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 doub
