AN AUDIENCE WITH ORHAN PAMUK
James Willsher on the Nobel prize-winning Turkish author discussing his latest novel, and much else besides
Queen Elizabeth Hall, South Bank, 11 January, 7.10pm
A cavernous, high ceiling; two empty black leather
armchairs are tiny, swallowed up by the wide, deep
stage. A pair of microphones on angular stands bend
down towards the waiting seats. Two bottles of water
and glasses on a coffee table. A clear plastic lectern to
the right of them all.
People arrive, take their seats - I see a waterfall of long,
curly, fiery brown-gold hair, a Turkish woman. The
audience is multicultural London, not simply Turks or
Kurds or middle class white bookish sorts. I recognise
two journalists from local Turkish papers. Must be over
1,000 people here, more arriving.
A young blonde woman appears on stage and states
this is the launch of the Literature and Spoke Word
programme of the South Bank Centre. A full house.
Orhan Pamuk will read from his new book and will be in
conversation with literary biographer Hermione Lee.
They emerge on stage, to cheering applause, and the
blonde vanishes. The house lights remain on:
this is not a theatrical performance.
Lee, middle-aged, in a black velvet jacket, briefly introduced him: one of the world's finest living writers, teaching at Columbia University since 2006. Pamuk, who's in his late fifties, approaches the lectern to begin reading from his newly-translated 2008 novel, The Museum of Innocence. He is in a faintly crumpled and shapeless dark grey suit. A white shirt and shiny, diagonally-striped blue and silver tie. Greying hair.
Pamuk reads a passage about pain spreading through the protagonist's body. He has a strong accent, leaving out the occasional the, sometimes pronounces th as t, and intravenous as intra-vain-ious. Lee adopts an expression of concentration when he speaks. Turkish-looking photographers bend double before the stage, clicking away.
He reads another excerpt, this time the protagonist, Kemal, is swimming on his back in the Bosporus, the strait of water dividing Istanbul in two and Europe from Asia. Kemal flips over backwards, sees an inverted Bosporus, swimming upside down, a great mysterious hall, gazes down at bottle caps, the ghost of a ship.
In the novel, Kemal, a wealthy, upper class businessman in 1970s Istanbul, spends 30 years fascinated by Füsun, a shop assistant 12 years young than him. He collects cigarette ends, bottle caps, olive stones, innumerable items she has touched.
