Death and the Dervish (Writings From An Unbound Europe) (12 page)

It would have been nicer that way. I would have been able to take pride in such noble thoughts, but I did not succeed in getting rid of my worries about myself. And I answered to those feeble, pure thoughts: Yes, he’s my brother, but this is precisely where the difficulty lies; he’s cast a shadow on me as well. People looked at me with suspicion, scorn, or pity; some turned their heads so our eyes would not meet. I tried to comfort myself, and said: This isn’t possible, it only seems so to me, everyone knows that my brother’s deeds, whatever they might be, are not mine.

But that was futile, people did not look at me as they had before. Those looks were hard to endure, and continually reminded me of what I wished no one knew. It is hopeless to try to stay pure and free; someone close to you will always make your life miserable.

I left the bazaar and turned onto a path beside the river, walking along its current, between the gardens and its shallow bed. People only passed by that way; no one ever stopped there. It would have been best to follow its waters far beyond the kasaba, into the plain between the mountains. I knew that it is bad when one wants to escape, but one’s thoughts free themselves whenever they are troubled. Small, silvery loaches swam in the shallow water; it seemed that they never grew large, and that was good. I kept walking and watched them. I wanted to stay near them, because I did not feel at home on that path. I was supposed to be going in another direction, but I did not turn around. There is always time for things that are unpleasant.

It would be nice to be a vagabond. He can always search out good people and pleasant places, and he carries a cheerful soul that is open to the wide sky and free roads that lead nowhere and everywhere. If only men were not rooted in their small domains.

Go away from me, vile weakness; you deceive me with false images of relief, which are not even my real desire.

On the path behind me I heard a dull rumbling that almost seemed to come from underground. A large herd of cattle was moving along the river in a cloud of dust.

I stepped into a garden gate to let it pass, a monster of a hundred horned heads, blind and mad, rushing ahead of the cattle drovers’ whips.

Hassan rode on horseback at the front of the herd. He was dressed in a red cape, upright, cheerful. He alone was calm and smiling in that drove, amid the angry lows, shouts, and curses that resounded in the river valley.

The man never changed.

He also recognized me, and leaving the herd, the cattle drovers, and the billowing dust, he rode up to the gate where I stood.

“I wouldn’t want to ride
you
down,” he said, laughing. “If it were someone else I wouldn’t care.”

He dismounted easily, as if he had just started out on his journey, and gave me a vigorous hug. It was strange and awkward for me to feel the grip of his hands on my shoulders. He always showed his joy openly. And it was just this joy that surprised me. Was that because of me, or was it some extravagant generosity, bestowed equally upon all? An empty vitality that overflows like water, worthless because it belongs to everyone?

He was returning from Wallachia; he had been on the road for months. I asked him although I already knew, just to say something. The night before I had been prepared to deliver him to his sister.

“You don’t look well.”

“I’m troubled.”

“I know.”

How could he have known? For almost three months he had been wandering in foreign lands; he had traveled thousands of miles trading, and as soon as he returned he heard everything. All the while I had not thought that everyone in the kasaba knew. People always find out about misfortune and evil, only good things are kept secret.

“Why is he in prison?”

“I don’t know. I don’t believe he could have done anything wrong.”

“You’d know if he had.”

“He was quiet,” I said, without understanding him.

“Our people live quietly and perish suddenly. I’m sorry, for him and for you. Where is he now?”

“In the fortress.”

“I greeted it from afar; I forgot what’s in it. I’ll come to the tekke this evening, if I won’t be disturbing you.”

“How would you be disturbing me?!”

“How is Hafiz-Muhammed?”

“He’s well.”

“He’ll bury us all!” he said, laughing again.

“We’ll be waiting for you this evening.”

His empty, sterile kindness could neither help nor hinder me. Everything in him was empty and useless—his peaceful temperament, his cheerful disposition, his quick mind—everything was empty and superficial. Yet he was the only man in the kasaba who had offered me a word of sympathy, which, while useless, was surely sincere. I am ashamed to say, though, that it resembled alms given by a poor man; it neither warmed nor moved me.

He left ahead of the bulls’ horns, which were lowered as if in attack, riding in clouds of dust that drifted above the cattle like gray bubbles, hiding them.

