead, drawing my head back so I might breathe. By the glances of the deceased’s relatives, I sensed I might have exaggerated my sobs and wailing; I pulled myself together. Based upon my excessive sorrow the workshop gossips might suppose that Elegant Effendi and I had been in love.

I hid behind a plane tree until the funeral ended to avoid drawing more attention to myself. A relative of the oaf I’d sent to Hell-an even bigger idiot than the deceased-discovered me behind the tree and stared deep into my eyes with a look he assumed was meaningful. He held me in his embrace for a while, then the ignoramus said the following: “Were you ”Saturday“ or ”Wednesday‘?“

“”Wednesday“ was the workshop name of the dearly departed for a time,” I said. He fell silent.

The story behind these workshop names, which bound us to one another like a secret pact, was simple: During our apprenticeships, when Osman the miniaturist had newly graduated from assistant master to the level of master, we all shared a great respect, admiration and love for him. He was a virtuoso and he taught us everything, for God had blessed him with an enchanting artistic gift and the intellect of a jinn. Early each morning, as was demanded of apprentices, one of us would go to the master’s home, and following respectfully behind him on the way to the workshop, carry his pen and brush box, his bag and his portfolio full of papers. So desperate were we to be near him that we’d argue and fight among ourselves to determine who would go that day.

Master Osman had a favorite. But if he were always to go, it would fan the flames of the never-ending gossip and tasteless jokes that inevitably filled the workshop, and so the great master decided that each of us would be assured a specified day of the week. The great master worked on Fridays and stayed at home Saturdays. His son, whom he loved dearly-who later betrayed him and us by quitting the trade-would accompany his father on Mondays like a common apprentice. There was also a tall thin brother of ours known as “Thursday,” a miniaturist more gifted than any of us, who passed away at a young age, succumbing to the fever brought on by a mysterious illness. Elegant Effendi, may he rest in peace, would go on Wednesdays, and was therefore known as “Wednesday.” Later, our great master meaningfully and lovingly changed our names from “Tuesday” to “Olive,” from “Friday” to “Stork,” and from “Sunday” to “Butterfly,” renaming the dearly departed as “Elegant” in allusion to the finesse of his gilding work. The great master must have said, “Welcome ”Wednesday,“ how are you this morning?” to the late Elegant just as he used to greet all of us back then.

When I recalled how he would address me, I thought my eyes might fill with tears: Master Osman admired us, and his own eyes would tear when he beheld the beauty of our work; he’d kiss our hands and arms, and despite the beatings, we felt as if we were in Heaven as apprentices; and so our talent blossomed with his love. Even jealousy, which cast its shadow over those happy years, had a different hue then.

Now I am completely divided, just like those figures whose head and hands are drawn and painted by one master while their bodies and clothes are depicted by another. When a God-fearing man like myself unexpectedly becomes a murderer, it takes time to adjust. I’ve adopted a second voice, one befitting a murderer, so that I might still carry on as though my old life continued. I am speaking now in this derisive and devious second voice, which I keep out of my regular life. From time to time, of course, you’ll hear my familiar, regular voice, which would’ve remained my only voice had I not become a murderer. But when I speak under my workshop name, I’ll never admit to being “a murderer.” Let no one try to associate these two voices, I have no individual style or flaws in artistry to betray my hidden persona. Indeed, I believe that style, or for that matter, anything that serves to distinguish one artist from another, is a flaw-not individual character, as some arrogantly claim.

I do admit that in my own situation, this presents a problem. For though I might speak through my workshop name, lovingly given to me by Master Osman and used by Enishte Effendi, who also admired it, in no wise do I want you to figure out whether I am Butterfly, Olive or Stork. For if you do you won’t hesitate to turn me over to the torturers of the Sultan’s Commander of the Imperial Guard.

And, I must mind what I think about and say. Actually, I know that you’re listening to me even when I’m mulling over matters in private. I can’t afford careless contemplation of my frustrations or the incriminating details of my life. Even when recounting the “Alif,” “Ba” and “Djim” stories. I was always mindful of your gaze.

