Death and the Dervish (Writings From An Unbound Europe) (35 page)

“You’re asking for yourself. You’ve had evil committed against you. That’s why I don’t know what to tell you. If I say they’re not guilty, I’d anger you. And it’s not right to say that, either. If I say they are guilty, I’d be supporting you in your hatred.”

“What hatred? Whom do I hate?”

“I don’t know. Maybe even me.”

He was sitting by the window, looking at his folded hands. Behind him there was the gray day and the cloudy sky; they resembled him. When he heard Hassan’s words he suddenly turned around and gave me a bewildered, surprised,
gruff, and truly hateful look. Then he shifted his gaze and said almost in a whisper: “I don’t hate you.”

“Thank God,” I said, hurrying to calm him, afraid that he would leave, as he had before. “Thank God. I’d like to regain your trust if it’s disappeared. If it hasn’t, so much the better. I appreciate new friendships, they give us a love that we could never do without, but old friendships are more than love, because they are parts of our very selves. You and I have grown together, like two plants; both of us would be damaged if we were separated, our roots are tangled together, as are our branches. And yet, we could’ve done more than grow on the same clump of memory, each living his own life. We could’ve become close. I feel sorry now, because of everything that we missed. Why didn’t we talk? We knew that we were both thinking about what happened; we can never forget it. I blame myself more than you. I’m older, more experienced. My only excuse is that I knew my love for you never changed. Your detachment kept me at a distance. You jealously kept your misfortune to yourself, as a mother monkey carries its dead young on its breast. One should bury the dead for one’s own sake. I was the only person who could have helped you do that. Why didn’t you ever ask me about your mother? I alone know everything about her. Don’t wince; don’t shut yourself up. I won’t say anything that might hurt you. I loved both of you.”

“You loved her?”

His voice was turbid, hoarse, threatening.

“Don’t be afraid. I loved her as a sister.”

“Why as a sister? She was a whore.”

The expression on his face frightened me. I had never seen it before, it was sharp, merciless, ready for anything. But I knew that his rudeness and self-torment resulted from the sorrow that had been revived by this first conversation about his mother. I was also surprised by the ferocity with which he tore open his wounds. Was he really suffering so much?

Trying to calm him down, I said: “You’re cruel because you’re miserable. Your mother was a good woman. She was a victim, not a sinner.”

“Why did they kill her, then?”

“Because they were stupid.”

He said nothing, looking at the floor. I knew how hard it was for him, although I could only sense the horror of his torment with a shudder. Then he asked, giving me a hostile look, in one last hope that I would not be able to defend myself: “And what did you do?”

“I begged for her, in vain. And I took you away, to another village, so you wouldn’t see. Afterward I wept, hidden, alone, sickened by the men, and yet pitying them, because they avoided each other’s eyes all day long, out of shame.”

“One day isn’t very long. Who . . . How did they kill her?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t watch. And I didn’t want to ask.”

“What did they say about her later?”

“Nothing. People easily forget what they’re not proud of.”

“And you?”

“I left soon. I was ashamed of them. And I pitied you, and her, for a long time. Especially you. We were friends; I never had a better one.”

He shut his eyes and tottered, as if he were going to faint. “May I go?” he said softly, without looking at me.

“Are you sick?”

“No, I’m not.”

I put my hand on his brow, making that ordinary gesture with effort, I was almost unable to complete it, as I felt how my palm burned before it even reached him. And when I touched his hot skin, he barely kept from moving his head away, unnaturally tense, as if he were expecting a knife.

“Go,” I said. “We’ve worn ourselves out with this conversation. We have to get used to it.”

He staggered out.

I ordered Mustafa to get him some honey, sent him on walks, and tried to persuade him to begin another copy of the Koran. I even offered to order gold and red ink, but he refused. And he became stranger and stranger, more closed than before. It was as if my concern had truly become burdensome for him.

“You’ll spoil him,” said Hafiz-Muhammed, with ostensible reproach, but it was not hard to see that he was satisfied. The kindness of others moved him, although he himself never wanted to worry about anyone. For him kindness was like the sunrise: something to be watched.

