Chapter 13 I AM RED

I appeared in Ghazni when Book of Kings poet Firdusi completed the final line of a quatrain with the most intricate of rhymes, besting the court poets of Shah Mahmud, who ridiculed him as being nothing but a peasant. I was there on the quiver of Book of Kings hero Rustem when he traveled far and wide in pursuit of his missing steed; I became the blood that spewed forth when he cut the notorious ogre in half with his wondrous sword; furious love with the beautiful daughter of the king who'd received him as a guest. Verily and truly, I've been everywhere and am everywhere. I emerged as Tur characteristically decapitated his brother Iraq; clashed on the steppes; and as Alexander's lifeblood shimmered brightly from his handsome nose after he suffered sunstroke. Yes, Shah Behram Gur spent every night of the week with a different beauty beneath domes of varying color from distant lands, listening tothe story she recounted, and I was upon the outfit of the striking maiden he visited on a Tuesday, whose picture he'd fallen in love with, just as I appeared from the crown to the caftan of Husrev, who'd fallen in love with Shirin's picture. Verily, I was visible upon the military banners of armies besieging fortresses, upon the tablecloths covering tables set for feasts, upon the velvet caftans of ambassadors kissing the feet of sultans, and wherever the sword, whose legends children loved, was depicted. Yes, handsome almond-eyed apprentices applied me with elegant brushes to thick paper from Hindustan and Bukhara; I embellished Ushak carpets, wall ornamentation, the combs of fighting cocks, pomegranates, the fruits of fabled lands, the mouth of Satan, the subtle accent lines within picture borders, the curled embroidery on tents, flowers barely visible to the naked eye made for the artist's own pleasure, blouses worn by stunning women with outstretched necks watching the street thro ugh open shutters, the sour-cherry eyes of bird statues made of sugar, the stockings of shepherds, the dawns described in legends and the corpses and wounds of thousands, nay, tens of thousands of lovers, warriors and shahs. I love engaging in scenes of war where blood blooms like poppies; appearing on the café of the most proficient of bards listening to music on a countryside outing as pretty boys and poets partake of wine; I love illuminating the wings of angels, the lips of maidens, the death Wounds of corpses and severed heads bespeckled with blood.

I hear the question upon your lips: What is it to be a color? Color is the touch of the eye, music to the deaf, a word out of the darkness. Because I've listened to souls whispering—like the susurrus of the wind—from book to book and object to object for tens of Thousands of years, allow me to say that my touch resembles the touch of angels. Part of me, the serious half, calls out to your vision while the mirthful half soars through the air with your glances. I'm so fortunate to be red! I'm fiery. I'm strong. I know men take notice of me and that I cannot be resisted.

I do not conceal myself: For me, delicacy manifests itself neither in weakness nor in subtlety, but through determination and will. So, I draw attention to myself. I'm not afraid of other colors, shadows, crowds or even of loneliness. How wonderful it is to cover a surface that awaits me with my own victorious being! Wherever I'm spread, I see eyes shine, passions increase, eyebrows rise and heartbeats quicken. Behold how wonderful it is to live! Behold how wonderful to see . Behold: Living is seeing. I am everywhere. Life begins with and returns to me. Have faith in what I tell you.

Hush and listen to how I developed such a magnificent red tone. A master miniaturist, an expert in paints, furiously pounded the best variety of dried red beetle from the hottest climes of Hindustan into a fine powder using his mortar and pestle. He prepared five drachmas of the red powder, one drachma of soapwort and a half drachma of lotor. He boiled the soapwort in a pot containing three okkas of water. Next, he mixed thoroughly the lotor into the water. He let it boil for as long as it took to drink an excellent cup of coffee. As he enjoyed his coffee, I grew as impatient as a child about to be born. The coffee had cleared the master's mind and given him the eyes of a jinn. kettle and carefully mixed the concoction with one of the thin, clean sticks reserved for this task. I was ready to become genuine red, but the issue of my consistency was of utmost importance: The liquid shouldn't be permitted to just boil away. He drew the tip of his stirri ng stick across the nail of his thumb (any other finger was absolutely unacceptable). Oh, how exquisite it is to be red! I gracefully painted that thumbnail without running off the side in watery haste. In short, I was the right consistency, but I still contained sediment. He took the pot off the stove and strained me through a clean piece of cheesecloth, purifying me even further. Next, he heated me up again, bringing me to a frothy boil twice more. After adding a pinch of crushed alum, he left me to cool.