One side of the warriors, lovers, princes and legendary heroes that I’ve illustrated tens of thousands of times faces whatever is depicted there, in that mythical time-the enemies they’re battling, for example, or the dragons they’re slaying, or the beautiful maidens over whom they weep. But another aspect, and another side of their bodies, faces the book lover who happens to be gazing at the magnificent painting. If I do have style and character, it’s not only hidden in my artwork, but in my crime and in my words as well! Yes, try to discover who I am from the color of my words!

I, too, know that if you catch me, it’ll bring consolation to unfortunate Elegant Effendi’s miserable soul. They’re shoveling dirt on him as I stand here beneath trees, amid chirping birds, watching the gilded waters of the Golden Horn and the leaden domes of Istanbul, and discovering anew how wonderful it is to be alive. Pathetic Elegant Effendi, soon after he joined the circle of that fierce-browed preacher from Erzurum, he stopped liking me completely; yet, in the twenty-five years that we illustrated books for Our Sultan, there were times when we felt very close to each other. Twenty years ago, we became friends while working on a royal history in verse for the late father of our present sultan. But we were never closer than when working on the eight illustrated plates that were to accompany a collection of Fuzuli poems. One summer evening back then, as a concession to his understandable but illogical desires-apparently a miniaturist ought to feel in his soul the text he’s illustrating-I came here and patiently listened to him pretentiously recite lines from Fuzuli’s collected works as flocks of swallows fluttered above us in a frenzy. I still recall a line recited that evening: “I am not me but eternally thee.” I’ve always wondered how one might illustrate this line.

I ran to his house as soon as I learned that his body had been found. There, the diminutive garden where we once sat and recited poetry, now covered in snow, seemed diminished, just like any garden revisited after a period of years. His house was that way, too. From the next room, I could hear the wails of women, and their exaggerated exclamations, mounting as if they were competing with each other. When his eldest brother spoke, I listened intently: The face of our forlorn brother Elegant was practically destroyed, and his head was smashed. After he was removed from the bottom of the well where he’d lain for four days, his brothers scarcely knew him, and his poor wife, Kalbiye, whom they’d brought from the house, was forced to identify the unrecognizable body in the dark of night by its torn and tattered clothing. I was reminded of a depiction of the Midian merchants pulling Joseph from the pit into which he’d been cast by his jealous brothers. I quite enjoy painting this scene from the romance of Joseph and Zuleyha, for it reminds us that envy is the prime emotion in life.

There was a sudden lull. I sensed their eyes upon me. Should I cry? I caught Black’s eye. That vile scoundrel, he’s peering at us, like someone who’s been sent here by Enishte Effendi to uncover the truth.

“Who could’ve perpetrated such a horrendous crime?” cried the oldest brother. “What kind of heartless beast could’ve slaughtered our brother, our brother who wouldn’t dare harm an ant?”

He answered this question with his own tears, and I joined him, feigning grief while I sought my own answer: Who were Elegant’s enemies? If it hadn’t been me, who else could’ve murdered him? I recalled that some time ago-I believe it was when the Book of Skills was being prepared-he would get involved in arguments with certain artists inclined to dismiss the techniques of the old masters and ruin the pages we illustrators had labored extensively over; thus they would spoil the borders with the horrid colors used to embellish more cheaply and quickly. Who were they? Later, however, rumors began to spread that the enmity had arisen not for this reason, but out of competition for the affections of a handsome binder’s apprentice who worked on the ground floor; but this was an old story. And there were those who were annoyed by Elegant’s dignity, his refinement and his erudite feminine demeanor, but this had to do with another matter entirely: Elegant was slavishly bound to the old style, a fanatic about the coordination of color between gilding and illustration, and in the presence of Master Osman, he would, for instance, point out the nonexistent faults of other miniaturists-mine in particular-with gentle conceit. His last quarrel had to do with an issue about which Master Osman had, in past years, grown quite sensitive: royal miniaturists who moonlighted, secretly accepting trivial commissions outside the auspices of the palace. In recent years, after Our Sultan’s interest had begun to wane and, along with it, the money coming from the Head Treasurer, all the miniaturists started paying visits to the two-story houses of the crass young pashas-and the best of the artists would go late at night to visit Enishte.