“He looks worn out,” I said, defending myself. “Something’s happening to him.”

“He looks worn out, indeed. Maybe he’s in love.”

“In love?”

“Why are you surprised? He’s young. It would be best if he got married and left the tekke.”

“Whom would he marry? The girl he’s in love with?”

“No, not at all! Aren’t there plenty of girls in the kasaba?”

“I see that you know something. Why are you letting me guess?

“Well, I don’t know very much.”

“Say what you do know.”

“Maybe it’s not right for me to speak. Maybe it’s only my opinion.”

I did not press him. I knew that he was wrong, but I also knew that he would say it. His apparent hesitation was silly; he had begun the conversation in order to tell me everything. And God knows what he had seen and what he had imagined in his naivete. I did not expect much from whatever it was that he had to say.

But when he told it, it seemed strange to me. He said that he had gone to see Hassan’s father and seen Mullah-Yusuf in front of the gate to the kadi’s house. He was standing there, indecisive, looking at the windows; he started toward the
door and then stopped; then he went away from the house, slowly, looking back. He wanted something; he was expecting something; he was looking for someone. And when they met, Hafiz-Muhammed did not ask him anything, but the youth said that he had ended up there by accident, on a walk. And so, what he said made Hafiz-Muhammed suspicious and worried, because he had not ended up there accidentally and was not on a walk. And Hafiz-Muhammed would have preferred for the reason not to be what he thought. Therefore he had kept silent, until now.

“What did you think was going on?” I asked, unnerved, suddenly brought before the solution to the mystery.

“Well, I’m ashamed even to mention it. But his behavior was strange. And then, he lied to me to excuse himself, which means that he was guilty. I thought that he had fallen in love.”

“With whom? With Hassan’s sister?”

“So you see, even you have thought of it. And if it’s not true, may God punish me for my sinful thoughts.”

“Maybe,” I said gloomily. “All sorts of things happen to people.”

“Someone should talk to him. He’ll torment himself needlessly.”

“Do you think so?”

He looked at me with surprise, without understanding my question, without feeling its spite, and said that he felt sorry for the youth, that hopeless love would eat away at him like rust, and that would be a shame both for him and us. Shame before the world and before her, a married and honorable woman. And he, Hafiz-Muhammed, would pray to God to turn the boy from that path and forgive him for his sin if he had seen things falsely and if he had thought something bad.

When he had said everything, he was depressed; he regretted it. Yet if he had kept silent, it would have destroyed him.

If what this man had said were only true, this man who
saw sin even where there was none. But maybe there was? Why would that have been impossible?

I embraced that ugly thought and developed it in a moment. I gave it wings, discovering the splendid possibilities hidden in it. I remembered her lovely hands, how they had caressed each other unconsciously, eagerly clasping each other, and her cold eyes, which emanated an unspent strength, like deep water. I remembered the calm arrogance with which she took revenge for something. But I also remembered that everything had already happened before then, and that Harun had already been killed when she asked me to betray Hassan. She could not have known about my brother; maybe she had never heard his name, but I forgot that and remembered her as cruel, like her husband the kadi. For me they were two bloodthirsty scorpions, and my heart could not wish them good. And so, hatred cried out in me: if only that were true! In a moment of weakness I saw her submitting to Yusuf’s youthfulness, and the kadi disgraced by the ancient justice of sin.

But I suppressed that thought quickly. I knew that it was shameful and humiliated me with a desire for petty revenge. And yet it also revealed something more important: it showed my powerlessness and fear of them. And fear and powerlessness give birth to base instincts. In my thoughts I left that battle for someone else and, if only for a moment, I secretly enjoyed their defeat. But what kind of a defeat was it, what kind of compensation when compared with what I had lost?

I grew ashamed and frightened. No, I said, determined, I don’t want that. Whatever I decide, I’ll have to do it myself, alone. No matter whether I forgive or get even. That’s honest.

I called Mullah-Yusuf again, after my conversation with Hafiz-Muhammed. When he came in, I was examining Hassan’s gift, Abu Faraj’s book with the morocco binding and the four golden birds on the cover.

