Death and the Dervish (Writings From An Unbound Europe) (31 page)

“How did he die?”

“Slowly. His soul didn’t want to. To leave. He resisted. I was there, too. Yes. I helped.”

“What did you help with?”

“He was strangled.”

“So you helped to strangle him?”

“He resisted.”

“You didn’t feel pity for him?”

“Pity. Because of the sun. What he talked about.”

“What was his name? Wasn’t it maybe Harun?”

“I don’t know.”

“What had he done?”

“I don’t know.”

“Go, Jemal.”

“Maybe I will, too. On the other side. Of the wall.”

“Certainly, Jemal.”

He asked me whether I wanted to go to another cell. It was not so dark, and was not so damp as mine.

“It doesn’t matter, Jemal.”

“Will you tell it? Again? ‘When the great event. . .’ Only that. First. It’s dark here, too. And bad. Fifteen years. It’s not right. And there, too.”

“Go, Jemal.”

His crippled sentences staggered around me for a long time, cramped, mutilated; it seemed that they could hardly stay together, while lost, decapitated fragments miraculously clung to each other and even expressed human desires.

I was losing my senses again.

When once, afterward, that day or much later, or never, he opened the door of my cell, I was struck by two totally opposite feelings; fear that they would strangle me and hope that they would release me. They rushed at me simultaneously, like two impatient, spooked creatures pushing and jumping ahead of each other. Or maybe the distance between them
was so small that I could hardly separate them in time. I probably rejected the first thought immediately, because Jemal was alone, and joy came at once: deliverance! Either could have happened; there did not have to be a reason. When they kill men without proof of their guilt, maybe they release them without explanation.

But it was neither one nor the other. I was to go to another cell.

I agreed, joyless.

I entered someone else’s grave. It was mine now as well, and I stood by the door to get used to it.

“Pssst!”

This warning from the half-darkness seemed strange, but at that moment a pigeon fluttered away from a narrow window. I noticed it as it flew away.

“Now you can make as much noise as you want,” said the man who had tried to quiet me so I would not scare the pigeon.

“I didn’t know. Will it come again?”

“It isn’t crazy. It wandered here accidentally.”

“I’m sorry. Do you like pigeons?”

“No. But here you even begin to love bats.”

“There weren’t even any bats in my cell, probably because of the dampness.”

“There aren’t any here, either. They can’t stand people. I caught one when it flew in accidentally, by mistake. I wanted to tie it with a cord from my waistcoat, but it made me sick. Sit down, wherever you want, it doesn’t matter where.”

“I know.”

“How long have you been in prison?”

“A long time.”

“Maybe they’ve forgotten you?”

“What do you mean forgotten?”

“Just like that, forgotten. A man told me, he was here. They had caught him somewhere in the Krayina, and led him for days and weeks from place to place, from prison to
prison, until they brought him here. And here they forgot him. Months passed and he sat and languished here. No one called for him, no one asked about him, no one gave him any thought, and that was it. Just hope that doesn’t happen to you.”

“My friends sent me a message. They know where I am.”

“That’s even worse. That man’s family also found out where he was and came, but he sent them a message not to look for him. As it was, he was at least alive; but if the authorities remembered him, something bad might happen. And indeed, one night they took him away. Into exile, it seems.”

His voice was full of irony, as if he were trying to frighten me on purpose. But his story was not unlikely.

“Why are you talking like that?” I asked, surprised at his attitude and intentions. I had thought that everyone here was utterly dejected and unanimous at least in their desire not to hurt each other.

The man laughed. He truly laughed. It came so unexpectedly that I thought he was crazy. Although he laughed in a very ordinary manner, cheerfully, as if he were at home. And maybe for that very reason.

“Why am I talking like this? Here the key is to be patient. And to be ready for anything. That’s how this place is. And if things turn out better than you expect, then thank God, you’ve come out ahead.”

“How can you see everything so blackly?”

“If you don’t think blackly, things can get blacker. Nothing depends on you. It doesn’t help to be either brave or cowardly, neither to curse nor to weep; nothing can help you. So sit and wait for your lot, and it’s already black since you’re here. That’s what I think: if you’re not guilty, then it’s their mistake. If you are guilty, then it’s your mistake. If you’re innocent, then misfortune has struck you, as if you’ve fallen into a deep whirlpool. And if you’re not innocent, you’ve earned it, nothing more.”

