Death and the Dervish (Writings From An Unbound Europe) (55 page)

“I can’t stay here any longer. I need to go somewhere, anywhere. Only far away.”

“Why?”

“Because of people. Because of everything.”

“You’re absolutely worthless!” said the defterdar calmly, with profound contempt, although I did not know and was unable to wonder why he despised me. It did not even hurt; I just kept repeating those ugly words to myself like a prayer, without understanding their real meaning. The only thing living inside me was a feeling of utter peril, as before a hunt. Everything had closed around me; there was no way out. But it was not as if it did not matter: I was afraid.

“Who’ll go to get Hassan?”

“Piri-Voivode.”

“Let him take him to the fortress.”

I went out into the corridor and ran into Mullah-Yusuf. He was returning to his room from somewhere.

When he looked at me, his eyes froze, only for a moment, for a single moment, and it hit me: he had been listening to our conversation. And he knew. If he left, he would inform Hassan. It was he who had told him about the merchant. How had it not occurred to me?!

“Don’t go anywhere, I’ll need you soon.”

He bowed his head and went into his room.

We waited, silently.

The defterdar dozed on the divan, but opened his eyes at every noise, raising his heavy eyelids quickly.

When Piri-Voivode returned, I knew that it was all over. I did not dare to ask the defterdar what would happen to Hassan. I no longer had the right to do that, nor did I have the strength for such hypocrisy.

I was left alone. Where could I go, anyway?

I did not hear when Mullah-Yusuf came into my room; his steps were silent. He stood by the door and watched me calmly. I saw for the first time that he was not uneasy before me. Because now we were equals.

He was the only one I had left. I hated him, found him repulsive, and feared him, but still, at that moment I wanted him to come to me, for us to be silent together. Or for him to tell me something, or I him, anything. For him to place his hand on my knee, at least. To look at me differently, not the way he was. Even to reproach me. But no, he had no right to that. Even at the very thought of it I felt resistance, even rage, and I knew I would accept either a tender word, or nothing. I was on the verge of becoming a broken man or a beast.

“You said you’d need me.”

“I don’t anymore.”

“May I go?”

“Do you know what’s happened?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not to blame. They made me, they threatened me.”

He was silent.

“I had no choice. They put a knife to my throat.”

He kept silent, completely hostile, not allowing me to approach him.

“Why don’t you say something? Do you want to show your condemnation? You have no right to that. Not you.”

“It would be good if you left the kasaba, Sheikh-Ahmed. It’s terrible when people shun you. I know very well.”

No, he should not have talked like that to me. It was worse than a reproach; it was cool advice from afar, scornful exultation. But still, it was as if my heavy heart expected something, anything, be it comfort or insult, that would bring it back to life. Maybe insult was even better; comfort would have completely exhausted me.

“You’re absolutely worthless,” I said, choking as I repeated the words that were hurting me so much. “It was precisely because you know so well that I thought we’d speak differently. You’re not very clever; you chose a bad time for your revenge. No, people won’t shun me. Maybe they’ll watch me with fear, but they won’t scorn me. And you won’t, either, you can be sure of that. They forced me to sacrifice my friend; why would I care about anyone else?!”

“That won’t make it any easier for you, Sheikh-Ahmed.”

“Maybe it won’t. But it won’t be easier for anyone else, either. I’ll remember that you’re also to blame for his suffering.”

“If scolding me will cause the burden to fall from your heart, just go ahead.”

“If the merchant hadn’t escaped, Hassan would now be sitting peacefully at home. And it wasn’t a fortune-teller who told the merchant what was going to happen to him.”

“He knew the letter had been taken. Did he really need anything else?”

“You’re the one who knows that.”

“Are you asking or accusing me? It seems it’s really hardest for those who stay here.”

“You didn’t stay. You were kept here. And now get out!”

He left without turning around.

It was no use. Misfortunes come like jackdaws, in flocks.

The next day we slept through the morning prayer, both the defterdar and I. The defterdar did so because of his long journey and a job well done; I because of a sleepless night and sleep that overcame me just before dawn. But I was the first one to hear the terrible news, and that was proper, since it concerned me more than anyone else. And it was proper that I heard it from Piri-Voivode; it was revolting, as he was himself.

