Death and the Dervish (Writings From An Unbound Europe) (48 page)

“It’s important,” I heard him wheeze. “He’s done something stupid; he or someone else, but he’ll also be guilty. Tell him to come, or tell him to release the man. So I can get some peace as well.”

“I don’t interfere in his affairs. They’re not my concern. Least of all now. And it’d be better if you didn’t, either.”

“Do you think I want to interfere? I don’t. And I can’t. I’m old, powerless, sick. How can I worry about others? But I must. It’s what everyone here expects from me.”

Was that Ali-aga’s voice, tearful, weak, dripping with selfpity? Were those his words? God almighty, will I never learn anything about people?!

“You don’t have to, you want to. You’ve grown accustomed to being listened to. You like it that way.”

“I don’t. I won’t anymore, I don’t have the strength for anything. I don’t even have the strength to admit it to anybody. Help me, tell him to release him, for me. So it won’t be said that I forgot my friend, though I did forget him. This small amount of breath left in me, it’s for you. And Hassan. How can I tell them that?”

“Very well, father. We’ll talk about it some more. We’re not on opposite ends of the world.”

“It’s urgent. Very urgent.”

“I’ll come tomorrow.”

“Come early, to tell me what he says. Night is good for talking.”

What was this? The first crack had appeared where I thought the rock was hardest. I felt scorn for his weakness, which he hid, and also shame, as if I had caught him doing something disgraceful.

I went back down to the entryway, so it would look as if I had just arrived.

She raised her hand to lower her veil, but changed her mind when she saw that it was me. I asked how her father was; she answered, briefly, and wanted to pass. I had to keep her; I was not so timid as I had once been.

“Just two words, if you’re not in a hurry.”

“I’m in a hurry.”

“This spring we began a certain conversation, which we should finish. My brother, of course, is dead, but I’m alive.”

“Let me pass.”

“I’m a friend of your father’s. A very good friend.”

“What do I care?”

“I’ll help you to get what you want, so your father won’t forget you on his deathbed. But you persuade the kadi to release Hadji-Sinanuddin. Otherwise, don’t hope for anything. I’m offering to make a deal with you. You have the most to gain.”

“
You’re
offering to make a deal with
me?
”

“Yes. And don’t dismiss what I’m saying too quickly.”

A shadow of hatred or scorn darted across the woman’s bright eyes. I had insulted her, but that was what I wanted. Now the kadi would not release Hadji-Sinanuddin, even if he had been intending to do so.

It was not easy for me to be rude, and her anger struck me like a whip. I would have been in dire need of God’s mercy had she deigned to be my enemy.

I entered Ali-aga’s room, thinking more of the lightning in that woman’s eyes than of her beauty. Where were her closed thoughts going, too hot to stay at rest? What would be the result of her scornful silence? She could have been a good wife and a good mother, but what was she since she was not?

“Did you send the letter?”

I looked at the old man absentmindedly, still blinded by the woman’s scorn.

“Did your daughter come by?”

“She comes every day. She’s worried because I’m eating so little. Did you talk to her?”

“Does she ever talk to anyone?”

“Well, I think so. Don’t you like her?”

“I pleaded with her on Hadji-Sinanuddin’s behalf. So that she’ll persuade the kadi to release him.”

“And what did she say?”

“Nothing.”

“She’s strange sometimes.”

“How are you feeling? You look fine.”

“I’m feeling so well that—God forgive me—soon I
might like for my friends to be thrown in prison every day.”

This voice was strong and confident. Had I not, moments before, heard a different one, frightened and tearful?

What kind of game was he playing? With whom? With himself, for others? Or with others, for himself? And what was he? A bundle of habits? A fictitious image? An extended memory? Was what others expected of him more important than his own powerlessness? And both of these things existed within him, and could be decisive. His old pride drove him to get involved, but everything he was today resisted it. His deathbed weariness urged him to close his eyes, but he gave people the illusion of his past strength, its shadow. Does every man end that way, fighting with his former self?

What would prevail?

“The courier blackmailed me,” I said, sitting down by his feet. “He turned brazen when he saw there was no name on the letter.”