“Things are quite simple with you.”

“They’re not that simple. One has to get used to them—then they’re simple. You see, I think I’m innocent, which is surely what you think about yourself. This, however, is not true, since it’s impossible that you haven’t, at least once in your life, sinned enough to have to atone for it. But no matter, at that point you escaped your punishment and now you’re not guilty of anything. Of course, it seems to you that you should be released. Only how can they release you? Listen, try to think like they do. If I’m not guilty, then they made a mistake and imprisoned an innocent man. If they released me, then they’d be admitting to their mistake and that wouldn’t be easy or useful. No one with any sense can demand from them that they act against themselves. Such a demand would be unrealistic and silly. So then I must be guilty. And how can they release me if I’m guilty? Do you understand? We shouldn’t judge them too harshly. Everyone sees things from his own point of view. We think it’s all right when we do that, but when they do, then it bothers us. You must admit, that’s inconsistent.”

“And if they forget about you, who’s to blame then?”

That possibility was as bitter as poison: they have forgotten about you, darkness is falling around you, and no one even knows that you exist. People think that you are dead, or that you have wondered off somewhere in the world, that you are where you want to be, and that you are fine. Maybe they even envy you. And you wait in vain; you are not guilty but your guilt continues. You are not being punished, but your punishment is continuously meted out, more horrible than if it were pronounced.

“Who’s guilty? Forgetfulness. That’s human, it happens. And so, if you really think about it no one has even done anything wrong to you. That’s your lot. Or you yourself are guilty of not being guilty. Because if you were guilty they wouldn’t forget you. That’s even an admission of your innocence.”

He was joking; I realized it only then. What kind of man jokes like that? He would drive me to despair, I would have been better off if I had remained alone.

“That’s a bad joke, friend,” I said reproachfully.

“If it’s bad, then it’s not a joke. A joke is never so bad.”

Then I recognized him. I lost my breath. I screamed, or thought that I did. I should have, I had to, I should not have met him here!

It was Is-haq!

Is-haq, the frequent object of my thoughts, my brightest memory, the vague aspiration of my unrealized and unfulfilled self, the distant light in my darkness, my human support, the long-sought-after key to mysteries, a sense of possibilities beyond the known, an admission of the impossible, a dream that could not be realized or rejected. Is-haq, admiration for a mad courage that we had forgotten because we thought that we no longer needed it.

They had caught the hero of fairy tales—the only real tales—who was created by pure imagination and remembered by adult weakness. They had destroyed human dreams. They were stronger than fairy tales.

He had also believed in fairy tales; he had said that they would never catch him.

“Is-haq!” I shouted, as if I were trying to call to someone lost.

“Who are you calling to?” the man asked, surprised.

“I’m calling to you. I’m calling to Is-haq.”

“I’m not Is-haq.”

“No matter. That’s the name I’ve given you. How did you let them catch you?”

“Man was created to be caught at one time or another.”

“You didn’t think like that before.”

“I wasn’t imprisoned before. Then and now, those are two different men.”

“Are you really giving yourself up to them, Is-haq?”

“I’m not giving up. I was given to them. It’s beyond me.
It’s not what I wanted but that’s the way it is. I helped them because I exist. If I didn’t exist, they wouldn’t be able to do anything to me.”

“Is that the only reason—that you exist?”

“The reason and the condition. That’s always an opportunity. For you and for them. It’s rarely left unexploited. Regardless of whether you’re here or up there. The only thing I don’t know is how long guilt lasts. Does it continue into the next world?”

“If you’ve done nothing wrong then you’re not guilty. God makes amends for the injustices done here.”

“You’re answering too quickly. Think about it. Does authority come from God? If not, where does it get the right to judge us? If it does, then how can it make a mistake? If it doesn’t, we’ll destroy it; if it does, we’ll obey it. If it’s not from God, what binds us to endure injustices? If it is from God, are those injustices or punishments for a higher purpose? If it’s not, then violence has been committed against you and me and against all of us, and then again we’re guilty of putting up with it. Answer me now. Only don’t give me the dervish answer that authority comes from God but that it’s sometimes exercised by evil men. And don’t tell me that God will roast the tyrants in the fires of hell, because we won’t know any more than we do now. The Koran also says this: ‘Submit to God and to His prophet and to those who direct your affairs.’
⁹
That’s the divine prescription, for God’s purpose is more important to Him than you and I are. Are they tyrants then? Or are we tyrants who will roast in the fires of hell? And are they committing violence or defending themselves? To direct someone’s affairs is to rule; ruling is power; power is injustice for the sake of justice. Anarchy is worse: disorder, general injustice and violence, general fear. Answer me now.”