I had kept him at a distance, because of what had happened the night before and because of what I was expecting.

In my thoughts I crossed over the wooden bridge to the other bank, into the silent, peaceful streets, where footsteps wandered alone and houses were hidden in tree branches behind high fences, as if all things were avoiding each other, withdrawing into solitude and peace. I had no business there, but I still wanted to go, to delay everything before I attempted anything. And I might have gone to the other side, into those dead, hidden streets, where things would have been easier. But at that moment I heard the frightened beating of a drum from the direction of the bazaar, it was different from the Gypsy drums, and the shrill sounds of a trumpet from the clock tower at the wrong time. Confused, indistinct voices called out in a common distress; the scene resembled an upset beehive. People swarmed like bees, flew off in escape and returned to its defense, shouting curses and calling for help. A gray thread of smoke rose slowly above the kasaba, and it seemed as if human cries had woven themselves into that skein and become visible. Flocks of pigeons flew around it, frightened by the screams and the heat.

Soon the pillar of smoke gained strength and began billowing over the houses, thick and black. The flames spread out of control, unabated, violent, and rampant; they leaped
with unconcealed joy from roof to roof, blazing over the screams and fears of the people.

I shuddered instinctively at this tragedy. We are always in some danger; something ugly is always happening somewhere. Then my own troubles distracted me; they were graver and more important than that. I even began to watch the fire with satisfaction, hoping that it would leave the people helpless, and that in this way all our misfortunes, even mine, would be resolved. But that was a momentary fit of madness, and afterward I thought nothing of it.

And so, when I already had enough reasons to turn from the path and not to do what I intended, I decided not to delay it any longer. I had not given it much thought, but maybe hope came to life in me, hope that it would be easier to speak of mercy in this tragedy, which reminded people of their fragility and helplessness before the will of God.

And I had the right to find out as much about my own brother as they were obliged to tell me or anyone else. I was bound to help him, if it were possible. It would have been unseemly for me to stand aside; I would have been reproached by everyone. Whom did I have besides him? And whom did he have besides me?

I tried to encourage myself, to justify and affirm my right, and also prepared a path of retreat. I did not forget what I had thought before, that I was afraid for myself and that I felt sorry for him. I did not even know what was more important, nor could I easily separate one from the other.

In front of the musellim’s office there stood a guard with a saber at his hip and a small gun in his wide leather belt. I had never been there before; I had never thought that armed guards might stand in the way.

“Is the musellim in his office?”

“Why?”

I secretly hoped that the musellim would not be in, there was a fire in the town, and he had all sorts of other affairs to look after. It would be strange if he were there just when I
came to see him. Maybe that hidden thought, that I would not find him, had induced me to come in the first place. And I would leave, putting off my visit for another day. But when the guard, with his hand on the handle of his gun, impudently asked me something that was not his business, anger flared in me, as if a vent had been found for my restlessness, which could hardly wait to escape, no matter how. I was a dervish, the sheikh of a tekke, and a soldier could not address me in such a manner, with his hand on his gun, not even because of the garb that I wore. I was truly insulted, but later it occurred to me how we avenge our fear where we can. His question was rude; it emphasized his authority and importance and indicated my worthlessness, showing me that even the order to which I belonged did not command any respect. But all of this could not serve as an excuse to leave. If he had said that the musellim was out, or that he was not seeing anyone that day, I would have been grateful to him and left with a feeling of relief.

“I’m the sheikh of the Mevlevi tekke,” I said softly, quelling my anger. “I need to see the musellim.”

The guard looked at me calmly, not in the least impressed by my words, suspicious, offensively indifferent to what I had said. I was frightened by his vicious composure, and it seemed that he might easily draw his flintlock and shoot me dead, without joy or anger. Or that he might admit me to see the musellim. It was he who had been after my fugitive the night before; he had taken my brother to the fortress; he was guilty before them. And they were guilty before me. It was on their account that I was there.

Without haste, expecting something more from me, a rebuke or an appeal, he called another guard from the corridor and told him that some dervish wanted to see the musellim. I did not protest at this depersonalization; maybe it was better that way. Now the musellim would not be refusing me, but some nameless dervish.