A few days passed and I sat there quietly in the pan. In the anticipation of being applied to pages, of being spread everywhere and onto everything, sitting still like that broke my heart and spirit. It was during this period of silence that I meditated upon what it meant to be red. Once, in a Persian city, as I was being applied by the brush of an apprentice to the embroidery on the saddle cloth of a horse that a blind miniaturist had drawn by heart, I overheard two blind masters having an argument: “Because we've spent our entire lives ardently and faithfully working as painters, naturally, we, who have now gone blind, know red and remember what kind of color and what kind of feeling it is,” said the one who'd made the horse drawing from memory. “But, what if we'd been born blind? How would we have been truly able to comprehend this red that our handsome apprentice is using?”

“An excellent issue,” the other said. “But do not forget that colors are not known, but felt.” “My dear master, explain red to somebody who has never known red.” “If we touched it with the tip of a finger, it would feel like something between iron and copper. If we took it into our palm, it would burn. If we tasted it, it would be full-bodied, like salted meat. If we took it between our lips, it would fill our mouths. If we smelled it, it'd have the scent of a horse. If it were a flower, it would smell like a daisy, not a red rose." One hundred and ten years ago Venetian artistry was not yet threat enough that our rulers would both themselves about it, and the legendary masters believed in their own methods as fervently as they believed in Allah; therefore, they regarded the Venetian method of ty using of red tones for every ordinary sword wound and even the most common sackcloth as a kind of disrespect and vulnerability hardly worth a chuckle. Only a weak and hesitant miniaturist would use a variety of red tones to depict the red of a caftan, they claimed— Shadows were not an excuse. Besides, we believe in only one red.

“What is the meaning of red?” the blind miniaturist who'd drawn the horse from memory asked again. “The meaning of color is that it is there before us and we see it,” said the other. “Red cannot be explained to him who cannot see.” "To deny God's existence, victims of Satan maintain that God is not visible to us," said the blind miniaturist who'd rendered the horse. “Yet, He appears to those who can see,” said the other master. “It is for this reason that the Koran states that the blind and the seeing are not equal.” The handsome apprentice ever so delicately dabbed me onto the horse's saddle cloth. What a wonderful sensation to fix my fullness, power and vigor to the black and white of a well-executed illustration: as the cat-hair brush spreads me onto the waiting page , I become delightfully ticklish. Therefore, as I bring my color to the page, it's as if I command the world to “Be!” Yes, those who cannot see would deny it, but the truth is I can be found everywhere.

I, SHEKUREBefore the children awoke, I wrote Black a brief note telling him to hurry to the house of the Hanged Jew and pressed it into Hayriye's hand so that she might rush to Esther. As Hayriye took the letter, she looked into my eyes with more fearlessness than usual despite worrying what was to become of us; and I, who no longer had a father to fear, returned her glare with newfound temerity. This exchange would determine the tone of our relationship in the future. Over the last two years , I suspected Hayriye might even have a child by my father, and forgetting her status as slave, maneuver to become lady of the house. I visited my unfortunate father, respectfully kissing his now stiffened hand, which, oddly, hadn't

lost its softness. I hid my father's shoes, quilted turban and purple cloak, then explained to the children once they awoke that their grandfather had gotten better and had left for the Mustafa Pasha district early in the morning. Hayriye returned from her morning errand. As she was laying out the low table for breakfast, and I was placing a portion of orange jam in the middle of it, I imagined how Esther was now calling at Black's door. The snow had stopped and the the sun had begun to shine. In the garden of the Hanged Jew, I encountered a familiar scene. The icicles hanging from the eaves and window casings were quickly shrinking, and the garden that smelled of mold and rotting leaves was eagerly absorbing the sun. I found Black waiting in the spot where I'd first seen him last night—it seemed so long ago, as if weeks had passed. I raised my veil and said:

