My Name is Red (6 page)

When the main support of the household vanished, we fell upon hard times. We were living in a rented house in Charshıkapı with my husband’s gentlemanly Abkhazian father, who’d never lived an easy life, and his brother, who had green eyes as well. My father-in-law, who left his mirror-making business after his oldest son made his fortune soldiering, returned to take up his trade at a late age. Hasan, my husband’s bachelor brother, worked in customs, and as he prospered he made plans to assume the role of “man of the house.” One winter, fearing they wouldn’t be able to pay rent, they hastily took the slave who saw to the household chores to the slave market and sold her, after which they wanted me to do the kitchen work, wash the clothes and even go out to the bazaars to do the shopping in her stead. I didn’t protest by saying, “Am I the type of woman to take on such drudgery?” I swallowed my pride and went to work. But when that brother-in-law of mine Hasan, now without his slave girl to take into his room at night, began forcing my door, I didn’t know what to do.

Of course, I could’ve immediately come back here to the home of my father, but according to the kadi judge my husband was legally alive, and were I to anger my in-laws, they might not stop at forcing my children and me back to my husband’s home, but humiliate us further by having me and my father, who had “detained” me, punished. To tell the truth, I could’ve loved Hasan, whom I found to be more humane and reasonable than my husband, and who was obviously very much in love with me. But if I were to do this without careful thought, I might find myself, God forbid, his slave instead of his wife. In any event, because they were afraid that I would demand my portion of the inheritance and then abandon them and return to my father with the children, they, too, weren’t eager for a judge’s decision proclaiming my husband’s death. If, in the eyes of the judge, my husband wasn’t dead, I naturally couldn’t wed Hasan, nor could I marry anyone else. Because this dilemma bound me to that house and that marriage, my in-laws preferred my having a “missing” husband, and the continuation of this vague situation. For lest you forget, I saw to all their household chores, I did everything from their cooking to their laundry, and furthermore, one of them was madly in love with me.

When my father-in-law and Hasan grew dissatisfied with this arrangement and decided it was time for me to marry Hasan, it was necessary first to arrange for the witnesses to convince the judge of my husband’s death. Thus, if my missing husband’s closest kin, his father and brother, accepted his death, if there was no longer anyone who objected to declaring my husband dead, and if, for the price of a few silver coins, witnesses would testify that they’d seen the man’s corpse in the field of battle, the judge would also oblige. It would be most difficult to convince Hasan once I was declared a widow that I wouldn’t leave the household, demand my inheritance rights or ask for money to marry him; and moreover, that I’d marry him of my own free will. Naturally, I knew that to gain his trust in this regard, I’d have to sleep with him in a very convincing manner so he’d be completely assured I was giving myself to him, not to get his permission to divorce my husband, but because I was sincerely in love with him.

With some effort, I could’ve fallen in love with Hasan. He was eight years younger than my missing husband, and when my husband was at home, Hasan was like my little brother, and this sentiment endeared him to me. I liked his humble and passionate demeanor, his pleasure in playing with my children and even the way he desirously looked at me as though he were dying of thirst and I were a glass of cold sour-cherry sherbet. On the other hand, I also knew I’d really have to force myself to fall in love with a man who made me wash clothes and didn’t mind my having to wander through markets and bazaars like a common slave. During those days when I’d go to my father’s house and cry endlessly as I stared at the pots, pans, bowls and cups, during those nights when the children and I would sleep cuddled up together in solidarity, Hasan never gave me cause for a change of heart. He had no faith that I could love him or that this essential and mandatory precondition for our marriage would manifest itself; and because he had no confidence in himself, he acted inappropriately. He tried to corner me, kiss me and fondle me. He declared that my husband would never return, that he would kill me. He threatened me, cried like a baby and in his haste and fluster, never allowed time for a true and noble love to be born. I knew I could never wed him.

One night, when he tried to force the door of the room where I slept with the children, I rose immediately, and without a thought that I might frighten them, screamed at the top of my lungs that evil jinns had entered the house. This fit of jinn-panic and screaming awakened my father-in-law and thereby exposed Hasan, whose excited violence was still visible, to his father. Amid my ridiculous howls and inane rantings about jinns, the staid old man to his embarrassment acknowledged the awful truth: His son was besotted and had inappropriately approached his brother’s wife, a mother of two. My father-in-law made no reply when I said I wouldn’t sleep a wink till morning, keeping watch at the door to protect my children against “the jinns.” The following day, I announced that I’d be returning to my father’s home with my children for an extended stay to care for him in his time of illness; thus did Hasan accept his defeat. I returned to my father’s house, taking with me as mementos of my married life the clock with bells plundered from Hungarian lands by my husband (who’d never succumbed to the temptation to sell it), the whip made from the sinews of the most explosive of Arab steeds, the Tabriz-made ivory chess set whose pieces the children used to play war and the silver candlesticks (booty from the Battle of Nahjivan), which I’d fought so desperately to keep when money was short.

