Death and the Dervish (Writings From An Unbound Europe) (17 page)

I did not enter the grassy arena, where clumps of earth flew from the hooves of the untamed horse.

His stablehands approached the horse in turns; the older one was short and stocky, the younger one tall and slender. It was strange that they did not try to catch it together, they would have overcome it more easily. And it was just as strange that Hassan kept quiet, letting them wear themselves out.

The stallion, with its shiny, black coat, stout croup, sinewy legs and slender joints, stood in the middle of the yard, furious, its pink nostrils flaring, its eyes rolling, its firm skin twitching, rippling in minute waves.

The older hand approached the horse from the side, with his head tucked between his broad shoulders, his entire body tensed. He did not try to calm it with words or gestures; he accepted that they would be enemies. He jumped unexpectedly, trying to grab its neck and mane, confident of his own strength. The horse looked as if it would stand there calmly, but all of a sudden spun around with lightning speed. The man dodged, as if he had been waiting for that, and rushed in from the other side, grabbing it by its long mane. The horse stopped in surprise and then began to drag him around, trying to free itself, but his grip was firm and his strong hands would not let go of its slender neck. It appeared that he would subdue it; it seemed like a miracle that human strength could tame that knot of tensed muscles. Both of them stood motionless, as if they were exhausted, as if now inseparable, as if neither of them knew what to do next. And then, with an unexpected jerk, the animal threw him clear of itself.

The same thing happened with the younger one. He approached the horse more cautiously, more slyly, trying to deceive it with his open palm, even with his kind face and the meaningless smile hovering on it. But when he got within arm’s reach of the horse, it spun around and knocked him away with its body.

Hassan shouted an obscenity. The younger one laughed; the older one cursed the wild rogue.

“You’re the rogue,” Hassan told him.

I watched how he followed this struggle calmly, as he would a wrestling match or a duel. He did not care whether they caught the horse, although the blacksmith was waiting by the fence, as I was. He only wanted to see them try and fail; he did not give them any advice, or interrupt the
dangerous game. But I was more surprised by his unusual seriousness. He was even somber, discontent with something, and I did not believe that it was on account of the clumsiness of his stablehands. It was strange that he would let all of this go on for so long; it seemed like unnecessary cruelty, which might be common among them, but still appeared senseless to me. And such behavior also changed my impression of him. He was not the gentle and cheerful man that I knew; maybe he was like that only when he was with equals, but like others when dealing with his servants. And even when he saw me and greeted me tersely, he did not change. He did not end their torment, and they did not protest, either.

Fortunately the horse hit the older man in the thigh, and he paid it back with a harsh blow to the ribs.

“You’re as crazy as the horse! Get out, both of you!” Hassan yelled, and without a word the older hand limped clear of the horse.

He waited for them to reach the fence, and then started slowly toward the horse, moving around it, approaching its head, changing position carefully, without haste, without making sudden movements, without trying to trick it, right until the horse stopped, calmed by something, maybe by Hassan’s steady movements, maybe by his soft, indistinct words, which gurgled constantly, like water in a stream, maybe by his concentrated gaze or his lack of fear and anger, and it waited for him to come close. It still looked distrustful, snorting through its wide nostrils, but Hassan was already next to it, and, still calming it with soft whispers, reached out and began to caress its brow. And again, without haste or impatience, as if he did not notice the horse shaking its head, he ran his hand slowly down on its snout, back onto its brow, onto its neck, and finally grabbed its mane and led it toward the fence.

“Here he is,” he told the hands. “Maybe now you’ll be able to do it.”

And he came up to me.

“Have you been waiting long? I’m glad you came. Let’s go inside.”

“You’re not in a good mood today.”

“I’ve been in worse.”

“I can leave if I’m bothering you.”

“Why? I’d have gone looking for you if you hadn’t come.”

“Did your stablehands anger you?”

“Yes. I was hoping one of them would die.”

I did not answer.

He laughed: “A real dervish answer: silence. Yes, I’m in a bad mood, and I’m talking nonsense. Forgive me.”

