Death and the Dervish (Writings From An Unbound Europe) (54 page)

When we showed him the report, he looked it over and
shook his head, expressing surprise that his friend would write it. He doesn’t know, of course, because they’ve never corresponded, so he can’t recognize the handwriting. But it’s possible to recognize someone’s thoughts, and that’s exactly what he doesn’t see here. But if it’s truly his, and from everything it seems it is, then the man has two souls, the latter of which he’s never showed him before. He laughed, reading the report, and said that he would be sorry he came out looking like a fool, if any harm could come from this letter. But fortunately, none can, since what’s written here could be written by anyone about anyone else’s land, and no one’s surprised by such things any more. It’s not his place to give us any advice, nor is it his habit, but he doesn’t think there’s any reason to stoke up a fire if there’s no need to, or to put it out when it’s already gone out on its own. Scandal and insult have been avoided, because scandal isn’t what’s done, and especially not what isn’t done, but rather what’s spread by word of mouth. All that’s left are a few thwarted intentions. So then there’s no insult here either, unless we’re looking for it. And thus, some good can even be extracted from all of this. No, he certainly doesn’t condone such behavior—although for a long time he’s not thought that people are angels—but he doesn’t want to say anything bad about his friend, because that wouldn’t be nice. Nor does he want to excuse him, because that’s no longer any use to anyone. He can only speak for himself and, although he’s not guilty, he’s ready to express his regret, both to us and to the vizier, that he was involved in such an idiotic affair, which has caused us more worry than it’s worth.

I listened to him with interest. I doubted that he did not know the reason for the merchant’s flight, but he gave the impression that his conscience was clear, and it must have been, because neither the letter nor the vizier’s reputation were of any concern to him. He had a calm and convincing answer to everything. Maybe I alone detected a scornful tone in what he said, because I followed his every word
attentively, glad that he was successfully casting suspicion away from himself. Once again I realized how much I cared about him, and how much I would be hurt if he got into trouble. I would not easily have let anyone take out his revenge on him, but I was glad that he acquitted himself. I preferred that to what I might have been forced to do.

I did not worry much about my standing with the vizier: he needed me.

On Friday, after the noon prayer, Mullah-Yusuf informed me that the vali’s defterdar was waiting for me in the courthouse. What the hell had brought him here in such bad weather?

I stopped by the musellim’s office. He had gone home a little earlier, he had come down with a fever, they told me. I knew which fever that was, it saved him from anything unpleasant, but knowing this did not make me feel any better.

The defterdar met me politely, giving me the vali’s greetings and saying that he would like to take care of the reason for his visit immediately, and that he hoped it would not take long. He was tired from the long journey on horseback, and he would like to bathe and get some rest as soon as possible.

“Is the matter really so urgent?”

“One might say it is. Today I still have to report to the vali about what’s been done.”

He said everything at once, without hesitation, stressing at the start that the vali had been angered and offended by the letter (this was intended for me, to warn me about the gravity of the entire affair), and that he was disappointed with me as well, because I had allowed the Dubrovnik merchant to escape when I could have prevented it. (Those words had left here long ago and were evidently returning to their birthplace!) He had written the Dubrovnik senate and requested that the guilty party be punished for lies and the insult he had inflicted on him, thus also insulting the land that he, according to the emperor’s mercy, governed. If the
guilty party were not appropriately punished, and if he were not informed of it, along with the due apology, he would be forced to forbid all trade and contacts with Dubrovnik, because that would mean there was neither friendship nor desire on their part to maintain good relations, which were beneficial to both of us, but more to them than to us. He was likewise sorry that our hospitality, which we do not refuse anyone with good intentions, was repaid with loathsome fabrications about both himself and the most reputable people in the province, which showed how little love for the truth and how much hatred there was in the heart of the aforementioned merchant. Therefore, if they acted as was proper, and if our relations remained healthy, which he desired with all of his heart, and which was certainly the desire of the honorable senate, they could send a real friend, both ours and theirs—and there were certainly such men around, since our relations had not begun yesterday—a man of polish, who would respect the customs and rulers of the land receiving him, and who would neither spit on our welcome nor behave in an undignified manner, to both his own disgrace and the disgrace of the republic that sent him, nor associate with the worst kinds of people, who are found everywhere, and also here, who certainly did not have good intentions for themselves or the land that bore them, and whose services the aforementioned merchant had bought in a shameful manner, which was in any case known to the honorable senate.

