Death and the Dervish (Writings From An Unbound Europe) (21 page)

lowered my gaze and said nothing, frightened by my unnecessary courage and his superior rebuttal.

“Come again,” he said politely. “We don’t see each other often.”

7

      
Do not grieve, rejoice at the paradise that has been promised to you.
¹

I WENT OUT INTO THE NIGHT. MY LEGS SEEMED WOODEN beneath me; an icy shudder rippled through my veins, and weariness, remorse, anger, fear. Everything crazy and helpless in me collected and turned into a sludge that buried my consciousness. He had seen me to the corridor politely. Candles had flickered in the hands of two servants (how had they known that I was leaving?), and I had thought that their glimmering would blind me in the lengthy darkness. He had invited me to come again any time I wanted. Maybe he was still waiting for me to return, maybe I should have gone back, to tell him that I had not meant anything bad, that I was troubled, confused, and restless, that he should forget everything that I had said. Maybe I should have gone back to kill him, to grab him by the neck and strangle him. Even then the smile would not have left his pale lips, and his yellow, phosphorous eyes would not have gone out.

I rubbed my sweaty hands together, as if I were carrying the dampness of his skin on my own palms. I held them open in front of me, to air them of that imagined touch, trying to rid myself of it.

I walked along the bank of the river for a long time, meeting only an occasional passerby. Most people shut themselves
in their houses early, leaving the night to night-watch-men, drunkards, and the luckless.

Everything called me back into the tekke, to lock its heavy door and to be left alone. That desire was strong, like an impulse to escape. But I did not allow myself such weakness. I refused it in spite of myself, since I knew that such a desired withdrawal could never be more dangerous than at this moment; it would have belittled me, deprived me of any value. I would no longer have had any right to self-respect or ever been prepared to do anything at all, I would have waited for every blow with my head lowered, a wretch, I would have become nothing. I could not give up. I had challenged them, and I had to remain on my feet. If I yielded at any time I would have been giving myself the finishing blow.

I walked along the still bank, listening to the current, hoping for tranquillity: the vibrance of nature calms a man’s soul, maybe precisely because of its indifference toward him. But the river did not help me, the tumult inside me was louder.

I did not expect to meet the renegade Is-haq; I had matured since that time in the mosque when I had vaguely hoped to hear his words. His opinions and advice would not have mattered to me today. He had some goal of his own and took misfortune like rain, or clouds. But I was not thinking of a particular misfortune. I knew that everything in my life had been called into question.
Everything
—that was very indefinite, but also very real. That meant desperation and waywardness, an erring from the path of life, but I knew of no other; it was a sense of nameless terror at the empty, silent void that can be created around you.

If someone distant and unknown reads these unusual notes, I fear that he will understand little of them, since it seems that we dervishes really do have a special manner of thinking about ourselves and the world, a world in which everything of ours depends on others. No one is so powerless
and meaningless, no one can be so utterly ruined inside as we are, if they only decide to shut us out. And we realize this only with difficulty, only when it does indeed happen.

A night-watchman stopped me at the wooden bridge where the river bends. He stood hiding in the shadow of a tree, and whispered for me to hide as well. Until they leave, he said. Some youths were throwing rocks at a lamp by the path.

When the glass broke and the light went out, they left, without haste.

