Death and the Dervish (Writings From An Unbound Europe) (38 page)

“Go. I’m not going with you. I don’t know what he’s like.”

“You don’t know what Hadji-Sinanuddin is like?”

“No, I don’t. He thinks only about the prisoners, he takes them food every Friday. He’ll become poor because of them. He gives them everything.”

“Is that so bad?”

“What would he do if there were no more prisoners? He’d be unhappy. The prisoners are his passion, as hunting and drinking are for others. But should one make human misfortune one’s passion? Maybe one should, I’ve never thought about it.”

“Is it so bad to get used to doing good?”

“Should good deeds become a habit? They just happen, like love. And when they do, they should be hidden, so we can keep them. Just as you do.”

“What do I do?”

“You take alms for the prisoners to Hadji-Sinanuddin, but you hide it. It’s happened to you, but you’re ashamed to show your love. That’s why you’re going alone.”

“I’m not alone. Don’t you know Sheikh-Nuruddin?”

“How could I not know Sheikh-Nuruddin! Where is he?”

“Here, with me.”

“With you? I don’t see him. Why doesn’t he say something, so that I can at least hear him?”

“You don’t want to see me, but I don’t know why. Are you angry at me?”

“So you see—he’s not here,” said Ali-hodja, trying in vain to find me next to Hassan. “There’s no trace of him. There’s no Sheikh-Nuruddin.”

He left without saying goodbye.

Hassan smiled awkwardly, certainly because of me.

“He’s harsh with people.”

“Harsh and malicious.”

“A strange man.”

“Why didn’t he want to see me?”

“Because he was making sense. He needed to do something idiotic to make up for that.”

No, it had not been idiocy. He had wanted something, intended something. There’s no Sheikh-Nuruddin, he said. Maybe because I was no longer what I had been. Maybe because I had not returned the blow that had been dealt to me. Or because I had done nothing that a man should. And so, I did not exist.

“What do you think of him?” I asked Hassan. I did not want to reveal how hurt I was that Ali-hodja had not wanted to see me, and it did not occur to me that I was revealing myself by not forgetting him. Fortunately, Hassan wanted to make it up to me, but he did so awkwardly. I knew, because he was wasting too many words, and because he was speaking seriously.

“I don’t know. He’s just and sincere. Only he goes to extremes. That’s become his
passion
, as he puts it. And his vice. He not only defends justice, but he attacks with it; for him it’s become a weapon, not a goal. Maybe he’s not even aware that he’s become the voice of the many who keep silent, and he takes pleasure in daring to do what they don’t, bringing to them their own unspoken words. They recognize him as a disfigured version of their need to speak, who wouldn’t exist if they dared to fulfill that need. He’s natural and unavoidable because he has his roots here, unconstrained and extreme because he’s alone. And that’s why he’s rude, and that’s why he goes to extremes. He’s convinced
himself that he’s become the conscience of the town, and he pays for that pleasure with his poverty. Maybe he occasionally brings some freshness, like the wind, but I don’t believe he does a great service either to sincerity or justice. With him they seem perverse. They resemble vengeance and cruel satisfaction, but never a virtuous need that people should aspire to have. He’s turned into his own enemy, and become the opposite of everything he might ever have wanted. Maybe he’s even a warning, but he’s not a landmark. Because if we all acted and thought as he does, if we spoke openly and rudely about everyone else’s deficiencies, if we flew in the face of anyone whom we don’t like, if we demanded that people live the way we think is good, the world would be more of a madhouse than it is now. Cruelty in the name of kindliness is terrible; it would bind our feet and hands; it would kill us with hypocrisy. Cruelty based on power is better—that we can at least hate. Thus, we set ourselves apart and at least preserve hope.”

I did not wonder whether what he was saying was true or sincere. I knew that he was on my side, that he was protecting me from an injust attack: he could tell what was bothering me. Not with anything else—mockery, severity, or a complete rebuttal—could he have calmed me so much as with these eloquent reflections, superbly adapted for my ears. Their effect was convincing because it was not petty and it left with me the right to complete the thought and to defend myself. Malicious joker! I thought angrily about Ali-hodja. Rabid, stray dog! He’s placed himself above the whole world and spits on everyone equally, both the good and the bad, both on sinners and victims. What does he know about me that he could use to judge me so?

