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folding worktable； paint boxes and papers that had been torn up with furious
hatred； and while doing so one of us； periodically； would stop and break down
crying。 It was as though we were more distraught over the wreckage of the
rooms and their furnishings and the savage violation of our privacy； than we
were over my father’s death。 I can tell you from experience； unfortunates
who’ve lost loved ones are forted by the unchanged presence of objects in
the house； they’re lulled by the sameness of the curtains； blankets and
daylight； which； in turn； allows them occasionally to forget that Azrael has
carried away their beloved or kin。 The house that my father looked after with
patience and love； whose nooks and doors he had meticulously embellished；
had been mercilessly vandalized； thus； we were not only devoid of fort and
pleasant memories but； reminded of the pitilessness of the culprit’s damned
soul； we were terrified as well。
When； for example； at my insistence we went downstairs； drew fresh water
from the well； performed our ablutions and were reciting from the “Family of
Imran” chapter—which my dearly departed father said he loved so much
because it mentioned hope and death—out of his most cherished Herat…
bound Koran； we were under sway of this terror and alarmed that the
courtyard gate had begun to creak。 It was nothing。 But； after we checked that
the latch was locked； and barricaded the gate by moving with our bined
strength the planter of sweet basil that my father would water on spring
mornings with freshly drawn well water； we reentered the house in the dead of
night； and it suddenly seemed that the elongated shadows we were casting by
the light of the oil lamp belonged to others。 Most frightening of all was the
horror that overcame us like a silent act of piety； as we solemnly washed his
bloodied face and changed his clothes so that I might deceive myself into
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