Death and the Dervish (Writings From An Unbound Europe) (5 page)

The woman who had sent me adrift brought me back to herself.

“Are you listening?”

“I am.”

Had she noticed that I had become preoccupied?

“I’m listening, go on.”

I actually listened now; that was safer. And as I did, I heard with surprise that she was not telling an utterly ordinary story. It was not truly unusual either, but it was not boring, and listening to her was worth more than watching her. My hope suddenly lifted its head.

She told me what I already knew about her brother’s strange lot: that he had finished school in Constantinople
⁶
and attained a position that corresponded both to his knowledge and the reputation of the family (she overemphasized the former and underemphasized the latter, as his position was not high, but in this way she balanced everything out). They were all proud of him, especially his father. But then something unexpected happened, that no one could
explain, that no one knew the real reason for, not even Hassan: he changed completely. As if that wonderful young man had never lived, she said. And everyone wondered in utter bewilderment where his knowledge had gone, which even the
muderrises*
had recognized, how so many years had disappeared without a trace, where the origin of the evil lay. He left his post without telling anyone, returned home, married inappropriately, and began to associate with common people. He took to drinking and squandering his fortune, doing unheard-of things around the kasaba with his companions and with tavern-dancers (her voice lowered, but did not break), and at other places that should not even be mentioned. Then he became a caravan driver (there was disgust, almost horror in her voice): he brought cattle down from Wallachia
⁷
and Serbia and drove them to Dalmatia and Austria, working for other merchants as a middleman, as their servant. He lost a great deal, ruined himself. His estate was dwindling; he had sold half of what his mother had left him. Hassan’s father went out of his mind, and even fell ill because of him. He implored him and threatened him, all to no avail: no one could turn him from his path. Now his father would not hear of him, he would not even allow Hassan’s name to be mentioned in his presence, as if his son did not exist, as if he had died. She had cried her eyes out in front of her father, but nothing helped. Then she said something that aroused my attention; the zurna began to play an interesting tune. Her father had decided to deprive him of his inheritance, to compose a will before respected people and publicly disown him. And to keep this from happening, to keep things from getting worse than they already were, she was asking me to talk with Hassan so that he would renounce his inheritance himself, voluntarily. In that way his father’s curse would fall from him, and the shame of the family would be lessened. She added that her husband, Aini-effendi, knew nothing about any of this, he did not want to come between father and son. Everything she was doing to
lessen the misfortune was of her own account, and we could help her greatly, Hafiz-Muhammed and I, because she had heard that Hassan visited our tekke, and she was glad that at least sometimes he talked with good and sensible people.

I was thankful that she had thus revealed herself before me. She had indeed showed that she did not respect me very much, because she had not hesitated to say any of this. But it did not matter; more important things were at stake.

May Hafiz-Muhammed’s alleged illness be blessed, I thought. It had created an opportunity for me that I could not have even dreamed of. Not even her dying father could have had more of a reason to help me. It was clear to me that Aini-effendi knew about all of this; maybe he had even thought up the words that his wife now spoke with such satisfaction. He would have known that it was not easy to deprive one’s only son of his inheritance without sound reasons. And if he had been sure of himself, if they had been sure of themselves, they would not have worried much about the family reputation or have called for our help. Well, all right, I thought, watching her with the attention that I had owed her from the beginning, trying to keep the expression of my face from looking too cheerful: you and I are both in trouble, because of our brothers. You want to destroy yours, I want to save mine. These are our greatest desires, only mine is honorable, and yours filthy. But be that as it may, it doesn’t matter to me. I don’t know anything about you, although it seems I see clearly how much you can dominate your lifeless kadi, who respects your strength and your wealth because he has neither one nor the other. One humiliating night for him, one decisive demand by you could change my brother’s fate. We invest so little, yet gain so much.

