Death and the Dervish (Writings From An Unbound Europe) (18 page)

I began in the wrong way: “Are you satisfied with your work?”

“Yes.”

He laughed, looking me in the eye cheerfully, and refused to beat around the bush: “Admit it, that wasn’t what you wanted to ask.”

“You guess other people’s thoughts, like a wizard.”

He smiled and waited, freeing me from my inhibitions with his openness and a calm, encouraging look. I took advantage of that opportunity, an opportunity for me: he always gave them to others. I told him: “You used to think as I do, as we do, or similarly. It’s not easy to change oneself, one must reject all that one has been, all that one has learned, everything that one has grown accustomed to. And you changed yourself completely. It’s as if you learned how to walk all over again, to say your first words, to acquire
basic habits. The reason must have been very, very important.”

He watched me for a moment with a strange attentiveness, as if I had taken him back into his past, or some forgotten pain; but that alert expression soon subsided. He acknowledged calmly:

“Yes, I’ve changed. I used to believe in everything that you do, maybe even more firmly. But then in Smyrna,
²
Talib-effendi said to me: ‘When you see a young man reaching for the sky, grab him by the leg and pull him back down to the ground.’ And he pulled me back down to the ground. ‘You are destined to live here,’ he scolded me. ‘So live here! And live as nicely as you can, but without shame. It is better that God ask you: why did you not do that? rather than: why did you do that?”’

“And what are you now?”

“A wanderer on wide roads where I meet good and bad people, who have the same worries and troubles as people do here, who have the same trivial joys as people do everywhere.”

“What would happen if everyone took your path?”

“The world would be happier. Maybe.”

He was trying to bring our conversation to an end.

“And now nothing matters to you. Is that all that you’ve achieved?”

“Not even that.”

As I sat and talked, my attention dwindled and my interest waned; I had expected much from his confession, but had gotten nothing. His case was exceptional. He was a bit of an eccentric, or a clever man who hid his thoughts, or a wretch who defended himself with spite; and to do that one needs to be either too weak or too strong. I was neither. The world keeps us in fetters—how can we break them? And to what end? How can a man live without beliefs that grow on him like skin, that become inseparable from him? How can you live without your self?

And then I remembered my brother. I remembered where I was going to go that day. I remembered that I was afraid of being left alone.

“I’ve come to thank you for your gift.”

“I’d have liked it if you’d come for no reason. To talk about nothing, not on account of anything.”

“For a long time I’ve not been as excited as I was last night. In this world good people are precious.”

This was a pleasantry that demanded nothing, not from the man who said it or from the man who heard it. But I remembered the night before, and it seemed to me that I really thought this way, and that what I had said was inadequate. I felt a desire to say more, to satisfy a need that was growing inside me, to fill myself with tenderness and warmth. Hassan tried in vain to stop me with his laughter, but that was no longer possible. I held onto him like an anchor. I needed him right then, at that moment, and I needed for him to be dear to me, to be the best possible friend. I told him that I was going to do everything in my power for my brother, soon, either the next day, or maybe even that afternoon. I believed that I was in the right, and I would seek justice to the extent that I could. Maybe it would not be easy, as I had imagined, maybe there would be difficulties (these I had already encountered: that morning I had gone to the musellim again and he had refused to see me; they said impudently that he was not in, although he had entered his office just ahead of me), maybe I would be alone and in danger, and so, that was why I had come to him; I felt that we were close, and I sought nothing except kind words. I wanted to tell him that, to get it off my chest.