At first I did not understand what he was telling me, it was so unlikely and unexpected. Later it seemed just as unlikely, but I understood.

“We carried out your order,” that hateful man said. “The dizdar was a little surprised, but I told him it was none of his business. It’s his place to obey, just as it is mine.”

“Which order?”

“Your order. About Hassan.”

“What are you talking about? About what happened yesterday?”

“No. About what happened last night.”

“What happened last night?”

“We gave Hassan over to the guards.”

“Which guards?”

“I don’t know. Guards. To take him to Travnik.”

“Did the defterdar give you the order?”

“No. You did.”

“Wait a minute. If you’re drunk, you should go sleep it off. If you’re not. . .”

“I never drink, Kadi-effendi. I’m not drunk, and I don’t need any sleep.”

“If only you were, it would be better for both of us. Did you actually see that the order was from me? Who brought it?”

“Of course I did! It was written by your hand, stamped with your seal. Mullah-Yusuf brought it.”

Then I sat down—my legs could no longer hold me up—and listened to a pretty tale of others’ impudence and my misfortune.

Sometime after midnight Mullah-Yusuf had awakened him and showed him my order to the dizdar of the fortress, to hand over the prisoner Hassan to the guards in the presence of Piri-Voivode; accompanied by Mullah-Yusuf, they would take him to Travnik. It was also written in the order that the aforementioned Hassan’s hands should not be untied, and that he should be taken out of the kasaba before dawn. The guards remained on horseback at the fortress gates; the two of them went to wake up the dizdar and handed him my order. The dizdar grumbled, complaining that if he had been told of it earlier, he wouldn’t have sent the prisoner to the lower dungeons. This way everybody would have to wait a little, and he would miss a night’s sleep—he didn’t know when it was night and when it was day anymore. But Piri-Voivode told him what he mentioned a little before, that it’s their place to obey, and then Mullah-Yusuf also started complaining that this was our work and not his, and there, he even had to do things he didn’t want to, since it was important, and the vali wanted it done and didn’t want anyone to hear of Hassan’s departure; people here are crazy, as we’d recently seen, and it’d be better if everything were done quietly and unnoticed. He also added that he’d asked me to send Piri-Voivode with Hassan and the guards, since he wasn’t skilled at riding; he’d get sores before they reached Travnik, but I’d said that I couldn’t give up Piri-Voivode at all, I needed him here, he’s like my right hand, for which Piri-Voivode is very grateful. (Never say you’ve met the most stupid man in the world; it can always happen that someone else will surpass him!) When they brought Hassan, whose hands were bound, he requested that they untie him, asked where they were taking him, and
called them cowardly night-owls, complaining that they’d woken him from the sweetest sleep. But when Mullah-Yusuf calmly explained that they were only acting according to orders, he asked him when he would finally grow up and begin to think with his own head and not according to orders; it’s about time, he’s surely of age. Or is it that he’s planning to take after Piri-Voivode? Hassan didn’t recommend this at all, because Yusuf would never reach such perfection, and he could only become a smaller Piri-Voivode. Piri-Voivode did not understand that, but he thought it was some kind of insult. After that Hassan thanked the dizdar for the comfortable lodging and the complete silence with which he had been surrounded; he’d liked it so much that, out of gratitude, he wished the dizdar the same. Piri-Voivode cut off that chatter and ordered them to move out. “You’re right,” Hassan said, “you’ve got so much work, it’d be a pity to lose any time.” When he saw the guards he asked: “What do I have to do, agas and effendis, to leave you nice memories of myself? Will I ride or trail behind you on foot?”

“Stop your babbling!” a stout guard responded, raised him onto a horse, and also tied his legs with a rope. “Greetings to my friend the kadi,” he shouted back as they started out.

“And they left at a trot.”

“How do you know?”

“Now it doesn’t matter what I know. And it seems it’s not yet clear to you.”

“What should be clear to me?”

“That they escaped. And that you helped them.”

“But I saw your order.”

“I didn’t give any order. Mullah-Yusuf wrote it.”

“And the guards? They even tied him up.”