I was almost ready to tell her openly: very well, we no longer have any reason to conceal ourselves. I’ll give you Hassan, you give me my brother. You don’t care about yours; I’d do much, much more for mine.

I said nothing, of course. She would have taken offense at my openness: they never like it in others.

I assented to her request and said that Hassan in fact came to our tekke, that he was a friend of Hafiz-Muhammed (which was true) and of mine (which was not true), and that we would try to persuade him to do what she wanted, because I was moved by her sisterly grief and her concern for the family reputation. I mentioned that if they were defamed, then we were all defamed, and so we had to help prevent blemishes from falling upon the best among us, to avert malicious sneers when misfortunes befall people of reputation. Moreover, I was bound by gratefulness to the benefactor of our tekke (I mentioned her father on purpose, since she, his own daughter, would not do it). I added that I thought that not only her intentions, but also her plans were good, because everything else would be uncertain: it was difficult to disinherit ones eldest heir without sound reasons.

“There are sound reasons.”

“I’m speaking about the courts. It’s true that Hassan trades cattle, but that’s not a dishonest profession. He does spend money, but money he’s earned. He didn’t sell half of his estate, but rather gave it to his former wife. It’s hard to see any reason for this, let alone a sound one.”

I felt secure, more secure than she. I had altered our relation within myself. We were not what we had been in the beginning, she an upper-class woman with beautiful eyes, and I a humble dervish, an eternal peasant. Now we were two equals discussing business. In this I was stronger than she. When I agreed with what she said, she watched me approvingly; this seemed completely reasonable to her. But when I said something that did not please her, the curves of her eyebrows began to twitch and her look sharpened. My resistance seemed awkward and spiteful to her.

“Father will undoubtedly disinherit him,” she said threateningly.

I worried little about whether Hassan’s father would disinherit him. And I was hardly disturbed by her anger. I wanted to shatter her confidence, to accomplish what really mattered to me.

“He may disinherit him,” I said calmly. “But your father is old and has been sick for a long time. Hassan might contest the will in court, and prove that your father was weak and feeble, that he wasn’t in his right mind when he made the decision, or that someone had persuaded him to do it.”

“Who could persuade him?”

“I’m speaking about a lawsuit. It doesn’t matter who. I’m afraid the verdict might fall in Hassan’s favor. Especially since the case wouldn’t be tried here, on account of Aini-effendi. And we shouldn’t forget that Hassan also has connections.”

She watched me in silence. Her veil had been lowered for a long time now, ever since the candles had been brought in and she had begun her ugly tale. On her beautiful face, made of moonlight, in the corners of her eyes the reflections of the candles glimmered like restless, quivering sparks. She did not quiver herself, but it seemed so to me. I felt somewhat malevolent. I knew that I had upset her; she had not believed that I would burden her scheme with so many obstacles, although she had certainly known about some of them.

She stared at me, as if trying to find the trace of a joke on my face, a lack of conviction, a possible dilemma. But she saw only certitude, and a regret that it was so. It seemed to me now that her anger was swelling, as if fed by an underground river, growing ever fiercer, since it was unable to offer any effective resistance. I deliberately waited for the swell to overcome her, but I prevented it from breaking out. I agreed to everything she wanted, but my well-founded objections remained.

“He needs to be persuaded so everything will pass without being brought before the courts.”

I thought that she would persist in her defiance, that she would deny any possibility of a lawsuit or change in her father’s decision, and that she would then enter into another conversation which I would suggest.

However, she abandoned her resistance immediately. She was in a hurry.

She revealed her doubts with a question: “Will he consent to it?”

“Sound and sensible reasons must be found, so he won’t get angry or offended. Stubbornness doesn’t work very well with him.”

“I hope you can find sound and sensible reasons.”

That was scorn or impatience. She had thought that everything would be easier.

And I had thought so as well.

“I’ll try,” I said.

I did not know if she had sensed any insecurity, hesitation, or doubt in my voice. I did not know. But my enthusiasm had indeed sagged.

