Death and the Dervish (Writings From An Unbound Europe) (44 page)

He found a thousand things to criticize about them, and yet he loved them. Loved and scolded them. He began to drive caravans to the East and West, partly out of spite, to show his scorn for the positions he had held, angered by the reproach of distinguished people, and maybe most of all to take a rest from the kasaba and his countrymen, so he would
not begin to hate them, so he would long for them again, so he would see bad things in other countries as well. And it was this continual circling, with one point on the earth that gave meaning to that motion, which made it leaving and coming back and not just roaming around, which meant freedom to him, real or imagined, it was all the same in the end. “Without that point which you’re bound to, you wouldn’t like any other place, either; you wouldn’t have anywhere to go, because you’d be nowhere.”

This thought of Hassan’s, which was not entirely clear to me, this inevitability of attachment and the effort of liberation, this necessity of love for your own and the need to understand others—was this a grudging reconciliation with his small domain and the fulfillment of a desire for a larger one? Or a change of standards, so that his own would not become the only ones he knew? Or maybe it was a pitiful, limited escape, and a more pitiful return. (It was hard for me to understand that, because I have a different way of thinking: there is a world with the true faith, and one without it; other differences are less important, and I will find my place wherever I might be needed.)

In the spring, the year after Hassan’s return from Constantinople, Master Luke came to the kasaba with his wife, the woman from Dubrovnik, and everything started all over again, with new vigor and new restrictions.

The kasaba was not suitable for their love, either. Wherever they were, one of them was always an outsider. Even if they broke down the barriers of the Latin mahal and the Muslim kasaba, their own barriers remained. The woman certainly could no longer deceive herself with friendship. But except for glances and kind words, she did not allow herself anything more—or so it seemed, at least. At confession she probably even admitted penitently to her sinful thoughts of love for Hassan. And Hassan left on his trips, and came back with a desire that had grown during the long months of his absence. Was it this strange love that gave
meaning to his wanderings? Was it because of this that he felt doomed to be bound to one place and strove continuously to liberate himself?

This was only part of the truth about Hassan—what I had heard, learned, figured out, filled in, assembled into a vague whole. A somewhat wearisome story about a man with no real home or country, with no real love, with no real ideas, who had taken the uncertainty of his path in life as human fate, without complaining that it was so. Maybe there was a pleasant serenity and courage in such reconciliation, but that was failure.

This realization was invaluable, I saw that he was no stronger than I.

But I was charmed then, and I preferred to invent fairy tales about my great friend: Once upon a time there was a hero. With his knowledge and mind he overshadowed all the muderrises in Istanbul; if he had wanted he could have been the Constantinople mullah or the imperial vizier. But he loved his freedom and allowed his unrestrained tongue to speak his thoughts. He flattered no one, never told lies, never said what he did not know, never kept quiet about what he did, and was not afraid of great and powerful men. He liked philosophers, poets, loners, good men, and beautiful women. He left Constantinople with one such woman, went to Dubrovnik, and she followed him to the kasaba. He despised money, high positions, and power; he scorned danger and sought it in dark side roads and desolate mountains. If he ever decided to, he would do what he desired and people would hear about him far and wide.

It is really funny how by making small adjustments, skipping over details, omitting a cause, and slightly altering real events, defeats can be turned into victories, failure into heroism.

Only I must admit that Hassan had no part in the creation of this fairy tale. We needed it, but he did not. We always want to believe that there are people capable of
extraordinary feats. And in a sense he was like that; he was capable of them, at least according to the way he took everything that happened to him. He would compensate for his losses with a smile, and created his own inner riches. He believed that there were not only victories and defeats in life, that there was also breathing, and watching, and listening, and words, and love, and friendship, and ordinary life, which depends greatly on us and no one else.

Well, all right, it exists, I guess it does, in spite of everything, but it is fairly silly and seems like the thought of a child.

Three days before Hassan’s return, Ali-aga grew so restless that he could neither talk, nor play backgammon, nor eat, nor sleep.