What I said was true. It was an unusual, inner truth, and it was what had brought me there, although I said it to myself only then, in front of him. I felt as if I were setting out on a perilous journey, or marching into a deadly battle; I looked at my only friend, who had appeared along with my misfortune so that it would not be absolute. Although he
could not help me, and I did not need his help, a deep, indistinct fear kept me from letting him go. Maybe only then, before that composed man who listened to me quietly, drawn by the seriousness of my voice and a hidden anxiety that he could sense, maybe only then, I say, did I become completely aware of the emptiness that I had felt that morning in front of the musellim’s office as I listened to the soldiers lie to me calmly. I had been humiliated, but did not have the strength to feel insulted. I was astonished by the realization that I had been irrevocably associated with my condemned brother. Saving my brother meant saving myself as well. But I could not conceal from myself the cold emptiness that had seized me. I knew that the musellim’s door was not the only one that I would have to knock on; he was not the only man who would have to hear my request. There were others, some better and stronger than this bully who was crazed with power. But I had still shuddered from fear and felt a sudden weakness, like a man who loses his way at night. That was the reason why, in a moment of confidence and desire for support, I tried to tie Hassan to myself with the bonds of friendship and love; I was surprised at myself, at this new need, which was as senseless as it was strong. I succeeded, I did it in the best possible way, led by the subconscious cunning of genuine helplessness, by a heightened desire to quench some great thirst that had certainly been in me for a long time, hidden and suppressed. Long afterward I remembered that moment, and how moved I was then.

I upset him as well. His blue eyes were wide open, watching me as if they recognized me, as if removing me from anonymity and giving me a face and features. His usual expression of scornful joy changed into nervous tension, but when he began to speak he was again a calm and collected man who could control his feelings, who made sure that they were not too strongly expressed, as happens with people who easily forget their enthusiasm. His ardor was longer lasting, it was not a flame that burned out in passionate
words. And that impression of him was also new. Earlier that day, just moments before, I had considered him superficial and empty, although somewhere inside myself I must have thought differently—otherwise why would I have come to him and no one else when I needed to hear a kind word? That was my new love defending him, my enthusiasm, which I connected with him in my fear of isolation. Anyway, it did not matter, let him be superficial, let him be reckless, let him squander his unusual talents however he wanted: he was still a good man, and he knew the secret of being a friend. I did not, and he would reveal it to me. Maybe this was a prayer that resulted from a deep fear, or maybe a talisman against evil powers, prophecy before the beginning of a pilgrimage of suffering.

But we never know what our words, which have a definite meaning only for us and therefore satisfy only our needs, might call forth in other men. I had, it seemed, awakened in him a well-hidden desire to meddle in other people’s lives. It was as if he could hardly wait for my outburst of friendship, so he could offer me his hand and assistance. For him words were never enough.

“I’m glad that you have confidence in me,” he said readily. “I’ll help you in any way I can.”

Suddenly everything in him came to life and readied itself for something, for action, for danger. He needed to be stopped.

“I’m not looking for help. I don’t think I need it.”

“You can never have too much help, and now you’ll need it more than ever. We need to get him out of the fortress as soon as possible and take him away from here.”

He got up, restless, looming over me, his eyes glowing with an evil fire. What had I awakened in him?

I had not expected such an offer or such haste in making a decision. I will continue to meet people as long as I live, but I will never really figure them out; they will always baffle me with their inexplicable deeds. I thought for a moment,
caught by this rashness, afraid of it, in danger of being drawn into a shameful endeavor. And without giving the real reason, not even myself knowing exactly what it was, I refused:

“Then he’d still be guilty.”

“He’d still be alive! Saving him is all that matters.”

“But I’m saving more: justice.”

“All of you will suffer: you, your brother, and justice.”

“If it’s fated to be so, then that’s the will of God.”

Those calm words of mine might have been sorrowful, bitter, or helpless, but they were sincere. I had nothing else left. I do not know why my words provoked him so much, as if they were mud that I had slung in his face. Maybe because I had thwarted his enthusiasm, prevented him from showing his kindness. A fire had ignited somewhere within him, different from a moment before, more distinct, closer; his eyes glowed hotly, his face flushed a deep red, he grabbed his right hand with his left, as if to keep it from striking me. I have rarely ever seen such excited strength, such rage. I thought he was going to lose control of himself, to explode, to swear at me. Surprisingly, he did not shout, but I would have preferred it; he spoke in a low voice, unnaturally softly, contracting his vocal chords, suddenly so upset that even his appearance changed. For the first time I heard him speak passionately, saying his angry thoughts out loud, without softening any hard words or insults.