“Don’t you believe he’ll consent?”

“I don’t know.”

If I had only endured a moment longer, if my love for my brother had been a little stronger than my moral considerations, everything might have turned out better. Or worse. But I might have saved my brother.

I did not give up so easily as it might have appeared. In a single moment I saw countless reasons both for and against her plan, both for accepting and rejecting it. The reasons were often the same, and during the short time that she waited, long enough only to catch one’s breath, a storm raged in me. I was making a decision about the lives of both me and my brother. I would give her guileless brother over to her; he would be taken in by the counsel of a friend. I would collect payment for my efforts and betrayal, which was not such a great betrayal, since they would do as they pleased even without me. And I could help them to make
everything seem more proper. Why should I have been ashamed of myself? Why should I reproach myself? I was trying to save my brother!

But I should have cried louder and more convincingly. I should have shouted down another voice that was warning me. I did not know what my brother had done. Nor did I know how guilty he was. I did not believe it was anything serious; he was too honest and young for graver misdeeds. Maybe they would release him soon. And even if they did not, even if I had been certain that they would not, could I agree to this dishonest scheme against a man who had never spoken an unkind word to me? It was not a matter of his fortune, I had none and had little respect for that of others. It was a matter of something else—of an injustice, a vile act, dishonesty, a flagrant violation of someone’s rights. I did not have a high opinion of her brother: he was superficial, impetuous, strange. But even if he had been worse than he was, how was I to justify myself if I helped this ruthless woman in her highway robbery?

What had I been saying to others for so many years? What would I say to myself after all of this? If he lived, my brother would constantly remind me of this ugly deed, which I would no longer be able to redeem. The only thing that I had was my conviction that I was honest. If I lost that as well, I would be ruined.

That was indeed what I thought. It might seem strange that I could waver between those two unequal things, that I could hesitate to commit this small betrayal in order to free my brother. But when one has learned to measure his actions by strict standards of conscience, fearing sin perhaps even more than death, then it does not seem so strange.

Aside from that, I knew, I was absolutely certain that if I only went to Hassan and told him to renounce his inheritance for my brother’s sake, he would do it immediately.

But I could not, I did not want to tell her anything before I talked to him.

She pressed me, dispelling my hesitation: “I wouldn’t forget the favor you’ve done me. It matters a great deal to me that no trouble arise concerning our family.”

How would she return the favor, almighty God!

Get up, Ahmed Nuruddin, get up and leave.

“I’ll let you know,” I said, thus making way for another meeting.

“When?”

“As soon as Hassan returns.”

“He’ll be back in a day or two.”

“Then in a day or two.”

We stood up at the same time.

Her lovely hand did not rise to cover her face: we were plotting together.

Something shameful had happened between us, and I was not sure that I had remained completely clean.

3

      
My God, they do not believe!
¹

ANXIETY WAS WAITING FOR ME PATIENTLY, AS IF I HAD LEFT IT in front of that house and picked it up again when I came out.

Only now it was more complex than before; it had become more intricate, oppressive, and vague. I had done nothing wrong, but my thoughts were assailed by memories of the dead silence, of the impenetrable darkness and strange, glimmering lights; of the ugly tension and the time I had spent anxiously waiting; of our shameful secrets and thoughts disguised by smiles. I felt as if I had missed something, as if I had made a mistake somewhere, although I did not know where, or how. I did not know. But I was not at peace. I could hardly bear this feeling of uneasiness, this anxiety whose source I could not determine. Maybe it was because I had not mentioned my brother, because I had not insisted that we talk about him. But I had done that on purpose, in order not to spoil my chances. Or was it because I had taken part in an shameful conversation and heard shameful intentions without opposing them, without protecting an innocent man? Only I had had my own reasons, which were more important than all of that, and it would not be right for me to reproach myself too much. For each of my actions I found an excuse, yet my distress remained.