Looking at 16th-century Islam

Islam is on everyone’s mind these days – with great and terrible reason. By one of those quirks of timing, Knopf has just published a wondrously rich, fascinating novel, translated from the Turkish: “My Name Is Red,” which deals very much with Islam and its relation to the West.

You get a love story. You get a murder mystery. And you find what it was like living amid the religious repression of the 16th century in Istanbul. You also get a goodly measure of history, quite painlessly administered, about a time when the Ottoman Empire (Islamic) is coming under influences from the West, which the rulers desperately feared.

The story is set in the small, tight world of miniaturists – highly trained artists from boyhood – a world that is facing a dire crisis. For centuries, illuminated manuscripts are rendered in much the same way. But now, the Sultan has commissioned a magnificent book to celebrate himself and his mighty kingdom, and has directed Enishte Effendi to assemble a cadre of the most distinguished artists in the kingdom.

Their task: to illuminate the work in the European style. The paintings of Venetian artists have begun to make their way among the elite of Islam. But since figurative art can be thought to constitute an affront to Islam, this commission is a highly risky proposition indeed. No one in the elite circle can know the full scope or nature of the project.

Major panic erupts when one of the chosen miniaturists disappears, and the Sultan insists on answers within three days. The only clue to the mystery – or crime – lies in the half-finished illuminations themselves.

The reader knows, of course, who the victim is. Indeed, he tells of his death in Chapter One: “I Am a Corpse.” The story advances and weaves back and forth with infinite, provoking skill, as each chapter is recounted by a different personage, including a dog and a tree and Satan. Each contributes a small but essential detail to complete the whole tapestry.

As the corpse lies broken at the bottom of a well, he muses:

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. 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 comprehended this fact.

He ends wishing for his thorough decay so he can be found by his 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.” And on we go to the next chapter, “I Am Called Black.” Each chapter spins out further details, rich descriptions of people and places and Istanbul under a bitter winter snow. It’s a magical work. Also there are two quite vivid and extremely well-created women, each with her own secrets.

Orhan Pamuk, author of three other highly praised books (“The Black Book,” “The White Castle” and “The New Life”), puts together a tale so fascinating and intriguing, that it would be risky to start reading at bedtime. The dawn will surely come creeping in by the time you’ve reached page 413 and discovered all the secrets.