“Has there been any word of highwaymen?” he asked constantly, sending me and Fazli to inquire with caravan drivers in inns, and we would bring good news, which he did not believe, or he would interpret it according to his worries:

“If they haven’t been attacking for some time, that’s even worse. They’ve grown bolder. No one pursues them, and they might attack the road at any time. Fazli!” he ordered his servant suddenly, without turning around as his daughter, the kadi’s wife, entered the room—this was more important to him. “Find ten armed men, get some horses, go out to meet him. Wait for him in Trebinye.”
⁷

“He’ll get angry, Aga.”

“Let him get angry! Find some reason. Go and buy figs, or whatever you want, just don’t come back without him. Here’s some money. Spare no expense, override the horses if you have to, but get there in time.”

“And what about you, Aga?”

“I’ll wait for you, that’s what I’ll do. And no more questions, get moving!”

“Do you have enough money?” his daughter asked. “Should I give you some?”

“No, I’ve got enough. Sit down.”

She sat down on the divan by her father’s feet.

I wanted to leave with the servant. The old man stopped me, as if he did not want to stay alone with his daughter. “Where are you going?”

“I was going to go to the tekke.”

“The tekke can do without you. When you fall ill like this, you’ll see that everything can do without us.”

“Only there are some things we can’t do without, even when we fall ill,” said the woman calmly, without a smile, reproachfully alluding to Hassan.

“Why are you surprised? Have I already died, and can I do without everything now?”

“No, you haven’t, God forbid, and I’m not surprised.”

I felt uncomfortable, because of her. I still remembered that conversation and our treacherous scheme, and I averted my gaze, so our eyes would not meet. She was calm, beautiful, and confident as she had been during that conversation, which I could not forget. As she was in memories that kept coming back against my will.

I looked away, but I still saw her. Something glowed within me, and I felt uneasy. She filled the whole room, changed it, and everything became strangely exciting. Sin had occurred between us; we both shared the secret, like adultery.

But how could she be so calm?

“Do you need anything?” she asked her father with concern. “Is it hard for you to be alone?”

“I’ve been alone for a long time. I’ve gotten used to it.”

“Couldn’t Hassan postpone his trip?”

“I sent him. On some business.”

She smiled at that lie.

“I’m glad he’s with friends. It’s easier when one has company. They’ll help him out, and he them. I found out only today that he’d left, and I hurried over to see how you are.”

“You could come even when Hassan isn’t away.”

“I didn’t get out of bed until a little while ago.”

“Are you sick?”

“No.”

“So why were you in bed?”

“Lord, do I have to say everything? It seems you’re going to be a grandfather.”

Her pearly teeth gleamed as she smiled: she did not show either unease or shame.

The old man propped himself up on one elbow and looked at her with surprise, a little disturbed, or so it seemed to me.

“You’re pregnant?”

“It seems so.”

“Are you, or does it just seem so?”

“I am.”

“Ah. Congratulations.”

She went up to him and kissed his hand. And she sat again at her place by the old man’s feet.

“I’d hope so, for you as well. You’d certainly like to have a grandson.”

The old man kept looking at her, as if he did not believe her. Or maybe he was too excited by the news.

He said in low voice, defeated: “I’d like to. Oh, how I’d like to.”

“And Hassan? Will he get married?”

“I don’t think so.”

“A pity. You’d like a child from your son more than from your daughter.”

She laughed, as if she had said that jokingly, although she never spoke a single word without reason.

“Daughter, I want a grandson. From you, or from him, it doesn’t matter. If he’s from my daughter then it’s more certain he’s from my blood; there can be no mistake. I’ve already begun to fear that I won’t live to see him.”

“I prayed that God wouldn’t leave me childless, and so, thank the Lord, it helped.”

Of course, prayers help a lot with that!