“You must know who the vizier is thinking of.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

He was plump, soft, round, wrapped in a broad silk garment. He resembled an old woman—like everyone who for years hangs around those in power.

“The vali wants him arrested.”

“Why arrested? He acquitted himself. He’s not guilty.”

“You see, you figured out who I’m talking about.”

Yes, I figured it out, I knew everything as soon as I heard you’d arrived. I knew you’d want his head, but I won’t let you have it. I’d give you anyone else, but you can’t have him.

I told the defterdar that the honorable vizier’s wish had always been my command. Had I not done everything he asked of me? But now I begged him to give up his idea, for the sake of the vizier’s reputation and justice. Hassan was loved and valued by everyone, and they would not be happy if we arrested him, especially since people knew that he was not guilty. If the vali was not informed about this, I would go to explain everything to him and to ask him for mercy.

“He’s informed about everything.”

“Then why is he demanding this?”

“Isn’t the Dubrovnik merchant guilty? Then Hassan is as well. Maybe even more. We can expect a foreigner to be an enemy of this land, but not one of our own. It’s unnatural.”

I wish I would have been bold enough to ask: Are the vizier and this land one and the same? But in conversations with men of power one must swallow all reasonable arguments and accept their way of thinking, which means that one is already defeated.

I maintained that Hassan was not an enemy and that he was not guilty, but it was no use. The defterdar dismissed it all with a wave of his hand, saying that we had believed his impudent story blindly.

“Didn’t he maintain that the Dubrovnik merchant couldn’t get fresh horses at the post station? But they didn’t even go there.”

“Who said that? The musellim?”

“It doesn’t matter who said it. It’s true; we checked it out. And not only that, there are other lies in his story. Have you talked with the man who apparently brought his friend the letter from Dubrovnik? No, you haven’t. Hassan lied, and he’s guilty, and therefore an arrest is in order. And as to why the vali wishes for you to do it, that’s so it won’t be said that he commits violence, because it’s not violence, and he
doesn’t want to meddle in your affairs. Everyone must take care of his own affairs, each according to his conscience.”

“According to which conscience? Hassan is my best friend, the only one I have.”

“So much the better. Everyone will see that it’s not a matter of revenge, but justice.”

“I beg you and the vizier to spare me in this case. If I agreed, I’d be doing something terrible.”

“You’d be doing something smart. Because the vali wonders how it is that they could find out about everything so quickly.”

And so, with his limp hands he began tightening a stiff noose around my neck.

“Do you mean to say the vali suspects me?”

“I mean to say it would be best for a judge if he didn’t have friends. Ever. Not a single one. Because people make mistakes.”

“And if he does have one?”

“Then he has to choose: either his friend or justice.”

“I don’t want to sin against either my friend or justice. He’s not guilty. I can’t do this.”

“That’s your business. The vizier isn’t forcing you to do anything. Only . . .”

I knew that
only.
It flew around me like a black bird, surrounded me like a ring of spears pointed at me. I knew that, but I told myself resolutely: I won’t let you have my friend. This was a courage that brought me no relief. The shadow around me turned blacker still.

“Only,” he said, shivering, rubbing his fat hands to warm them, “you probably know how many men there are who don’t like you, and how many complaints have been sent to Constantinople, all of which demand your head. The vizier has kept most of them. He’s your defense; without his protection, the hatred harbored against you by other men would’ve destroyed you long ago. If you don’t know that, you’re a fool. And if you do know, how can you be such an
ingrate? And why did the vizier protect you? Because you have pretty eyes? No. Because he thought he could rely on you. But if he sees he can’t, why should he protect you any more? Authority isn’t made of friendships, but alliances. And by the way, it’s strange that you’re severe with everyone, but gentle only with the vali’s enemies. And the vali considers the friends of his enemies to be his enemies as well. If the vali and the land have been insulted, and you don’t want to defend them, then you too have gone over to the other side.”