I had offered to go, but wanted him to stop me: I would not have been able, nor would I have dared to go back out in the streets. I had not been wandering that morning without reason, either. I had wanted to see him, I needed to hear his soothing words and feel his gentle confidence, which would calm the storms in me, just as one is occasionally taken by the desire to sit beside a quiet, mighty river and to be soothed by its peaceful strength and steady current. But as it was, I found a different man, a stranger; I was sorry, I felt betrayed, and I had no idea what two upset people might be capable of.

Fortunately, he could control himself, or his cheerful nature could not endure rage for long, and he became more and more the man that I had been hoping to find.

He led me into a large room with windows along one entire side, which exposed one-half of the sky to view. The size of that summer chamber surprised me, with its divans, its framed inscriptions from the Koran, the carved wood of its closet doors, its abundant carpets: a whole collection of dusty riches and luxuries that no one took care of. Like him, I thought. I preferred the strict order of a dervish: each thing must have its place, like everything else in the world; man must create order so that he will not go mad. Surprisingly, this negligence did not bother me, it resembled a lavish
willingness to use things without serving them, without respecting them too much. But that was something that I was not capable of.

He laughed, putting away his mintan, boots, and weapons; he had grown accustomed to disorder in inns, and noticed it only when someone else saw it, when someone came. But I was certain that he had always been that way—that was a part of his irresponsible and dishevelled nature. And I told him jokingly that this was what was nice about him, and that he must have always been this way. He listened to the joke with a laugh: exactly, he had always been careless, although at times he respected the order that others had created. But he himself did not feel any need for it, and no longer gave it any thought. At one point in his life he even tried, forcing himself, but to no avail. It was as if objects were his adversaries, as if they did not respect him, and refused to submit to him: he was unable to exercise power over anything. In fact, he even feared order somewhat. Order is finality, a firm law, a reduction of the possible ways of life, the false conviction that we can keep life under control. But life keeps slipping away, and the more we try to keep hold of it, the more it eludes us.

It was truly unusual how that crude horse trader of a few moments before could jump so easily into a conversation so unsuited to his profession, but I took part in it with pleasure. I asked him:

“But how should we live? Without order, without purpose, without any conscious goals that we try to accomplish?”

“I don’t know. It would be good if we could determine a purpose and goals for ourselves, if we could create rules for all of life’s circumstances, if we could establish our imaginary order. It’s easy to invent general principles, looking over men’s heads into the sky and eternity. But try to apply them to the lives of real people, whom you know and maybe love, without harming them. You’ll hardly succeed.”

“Doesn’t the Koran determine all relations between people? We can apply the spirit of its principles to each individual case.”

“Do you think so? Then solve this riddle for me. It’s not rare, it’s not unusual, it’s not foreign to us. We encounter it whenever we decide to open our eyes. Let’s say that a man and his wife live together, and are apparently in love. But wait, let’s talk about people we know; that’ll be easier. Let’s suppose that they are the two whom you saw, the woman who opened the gate for you and my older stablehand, Fazli, her husband. They live here, in the servants’ quarters, they live comfortably. He travels with me and earns more than they need; he brings her gifts from our trips and enjoys her happiness, and she knows how to be happy, like a child. He’s silly, clumsy, strong as an ox, somewhat childish, but unusually considerate of her. He loves her, and would be lost without her. He steals from me a little for her, but he also loves me, and would die for me. I’m glad that they get along, I can’t stand couples that fight. I care about them, because I helped bring them together, and maybe I’ve even become attached to them. But the point is this: What would happen if the woman found another man and secretly gave him what belongs to her husband, according to the laws of both God and men? And what should be done if that happened?”

“Has it?”

“Yes. And you’ve seen him, the younger one. Her husband doesn’t know. The Koran tells us: an adulteress is to be stoned. But you must admit, that’s rather old-fashioned. So what should I do? Tell her husband? Threaten her? Get rid of the youth? None of that would help.”

“But you can’t just stand by and watch sin being committed.”

