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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第1部分

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My Name is Red            Orhan Pamuk 
   

 
You slew a man and then fell out with one another concerning him。  
—Koran; “The Cow。” 
 
 
The blind and the seeing are not equal。  
—Koran; “The Creator。” 
 
 
To God belongs the East and the West。 


 
I AM A CORPSE 
 
I am nothing but a corpse now; a body at the bottom of a well。 Though I drew 
my last breath long ago and my heart has stopped beating; no one; apart from 
that vile murderer; knows what’s happened to me。 As for that wretch; he felt 
for my pulse and listened for my breath to be sure I was dead; then kicked me 
in the midriff; carried me to the edge of the well; raised me up and dropped 
me below。 As I fell; my head; which he’d smashed with a stone; broke apart; 
my face; my forehead and cheeks; were crushed; my bones shattered; and my 
mouth filled with blood。 
For  nearly  four  days  I  have  been  missing:  My  wife  and  children  must  be 
searching for me; my daughter; spent from crying; must be staring fretfully at 
the  courtyard  gate。  Yes;  I  know  they’re  all  at  the  window;  hoping  for  my 
return。 
But;  are  they  truly  waiting?  I  can’t  even  be  sure  of  that。  Maybe  they’ve 
gotten used to my absence—how dismal! For here; on the other side; one gets 
the  feeling  that  one’s  former  life  persists。  Before  my  birth  there  was  infinite 
time; and after my death; inexhaustible time。 I never thought of it before: I’d 
been living luminously between two eternities of darkness。 
I was happy; I know now that I’d been happy。 I made the best illuminations 
in Our Sultan’s workshop; no one could rival my mastery。 Through the work I 
did  privately;  I  earned  nine  hundred  silver  coins  a  month;  which;  naturally; 
only makes all of this even harder to bear。 
I  was  responsible  for  painting  and  embellishing  books。  I  illuminated  the 
edges of pages; coloring their borders with the most lifelike designs of leaves; 
branches;  roses;  flowers  and  birds。  I  painted  scalloped  Chinese…style  clouds; 
clusters  of  overlapping  vines  and  forests  of  color  that  hid  gazelles;  galleys; 
sultans;  trees;  palaces;  horses  and  hunters。  In  my  youth;  I  would  decorate  a 
plate; or the back of a mirror; or a chest; or at times; the ceiling of a mansion 
or of a Bosphorus manor; or even; a wooden spoon。 In later years; however; I 
only  worked  on  manuscript  pages  because  Our  Sultan  paid  well  for  them。  I 
can’t say it seems insignificant now。 You know the value of money even when 
you’re dead。 
After hearing the miracle of my voice; you might think; “Who cares what 
you earned when you were alive? Tell us what you see。 Is there life after death? 
Where’s your soul? What about Heaven and Hell? What’s death like? Are you 
in  pain?”  You’re  right;  the  living  are  extremely  curious  about  the  Afterlife。 

Maybe you’ve heard the story of the man who was so driven by this curiosity 
that he roamed among soldiers in battlefields。 He sought a man who’d died 
and  returned  to  life  amid  the  wounded  struggling  for  their  lives  in  pools  of 
blood; a soldier who could tell him about the secrets of the Otherworld。 But 
one of Tamerlane’s warriors; taking the seeker for the enemy; cleaved him in 
half with a smooth stroke of his scimitar; causing him to conclude that in the 
Hereafter man gets split in two。 
Nonsense! Quite the opposite; I’d even say that souls divided in life merge 
in the Hereafter。 Contrary to the claims of sinful infidels who’ve fallen under 
the sway of the Devil; there is indeed another world; thank God; and the proof 
is that I’m speaking to you from here。 I’ve died; but as you can plainly tell; I 
haven’t ceased to be。 Granted; I must confess; I haven’t encountered the rivers 
flowing  beside  the  silver  and  gold  kiosks  of  Heaven;  the  broad…leaved  trees 
bearing  plump  fruit  and  the  beautiful  virgins  mentioned  in  the  Glorious 
Koran—though  I  do  very  well  recall  how  often  and  enthusiastically  I  made 
pictures  of  those  wide…eyed  houris  described  in  the  chapter  “That  Which  Is 
ing。”  Nor  is  there  a  trace  of  those  rivers  of  milk;  wine;  fresh  water  and 
honey  described  with  such  flourish;  not  in  the  Koran;  but  by  visionary 
dreamers like Ibn Arabi。 But I have no intention of tempting the faith of those 
who live rightfully through their hopes and visions of the Otherworld; so let 
me  declare  that  all  I’ve  seen  relates  specifically  to  my  own  very  personal 
circumstances。  Any  believer  with  even  a  little  knowledge  of  life  after  death 
would know that a malcontent in my state would be hard…pressed to see the 
rivers of Heaven。 
In short; I; who am known as Master Elegant Effendi; am dead; but I have 
not been buried; and therefore my soul has not pletely left my body。 This 
extraordinary situation; although naturally my case isn’t the first; has inflicted 
horrible  suffering  upon  the  immortal  part  of  me。  Though  I  cannot  feel  my 
crushed  skull  or  my  deposing  body  covered  in  wounds;  full  of  broken 
bones and partially submerged in ice…cold water; I do feel the deep torment of 
my  soul  struggling  desperately  to  escape  its  mortal  coil。  It’s  as  if  the  whole 
world; along with my body; were contracting into a bolus of anguish。 
I can only pare this contraction to the surprising sense of release I felt 
during the unequaled moment of my death。 Yes; I instantly understood that 
the  wretch  wanted  to  kill  me  when  he  unexpectedly  struck  me  with  a  stone 
and  cracked  my  skull;  but  I  didn’t  believe  he’d  follow  through。  I  suddenly 
realized I was a hopeful man; something I hadn’t been aware of while living 
my life in the shadows between workshop and household。 I clung passionately 