“Why didn’t you tell him to . . . I’m sorry. You should’ve paid him. He’d have softened up at once.”

“I got rather frightened. And that made me wonder whether it was right for me to burden you with this problem, and to persuade you to get involved.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His voice sounded impatient, almost insulted. “You can persuade a fool, or a silly child, but not me. The only thing you mentioned was the letter. I said we had to do more. Or has my memory completely failed me? And what have you burdened me with? I can’t get up, but fortunately, I can still speak. And no one can free me from my worries about a friend. That’s a question for my conscience.”

“It might be dangerous.”

“Nothing can be dangerous for me anymore. Or, if you will, everything is dangerous. Death is hiding behind the door, waiting. When I’m doing something, I don’t think about it; it doesn’t concern me. I’m alive.”

He spoke confidently and it sounded convincing. Like
what he had just been saying, a little before. Yet one of those two men must have been more like him, closer to his thoughts and desires.

But anyway, it did not matter. I would reassure him in what I needed, trusting him. I told him flatteringly:

“I’m glad to hear you say that. I value courageous and noble people.”

“And you should. If you find them. However, old men are neither courageous nor noble. And I’m not, either. Maybe I’m only cunning, and that comes with longevity. What can they do to me, like this? Will they imprison or kill a man who already has one foot in the grave? People are stupid; they’ll save a useless old man, but destroy a youth who has his whole life before him. Therefore I’ll take everything upon myself, all of it. I’ll take this advantage; it occurs only once in your lifetime.”

He laughed and coughed.

“Spiteful, isn’t it? To be a hero without any danger. Spiteful and funny.”

I did not know whether it was funny, nor was I sure that they would spare him. But let it be the way you want, old man. I’d be sorry if you perished, but I’d be more sorry if I failed. Neither of us is important anymore.

Surprisingly, until then he had not asked me, even once, why Hadji-Sinanuddin had been imprisoned, or if he was guilty. I told him that I had heard that he was somehow involved in the escape of the Posavina rebels, and that his arrest was the beginning of a campaign against distinguished men, due to their increasing refusal to submit to the dictates of the emperor and the vali. The occasion for this was the unpaid war tax. Knocking out their teeth was supposed to inspire fear, after the rebellions in the Posavina and Krayina, so that their misdeeds would not serve as an example to anyone. And that was how it should be. And for this very reason, to avoid a greater disturbance, to avoid something that no reasonable man would desire, those who spread discord
and discontent should be removed, those who practice oppression, under the guise of law, and whose misbehavior might lead others to shameful and bloody deeds. If Hadji-Sinanuddin’s misfortune would help God to remove them from our midst, even that misfortune would not be in vain, and neither would our worries.

He dismissed Hadji-Sinanuddin’s apparent wrongdoing with a wave of his hand, either because he did not think it serious, or because he did not believe it. As for the campaign, he said that it was always a matter of human fear, which was quite understandable, because things never get better, only worse. Or it only seems so to us because what is is always more difficult than what was, and a paid debt is always easier than one hanging over your head. He did not believe that anyone had really heard about the campaign, since if they really were going to do that, they would never tell about it. And if they’d really told about it, they weren’t serious;they were only trying to frighten people. As for the authorities, they’re always hard to put up with, and they’ll always try to force us to do what we don’t want to. What would happen if they disappeared? In his lifetime more kadis, musellims, kaimakams had been removed, deposed, or killed, than he could count. Had anything changed because of that? Not much. But people still believed that things would be different and wished for change. They dreamed of rulers who were good, but who was that? As far as he was concerned, he dreamed of bribable ones, he liked them the most because there was a way to them. Worst are the honest ones, who need nothing, who have no human weaknesses, and know only about some higher law, which is almost incomprehensible to ordinary men. No one can do more evil than they can. They create enough hatred to last for a hundred years. And these of ours? They’re nothing. Petty in everything. They can’t be evil or good. They’re as moderately cruel as they are considerate. They hate the kasaba,
but they’re afraid of it. Therefore they’re resentful and take revenge whenever they can. Or whenever they think they can. They’d be terrible if they dared to do what they want, but they’re always afraid of some mistake. And they can make a mistake either if they ease up or go to extremes. They’re best softened with threats, if those are spoken quietly and not revealed completely, since they can’t rely on their own grit. They always depend on chance and someone higher up, and they can always end up as change in someone’s transactions. All in all, nothing but wretches, and therefore something very dangerous. All he wants is to help Hadji-Sinanuddin, and he couldn’t care less whether they stay in power or go to hell.

His opinion was somewhat different from mine, but it would not make any sense to argue with him, if he was not in my way.

He requested that Mullah-Yusuf spend the night at his place. None of his servants was around.

The youth lowered his eyes, to hide his joy, when I told him to stay there.

A hazy evening, heavy and motionless clouds, silence above the kasaba.

People had been expecting something all day long, straining their ears, their eyes wide open, too detached for ordinary matters and conversation. It was too quiet after the morning’s excitement; too dull, as if hostile armies had withdrawn to their camps, awaiting night or morning, for a battle to begin. And that very silence, that motionlessness, the empty battlefield, without a cry, or a curse, or a threat, created a tension that grew ever greater. The end would come when everything burst. They looked at each other, they looked at the passersby, they looked down the street, they waited. Anything could be a sign. I also looked down the street. It had not yet begun. But I waited; we waited; something
was going to happen, soon. The foundations of the old kasaba were breaking; the wind moaned in the heights, barely audibly; the whole world was creaking.

Birds cried and darted across the black sky; the people were silent. My blood ached from waiting.

15

      
The truth is mine. I speak the truth.
¹

IT TOOK ME A LONG TIME TO FALL ASLEEP THAT NIGHT. When I did I kept dozing off and waking up in short intervals, continuing the same thought both asleep and awake. I was unable to separate those two states, and was convinced that I had not slept a wink and that I would sit up all night like that, half-dressed, so events would not catch me unprepared.

I was not able to think coherently, maybe because of my fitful sleeping, which broke my train of thought and disturbed its order, or because of the impatience that drove me to get to what was most important as quickly as possible. So I continually imagined encounters with those three men, mostly with the kadi. Slowly, without haste, I followed their every expression of surprise, fear, and hope, prolonging that moment as much as I could, that beautiful moment when everything would be torn asunder: the root had just been pulled up, but no one was fully aware of it, they did not yet feel lost or humbled, they were still living according to their old habits. Their fear—that was what was beautiful. Not any reconciliation with their fall. Fear, uncertainty, a ray of hope, restlessness in their eyes. Or even better (I returned them to the game, and made them begin again): everything was over for them, but they did not know it, they could not
believe it and stood upright, arrogant and confident, as they had then, as they always had until now. I would not have liked to see them destroyed; my hatred waned whenever my thoughts—even involuntarily, without obeying me—went farther than I wanted. And for hatred, as well as for love, one needs living people.

I was roused from my sleep by the heavy sound of shooting somewhere in the kasaba. Had it begun?

The dark night still dragged on. I lit a candle and looked at the clock on the wall. It would soon be dawn.

I got dressed and went out into the corridor.

Hafiz-Muhammed was standing in his doorway, with a short fur coat over his shoulders. Did he never sleep?

“I heard you getting dressed. Where are you going so early?”

“What’s all the shooting?”

“This isn’t the first time they’ve started shooting. Why do you care?”

“Isn’t it because of Hadji-Sinanuddin?”

“Why would they start shooting on account of Hadji- Sinanuddin?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t go out. We’ll find out in the morning.”

“I’ll be right back.”

“It’s dark, dangerous; there are all sorts of people about. Merciful God, has his misfortune hit you so hard? Must you also perish because of your kindness?”

“I have to see.”

“What are you expecting?”

I walked, keeping close to the fences and walls. When some soldiers ran by I hid in the darkness. Since I had gotten out of prison I had been suffering from an irrational fear of quick footsteps and excited running; I was afraid of anything that happened suddenly. Now I wanted to know what was happening. I wanted to go there, to see it, to take part.