But my anger was not long-lasting or serious. I soon forgot about Ali-hodja, and the pleasant warmth of Hassan’s words remained within me. I did not even think any longer about what he had said, I knew that it had been nice and that I was content. He had offered his hand to me again and
had defended me. And that was much more important than the stupid whims of a wicked hodja.

While Hassan told Hadji-Sinanuddin Yusuf about that encounter and conversation, I thought about what a good and considerate man he was, and how lucky I was to have found him. They laughed: Hadji-Sinanuddin did so softly, Hassan loudly, showing his pearly, straight teeth. And they talked, without trying to be clever or serious, almost exuberant, like children, like friends who enjoy each other’s company.

Hassan exaggerated in distorting what the hodja had said. He told how Ali-hodja had not wanted to come because he was afraid of Hadji-Sinanuddin. Caring for prisoners was Hadji-Sinanuddin’s pleasure, like hunting, like gambling, like love. A world without prisoners would be Hadji-Sinanuddin’s grief. What would his kindness feed on then? He could not live without them, and if they disappeared he would be unhappy and lost. He would beg the authorities: Don’t destroy me; send someone to prison! What will I do without prisoners?! If there were no one to imprison, he would suggest that they arrest his friends, so that he would be able to care for them. That would be the best way of proving his love for them.

“I hope that you, too, would do me the favor,” the old man said and laughed, going along with Hassan’s joke, indifferent to what Ali-hodja had really said about him. And he immediately turned the conversation to Hassan: “And what did he say about you? That you’re not capable of good or evil? It seems that that’s what he said, isn’t it?”

“I’m bad without personal benefit, and good only when I’m irresponsible. Sort of a sinful angel, an immoral virgin, an honest criminal.”

“Sinful and noble-minded, calm and irritable, reasonable and stubborn. All of that. And impossible.”

“You don’t exactly value me much.”

“No,” said the old man beaming. “I don’t.”

His eyes said: I don’t value you, I love you.

It was quiet and pleasant in that tidy shop, freshness rose up from the floorboards, which were still wet from having just been washed. The quiet warmth of a summer day drifted in from the stone frame of the open door, and one could hear the light tapping of the smiths’ hammers, as if in some children’s game, as if in a dream. Before my eyes there was the vaulted half-darkness of the stone shop, greenish with the shade of a thick treetop out in the street, like the tranquil reflection of deep water. I felt good, comfortable, safe. While Hassan was talking about Ali-hodja, I knew that he would not say anything about me, I was not worried about a betrayal or a slip of the tongue. Peace was settling down on me, like pollen, like summer dew, because of those two men. They were two shady trees, two clear springs. Maybe it is a deception, or my memories are turning into odors, but it seems that I really did smell a freshness and a faint scent wafting from them. I do not know which, of pines, of woodland grasses, of a spring breeze, of a Bairam morning, of something dear and pure.

For a long time I had not experienced the kind of quiet tranquillity that those two men bestowed on me.

Their luminous serenity, their friendship without exclamations or ornamental words, their pleasure from everything they knew about each other—all of these things made me smile as well, not particularly cleverly, and awoke in me a dormant or desired goodness, as when we watch children. I became transparent, light, without a trace of the malignant burden that had oppressed me for so long.

“Let’s get you married, so you’ll settle down,” the old man said tenderly and reproachfully. It was certainly not the first time he had said this. “Come on, you evil man!”

“It’s too early for me, Hadji. I’m not even fifty yet. And I’ve got a lot of highways ahead of me.”

“Haven’t you had enough, vagabond?! Our sons stand by our side when we’re strong, and leave us when we need them.”

“Leave sons alone; let them go their own way.”

“I’m doing that, vagabond. Am I not even allowed to be sorry?”

Then I stopped smiling. I knew that his son lived in Constantinople. Maybe it was because of him that he had begun to take care of prisoners, to forget his sorrow at not seeing him for so many years. Maybe that was why he had become attached to Hassan: he reminded him of his son.