As I expected, quitting my absent husband’s house turned Hasan’s obsessive and disrespectful love into a hopeless inferno. Knowing full well that his father wouldn’t stand behind him, instead of threatening me, he sought my pity by sending me love letters in whose corners he drew forlorn birds, teary-eyed lions and sad gazelles. I won’t hide from you the fact that I’ve recently begun to read them anew, those letters that reveal Hasan’s rich imagination, of which I wasn’t aware when we lived together under the same roof-assuming he didn’t enlist one of his more artistic or poetic friends to write and embellish them. In his last letter, Hasan pledged that I would no longer be a slave to housework, and that he’d made a lot of money. This disclosure in his sweet, respectful and humorous tone, compounded by the endless fights and demands of the children, and my father’s complaints, turned my head into a veritable kettledrum. Indeed, it was in order to heave a sigh of relief to the world that I’d opened the shutters of that window.

Before Hayriye set the dinner table, I prepared a draught of bitters from the best Arabian date palm flower; I mixed in a spoonful of honey and a little lemon juice, then quietly entered my father’s company as he was reading the
Book of the Soul
, and like a spirit myself, placed it before him without making my presence known, as he preferred.

“Is it snowing?” he asked in such a faint and melancholy voice that I understood at once this would be the last snowfall my poor father would ever see.

I am a tree and I am quite lonely. I weep in the rain. For the sake of Allah, listen to what I have to say. Drink down your coffee so your sleep abandons you and your eyes open wide. Stare at me as you would at jinns and let me explain to you why I’m so alone.

1. They allege that I’ve been hastily sketched onto nonsized, rough paper so the picture of a tree might hang behind the master storyteller. True enough. At this moment, there are no other slender trees beside me, no seven-leaf steppe plants, no dark billowing rock formations which at times resemble Satan or a man and no coiling Chinese clouds. Just the ground, the sky, myself and the horizon. But my story is much more complicated.

2. As a tree, I need not be part of a book. As the picture of a tree, however, I’m disturbed that I’m not a page within some manuscript. Since I’m not representing something in a book, what comes to mind is that my picture will be nailed to a wall and the likes of pagans and infidels will prostrate themselves before me in worship. May the followers of Erzurumi Hoja not hear that I secretly take pride in this thought-but then I’m overcome with the utmost fear and embarrassment.

3. The essential reason for my loneliness is that I don’t even know where I belong. I was supposed to be part of a story, but I fell from there like a leaf in autumn. Let me tell you about it:

Forty years ago, the Persian Shah Tahmasp, who was the archenemy of the Ottomans as well as the world’s greatest patron-king of the art of painting, began to grow senile and lost his enthusiasm for wine, music, poetry and painting; furthermore, he quit drinking coffee, and naturally, his brain stopped working. Full of the suspicions of a long-faced, dark-spirited old geezer, he transferred his capital from Tabriz, which was then Persian territory, to Kazvin so it would be farther from the Ottoman armies. One day when he had grown even older, he was possessed by a jinn, had a nervous fit, and begging God’s forgiveness, completely swore off wine, handsome young boys and painting, which is proof enough that after this great shah lost his taste for coffee, he also lost his mind.

This was why the divinely inspired bookbinders, calligraphers, gilders and miniaturists, who created the greatest masterpieces in the world over a twenty-year period in Tabriz, scattered like a covey of partridges to other cities. Shah Tahmasp’s nephew and son-in-law, Sultan Ibrahim Mirza, invited the most gifted among them to Mashhad, where he served as provincial governor, and settled them in his miniaturists’ workshop to copy out a marvelous illuminated and illustrated manuscript of all seven fables of the
Seven Thrones
of Jami-the greatest poet in Herat during the reign of Tamerlane. Shah Tahmasp, who both admired and envied his intelligent and handsome nephew, and regretted having given his daughter to him, was consumed by jealousy when he heard about this magnificent book and angrily ousted his nephew from the post of Governor of Mashhad, banishing him to the city of Kain, before sending him off to the smaller town of Sebzivar in a renewed fit of anger. The calligraphers and illuminators of Mashhad thereupon dispersed to other cities and regions, to the book-arts workshops of other sultans and princes.

Miraculously, however, Sultan Ibrahim Mirza’s marvelous volume did not remain unfinished, for in his service he had a devoted librarian. This man would travel on horseback all the way to Shiraz where the best master gilders lived; then he’d take a couple pages to Isfahan seeking the most elegant calligraphers of Nestalik script; afterward he’d cross great mountains till he’d made it all the way to Bukhara where he’d arrange the picture’s composition and have the figures drawn by the great master painter who worked under the Uzbek Khan; next he’d go down to Herat to commission one of its half-blind old masters to paint from memory the sinuous curves of plants and leaves; visiting another calligrapher in Herat, he’d direct him to inscribe, in gold Rika script, the sign above a door within the picture; finally, he’d be off again to the south, to Kain, where displaying the half-page he had finished during his six months of traveling, he’d receive the praises of Sultan Ibrahim Mirza.

At this pace, it was clear that the book would never be completed, so mounted Tatar couriers were hired. In addition to the manuscript leaf, which was to receive artwork and scripted text, each horseman was given a letter describing the desired work in question to the artist. Thus, messengers carrying manuscript pages passed over the roads of Persia, Khorasan, the Uzbek territory and Transoxania. The creation of the book sped up with the fleet messengers. At times, on a snowy night, Chapter 11 and 29, for example, would cross paths in a caravansary wherein the howlings of wolves could be heard, and as they struck up a friendly conversation, they’d discover that they were working on the same book project and would try to determine between themselves where and in which fable the prospective pages, retrieved from their rooms for this purpose, actually belonged.

I was meant to be among the pages of this illustrated manuscript that I sadly heard was completed today. Unfortunately, on a cold winter’s day, the Tatar courier who was carrying me as he crossed a rocky mountain pass was ambushed by thieves. First they beat the poor Tatar, then they robbed him and raped him in a manner befitting thieves before mercilessly killing him. As a result, I know nothing about the page I’ve fallen from. My request is that you look at me and ask: “Were you perhaps meant to provide shade for Mejnun disguised as a shepherd as he visited Leyla in her tent?” or “Were you meant to fade into the night, representing the darkness in the soul of a wretched and hopeless man?” How I would’ve wanted to complement the happiness of two lovers who fled from the whole world, traversing oceans to find solace on an island rich with birds and fruit! I would’ve wanted to shade Alexander during the final moments of his life on his campaign to conquer Hindustan as he died from a persistent nosebleed brought on by sunstroke. Or was I meant to symbolize the strength and wisdom of a father offering advice on love and life to his son? Ah, to which story was I meant to add meaning and grace?

Among the brigands who’d killed the messenger and taken me with them, dragging me headlong from mountain to mountain and city to city, there was a thief who occasionally understood my worth, and had the refinement to realize that looking at the drawing of a tree is more pleasant than looking at a tree; but because he didn’t know to which story I belonged, he quickly tired of me. After dragging me from city to city, this rogue didn’t tear me apart and dispose of me as I’d feared he might, but sold me to a cultivated man in a caravansary for a jug of wine. Sometimes at night this unfortunate delicate-spirited man would stare at me by candlelight and cry. In time, he died of grief and they sold his belongings. Thanks to the master storyteller who purchased me, I’ve come all the way to Istanbul. Now, I’m most happy, and honored to be here tonight among you, the Ottoman Sultan’s miraculously inspired, eagle-eyed, iron-willed, elegant-wristed, sensitive-spirited miniaturists and calligraphers-and for Heaven’s sake, I beg of you not to believe those who claim I’ve been hastily sketched onto coarse paper by some master miniaturist as a wall prop.

But hear yet what other lies, slander and brazen untruths are being spread! You might remember how last night my master nailed the picture of a dog here on the wall and recounted the adventures of this crass beast; and how at the same time he told of the adventures of Husret Hoja of Erzurum! Well now, the admirers of His Excellency Nusret Hoja have completely misunderstood this story; they think he was the target of our account. Could we have possibly said that the great preacher, His Esteemed Excellency, was of uncertain birth? God forbid! Would it have even crossed our minds? What mischief, what a crude lie! Clearly, Husret of Erzurum is being confused with Nusret of Erzurum, so let me proceed to tell you the story of Cross-Eyed Nedret Hoja of Sivas and the Tree.

Besides denouncing the wooing of pretty boys and the art of painting, this Cross-Eyed Nedret Hoja of Sivas maintained that coffee was the Devil’s work and that coffee drinkers would go to Hell. Hey, you from Sivas, have you forgotten how this enormous branch of mine was bent? Let me tell you about it, then, but swear you won’t tell anyone, and may Allah protect you from baseless slander. One morning, I awoke to find that a giant of a man-God protect him, he was as tall as a minaret with hands like a lion’s claws-had climbed up onto this branch of mine and hidden beneath my lush leaves together with the aforementioned Hoja and, excuse the expression, they were going at it like dogs in heat. While the giant, whom I later realized was the Devil, attended to his business with our hero, he was compassionately kissing his lovely ear and whispering into it, “Coffee is a sin, coffee is a vice…” Accordingly, those who believe in the harmful effects of coffee, believe not in the commandments of our good religion, but in the Devil himself.

And finally, I shall make mention of Frank painters, so if there are degenerates among you who have pretensions to be like them, may you heed my warning and be deterred. Now, these Frank painters depict the faces of kings, priests, noblemen and even women in such a manner that after gazing upon the portrait, you’d be able to identify that person on the street. Their wives roam freely on the streets anyway-now, just imagine the rest. As if this weren’t enough, they’ve taken matters even further. I don’t mean in regard to pimping, but in regard to painting.

A great European master miniaturist and another great master artist are walking through a Frank meadow discussing virtuosity and art. As they stroll, a forest comes into view before them. The more expert of the two says to the other: “Painting in the new style demands such talent that if you depicted one of the trees in this forest, a man who looked upon that painting could come here, and if he so desired, correctly select that tree from among the others.”

I thank Allah that I, the humble tree before you, have not been drawn with such intent. And not because I fear that if I’d been thus depicted all the dogs in Istanbul would assume I was a real tree and piss on me: I don’t want to be a tree, I want to be its meaning.