believing that my father had died at his appointed time； “Hand me his sleeve
from underneath；” Hayriye had whispered to me。
As we removed his bloody clothes and undergarments； what aroused our
amazement and awe was the vitality and whitish color of my father’s skin
illuminated by candlelight。 Because there were many more threatening things
to frighten us； neither of us was shy about looking at my father’s sprawling
naked body covered with moles and wounds。 When Hayriye went back
upstairs to fetch clean undergarments and his green silk shirt； unable to
restrain myself； I looked down there and ed at
what I’d done。 After I’d dressed my father in fresh clothes and carefully
cleaned the blood off his neck； face and hair； I embraced him with all my
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strength； and burying my nose in his beard； I inhaled his scent and cried at
length。
For those of you who would accuse me of lacking feeling； or even of being
guilty； let me hasten to tell of two further instances when I broke down crying：
1。 When I was tidying the upstairs room so the children wouldn’t discover
what had happened and I brought a seashell he’d used as a paper burnisher to
my ear； as I’d done as a child； only to discover that the sound of the sea had
diminished。 2。 When I saw that the red velvet cushion my father sat upon
often over the last twenty years—so much so it’d bee part of his rear
end—had been torn apart。
When everything in the house； excluding the damage that was beyond
repair； was put back in order； I mercilessly denied Hayriye’s request to spread
her roll…up mattress out in our room。 “I don’t want the children to get
suspicious in the morning；” I explained to her。 But； to be honest； I was as eager
to be alone with my children as I was to punish her。 I entered my bed but was
unable to sleep for a long while； not because I was preoccupied with the
horror of what had happened； but because I was considering all that yet lay in
store。
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I AM RED
I appeared in Ghazni when Book of Kings poet Firdusi pleted 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 Rüstem 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； and I was in the folds
of the quilt upon which he made 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 traitorously decapitated his brother Iraj；
as legendary armies； spectacular as a dream； clashed on the steppes； and as
Alexander’s lifeblood shimmered brightly from his handsome nose after he
suffered sunstroke。 Yes； Shah Behram Gür spent every night of the week with a
different beauty beneath domes of varying color from distant lands； listening
to the 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 Hüsrev； 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
bs 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 through 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 caftan 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？
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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。 He
sprinkled the red powder into the kettle and carefully mixed the concoction
with one of the thin； clean sticks reserved for this task。 I was ready to bee
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 stirring
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；
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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 prehend 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 Veian artistry was not yet threat enough
that our rulers would bother themselves about it； and the legendary masters
believed in their own methods as fervently as they believed in Allah； therefore；
they regarded the Veian method of using a variety of red tones for every
ordinary sword wound and even the most mon sackcloth as a kind of
disrespect and vulgarity 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 colo