“They probably untied him in the first street they turned into. They were certainly his men.”

“I don’t know whether they were his men or not, but I do know the handwriting was yours. And your seal. I’ve received
more than one order from you. I know your every letter. No one else could’ve written that.”

“I’m telling you, you fool, that I didn’t know. I’ve just heard everything from you.”

“Oh no, that’s not true. You knew everything. You planned it out. You wrote the order. For your friend. Only why did you have to ruin
me?
Why me? Couldn’t you find someone else? I’ve been serving honorably and honestly for twenty years, and now I’m your sacrificial lamb. Mullah-Yusuf will also confirm that.”

“Mullah-Yusuf won’t ever come back.”

“So you see, you know!”

It was useless to say anything, as far as he was concerned I was the only culprit.

The defterdar came in, wiping his fat face with a silk kerchief, red from excitement, but he spoke in a soft and seemingly calm voice.

“What’s this, dervish, have you begun to mock us openly? Well, that’s fine. You’ve made your move; now it’s someone else’s turn to make theirs. But tell me, what were you counting on? Or doesn’t it matter to you?”

“I didn’t do anything. I’m as surprised as you are.”

“Then what’s this? Your order, and your seal.”

“That was written by my clerk, Mullah-Yusuf.”

“Tell me about it! Why would your clerk do that? Is he related to that Hassan? Or a friend, like you?”

“I don’t know.”

“He wasn’t his friend,” Piri-Voivode cut in. “Mullah-Yusuf was the kadi’s man. He obeyed him in everything.”

“You’re not exactly smart, Ahmed Nuruddin. Whom were you trying to fool with this bold game?”

“If I’d put my name on that order, then I’d really be a fool. Or I wouldn’t be here. Isn’t that clear to you?”

“You thought that we’re a bunch of fools and that we’d believe your little fairy tale.”

“I’ll swear on the Koran.”

“I’m sure you will. But the matter couldn’t be any clearer. Hassan is your friend—your best and only friend—you said so yourself. Yesterday I saw how much you care about him. And your clerk didn’t have any personal reason to free the prisoner. He was only obeying you, as your trusted man. As he’s also fled, you have to lay all the blame on him. All right: if such a case came before you, what would your verdict be?”

“If I knew the man, as you do me, I’d believe what he says.”

“What a convincing argument!”

“I told him, too: you wrote everything. For your friend.”

“You shut up! They had you right where they wanted you, like a sprig of basil in their vest pocket. You’re just the one to decorate all this mess. The vali will be overjoyed.”

Thus I found myself in a strange position. The more I tried to acquit myself, the less they believed my story, until it became unconvincing even to me. People now associated my name with friendship and loyalty; some with condemnation, others with approval. I would have taken one and refused the other, but it seems that they always go together. I accepted the more agreeable of the two. Hafiz-Muhammed almost kissed my hand; Ali-hodja called me a man who was not afraid to be one; the townspeople looked at me with respect; strangers brought gifts and left them with Mustafa, for me; and Hassan’s father, Ali-aga, sent me his particular gratitude through Hadji-Sinanuddin. I could not fend off this quiet admiration. And so I began to grow accustomed to the idea and to accept people’s grace silently, as a reward for the greatest betrayal that I had ever committed. Was friendship really so far beyond people’s suspicion? Or were they touched because it was so uncommon? It resembled a bad joke: I had done all sorts of things in life, both kind and beneficial, in order to gain people’s respect, but it had been brought to me by a shameful deed, which everyone considered noble. I knew I did not deserve any of their respect, but it suited me, and sometimes I was pained by the thought
that I should have in fact acted that way. Of course, nothing would have been any different, except within me. And still, it was better this way (not good, but better); people respected me as if I had done that deed, and I was sure I would clear myself of the charges, because I knew I had not done anything. But when a letter arrived for the mufti from Hassan and Mullah-Yusuf, from somewhere near the western border, in which they acquitted me, telling the whole story, people became firmly convinced that I was in league with them (because why would they defend me if I had done them wrong?). I viewed the letter as evidence I would use to convince everyone of my innocence. I hoped that I would now find enough witnesses on my behalf, if it came to interrogations.