“You can be glad, if you feel the urge. My father's objects and doubts will not come between us anymore. While you were craftily trying to lay your hands on me here last night, a devil-of-a-man broke into our empty house and murdered my father.” Rather than wondering about Black's reaction, you're probably puzzling over why I spoke so coldly and somewhat innocently. I don't quite know the answer myself. Maybe I thought I'd cry otherwise, provoking Black to embrace me, and I' d become intimate with him sooner than I wanted. “He destroyed our home with a thoroughness that clearly reveals anger and hated. I don't think his work is done either, I don't expect this devil will calmly retire to some corner now. He stole the final picture. I'm calling on you to protect me—protect us—and keep my father's book from him. Now tell me, under what arrangement and conditions will you see to our safety? This is what we have to resolve."

He made an overture to speak, but I easily silenced him with a look—as though this were something I'd done countless times before. “In the eyes of the judge, it is my husband and his family who succeeded my father as my guardians. This was the case even before his death, for according to the judge my husband is still alive. It was only because Hasan tried to take advantage of me during his older brother's absence, a failed assault that embarrassed my father-in-law, that I was allowed to return to my father's home though not officially a widow. But now that my father is dead and I am without even a brother, there is no question that my only possible guardians are my husband's brother and my father-in-law. They've already been schemed to have me returned to their home, coercing my father, and threatening me. Once they hear my father is dead, they won't hesitate to take official action. My only hope to prevent this is to conceal my father's death. Perhaps in vain, for they may be the ones behind the crime." At that very moment, a thin beam of light gracefully filtered through the broken shutters and fell between Black and me, illuminating the ancient dust inside the room. "This isn't the only reason I'm hiding my father's death," I said, fixing my gaze into Black's eyes, in which I was gladdened to see attentiveness more than love. "I'm also afraid of being unable to prove my whereabouts at the time of my father's murder. Though she's a slave and her word might be discounted, I'm afraid that Hayriye is involved in these machinations, if not against me, then against my father's book. And as long as I remain Without a protector, the announcement of my father's murder, while initially simplifying matters at home, might well, solely for the reasons I've enumerated, cause me great misfortune at her hand; for instance, what if Hayriye is aware that my father didn't 't want me to marry you?" “Your father didn't want you to marry me?” asked Black. “No, he didn't, he was worried that you'd take me away from him. Since there's no longer any danger of you doing such evil to him, let's assume my dear unfortunate father has no further objection. Do you have any ?” "None at all, my darling." “Fine, then. My guardian has no claims of money or gold on you. Please excuse the impropriety of my discussing marital circumstances on my own behalf, but I have certain prerequisites that I must, unfortunately, explain to you.” As I fell silent for a while, Black said, “Yes,” in a manner that suggested an apology for his hesitation. “First,” I began, “you must swear before two witnesses that if you behave badly toward me in our marriage, to a degree that I find unbearable, or if you take a second wife, you will grant me a divorce with alimony. Second, you must swear before two witnesses that if for whatever reason you are absent from the house for more than a six-month period without a visit, I will also be granted a divorce with alimony. Third, after we are married, you will of course move into my home; however, until the villain who has murdered my father has been caught or until you find him—how I'd love to torture him myself! —and until Our Sultan's book, completed under the guidance of your talents and efforts, has been honorably presented to Him, you will not share my bed. Fourth, you will love my sons, who do share my bed with me, as if they were your own children.” "I agree." "Good. If all of the obstacles that still lie before us disappear this quickly, we'll soon be wed." "Yes, wed, but not in the same bed." “The first step is marriage,” I said. “Let's see to that first. Love comes after marriage. Don't forget: Marriage douses love's flame, leaving nothing but a barren and melancholy blackness. Of course, after marriage, love itself will vanish anyway; but happiness fills the void. Still, there are those hasty fools who fall in love before marrying and, burning with emotion, exhaust all their feeling, believing love to be the highest goal in life.” "What, then, is the truth of the matter?" "The truth is contentment. Love and marriage are but a means to obtaining it: a husband, a house, children, a book. Can't you see that even in my state, with a missing husband and a deceased father, I' m better off than you in your isolation? I'd die without my sons, with whom I spend my days laughing, tussling and loving. Moreover, since you long for me even in my present predicament, since you secretly ache to spend the night with me—even if not in the same bed—under the same roof with my father's body and my unruly children, you're compelled to listen with all your heart to what I now have to say." "I'm listening." “There are various ways that I might secure a divorce. False witnesses could swear that before my husband set out on campaign, they witnessed him grant me a conditional divorce; for example, that he'd pledged that if he didn't return within two years, I should be considered free. Or, more simply, they might swear they'd seen my husband's corpse in the field of battle, citing various convincing and descriptive details. But taking my father's body and the objections of my in-laws into consideration, to rely on false witnesses would be an unsound way to proceed, as no judge of any intelligence or caution would be persuaded. Considering that my husband left me without alimony and hasn't returned from war for four years, even judges of Our Hanefi creed couldn't grant me a divorce. The uskudar judge, however, knowing how the number of women in my situation is increasing each day, is more sympathetic and so—with a nod from Our Excellency the Sultan and the Sheikhulislam—the judge occasionallyallows his proxy of the Shafu creed to rule in his place, thereby granting divorces left and right to women like me, including conditions of alimony. Now, if you can find two witnesses to testify openly to my predicament, pay them off, cross the Bosphorus with them to the uskudar side, arrange for the judge, making certain that his proxy will sit in for him so the divorce might be granted by virtue of the witnesses, register the divorce in the judge's ledger, obtain a certificate testifying to the proceeding , obtain written permission for my immediate remarriage, and if you can accomplish all of this and get back to this side of the Bosphorus by the afternoon, then—assuming no difficulty in finding a preacher who might marry us this evening—then, as my husband, you could spend this night with me and my children. Thereby, you'll also spare us a sleepless night of hearing in every creaking of the house the steps of that devilish murderer. Moreover, you'll save me from the wretchedness o f being a poor unprotected woman when we announce the death of my father in the morning.” “Yes,” said Black with good humor and somewhat childishly. “Yes. I agree to make you mine.” You remember how only recently I declared I didn't know why I was speaking to Black in such a high-handed and innocent manner. Now I know: I've come to realize that only by assuming such a tone might I convince Black— who has yet to outgrow his childhood muddle-headedness—to believe in the possibility of events that even I have a hard time believing will come to pass. "We have a lot to do in fighting our enemies, those who would obstruct the completion of my father's book and those who could contest my divorce and our marriage ceremony—which will be performed tonight, God willing. But I suppose I shouldn't further confuse you, since you are already even more confused than I.” "You aren't confused at all," said Black. "Perhaps, but only because these aren't my own ideas, I learned them from my father over the years." I said this so he wouldn't dismiss what I said, assuming that these plans had sprung from my feminine mind. Next, Black said what I'd heard from every man who wasn't afraid to admit he found me very intelligent: "You're very beautiful." “Yes,” I said, “it pleases me to be praised for my intelligence. When I was a child, my father would often do so.” I was about to add that once I'd grown up my father ceased to praise my intelligence, but I began to weep. As I cried, it was as if I'd left myself and was becoming another, entirely separate woman. Like some reader troubled by a sad picture in the pages of a book, I saw my life from the outside and pitied what I saw. There's something so innocent in crying over one's troubles, as though they were another's, that when Black embraced me, a sense of well-being spread over us both. Yet, this time, as we hugged, this sense of comfort remained there between us, unable to affect the adversaries circling us.