 
to  life  with  my  nails;  my  fingers  and  my  teeth;  which  I  sank  into  his  skin。  I 
won’t bore you with the painful details of the subsequent blows I received。 
When in the course of this agony I knew I would die; an incredible feeling 
of relief filled me。 I felt this relief during the moment of departure; my arrival 
to this side was soothing; like the dream of seeing oneself asleep。 The snow… 
and mud…covered shoes of my murderer were the last things I noticed。 I closed 
my eyes as if I were going to sleep; and I gently passed over。 
My  present  plaint  isn’t  that  my  teeth  have  fallen  like  nuts  into  my 
bloody mouth; or even that my face has been maimed beyond recognition; or 
that I’ve been abandoned in the depths of a well—it’s that everyone assumes 
I’m  still  alive。  My  troubled  soul  is  anguished  that  my  family  and  intimates; 
who; yes; think of me often; imagine me engaged in trivial dealings somewhere 
in  Istanbul;  or  even  chasing  after  another  woman。  Enough!  Find  my  body 
without delay; pray for me and have me buried。 Above all; find my murderer! 
For  even  if  you  bury  me  in  the  most  magnificent  of  tombs;  so  long  as  that 
wretch  remains  free;  I’ll  writhe  restlessly  in  my  grave;  waiting  and  infecting 
you all with faithlessness。 Find that son…of…a…whore murderer and I’ll tell you 
in detail just what I see in the Afterlife—but know this; after he’s caught; he 
must be tortured by slowly splintering eight or ten of his bones; preferably his 
ribs; with a vise before piercing his scalp with skewers made especially for the 
task by torturers and plucking out his disgusting; oily hair; strand by strand; so 
he shrieks each time。 
Who  is  this  murderer  who  vexes  me  so?  Why  has  he  killed  me  in  such  a 
surprising way? Be curious and mindful of these matters。 You say the world is 
full of base and worthless criminals? Perhaps this one did it; perhaps that one? 
In  that  case  let  me  caution  you:  My  death  conceals  an  appalling  conspiracy 
against our religion; our traditions and the way we see the world。 Open your 
eyes;  discover  why  the  enemies  of  the  life  in  which  you  believe;  of  the  life 
you’re living; and of Islam; have destroyed me。 Learn why one day they might 
do the same to you。 One by one; everything predicted by the great preacher 
Nusret Hoja of Erzurum; to whom I’ve tearfully listened; is ing to pass。 Let 
me say also that if the situation into which we’ve fallen were described in a 
book; even the most expert of miniaturists could never hope to illustrate it。 As 
with  the  Koran—God  forbid  I’m  misunderstood—the  staggering  power  of 
such a book arises from the impossibility of its being depicted。 I doubt you’ve 
fully prehended this fact。 
Listen  to  me。  When  I  was  an  apprentice;  I  too  feared  and  thus  ignored 
underlying  truths  and  voices  from  beyond。  I’d  joke  about  such  matters。  But 
6 
 
I’ve ended up in the depths of this deplorable well! It could happen to you; be 
wary。 Now; I’ve nothing left to do but hope for my thorough decay; so they 
can find me by tracing my stench。 I’ve nothing to do but hope—and imagine 
the torture that some benevolent man will inflict upon that beastly murderer 
once he’s been caught。 
   