I kept silent.

“You can’t answer me? I’m surprised. You dervishes can’t explain anything, but you can give an answer to everything.”

“You’re ready beforehand to disagree with me, no matter what I might say. It’s hard for two men who think differently to come to an understanding.”

“Two men who think will come to an understanding easily.”

He began to laugh again. That laughter was not offensive, it was directed at him as much as at me, but it served as a reason for me to break off that conversation, in which I did not feel secure. It happened for the first time that I was puzzled by questions that had seemed clear. His reasons were arbitrary, superficial, even jocular, but it was still hard for me to give an answer. Not because I had none, but because he had rendered them unsatisfactory. He left arid land for any seeds that I might have been able to sow. He negated in advance everything that I could have said. He pinned me down, led me over the void with which he had surrounded me; any opinions that I might have had were deprived of their value by his mockery. He overcame me by imposing his logic on me, and bound me to consider all possibilities earnestly.

“You’re honest,” he said with seeming approval. “Clever and honest. You don’t want to answer with empty words, and you don’t have any real ones. And I’ve put answers into your mouth.”

“Only so that you could refute them. You were mocking me.”

“I just wanted to speak, for no purpose at all. But the problem is that you don’t dare to think about anything. You’re afraid; you don’t know where your thoughts might lead you. Everything inside you is confused. You keep your eyes closed and stay on the old path. They brought you here, I don’t know why and it doesn’t concern me, but you won’t accept my explanations of human guilt. You think it’s a joke. Maybe it is, but maybe one could develop quite a nice philosophical idea out of it, not any worse than others, but it would at least have a good practical purpose. It would reconcile us with everything that happens to us. You’re bitter;
you think you’re not guilty. A pity. If they don’t release you, you’ll die soon, from spite, and everything will be all right. And what would happen if they released you? That would be the strangest misfortune that I know of. What’s above is yours as much as theirs, but they’ve excluded you. Would you become an outlaw? Would you begin to hate them? Would you forget? I’m asking, because I don’t know which is more difficult. Everything is possible but I can’t see a solution. If you become an outlaw then you’ll commit violence, so how could you be angry with them? If you come to hate them, you’ll be poisoned by your ill will unless you act against them, and against yourself, since you’re the same as they are, and they’ll catch you again. You might as well commit suicide. If you forget, you might make up for it somehow, thinking that you’re generous. But they’ll think that you’re a coward and a hypocrite, and they won’t believe you. You’ll be excluded in any case, and that’s what you cannot accept. The only possible solution would be this: for nothing to have happened.”

“Those are my thoughts exactly!” I exclaimed in surprise. “So much the worse. Because that alone is impossible.” Is-haq! Another, different, but the same as he was then. Everything was different and yet the same. The Is-haq who did not answer but asked questions, who asked questions in order to pose riddles, who posed riddles in order to mock them. Elusive. Go, he would have told me, as he had once, had it not been so silly, since I could not leave. He could. He would leave, if he decided to; a miracle would happen and he would disappear. They would search for him in vain; walls would not be able to hold him; guards would not be able to keep him; no one would be able to do anything to him. Elusive, like his thoughts. He would leave without an answer; although he knew it, he would not say it. He always left me shattered, unsettling everything within me that I knew. And it did not matter that afterward I knew what I should have said, since I had not answered him. I had not
been able to; then I had believed him more than myself. It did not matter because I did not believe myself unless he was with me, because I was afraid that he would refute any of my opinions if he heard them. Therefore I said nothing. But I could maintain my opinions only if I defended them before him. And I did not dare to do that. He thought differently than I did: his thoughts took unexpected turns; they were casual, impudent, and did not respect what I respected. He examined everything freely, I hesitated in front of many things. He destroyed but did not build, saying what was not, but not what was. And denial is convincing; it sets neither boundaries nor goals for itself. It strives toward nothing; it defends nothing. It is harder to defend something than to attack it, because everything that is made reality constantly wears down, constantly deviates from the initial idea.