The night-watchman watched them go calmly, explaining that they had already gotten used to destroying something every night. But he hides, to save his skin. And the next day the people from the mahal will pay for the damage; it isn’t right for him to pay out of his own pocket. And when I asked why he doesn’t turn them in, he asked how he can turn them in when he doesn’t know who they are. Night, the darkness, the distance: you might make a mistake. And when I told him that I wouldn’t be lenient toward them if I were in his place, he said that he wouldn’t either, if he were in my place. But as it is, he doesn’t hear or see them; what else can he do, since in that job he’s like a catkin: blow, and he’s gone. And God only knows who they are, full of food and drink, well-dressed, plenty of money, nothing to worry about; idle, they carouse till dawn, looking for women, if I’ll excuse him, looking for trouble. All night long he tries to avoid them, hiding so they won’t meet, and if they find him he tells them to go off into some other part of town; and they say: no; and he says: so don’t; and they say: you’re an old fool; I know, he says, and I’m a bigger one every day; Do you want us to throw you into the river, they ask; No, he says. That’s how their conversations go, and he tries to find a way to escape. That’s his job, he says, you see and hear everything. Night was created for things that are done in secret, and walking around until dawn he even learns things that he doesn’t want to, things that are none of his business,
but he’s not much for conversation, especially free of charge: Why should you waste your time for nothing? And he doesn’t need what he knows; he can’t eat or drink it, although it could be of use to someone. But it seems strange to him: he knows and doesn’t care, while someone else cares and doesn’t know. When he gives some information to someone the only thing that he, the night-watchman, cares about is whether he’s giving it to someone who might have some use for it, and everything is out of love and friendship, as long as he doesn’t go home to his children empty-handed. Indeed, he says “friendship” just like that, but you can’t say that there’s a lot of it around; he doesn’t run into it at night, and during the day he sleeps, so he doesn’t know. But what he does know hasn’t made him happy. He’s even begun to look at his wife with suspicion; she might be plotting against him. Now regarding his wife, he’s exaggerating and making a mistake; she’d pluck out her eye for him if he needed her to (and she’d pluck out another one, his, if she heard what he’s saying), and he mentions it only as an example.

I listened to this deranged, shrewd babble, this jocular openness from the neighborhood spy, who was always ready to sell the secrets of others. They did not matter to me, but I was not in a hurry to leave; I stood there for a while, to pass the time for both of us; he liked to talk and I liked to listen; it did not matter to what. I even became interested in the way that he apparently hid his thoughts and then revealed them completely, unable to persevere in his cunning. But then he began to act strangely and whimsically. He was old, at least fifty, and old people are either bored or afraid of being left alone. He invited me to go on his watch with him, I had probably never seen the kasaba so late at night, and a man should see everything. It was especially beautiful just before dawn, when bakers pulled hot bread from their ovens. If I wanted to we could go to the street where Hassan lived. He was celebrating; he had brought in musicians; we would stand somewhere near and listen; that was not a sin; it would
gladden anyone’s soul, even a dervish’s. He was sorry when I refused. Do as you wish, he said, do as you wish, whatever you like, but it’s a pity that you don’t want to go. I wondered at this invitation; it sounded like a rude joke, or a childish wish. Now he would have to wait for someone else.

“Well, fine,” he said as we parted.

Had something frightened him?

I left him in a covered doorway, invisible in the shadows.

A strange man, I thought as I walked through the empty streets.

Everything changes when darkness falls. No particular time of the day is reserved for sin, but night is the most natural time for it (at this time all children, the little, clever ones as well as the big, dull ones, are asleep, along with those who manage to work their evil during the day). Or whenever we cannot see well.

So that is what we have achieved: we have pushed sin out of our sight and made it more powerful.

I walked through the quiet town, the only thing that could be heard was the sound of a distant zurna; at times human shadows slipped past, restless like the souls of the damned; dogs barked in the different mahals, and the moonlight was leaden. Even if I had yelled, dying, not one of the doors would have opened. I could not remain in the present moment; everything in me strove toward either what had already happened or what was about to happen, but I did not succeed in stepping over the boundaries of the night. I saw it as if from far away, as if I were looking down from a hill into a gloomy landscape: I was outside of it, yet in it, separated from it, yet surrounded by it. Everything seemed trivial in my world—the many births taking place at that very moment, the many deaths, the many loves, the many evils. I say my world, because no other existed. There were only shadows and empty moonlight around it. And around us only the quiet dripping of time. And within me only powerless indifference and lifeless silence. I was like an infidel, I had no inner light.

O Lord, for what unknown sin are you punishing me?

I beg you, hear my prayer.

Salvation and peace to Is-haq, who is not here tonight.