We waited for that message to pass through the corridors
and for the answer to come back. The guard returned to his post, without looking at me, with his hand on his flintlock. It did not matter to him whether I would be admitted or refused. His dark, lean face radiated a tranquil arrogance, with which that place nurtured him.

As I waited, I began to regret that I had stubbornly insisted on overcoming this obstacle, thinking that it was trivial. Instead it turned out to be the same as the musellim, an extension of his hand. I could no longer leave. I had nailed myself to that spot, I had put myself in a situation where they would either have to let me in or turn me away. I did not know which was worse. I had intended to pay the musellim a visit, since we knew each other, and to start a conversation about my brother in a casual manner. Now this was impossible. I had set a whole string of people in motion and demanded that he see me. Our conversation could no longer be casual; it had acquired an official character. And if I talked in a low voice, humbly, it would be an admission of cowardice. I wanted to maintain both my dignity and my caution. Impudence would not help me, and it was not one of my traits; humility would have degraded me, although I felt it in every fiber of my being.

It would have been better if he refused me, I was upset and unprepared. I tried in vain to think of what to say, tried in vain to imagine the expression that I would wear into his room. I saw the contorted features of a flustered man who did not even know what had driven him to take such a step. Was it love for his brother, fear for himself, regard for his father? I saw the man fearful, as if he were doing something forbidden, as if he were risking everything. What was I risking? I did not know, and therefore I say: everything.

They called me in.

The musellim stood at the window, watching the fire. When he turned around, I saw that his face was blank, and I did not detect even a flicker of recognition in his eyes. That motionless face did nothing to encourage me.

For the brief moment that I looked into his inhospitable eyes, which were waiting to pass judgment on me, I felt like a guilty man. I stood somewhere between him and an unknown crime that I had committed, and his eyes put me at a distance, pushing me toward that offense.

I could have begun the conversation in a number of ways had I not been so nervous. Calmly: I haven’t come to defend my brother, but to inquire about him. Magnanimously: he’s guilty because of the very fact that he’s in prison; may I know what he’s done? Moderately offended: he’s in prison; very well, it would’ve been proper for you to let me know. I needed to begin with some intention, with some definite aim, showing more firmness in this affair, but I chose the worst way. I did not even choose it, it imposed itself.

“I wanted to ask about my brother,” I said confusedly, beginning as I should not have, without confidence. I immediately exposed my weak spot, without succeeding to prepare a more advantageous reception and impression. That face, heavy with sleep, forced me to say something, anything, all at once, so that he would recognize me, so that he would notice me.

“Brother? What brother?”

In that deaf question, in his dead voice, in his surprise at my assumption that he should know something so trivial, I felt that my brother and I had been reduced to the size of grains of dust.

May I be forgiven by all honorable people who are more courageous than I, by all good people who have not experienced the temptation to forget their pride, but I must say this, since it would not help if I hid the truth from myself: his intentional rudeness did not offend me, nor did the terrible distance that he kept between us. It frightened me, because it was unexpected; I felt restless and threatened. My brother did not serve as a possible bond between us; he had to be revived, to be brought before the musellim for the first time, and therefore his guilt would have to be determined
for the first time. But what could I say without also inflicting damage on my brother and insulting the musellim?

I said that I regretted what had happened. This misfortune had hit me like the death of a close relative, fate had not protected me from the pain of seeing my own brother taken to the place where sinners and criminals go, or from the pain of being watched with surprise, as if I also bore a part of the guilt, I who for years had been serving God and the faith honorably. And as I said this I knew that it was loathsome. I was committing a betrayal, but these words flowed easily and sincerely, and this lament of my fate unfolded by itself, right until my conscience spoke so strongly and so loudly that I became disgusted at the sweet tears that I was shedding for myself, at the cowardice that I could find no real reason for, at the selfishness that stifled all of my other thoughts. No! something cried in me, this is shameful, whom did you come to defend? Yourself? From what? It’s your brother who is in danger, afterward you’ll be ashamed, you’ll worsen his position, be quiet and leave, speak and leave, speak and stay, look him in the eye, it’s only his phantom face that frightens you, silence your groundless fear, you have nothing to be afraid of, don’t disgrace yourself complaining to him and yourself, say only what you must.