7 
 
I AM CALLED BLACK 
 
After  an  absence  of  twelve  years  I  entered  Istanbul  like  a  sleepwalker。  “The 
earth called to him;” they say of men who are about to die; and in my case; it 
was  death  that  drew  me  back  to  the  city  where  I’d  been  born  and  raised。 
When  I  first  returned;  I  thought  there  was  only  death;  later;  I  would  also 
encounter  love。  Love;  however;  was  a  distant  and  forgotten  thing;  like  my 
memories of having lived in the city。 It was in Istanbul; twelve years ago; that I 
fell helplessly in love with my young cousin。 
Four  years  after  I  first  left  Istanbul;  while  traveling  through  the  endless 
steppes;  snow…covered  mountains  and  melancholy  cities  of  Persia;  carrying 
letters  and  collecting  taxes;  I  admitted  to  myself  that  I  was  slowly  forgetting 
the  face  of  the  childhood  love  I’d  left  behind。  With  growing  panic;  I  tried 
desperately to remember her; only to realize that despite love; a face long not 
seen  finally  fades。  During  the  sixth  year  I  spent  in  the  East;  traveling  or 
working as a secretary in the service of pashas; I knew that the face I imagined 
was no longer that of my beloved。 Later; in the eighth year; I forgot what I’d 
mistakenly  called  to  mind  in  the  sixth;  and  again  visualized  a  pletely 
different countenance。 In this way; by the twelfth year; when I returned to my 
city at the age of thirty…six; I was painfully aware that my beloved’s face had 
long since escaped me。 
Many  of  my  friends  and  relatives  had  died  during  my  twelve…year  exile。  I 
visited the cemetery overlooking the Golden Horn and prayed for my mother 
and for the uncles who’d passed away in my absence。 The earthy smell of mud 
mingled  with  my  memories。  Someone  had  broken  an  earthenware  pitcher 
beside my mother’s grave。 For whatever reason; gazing at the broken pieces; I 
began to cry。 Was I crying for the dead or because I was; strangely; still only at 
the beginning of my life after all these years? Or was it because I’d e to the 
end  of  my  life’s  journey?  A  faint  snow  fell。  Entranced  by  the  flakes  blowing 
here and there; I became so lost in the vagaries of my life that I didn’t notice 
the black dog staring at me from a dark corner of the cemetery。 
My tears subsided。 I wiped my nose。 I saw the black dog wagging its tail in 
friendship   as   I   left   the   cemetery。   Sometime   later;   I   settled   into   our 
neighborhood; renting one of the houses where a relative on my father’s side 
once lived。 It seems I reminded the landlady of her son who’d been killed by 
Safavid Persian soldiers at the front and so she agreed to clean the house and 
cook for me。 
8 
 
I set out on long and satisfying walks through the streets as if I’d settled not 
in Istanbul; but temporarily in one of the Arab cities at the other end of the 
world。  The  streets  had  bee  narrower;  or  so  it  seemed  to  me。  In  certain 
areas;  on  roads  squeezed  between  houses  leaning  toward  one  another;  I  was 
forced  to  rub  up  against  walls  and  doors  to  avoid  being  hit  by  laden 
packhorses。 There were more wealthy people; or so it seemed to me。 I saw an 
ornate carriage; a citadel drawn by proud horses; the likes of which couldn’t 
be  found  in  Arabia  or  Persia。  Near  the  “Burnt  Column;”  I  saw  some 
bothersome  beggars  dressed  in  rags  huddling  together  as  the  smell  of  offal 
ing from the chicken…sellers market wafted over them。 One of them who 
was blind smiled as he watched the falling snow。 
Had  I  been  told  Istanbul  used  to  be  a  poorer;  smaller  and  happier  city;  I 
might  not  have  believed  it;  but  that’s  what  my  heart  told  me。  Though  my 
beloved’s house was where it’d always been among linden and chestnut trees; 
others  were  now  living  there;  as  I  learned  from  inquiring  at  the  door。  I 
discovered  that  my  beloved’s  mother;  my  maternal  aunt;  had  died;  and  that 
her  husband;  my  Enishte;  and  his  daughter  had  moved  away。  This  is  how  I 
came   to   learn   that   father   and   daughter   were   the   victims   of   certain 
misfortunes;  from  strangers  answering  the  door;  who  in  such  situations  are 
perfectly forthing; without the least awareness of how mercilessly they’ve 
broken your heart and destroyed your dreams。 I won’t describe all of this to 
you  now;  but  allow  me  to  say  that  as  I  recalled  warm;  verdant  and  sunny 
summer days in that old garden; I also noticed icicles the size of my little finger 
hanging from the branches of the linden tree in a place whose misery; snow 
and neglect now evoked nothing but death。 
I’d already learned about some of what had befallen my relatives through a 
letter  my  Enishte  sent  to  me  in  Tabriz。  In  that  letter;  he  invited  me  back  to 
Istanbul;  explaining  that  he  was  preparing  a  secret  book  for  Our  Sultan  and 
that he wanted my help。 He’d heard that for a period while in Tabriz; I made 
books for Ottoman pashas; provincial governors and Istanbulites。 What I did 
then  was  to  use  the  money  advanced  by  clients  who’d  placed  manuscript 
orders in Istanbul to locate miniaturists and calligraphers who were frustrated 
by  the  wars  and  the  presence  of  Ottoman  soldiers;  but  hadn’t  yet  left  for 
Kazvin  or  another  Persian  city;  and  it  was 
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