Salvation and peace to Ahmed Nuruddin and his brother Harun, who seek each other tonight.

Salvation and peace to all those who are lost in the great silence between the earth and the sky.

I should have stayed with the night-watchman, so I would not be left alone with myself and my inability to resist or submit.

Empty and sadly indifferent. But I was still glad when I drew near to the tekke. Then I was neither empty nor indifferent, for it is good when a man is either happy or sorry, no matter what the reason. As soon as I noticed that slight glimmer of joy (and I looked into my soul and everything that was happening inside it, as a plowman checks the sky, clouds, and winds to see what the weather will be), I felt stronger because of that clear patch in the clouds. It is there even when we cannot see it; it is there even when we think that it is not.

When I entered my narrow street, which took me in like a kinsman, someone stepped out of the shadow of the tekke wall. Only his head was visible in the moonlight, as if he had surfaced in water, as if he had left his body somewhere else. He greeted me, trying to be polite, because of the fear that he must have assumed I felt: “You’ve been away for quite a while. I’ve been waiting for you for a long time.”

I said nothing. I did not know if I should say or ask anything. His face looked familiar, although I did not remember that I had ever seen it; it was familiar in a special way, as when we discover some feature, some expression, some characteristic of someone that we have noticed somewhere, sometime, but forgotten, since it did not seem important.

I looked at the tekke, quiet and dead in the moonlight, and when I turned to him again, I had already forgotten what he looked like. I turned away once more, this time trying
to remember his face, but it was futile; he disappeared from my memory as soon as I stopped looking at him. He was surprisingly faceless.

He noticed my movements and said hurriedly:

“Friends have sent me.”

“Which friends?”

“Friends. I thought you wouldn’t even come back tonight. They couldn’t tell me anything in the tekke. You’ve been away somewhere for quite a while.”

“I’ve been walking the streets.”

“Alone?”

“I was alone, until now. And I was content.”

He laughed, politely, kindly.

“Of course. I understand.”

His face was flat, like two palms with a nose between; his wide, strong lips were spread into a cheerful smile, his lively eyes were attentively fixed on me. It was as if he were very glad that we had met, and was happy at everything I said and did. If it had not been dark and if we had not been alone, his appearance might have been pleasant. I was not afraid of this man; there was not a trace of fear in me, not even of the possibility of violence. I just felt awkward, everything was tightening around me. I was impatient.

“All right, friend, tell me what you want or allow me to pass.”

“You’ve been walking the streets and wasting your time, but all of the sudden you’re in such a hurry!”

I tried to pass, but he stepped in front of me.

“Wait a minute. Here’s what I want. . .”

He looked confused, as if he were searching for the right words, or as if he did not like having to stop me, although he had done it without hesitation.

“You’re making my task more difficult. Now I don’t know how to begin.”

“You’ve been waiting here a long time, you could’ve figured that out.”

He laughed cheerfully: “You’re right. You’re not easy to deal with. Look here. But maybe it’s best if we go inside the tekke.”

“All right. Let’s go.”

“It doesn’t matter, though. We can also do it here. My message is short. Who do you think it’s from?”

“No one sends me any messages, and my friends tell me things themselves. You’re playing a joke, or you’re trying to anger me.”

“Not at all! You learned people are really funny. So what if I’m joking? Can’t we have a talk like reasonable men?! All right. Your friends think you should watch what you do a little more.”

“You must have made a mistake; you obviously don’t know with whom you’re speaking.”

“I haven’t made a mistake, and I know with whom I’m speaking. So you be more careful. You’re not thinking about what you’re doing, and that could be dangerous. For you, I mean. Why are you hanging guilt around your own neck, and when no one is bothering you? What does a man need trouble for if doesn’t already have any?! Isn’t that true?”

So it was a threat, intended to humiliate me. It had been put into the mouth of this police thug, who was playing a joke on me at that, on his own account, giving me advice. Now I was interesting for him, like a rare animal caught in a trap. He even liked me a little: I could bring him some enjoyment.