I listened to their conversation, stunned by her cold deliberateness, surprised by the ruthlessness hidden under the peace of her pretty face, delighted by her masculine confidence. There was nothing of Hassan or Ali-aga in her, and nothing of her in them. Had their father’s blood failed in her, or had it only given her what could not develop in either of them? Or was she taking revenge for an empty life, for a lack of love, for the demise of her girlish dreams? She had become cruel because of her disappointed expectations and was now calmly settling accounts with the whole world, without regret or remorse, mercilessly. How calmly she looked at me, as if I were not there, as if we had never had that shameful conversation in the old house. She either scorned me so much that she had forgotten everything, or she was no longer capable of shame. I had not forgiven her for my dead brother; I did not know how to deal with her within myself, she was the only one that I had not placed on either side, neither among my few friends nor among my hated enemies. This was perhaps because of the stubbornness with which she thought only of herself, because no one else mattered to her. She lived for herself, perhaps without even knowing that she was inconsiderate. Like water, like a cloud, like a storm. But perhaps also because of her beauty. I do not have a weakness for women, but her face was hard to forget.

When she left, the old man kept looking at the door for a long time. Then he turned to me.

“Pregnant,” he said thoughtfully. “Pregnant. What do you say to that?”

“What could I have to say?”

“What could you have to say? You could congratulate me! But don’t do it now, it’s too late. You didn’t do it; that means you don’t believe her. Wait, it’s not clear to me either. For so many years my esteemed son-in-law hasn’t been able to sow his seed, and his old age, for sure, hasn’t made him
any more virile. Hopes and prayers don’t help much here. Only if someone younger, God forgive me, had jumped our fence. I couldn’t care less, it’s all the same to me. I’d even prefer it that way, so the kadi’s rotten lineage won’t be continued, but it’d be hard to believe for anyone who knows her. She won’t submit to anyone; she’s too proud and there’d be too much danger in that. Only if she killed him afterward. And we haven’t heard that anyone’s been killed. So why did she come to tell me this? This can’t be hidden, we’ll know whether she is or isn’t. She was sure she’d make me happy. Was I happy?”

“I don’t know. You didn’t give her a gift.”

“So you see. I didn’t give her a gift, you didn’t congratulate me—something is wrong.”

“You must’ve gotten excited, and forgotten because of that.”

“Well, I did get excited. But if I’d really believed it I wouldn’t have forgotten. She worried me more than she made me happy. I don’t understand.”

“Why did she worry you?”

“She wants something, but I don’t know what.”

The next day, when I came from the afternoon prayer, he received me with an unusual liveliness and a forced cheerfulness. He offered me apples and grapes that his daughter had sent him. “She asked me what to prepare for me, and I sent her a gift, a string of gold coins.”

“It was good of you to do that.”

“Yesterday I was confused. And last night I didn’t sleep, I thought and thought. Why would she lie to me, what could she get from that? If it was because of my estate, she knows she’ll get some of it. I can’t take it with me. And maybe my wretched son-in-law, the kadi, flared up before his last gasp, like a candle, and did the only honest thing in his life. Or Allah granted it in some other way; I thank him no matter what it was. But I believe it’s true, I can’t think of any reason why she would lie.”

“Neither can I.”

“You can’t either? So, you see! Maybe I can still be tricked by parental love, but you can’t.”

He believed it because he wanted to, but Hassan would have enough trouble because of his father’s happiness or whatever it was he felt.

I intended to stay longer with Ali-aga. He was upset by the news from his daughter (which I did not believe, but I would not have told him that) and by Hassan’s approaching return. My heart would also miss a beat whenever I remembered it. But Mullah-Yusuf came and called me to the tekke: the
Miralay*
Osman-
bey*
was waiting for me. He was passing through with his troops, and would like to spend the night in the tekke.

The old man listened with interest.

“The famous Osman-bey? Do you know him?”

“I’ve only heard about him.”

“If there isn’t enough room there, and if the Miralay-bey agrees, invite him in my name to come here. It’s spacious, and there’s room for both him and his escort. It would be an honor to have him as a guest in our house.”

He offered his customary hospitality, but expressed himself in a solemn, old-fashioned way. He had a weakness for famous people. That was why he had been angry with Hassan for not becoming one.