“It’s more difficult to prevent it. They both love her; she’s afraid of her husband and loves the youth. He also works here. He’s a little cunning, but he’s smart, so skilled in business matters that I worry about his honesty. But I need him.
He lives here, with them, her husband brought him here himself; he’s one of his distant relatives. Her husband is such a good-natured man; he suspects nothing. He trusts people, and is content in his happiness. His wife doesn’t want anything to change; she’s afraid that everything might go wrong. The youth keeps silent, but doesn’t want to leave. I could quarter him somewhere else, but she’d go there, too; she told me herself, and then things would only be worse. I could send him to another town, but she’d follow him there. It wouldn’t be good if anything changed from the way it is now. Her husband would kill both of them if he found out, because the fool has built his life around her. Those two steal their happiness, thinking that they’re entitled to it, but don’t dare to go the full way. And it’s not easy for them either: not for her, because she has to be a wife to a man she doesn’t love, not for the youth, because every night he gives her up to another man. Her husband has it the easiest, because he knows nothing and none of this exists for him. And all the while we think that he is hurt the most. He no longer has any right to her; he lives only by her fear. And I wait, I let everything go on, I don’t dare to do anything, it’s all so fragile. If I did anything, I’d break the delicate threads that hold them together, I’d hasten the tragedy hanging over them. So there you have it, find whatever rule you like, solve this for me, set up your order! But without destroying them. Because then you’ve done nothing.”

“This can only end in tragedy; you said that yourself.”

“I’m afraid so. But I don’t want to rush it.”

“You’re talking about consequences and not about causes, about the impotence of principles when something happens, and not about the sin of people who don’t adhere to them.”

“Life is larger than any principle. Morality is an idea, but life is what we live. How can we fit it into this idea without damaging it? More lives have been ruined in attempts to prevent sin than because of sin itself.”

“Should we live in sin then?”

“No. But prohibiting it doesn’t help at all. It creates hypocrisy and spiritual cripples.”

“So what should we do?”

“I don’t know.”

He laughed, as if that made him glad.

The woman brought in
sherbet.*

I was afraid that Hassan would start a conversation with her. He was too open and rash to hide what he thought. Fortunately, surprisingly, he said nothing. He looked at her with a barely visible smile, not at all malicious, and even with a certain scornful kindness, with which one might watch a loved one, or a child.

“You were looking at her as if you were on her side,” I said when she had left.

“Yes, I am on her side. Women are always intriguing when they’re in love, then they’re more clever, determined, and charming than ever. Men are absentminded, crude, impulsive, or tearfully compassionate. But I’m also on his side, or rather on the side of both men. To hell with all of them.”

At that moment I both felt sorry for him and envied him. But neither of these emotions was very strong. I felt sorry for him because he had deliberately destroyed a thorough and safe way of thinking, with which he might have served the faith; I envied him because of an uncertain freedom that he possessed, which I could only sense. It was not mine, it was contrary to me; on the other hand it seemed like a breath of fresh air. I thought that way because of his effect on me, and made such concessions since I could not hide from myself how glad I was to see him. I liked his light, limpid smile, which blossomed all on its own, I liked his face, tanned by the wind, and his bright, blue eyes; I took pleasure in a serenity that surrounded him like a light, and maybe even in his unassuming recklessness. In his unusual attire, his blue trousers, his yellow boots made of goat’s leather, in his white, wide-sleeved shirt and his Circassian
hat, with his skin clean and smooth as pebbles in a stream bed, with his broad shoulders, and strong chest showing its healthy tan through the triangular cut of his shirt, he resembled an outlaw leader relaxing with his trusted cohorts, or a cheerful bandit who fears neither himself nor others; he resembled a deer, a tree in bloom, a brisk wind. I tried in vain to see him differently, as I had in the beginning. And I exaggerated the contrast between him and myself.

Once he had been the same as I, or similar to me. But at one point something happened, and he changed the course of his life, and his very self. I tried to imagine the sheikh Ahmed Nuruddin thus transfigured, traveling the highways, carousing in inns, taming wild horses, cursing, and talking about women—but I could not, it was ludicrous, impossible. I would have to be born for a second time and not learn any of the things that I knew now. I wanted to ask him, maybe because I also sensed a change in myself, a different one. I sensed it and was afraid, but I did not know how to ask. It would have seemed very strange, he could not see my train of thought or the reasons for my curiosity.