“Read this,” he said and handed me a piece of paper.

Barely making out the words and barely understanding their meaning, I read a letter written by the deputy of the Constantinople mullah, in which he asked the vali why he so stubbornly defended the Kadi Ahmed Nuruddin, who had incited the rebellion at the bazaar and, out of personal hatred, brought about the death of the former kadi, an honorable alim and judge, which had been proved by the charges of his widow and the testimony of witnesses. And other charges had been made by the most respected men, embittered by Ahmed Nuruddin’s self-will and desire to seize all power, whereby he had sinned against the
sharia*
and against the high imperial wish that authority, which is given to the
Padishah*
by God and which he transfers to his servants, should nowhere be in the hands of a single man, because that is the path to oppression and injustice. But if none of that was true, and if the vali had a different opinion and other reasons, he should contact the mullah’s deputy, so that he would know how to act accordingly.

The letter stunned me.

I had known about intrigues and complaints, but I was seeing proof of them for the first time. It was as if an arrow had flown past, barely missing me. I was afraid.

“What do you have to say?”

What could I have said? I was silent. Not out of defiance.

“Will you write the order?”

O, Allah, help me, I can neither write it nor refuse to write it. It would be best to die.

“Will you write it?”

What are they trying to make me do? To condemn a friend, the only being that I have kept for my unsatisfied and hungry love. What will I be then? A worthless man who’s ashamed of his own self, the loneliest wretch in the world. He’s preserved everything that’s human in me. I’ll kill myself if I hand him over. Don’t make me do this; it’s too cruel.

I told that merciless man: “Don’t make me do this. It’s too cruel.”

“You won’t write it?”

“No. I can’t do it.”

“However you want. You’ve read the letter.”

“I have, and I know what to expect. But understand me, good man! Would you ask me to kill my father or brother? And he’s more than either of them to me. He means more to me than my own self. I hold on to him like an anchor. Without that man the world would be a dark cavern for me. He’s all that I have, and I won’t give him up. Do whatever you want with me, I won’t betray him, because I don’t want to extinguish the last ray of light within me. I’ll die, but I won’t give him up.”

“That’s pretty,” the defterdar mocked me, “but not smart.”

“If you had a friend, you’d know that it’s both pretty and smart.”

Unfortunately, I did not say that or anything similar. Later I thought how it might have been honorable if I had.

But everything happened completely differently.

“Will you write the order?” the defterdar asked.

“I have to,” I said, looking at the letter, looking at the threat in front of me.

“You don’t have to. Do what your conscience tells you.”

Ugh, leave my conscience alone! I’ll do what my fear tells me to do, what my terror tells me to do, I’ll bid farewell to
my nice ideas about myself. I’ll be what I must: scum. May shame fall over them, they’ve made me become something that’s always disgusted me.

But at the time I did not even think that. I felt bad, I felt that something terrible was happening, so inhuman it was simply inconceivable. Only that, too, was suppressed, obscured by a fear that overcame me, like a daze, and a wild gurgling in my blood that stifled me with agitated heat. I wanted to go outside, to get a breath of fresh air, to escape the black haze, but I knew that everything had to be resolved immediately, at that moment, and that then I would rid myself of all of it. I would climb a hill, the highest crest, and would stay until evening, alone. I would not think, I would breathe. Breathe.

“Your hands are shaking,” the defterdar said in surprise. “Are you really so sorry?”

I felt sick to my stomach, I wanted to throw up.

“If you’re so sorry, why did you sign?”

I wanted to reply to that mockery, to say something, I did not know what, but I kept silent, with my head lowered, for a long time, until I caught myself, and began to ask, stuttering: