Death and the Dervish (Writings From An Unbound Europe) (22 page)

“All right,” I said, suppressing my anger, because I did not want to show it in front of him. “Tell your friends . . .”

“And yours . . .”

“Tell those friends that I thank them for their message, although they could’ve delivered it themselves. And I’ll answer to God and to my conscience for everything I do. Can you remember all of that?”

“Of course I can! But I think you might have to answer to someone else, too. It’s easy to answer to God. He’ll forgive you. And it’s even easier to answer to your conscience—you
can always come up with a thousand excuses. But when you find yourself in the torture chamber, up there in the fortress, by God, it’ll be more difficult. And especially when you know you’re guilty.”

“I’m not guilty of anything.”

“Well, it’s not quite like that. To tell the truth, who isn’t guilty of something? Doesn’t Hassan the cattle drover come to the tekke? He does. Don’t you have conversations about all sorts of things? You do. And then . . .”

“You should be ashamed!”

“I’m not, effendi. And then, did a fugitive hide in the tekke garden? Yes, he did. Did he escape? Yes, he did. And who helped him to escape?”

“I sent for the guards.”

“You sent for the guards too late. And I won’t even mention what else you’re guilty of. And you say: I’m not guilty! But again, has anyone asked you about all of this? No. So I’m telling you, stay clear of trouble. And if you don’t care, it’s your business, right? And it’s mine to tell you this.”

“Is that all?”

“What else do you want? Even this would be more than enough for reasonable men. But if need be, more can be found, don’t worry. That’s what all of them ask in the beginning: Is that all? Later they quit asking. I like brave men, but where are they? It takes years to find one who’s really got any guts. Only one out of so many. This world’s enough to make you sick! So there you have it. And don’t say later: I didn’t know. Now you do.”

He was still looking at me with the same interest that he had had at the beginning, but he had already done what he was supposed to do, and wanted to see what he had achieved, to see whether he had inspired fear in me.

He upset me, but I did not feel fear. It was surpassed by my anger at this shameful act, this insult. I even felt defiant, I was determined to persevere, urged by a momentary thought of how they wanted to stop me from doing something
that was my right. This meant, then, that they were not confident, that they were afraid. If that were not true, why would they be trying to warn me? They would do whatever they wanted, regardless of what I said or did. This strengthened my inner conviction, which I had been carrying for a long time, that I represented something here, in this place, in the dervish order, that I had not passed through the world unseen and insignificant. They were not that stupid; they knew it would not be good to attack me: in that way they would show openly that they respected no one, not even the most honorable or the most devoted. But they would not do that, they had no reason for it.

That was what I thought as I went toward the tekke. My confidence had increased, and I even thought it was good that they had sent this man: they had revealed that they were afraid, while their insults had only strengthened my resolve. But I knew that I could not give them much time to act against me, I had to reach the one man who could decide everything, before they did. If it had not been night then, I would have gone off that very moment. I was gladdened by this determination not to wait, not to give myself over to empty sorrow and feeble hope, but rather to do everything I could. I could not afford to walk the streets like a sleepwalker, with no will of my own, hobbling around as if I were crippled. A man is not what he thinks, but what he does.

Yet when I had closed the heavy oaken gate and pushed the bolt, when I found myself in the safety of the tekke garden, against all expectation and logic—since there I was protected by everything of my own—an unpleasant restlessness came over me. It happened all of a sudden, with almost no warning, as if while I was opening and closing the gate, pushing the bolt and checking whether it had settled in its wooden quarters, I let the thought that had been keeping up my spirits slip away. It disappeared, darted into the night like a wild bird, and in its place there appeared an unease,
which resembled fear. It happened only then, belatedly; I did not know why. I did not dare to try to explain its source; maybe it was just that source that made me afraid, and so I left it in the darkness, unexplained, although I was aware of its existence. A thought overtook me, like heat; it struck me like a painful flash. I thought that it was what the beginning of a stroke must be like; it announced itself like deep, muffled thunder: they are surrounding me.

Neither then nor long after did it occur to me that human thought is an unsteady wave that is stirred and calmed by the capricious winds of fear or desire.

I knew only one thing; I had forgotten it, but it occurred to me again: presentiment is the herald of misfortune.

But at that moment it was clear to me that I must not give up. Early the next day I would strengthen my bulwark against the torrent already rushing toward me.

I will not give up.

May my arms wither, may my mouth go dumb, may my soul become arid, if I do not do what a man must.

And may God decide.

In the morning I carried out all my sacred duties, maybe a little more lively than usual, bringing excitement into those familiar gestures and words, remembering my unease of the previous night, thinking about the importance of what I had to do, as before a decisive battle, never doubting whether I should go. In battle men are wounded and even killed, and therefore my prayer was more ardent than ever; but there was no turning back, and so the curse and oath, with which I had offset my hesitation the night before, were unnecessary. I remembered, everything was indeed as it had been before that battle long ago. I bathed myself when I returned the previous night; I thought that the water would calm me down. I bathed myself the following morning as well. My shirt was clean; I had taken a fresh one, white as snow. As I had then. But I had marched into that battle along with
others, in a line that was harder than stone, with an unsheathed saber in my bare hand, with passionate joy in my eyes. Now I was marching alone, O dear, distant time, in a black gown that got in the way of my feet, with empty, sagging arms, with a fearful soul.

But I walked on. I had to.

I went to see Hassan. I did not have much time, I was too impatient, but I still stopped in. I could not have gone without seeing him; it would have been like missing something very important. But I did not know why I needed to do it; he could not help me, he could not give me any advice. Maybe because he was closest to me, although even he was not very close. It resembled superstition a little, or a defense against a spell: his serenity could bring luck.

He was not at home. I knocked for a long time on the gate, I thought that he was sleeping. And when I had already given up, the small woman opened it, hiding her face again, adjusting her hair, strangely flustered. Hurriedly and stuttering, she explained that Hassan was not at home. He had left the night before and had not come back yet; her husband was out looking for him, and now they were waiting for both of them. They were waiting together for the two men, locked in, excited, satisfied that the troubles of others had brought them happiness.

I also told Hafiz-Muhammed where I was going, to hear what he thought. I would not have changed my mind no matter what he said, but I hoped that he would give me some encouragement. He was kind to me, as if I were the one who was ill, and not he. You should go, he said. You should have done this earlier. It’s your duty to help even a stranger, to say nothing of your own brother. And don’t hesitate, you’re not committing any evil. That was what he said, sincerely and excitedly, but he did not encourage me very much, because that was what I had expected to hear. And he knew that. But a good man will always say what is expected—that is not sincere thought, but empty sympathy.

Hassan was not there. People are never around when you are looking for them.

Passing by a bakery, I inhaled the smell of hot bread and remembered that I had not eaten anything since the previous day. The night before the night-watchman had talked about those loaves of bread. I also had to find him today. How had I failed to realize that he wanted to tell me something? Not only about that man who had been waiting to threaten me. He had tried to keep me, almost by force, so that I would ask him. But I had been deaf and blind.

Then I forced myself to think about the kadi’s wife, I would go again into her silent house; about Hassan, what he had done the night before, where he had gone; about my father, I would let him know immediately, as soon as all of this was settled; about the previous night, long and sleepless; about countless trifles, no one had trimmed the roses in the tekke garden, they would get thorny; about Mustafa’s children, they sat in front of the tekke more and more often, his wife drove them out so that they would not bother her, while Mustafa grumbled and took them food—people would laugh at us, they already called them the dervish children, and I did not have the heart to drive them away; and I thought about God knows what else, only so I would not have to think about the conversation that I would have with the
mufti.*
It was not that I did not know what to say, but that afterward I would not be able to do anything else. Prior to a verdict there is hope for everything, and then there is only the verdict. If it is good, then hope was unnecessary; if it is bad, then there was no use in even thinking about it.

The mufti’s house was on a slope, isolated, in a garden with a high wall. I had never been inside it before. And it seemed that I would not go in now, either.

A guard in front of the gate told me that the mufti was not at home. He had left the kasaba.

“When will he return?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where did he go?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who does know?”

“I don’t know.”

So, all of my fear had been for nothing. My hope had been prolonged, but it was growing weaker. Maybe soon I would not need it at all.

I did not know what to do. If I went away, I would never meet the mufti, or if I did, it would be too late. Where had he gone? To which of his houses? To which of his estates? Ugosko? Uglyeshichi? Gor? Tihovichi? To the plain? To the lake? To the river? He often fled, and from everything, from the heat, from the cold, from the fog, from the dampness, from the people.

Where was he now? Only there would they be able to tell me that.

“I don’t know what to do,” I complained to the guard. “The mufti told me to come; we have something important to talk about. I must find him.”

The guard shrugged, thus repeating the only words he knew. And I could not make myself leave.

“Someone in the house must know.”

Then the gate opened and a gaunt man, an old soldier, judging from the scars on his face and some of the clothes that he still wore (he must have regretted throwing all of them away), looked at me sternly. Until I justified my presence, I was a criminal to him.

I also told him what I had said to the guard.

From the suspicious expression on his face I thought that he doubted the truth of my words. His distrust offended me, but my desire that he really not believe me was even stronger. I had become involved in a lie. I had been forced to do it, but if the mufti found out, and he would, I would have to ask for forgiveness and not justice.

“Never mind,” I said, trying to back out.

At that moment I noticed that the soldier’s stern face was
changing, growing softer, widening into a smile. Why?

Then I recognized him as well. We had fought together for a while, only he had been in wars both before and after me.

We were both glad.

“You’ve changed,” he said joyfully. “Who would recognize you in that dervish robe? But you see, I recognized you!”

“And you’re the same. A little older, a little thinner, but the same.”

“Well, I’m not exactly the same. Twenty years have passed. Come in.”

He seemed to become less confident when he closed the gate behind us.

“So the mufti summoned you?”

“I need to talk to him. The guard didn’t want to tell me where he is.”

A clean, straight path cobbled with small river stones showed white through the garden. It was lined with a hedge of barberry and snowberry bushes that had tender, green leaves. The garden was skillfully arranged with fruit trees, birches, junipers, wild rosebushes; at places a single tree stood on the clear lawn, at others they were clumped together, thus creating a playful pattern that resembled nature, and nature that resembled a playful pattern. The flowery and leafy beauty of that large space had the effect of a miracle, mostly because of the thought that all of it had been created so that the feet of one man could tread the light green grass, and so that his gaze could rest on the tender treetops. It really seems that all beauty is superfluous.

The soldier lowered his voice. So did I. We almost whispered in that cleaned, raked, well-kept forest, which was deprived of wildness, but left with freshness, in that quiet place surrounded by a wall, where even the wings of storms were clipped.

The soldier looked along the path toward the white house,
which was hidden among the trees. I also looked. The eye caught sharp flashes of the sun on the windowpanes, alternating with the soft swaying of green tree branches.

The soldier’s name was Kara-Zaim. Now he was just a shadow of the former Kara-Zaim, a shabby remnant of that fearless youth who had rushed with his saber drawn against the drawn sabers of the enemy, until an uhlan ran one through his rib cage. Until then he had been continually stabbed, cut, hacked, and maimed. One half of his left ear was missing, as were three fingers of his left hand; his face was furrowed with red scars where new skin had failed to grow in; he hid other scars under his clothes. He had always recovered easily and gone back into battle. His blood was strong and the deep cuts in his young flesh healed quickly. But when the uhlan’s hideous saber cut through him, opening him up so that the sun’s rays shone inside him for the first time, when the point and blade passed where they were not meant to, piercing his lungs, Kara-Zaim fell lifeless and was left behind as his fellow soldiers retreated. Only a medic brushed his cold hand and ran off after the other troops, intending to say a prayer for him when he reached a secure position. Kara-Zaim awoke at night, from the cold, among the corpses, exhausted, as quiet as they were. He had survived, but he was no longer fit for the military. He lost his strength, his agility, and his joy. Now he was the keeper of the garden, or the house, or just a wretch who took alms.