I listened in amazement:

“O wretched dervish! Will you all ever stop thinking like dervishes? You act according to destiny, which is determined by God, and you try to save justice and the world! How is it that you don’t choke on such pompous words?! Can nothing be done by the will of man, without trying to save the world? Leave the world alone, for God’s sake; it’ll be better off without your concern. Do something for a man whose first and last names you know, who also happens to be your brother, so he won’t perish completely innocent in the name
of the justice that you uphold. If your brother’s death were a guarantee of future paradise for the rest of us, very well, let him die; he would redeem much suffering. But he won’t, nothing will change.”

“Then that’s the will of God.”

“Can’t you find any other, more human words?”

“No. And I don’t need them.”

He went up to the window, and looked at the half of the sky above the kasaba and the surrounding mountains, as if in that clear expanse he sought an answer or some consolation. And then he began shouting to somebody in the yard, asking whether the horse had been shod and telling them to hurry up and get the musicians.

It was no use, I could not figure him out. As soon as I saw one side of him another, unknown one, surfaced immediately, and I did not know which one of them was real.

When he turned around he was calm again, but his smile was not serene as it had been before.

“Forgive me,” he said, trying to sound cheerful. “I’ve acted rudely and stupidly. Those are the manners of a cattle drover. It’s good that I didn’t start to curse.”

“No matter. That’s not important now.”

“And maybe I’m not even right. Maybe your approach is better. Maybe it’s better to adhere to the standards of heaven than to those of this world. Failure doesn’t upset you, since you can always rely on eternity; you find your justifications in reasons beyond yourself. Personal loss is less important. And pain. And men. And the present day. Everything continues into eternity, faceless and vast, sleepily torpid and solemnly indifferent. Like the sea: it cannot lament the innumerable deaths that continually occur in it.”

I was silent. What could I say? Those anxious words revealed insecurities and dilemmas that are endless. What was there to dispute or condone when he himself did not know where he stood? All he did was doubt everything. I did not. I really thought that the will of God was the
supreme law, that eternity was the measure of our deeds, and that the faith was more important than people. Yes, the sea had existed forever and would exist forever, and it would not stir up at every tiny death. He had said that bitterly, meaning something else, without believing it. And I would have liked to rise to that idea, even when my own happiness was in question.

I did not feel like explaining that I would not agree to free my brother with a planned escape or bribery, because I still believed in justice; he would not have understood, he thought differently than I did. If I ever became convinced that there is no justice in this world of mine, the only thing left to do would be to kill myself, or to turn against the world, since I would no longer be able to be a part of it. Hassan would have said again that this was the logic of a dervish, and blind obedience of rules. Therefore I said nothing, although I did not understand how men could live otherwise.

Or could they?

I looked at the buds on a branch under the open window. I should have left.

“It’s springtime,” I said.

As if he did not know. He certainly did not know the way I did. It did not occur to me that what I said might have seemed strange to him. It was as if it had interrupted our conversation and thoughts. But it had not.

I remembered the white and pink abundance that had been repeating itself endlessly, that morning, and long before. There were many light shadows under the trees, the fragrant earth was awakening, and I thought of how nice it would be to go out into the world with my wooden dervish bowl in my hands, led only by the sun and any river, any path, not desiring anything, except to be nowhere, to be bound by nothing, to see a different place every morning, to lie down somewhere else every night, to have neither obligations nor regrets nor memories, to give free rein to hatred only after I had gone on and it had become meaningless, to
distance the world from me as I passed through it. But no, that idea did not belong to me. I attributed to myself the desire that Hassan had just expressed; it seemed so beautiful to me, so liberating that I adopted it, and for a few moments I even thought that it was mine. In my mind I even heard it as he would have said it. It suited the desolation I felt that morning and I later embraced it in retrospect, as if it had existed then. But I was sure that it had not.