“Have you seen this? A gift from Hassan.”

“How beautiful!”

He ran his fingers over the leather and the outstretched wings of the golden birds; suddenly transformed, he looked at the wondrous initials and the ornamented words. This beauty, which excited him strangely, soothed the anxiety with which he had entered the room.

I knew that I would gain a significant advantage if I let him wait. I knew that he was afraid, imagining our conversation, that he was feverishly rummaging in the treasury of his sins—everyone has them. But I refused to take the advantage that his fear would have given me. I preferred his trust.

I said that I was intentionally resuming the conversation we had held, because he was still upset. And that was the worst condition any of us could ever be in (I knew from myself): when we can’t make up our minds, but are crucified by our torments, and sometimes can’t even determine exactly what they are, and when every breath of the wind rocks us, uprooting us. I’d like to help him, as much as I could, as much as he’d accept. I was doing this for him, but also for myself; maybe I was guilty before him. I’d neglected to bring him closer to myself and thus return his feeling of security. I had lost my brother, and he could replace him. I did not want for him to tell me what was happening with him: everyone has a right to his own thoughts, whatever they are, and it isn’t always easy to speak them. We often spin like weathervanes, unsure of our positions, mad with insecurity. We vacillate between despair and the wish for peace and don’t know what is ours. It’s difficult to stop at either end, to embrace only one side, but that’s what we need to do. Any decision, except the one that will disturb our conscience, is better than the sense of disorientation with which indecision bestows us. But the decision shouldn’t be hurried; it should just be helped to develop. When the time comes. Friends can ease the pain of making a decision, but no more; they
can never eliminate it. And yet we need friends, as one does a midwife at a birth. That’s something else I know from my own experience. When I was feeling my worst, when I thought the only way out was to kill myself, God sent me Hassan, to lift me up and give me courage. His attention and kindness, and maybe I can even say: his love, returned my faith in myself and in life. Signs of that attention might seem trivial, but for me they were invaluable. My mad spinning stopped, my horror faded; I felt a warm wind of human kindness in the ice in which I was trapped. May he, Mullah-Yusuf, forgive me because that dear memory still excites me, but no one has ever offered me greater mercy in my life. I was lonesome, abandoned by everyone, left in the empty silence of my own misfortune, for injustice to be carried out against me to its end. I was on the verge of doubting everything that I believed, because everything was crumbling around me, burying me under. But you see, knowing that there’s one good man in the world, a single one, was enough to reconcile me with everyone else. It might seem strange that I attach such importance to his deeds, which should be commonplace among us, and that I’m so grateful. But I’ve seen that such deeds are not commonplace at all, and that they make him stand out among other people. And at that, I was guilty, so his help has become even dearer to me.

Mullah-Yusuf raised his head.

Yes, guilty. I’ve done something bad to him, something very bad. It doesn’t matter what, or why. I could find a reason, and maybe a justification, but that’s not important. I needed his friendship, like air, but I was ready to lose it because I couldn’t hide that lie from him. I wanted him to forgive me, but he did even more: he gave me still greater love.

“Did you do him any harm?” asked Mullah-Yusuf with effort.

“I betrayed him.”

“And what if he’d begun to despise you? Or rejected you? What if he’d made your betrayal known?”

“I’d still respect him. He taught me once again that true generosity doesn’t haggle. He helped me doubly and enriched himself doubly. I told Hassan that people like him are a real blessing, a gift sent to us by God Himself; and I really believe it. With some unknown sense he discovers who needs help, and offers it, like medicine. A wizard, because he’s human. And he never abandons those he’s helped; he’s more faithful than a brother. Most beautiful is that his love doesn’t even need to be earned. If I’d had to earn it I’d never have received it, or I’d have lost it long ago. He cares for it himself, he gives it away, without looking for a reason other than the need he himself feels, no other compensation except his own satisfaction and the happiness of others. I accepted the moral that he gave me: that he who gives, receives. I’m no longer vulnerable, his love has healed me, enabled me to support someone else. It’s made me capable of love, I’ll give it to you, Mullah-Yusuf, if it can be of any use to you.”