“There you have it,” said Hassan and turned to me, reproaching the old man jokingly. “He’s sorry because his son finished school and doesn’t hammer out other people’s gold in this shop; because he lives in Constantinople and not in this stale kasaba; because he sends him letters full of respect, and doesn’t ask for money to squander on gambling and women. Tell him, Sheikh-Nuruddin, so he won’t persist in this foolishness.”

My tender feelings suddenly disappeared. What Hadji-Sinanuddin answered, or could have answered—that happiness in another world is suspect, and that love is more important than everything, and warmth, among those who would give you their own blood—could remind me of my father and brother. It might have, but did not. That Hassan had spoken to me, for the first time in the whole conversation, for no reason, out of courtesy, so I would not be left out, reminded me that I was superfluous there, that the two of them were enough for each other.

A moment before I had been sure that Hassan would not mention the injustice that Ali-hodja had inflicted on me; I had known he would spare me. But now I realized that there was no place for me in their conversation. I was sobered by his belated attention, which spoiled everything.

It was difficult to deprive myself of the pleasure with which I had been filled, and of that pretty memory, which I would have liked to keep, but I could not stifle my doubt. He had repeated Ali-hodja’s words about himself and Hadji-Sinanuddin, making them sound even worse than they had
really been. And left out what had been said about me. Was it only out of courtesy?

Why did he say nothing? From what did he want to spare me, if he really thought it was idiocy? He did not think it was idiocy; that was why he kept silent about it. He knew well why Ali-hodja had not wanted to see me. I no longer existed for Ali-hodja or the kasaba. There’s no trace of him, he had said. He’s no more, Sheikh-Nuruddin is no more, his human dignity is dead. What’s left is only the empty shell of a man who used to be.

If he did not think this way, why could he not joke about that as well, as he did about everything else?

Or he wanted to spare my sensitivity. If that were true, I had still come out ahead, although it hurt.

While I tried to free myself from the tight ring around my heart, missing what the two of them said, I saw a man pass by in the street, and because of him all my thoughts changed abruptly. I forgot Ali-hodja’s scorn and Hassan’s unexplained silence about everything. Is-haq the fugitive had passed by the shop! Everything was his, the gait, the confident bearing, the even steps, the fearlessness!

I said something, to excuse myself for leaving so suddenly, and ran out into the street.

But Is-haq was not there. I turned into another street, looking for him. How had he gotten into the kasaba? In broad daylight, undisguised, unhurried—how did he dare, what did he want?

Before my eyes I saw his face, as I had seen it from the darkness of the shop, dazzling and clear, as it had been that night in the tekke garden. It was he, I was more and more certain. I recognized every feature, now, in hindsight: it was he, Is-haq. Without wondering why I needed him, or why it was important for me to see him, I started after him. It is a pity that people do not leave an odor behind, like skunks; it is a pity that our eyes cannot see through walls when our desires get out of hand. I wanted to call out his name, but he
had none. Why did you turn up here, Is-haq? I did not know whether it was good or bad, but it was inevitable; he had said: I’ll come one day, and so, he came. Today was that one day, and everything came to life in me again, the pain, the distress, as before. I thought it had died and begun to decay. I thought it had sunk deep within me, unreachable, but there, it had not. Is-haq, where are you? Are you an idea, are you the seed or the flower of my unrest? I had seen him that night, in the garden; I had seen him just before, in the street. He was not a phantom. But I could not catch up with him.

I returned to the shop, defeated.

Hassan gave me a look but asked nothing.

“I thought I saw someone I know.”

Fortunately, they could not see my confusion. They had certainly finished all of their business while I was looking for Is-haq, and were continuing their conversation—a different one, admittedly, in a different tone, with different words. I did not care; their friendship had become disagreeable to me. It seemed like immaturity. Or a pretty lie. What was happening to me was real; it was more serious, more important.

I shut out the world again, the path that led to people was overgrown in an instant. I thought of Ali-hodja, of Ishaq, of myself. I was upset and glum.

It did not concern me, but I heard their conversation again, without understanding it.

“No, I won’t,” Hassan said, refusing to do something. “I don’t have the time or desire to do it.”

“I thought you were courageous.”

“When have I ever said I’m courageous? It’s no use to egg me on. I don’t want to get involved in that. And you’d better not get involved, either.”