07.15.07
I am a Tree (Orhan Pamuk)
Like a caravan in careful transit across a desert of
overwhelming mystery in the year 1590, I find myself in the middle of Orhan Pamuk’s cerebral and
phrenic Sahara dubbed My Name is Red. I am halfway through the journey and am already
lost in wonder and amazement.
Nobel Prize winner Orhan Pamuk conquers my shelf as an
ancient hero of art and defender of…umm… coffee. (You must read it to become
amused at how much he mentions coffee from one chapter to another). From dogs
to illustrated trees, he gives each of his characters a fair chance to speak…
I am a Tree
I am a tree and I am
quite lonely. I weep in the rain. Drink
down your coffee so your sleep abandons you and your eyes open wide. Stare at me as you would at jinns and let me
explain to you why I’m so alone.
I. They allege that I’ve been hastily
sketched onto nonsized, rough paper so the picture of a tree might hang behind the master storyteller…but my story is much more complicated.
II. As a tree, I need not be part of a book. As the picture of a tree, however, I’m disturbed that I’m not a page within some manuscript…
III. The essential reason for my loneliness
is that I don’t even know where I belong. I was supposed to be part of a story, but I fell from there like a leaf in autumn. Let me tell you about it: Falling from my story like a leaf falls in fall.
Then goes on the narrative to the Persian Shah Tahmasp, who
was the arch enemy of the Ottomans and world’s greatest patron-king of the art
of painting who quit drinking coffee and naturally, his brain stopped
working. After this great shah lost his
taste for coffee, he also lost his mind.
This was why the divinely inspired bookbinders,
calligraphers, gilders and miniaturists, who created the greatest masterpieces
in the world in Tabriz,
scattered like a covey of partridges to other cities. Shah Tahmasp’s nephew Sultan Ibrahim Mirza
invited the most gifted of them to Mashhad and
settled them in his miniaturists’ workshops to copy out a marvelous illuminated
and illustrated manuscript of all seven fables of Jami – the greatest poet at
that time. Shah Tahmasp was consumed by
jealousy when he heard about this magnificent book and angrily ousted his
nephew, banishing him to Sebzivar. The
calligraphers and illuminators of Mashhad thereupon dispersed to other regions…
Miraculously, however, Sultan Ibrahim Mirza’s marvelous
volume did not remain unfinished, for in his service he had a devout
librarian. This man would travel on
horseback to where the best master gilders lived…
But at this pace, it was clear that the book would never be
completed, so mounted Tatar couriers were hired… each horseman was given a
letter describing the desired work in question to the artist. Thus messengers carrying manuscript pages
passed over the roads of Persia,
Khorasan, the Uzbek territory and Transoxania. At times, on a snowy night, page 59 and 162, for example would cross
paths in a caravansary wherein the howling of wolves could be heard…
I was meant to be
among the pages of this illustrated manuscript that I sadly heard was completed
today. Unfortunately, the Tatar courier
who was carrying me was ambushed by thieves… As a result, I know nothing about
the page I’ve fallen from. My request is
that you look at me and ask: “Were you perhaps meant to provide shade for
Mejnun disguised as a shepherd as he visited Leyla in her tent?” or “Were you
meant to fade into the night, representing the darkness in the soul of a
wretched and hopeless man?”
How I would’ve wanted
to complement the happiness of two lovers who fled from the whole world, traversing
oceans to find solace…I would’ve wanted to shade Alexander during the final
moments of his life on his campaign to conquer Hindustan… Or was I meant to
symbolize the strength and wisdom of a father offering advice on love and life
to his son? Ah, to which story was I meant to add meaning and grace?
I thank that I have
not been drawn with such intent… and not because I fear that if I’d been thus
depicted, all the dogs in Istanbul would assume I was a real tree and piss on
me: I don’t want to be a tree, I want to be its meaning.
…and these, my good friends were just plucked microscopic portions of
the manuscript Orhan Pamuk authored… imagine what his entire Sahara holds.
