Life follows myth.
So it does.
The story draws upon two ancient myths. Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex, in which the son kills the father (unknowingly) and Ferdawsi’s Rustam and Sohrab taken from The Persian Book of Kings Shahnameh, which is a reversal of Oedipus Rex in that it is the father who kills the son (again, unknowingly) and the string of events that lead to both deaths and the consequences the murderers face for their sui generis crimes. The two contradictory yet complementing myths become the parameters in which the story of the eponymous Red-Haired Woman and her accidental lover is set.
This is by no means a retelling or adaptation of the either myth; quite the contrary. Here the protagonists are very conscious of the power of the afore-mentioned myth, study it, research it, try to steer clear of it, and yet see events unfold in their lives that ultimately come to a point where the myth is no longer an ancient story tucked away in books but being played right before their eyes against their will.
Starting from his previous novel, The Strangeness in My Mind,, there has been a fundamental shift in Pamuk's style and the subject he deals with. He abandoned the elite and middle classes and their identity problems to tell the stories of Turkey’s - in particular Istanbul’s - underprivileged people, the have-nots. In addition to that he chronicled the changes being wrought in Istanbul as a result of unplanned turbo-ubanisation and the fast disappearance of old arts and crafts in the age of consumerist capitalism and its compulsions.
The Red-Haired Woman continues in the same vein. It’s about the forgotten people with their now dispensable arts and now obsolete political rivalries, and the fundamental geographical and social changes that were taking place in his beloved Istanbul during the transitory period of the last quarter of the 20th century and, by extension, in Turkey.
In his previous novel he told the story of a family of rural boza sellers but in this novel it’s about the old and dying art of manual well-digging. I was particularly interested in that part and found it fascinating, perhaps because I could relate to some of it. I am old enough to remember the dying days of well-digging and functioning wells when I was growing up as a kid back in my village; a few hazy memories of the well that watered vegetables in the backyard of our country house before it had to be closed up and filled with earth when elders decided to install electrical water-pumps to draw up groundwater. That was in Pakistan and this story is from Turkey, but it was pretty much the same in both places. The wells haven't totally disappeared. You can still find them in more remote areas around sparsely populated hamlets where old pastoral and agrarian life continues to this day.
Pamuk spends a lot of pages to describe the finer details of well-digging through the story of one Master Mehmut, the master Well-digger, who takes our main protagonist, Cem, the narrator of two-third of the story, as his apprentice. Things happen that cause Cem to abandon his master and run away and begin a new life in the heart of Istanbul. Then we have a fast-paced narrative that covers decades before the turn of events bring him back to confront his old and buried secret. Cem, fully aware of the guiding myths of his life, tries to maneuver away from them but as fate would have it he’s unable to do so.
The book is designed unevenly and I felt the middle part of the story was rushed, as though the writer didn't want it to go beyond 250 printed pages, or couldn't wait to get to the end of the story to reconnect with the events in the early years of Cem. I also felt that Pamuk tried too hard to interpret the myths for us. He kind of over-explained them to the point that we already knew what's going to happen in the end. That was, in my opinion, a weak spot and a big one. All in all it's a good book but not a great one, despite Pamuk's attempt to give it a solid intellectual foundation by incorporating literary myths.
TRANSLATION AND ITS DISCONTENTS?
I am a fan of Orhan Pamuk but I have to admit that both this one as well as his previous novel, The Strangeness, are quite prosaic and conventionally told. The lyrical, intense, and rich style of his older, pre-Nobel novels seems to have disappeared. Some reviewers have suggested it might have to do with the new translator, one Ekin Oklap, after Maureen Freely, the erstwhile translator of his top-rated books, was let go. But I don’t quite think this is the case. You can easily recognise and love Pamuk’s style in Snow, The Black Book, The Museum of Innocence, The White Castle, and My Name is Red. The first three are translated by Maureen Freely but the last two are translated by Victoria Holbrook and Erdağ Göknar respectively (and Göknar’s one translation happens to be the best of all). This means that what we know of Pamuk’s style and voice isn’t reliant on the translations of Maureen Freely alone.
If three translators between themselves could maintain his style in five books there is no reason why Ekin Oklap would not have been able to do the same. Since I don’t know any Turkish to compare with the originals, I have to deduce from the above that it’s not really Ekin Oklap’s fault but Pamuk’s own style has undergone a change in his recent writings. I’ve argued elsewhere that he might be running out of steam, which isn’t an uncommon phenomenon, even with good writers. You can detect a writer’s literary weariness when you read Marquez’s swansong, Memories of My Melancholy Whores; and not surprisingly, being as scrupulous as he was, he didn’t write anything during the last 20 years of his life. It might just be time for Pamuk to sit back and think hard about what he is going to write next or whether he’s going to write anything at all.
October '18