My Name is Red

I AM CALLED BLACK

I wondered whether Shekure’s father was aware of the letters we exchanged. If I were to consider her tone, which bespoke a timid maiden quite afraid of her father, I’d have to conclude that not a single word about me had passed between them. Yet, I sensed that this was not the case. The slyness in Esther’s looks, Shekure’s enchanting appearance at the window, the decisiveness with which my Enishte sent me to his illustrators and his despair when he ordered me to come this morning-all of it made me quite uneasy.

In the morning, as soon as my Enishte asked me to sit before him, he began to describe the portraits he saw in Venice. As the ambassador of Our Sultan, Refuge of the World, he’d visited quite a number of palazzos, churches and the houses of prosperous men. Over a period of days, he stood before thousands of portraits. He saw thousands of framed faces depicted on stretched canvas or wood or painted directly onto walls. “Each one was different from the next. They were distinctive, unique human faces!” he said. He was intoxicated by their variety, their colors, the pleasantness-even severity-of the soft light that seemed to fall on them and the meaning emanating from their eyes.

“As if a virulent plague had struck, everyone was having his portrait made,” he said. “In all of Venice, rich and influential men wanted their portraits painted as a symbol, a memento of their lives and a sign of their riches, power and influence-so they might always be there, standing before us, announcing their existence, nay, their individuality and distinction.”

His words were belittling, as if he were speaking out of jealousy, ambition or greed. Though, at times, as he talked about the portraits he’d seen in Venice, his face would abruptly light up like a child’s, invigorated.

Portraiture had become such a contagion among affluent men, princes and great families who were patrons of art that even when they commissioned frescoes of biblical scenes and religious legends for church walls, these infidels would insist that their own images appear somewhere in the work. For instance, in a painting of the burial of St. Stephan, you’d suddenly see, ah yes, present among the tearful graveside mourners, the very prince who was giving you the tour-in a state of pure enthusiasm, exhilaration and conceit-of the paintings hanging on his palazzo walls. Next, in the corner of a fresco depicting St. Peter curing the sick with his shadow, you’d realize with an odd sense of disillusionment that the unfortunate one writhing there in pain was, in fact, the strong-as-an-ox brother of your polite host. The following day, this time in a piece depicting the Resurrection of the Dead, you’d discover the guest who’d stuffed himself beside you at lunch.

“Some have gone so far, just to be included in a painting,” said my Enishte, fearfully as though he were talking about the temptations of Satan, “that they’re willing to be portrayed as a servant filling goblets in the crowd, or a merciless man stoning an adulteress, or a murderer, his hands drenched in blood.”

Pretending not to understand, I said, “Exactly the way we see Shah Ismail ascending the throne in those illustrated books that recount ancient Persian legends. Or when we come across a depiction of Tamerlane, who actually ruled long afterward, in the story of Hüsrev and Shirin.”

Was there a noise somewhere in the house?

“It’s as if the Venetian paintings were made to frighten us,” said my Enishte later. “And it isn’t enough that we be in awe of the authority and money of these men who commission the works, they also want us to know that simply existing in this world is a very special, very mysterious event. They’re attempting to terrify us with their unique faces, eyes, bearing and with their clothing whose every fold is defined by shadow. They’re attempting to terrify us by being creatures of mystery.”

He explained how once he’d gotten lost in the exquisite portrait gallery of a lunatic collector whose opulent estate was perched on the shores of Lake Como; the proprietor had collected the portraits of all the great personages in Frankish history from kings to cardinals, and from soldiers to poets: “When my hospitable host left me alone to roam as I wished throughout his palazzo, which he’d proudly given me a tour of, I saw that these supposedly important infidels-most of whom appeared to be real and some of whom looked me straight in the eye-had attained their importance in this world solely on account of having their portraits made. Their likenesses had imbued them with such magic, had so distinguished them, that for a moment among the paintings I felt flawed and impotent. Had I been depicted in this fashion, it seemed, I’d better understand why I existed in this world.”

He was frightened because he suddenly understood-and perhaps desired-that Islamic artistry, perfected and securely established by the old masters of Herat, would meet its end on account of the appeal of portraiture. “However, it was as if I too wanted to feel extraordinary, different and unique,” he said. As if prodded by the Devil, he felt himself strongly drawn to what he feared. “How should I say it? It’s as if this were a sin of desire, like growing arrogant before God, like considering oneself of utmost importance, like situating oneself at the center of the world.”

Thereafter, this idea dawned on him: These methods which the Frankish artists made use of as if playing a prideful child’s game, could be more than simply magic associated with Our Exalted Sultan-but could in fact become a force meant to serve our religion, bringing under its sway all who beheld it.

I learned that the idea of preparing an illuminated manuscript had arisen then: my Enishte, who’d returned to Istanbul from Venice, suggested it would be excellent indeed for Our Sultan to be the subject of a portrait in the Frankish style. But after His Excellency took exception, a book containing pictures of Our Sultan and the objects that represented Him was agreed upon.

“It is the story that’s essential,” our wisest and most Glorious Sultan had said. “A beautiful illustration elegantly completes the story. An illustration that does not complement a story, in the end, will become but a false idol. Since we cannot possibly believe in an absent story, we will naturally begin believing in the picture itself. This would be no different than the worship of idols in the Kaaba that went on before Our Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him, had destroyed them. If not as part of a story, how would you propose to depict this red carnation, for example, or that insolent dwarf over there?”

“By exposing the carnation’s beauty and uniqueness.”

“In the arrangement of your scene, then, would you situate the flower at the precise center of the page?”

“I was afraid,” my Enishte said. “I panicked momentarily when I realized where Our Sultan’s thoughts were taking me.”

What filled my Enishte with fear was the notion of situating at the center of the page-and thereby, the world-something other than what God had intended.

“Thereafter,” Our Sultan had said, “you’ll want to exhibit a picture in whose center you’ve situated a dwarf.” It was as I had assumed. “But this picture could never be displayed: after a while, we’d begin to worship a picture we’ve hung on a wall, regardless of the original intentions. If I believed, heaven forbid, the way these infidels do, that the Prophet Jesus was also the Lord God himself, then I’d also hold that God could be observed in this world, and even, that He could manifest in human form; only then might I accept the depiction of mankind in full detail and exhibit such images. You do understand that, eventually, we would unthinkingly begin worshiping any picture that is hung on a wall, don’t you?”

My Enishte said: “I understood it quite well, and because I did, I was afraid of what we both were thinking.”

“For this reason,” Our Sultan remarked, “I could never allow my portrait to be displayed.”

“Though this is exactly what he wanted,” whispered my Enishte, with a devilish titter.

It was my turn to be frightened now.

“Nonetheless, it is my desire that my portrait be made in the style of the Frankish masters,” Our Sultan went on. “Such a portrait will, of course, have to be concealed within the pages of a book. Whatever that book might be, you shall be the one to tell me.”

“In an instant of surprise and awe, I considered his statement,” said my Enishte, then grinning more devilishly than before, he seemed, suddenly, to become someone else.

“His Excellency Our Sultan ordered me to start working on His book posthaste. My head spun with joy. He added that it ought to be prepared as a present for the Venetian Doge, whom I was to visit once again. Once the book was completed, it would become a symbol of the vanquishing power of the Islamic Caliph Our Exalted Sultan, in the thousandth year of the Hegira. He requested that I prepare the illuminated manuscript in utmost secrecy, primarily to conceal its purpose as an olive branch extended to the Venetians, but also to avoid aggravating workshop jealousies. And in a state of great elation and sworn to secrecy, I embarked upon this venture.”