I wasn’t at all bothered by Enishte’s decision to stop working on his-on our-book or his excuse that it was ill-omened. He had, of course, guessed that the murderer who did away with brainless Elegant Effendi was one of us who were embellishing his book. Put yourself in his shoes: Would you invite a murderer to your house each fortnight to work on illustrations after dark? Wouldn’t you first determine the identities of the murderer and the best illustrator? I have no doubt that he’ll quickly deduce which of the miniaturists was the most talented and the most skilled in color selection, gilding, page ruling, illustration, face drawing and page composition; and having done so, he’ll continue working with me alone. I can’t imagine he’ll be so petty as to think of me as a common murderer rather than a genuinely talented miniaturist.

Out of the corner of my eye I am watching that fool Black Effendi whom Enishte brought with him. When these two broke away from the cemetery crowd presently dispersing, and walked down to the Eyüp quay, I followed them. They boarded a four-oared longboat, and afterward, I got into a six-oar along with a few young apprentices who’d forgotten about the deceased and the funeral and were making merry. Within sight of the Phanar Gate, our boats momentarily came so near each other that they were about to lock oars, and I could see clearly that Black was earnestly whispering to Enishte. I thereupon thought how easy it was to end a life. My dear God, you’ve given each of us this unbelievable power, but you’ve also made us afraid to exercise it.

Still, if a man but once overcomes this fear and acts, he straightaway becomes an entirely different person. There was a time when I was terrified not only of the Devil, but of the slightest trace of evil within me. Now, however, I have the sense that evil can be endured, and moreover, that it’s indispensable to an artist. After I killed that miserable excuse of a man, discounting the trembling in my hands which lasted only a few days, I drew better, I made use of brighter and bolder colors, and most important, realized that I could conjure up wonders in my imagination. But, this begs the question how many men in Istanbul can truly appreciate the magnificence of my illustrations?

Off the waterfront near Jibali, from all the way in the middle of the Golden Horn, I gazed spitefully at Istanbul. The snow-capped domes shone bright in the sunlight that broke abruptly through the clouds. The larger and more colorful a city is, the more places there are to hide one’s guilt and sin; the more crowded it is, the more people there are to hide behind. A city’s intellect ought to be measured not by its scholars, libraries, miniaturists, calligraphers and schools, but by the number of crimes insidiously committed on its dark streets over thousands of years. By this logic, doubtless, Istanbul is the world’s most intelligent city.

At the Unkapanı quay, I left my longboat a little after Black and his Enishte had left theirs. I was behind them as they leaned on one another and mounted the hill. At the site of a recent fire in the shadow of the Sultan Mehmet Mosque, they stopped and exchanged parting words. Enishte Effendi was alone, and he appeared for an instant like a helpless old man. I was tempted to run to him and tell him what that barbarian, from whose funeral we were returning, had slanderously confided in me; I was going to confess what I’d done to protect us, and to ask him: “Is it true what Elegant Effendi had claimed? Are we abusing Our Sultan’s trust through the illustrations we’ve made? Are our painting techniques traitorous and an affront to our religion? And have you finished that last large painting?”

I stood in the middle of the snowy street as evening fell and gazed down the dark road which had been abandoned along with me to jinns, fairies, brigands, thieves, to the grief of fathers and children returning home and to the sorrow of snow-covered trees. At the end of the street, inside Enishte Effendi’s grandiose two-story house, beneath the roof, which I can now see through the bare branches of the chestnut trees, there lives the most beautiful woman in the world. But, no, why should I drive myself mad?