Death and the Dervish (Writings From An Unbound Europe) (24 page)

“Interesting,” the mufti said, waiting, and Malik looked at me with respect. “Interesting. But can several people think the same thought? And if so, would they then be thinking with someone else’s head?”

“Two genuinely human thoughts are always different, just as two men’s palms are.”

“What’s a genuinely human thought?”

“One that’s usually not told to anyone.”

“Nicely put. Maybe incorrect, but nicely put. And further?”

“I’d like to talk about my misfortune. I said that it seems to be the greatest to me, since it’s mine. But I’d like for it to be someone else’s, and if it were I wouldn’t hurry to learn of it, just as I’m now hurrying to tell about it.”

I hastened to move from general reflections to what pained me, while his clockwork still kept him going, while his eyes were more or less alive, since I feared his impending collapse, when my words would flutter around him uselessly.

It became clearer and clearer to me: he was tormented by ennui, and boredom. It draped him like a shroud, descended on him like a fog, covered him like loam, surrounded him like air, flowed into his blood, into his breathing, into his brain; it spread from within him, and from everything around him, from objects, space, the sky, it billowed like poisonous smoke. I would have either to fall into despair myself or struggle against it.

I am not exaggerating; had I thought that it would disperse the murky fog inside him I would have lifted the edges of my gown and begun a belly dance, or done other things that never occur to reasonable men. Maybe his attention, before it gave out, would make his yellow, colorless hand write out four decisive words: Release the prisoner Harun. And he would not know what he had written, he would never remember it. I would have done anything, I say, any madness, any despicable act, and I would not have been ashamed afterward. I would have even thought with pride how I had defeated one man’s dead indifference, for a living man, for my brother. But I did not dare to change the game; I saw that he had been awakened for a brief moment only by some spiritual acrobatics. And it was like hashish; I had to give him more and more, so that he would not fall into a heavier state of motionlessness.

That was the weirdest struggle that I have ever heard of: against the lethargy in him, against the paralysis of his will, against his disgust for life. A difficult and torturous struggle, mostly because it had to be carried out with unnatural means, with distorted ways of thinking, with ugly couplings of incompatible feelings, with violence against words. But I was afraid, I was really afraid that his attention would dwindle the moment I stopped the game and turned toward my true goal, the reason why I was doing everything. I had to hover above my true intent, drawing near to it and yet concealing it, since his senses might close up by themselves as soon as he detected it.

Luckily, he was not insincere or opaque: he hid nothing, and everything could be seen on him, both his likes and dislikes. Thus, I guided my disturbed thoughts according to the shadowy or clear expressions that crossed his face; I was glad to have those landmarks, since I might also have been without them.

Everything in him said: surprise me, awaken me, warm me. And I kept trying to surprise, awaken, and warm him, waging a desperate battle to keep that dying man alive, always on the verge of fears that I would not succeed, though all my hope lay in him. I turned my mind inside out, I feverishly rummaged in its corners to find the droppings of the devil, struggling with that corpse so that there would not be yet another. And I had a momentary sense of relief only when he sat down, with some interest and liveliness showing on his sagging face. Then my hope spread its little wings.

“I have a brother,” I said, sputtering and wondering whether the tone of my voice would be enough. “But if I don’t tell you quickly enough, I might say that I
had
a brother, and having and had is the same as having and not having. And an instant of someone’s good or bad will could decide that. He’s my brother, not because I wanted him, since if I had I’d have created him, and then he wouldn’t be my
brother. I don’t even know whether my father wanted him, but when he mated with my mother, when a drop of cloudy liquid entered her womb, from that pleasure of theirs, of which I was unaware, out of it grew the bond and obligation which is called a son and brother. He was a desired comfort, or a frequent problem; God bound him to us without asking, granting him joys that we couldn’t share and burdening us with all of his troubles and misfortunes. And as your superior mind knows, misfortune is more common than joy, so we might say that brothers are a misfortune sent to us by God, which we therefore accept as His will and our destiny, thanking Him for all of it. So there, I thank God for this misfortune, but I wish that he were your brother so I’d thank Him for the happiness of listening to you, as you’re listening to me now. In that case it wouldn’t matter to me. But as he can’t be your brother since he is mine, and I can’t be you, because God destined me to be only an unworthy dervish, let’s be what we are: I’ll beg, and you decide. Or better yet: I’ll talk, and you listen. It’s harder for you, I know. You don’t have to, I do.”

I had awakened him, he had become alive, he watched, listened, comprehended and understood! I did not need a belly dance, my empty words were enough, let them fly like the wind, let them tumble like monkeys, let them rush headlong, as if gone mad, between the rays of the spring sun and the shadows of the room. And so, he settled in his chair, listening and waiting.

“And further?” he asked fairly energetically.

Malik, his first shadow, was staring at me, wondering, maybe learning from me. I could not see him well, I did not care about him. I looked at the mufti’s face.

There is hope, brother Harun!

“And so I have a brother, or I have him halfway: I say his name, but he’s imprisoned in the fortress. Half of his life is here, and half is up there. And if he loses this half, he might lose the other as well.”

“Which half?”

“The one that I still have, telling you this.”

“Which fortress?”

“The fortress above the town.”

“No matter, go on.”

“The fortress where they take bad people—thieves, criminals, outlaws, and the enemies of the sultan. Sometimes. But most of the time just fools. Fools, because they think they’re not guilty, although you never know. They’re always trying to make the world a better place, but that’s not their job, and no one has asked them to do that. As they’re proud of their folly, it’s easy to catch them, and therefore they make up the majority of the prisoners. Accordingly, one might conclude that only clever people remain free, but it’s not so: foolish men also remain free if they know how to hide their folly. And the clever ones are locked away if they show their cleverness. The others who remain free are those who have the right to be whatever they want. My brother was a nobody, a happy man, not clever enough to be feared and not foolish enough for no one to know what he might do; he was too cowardly to be an outlaw, too naive to be bad, too lazy to be someone’s enemy. In a word, he was destined by divine providence to be greeted by people without respect, to be recognized for his value without being asked to show it.”

“Why is he in prison?”

“Because he didn’t listen to our father.”

“Interesting.”

“Our father is a simple man; he works as much as he can; he gives as much as he must; he’s not concerned with anything except rain, clouds, sun, caterpillars, potato bugs, cockle on wheat, smut on corn, and peace in the family. Being utterly simple, of one piece, like a wooden spoon, like a linden bowl, like a plow handle, he didn’t abandon the useless parental habit of saying what fathers always say and children never listen to. Our father advised him not to leave
home: the land would become barren and towns crowded, with little space and many mouths, few possibilities and many desires; people would begin to choke each other for a bigger piece of bread. My brother didn’t listen to him. And then our father said: remember, the trouble with us is that no one ever thinks he’s in the right place, and everyone’s a potential rival for everyone else; people scorn those who don’t succeed, and hate those who rise above them; get used to scorn if you want peace, or to hatred if you agree to the fight. But don’t enter the fray unless you’re sure that you’ll defeat your opponent. Don’t point your finger at the dishonesty of others if you’re not powerful enough that you don’t have to prove it. And he didn’t listen to that, either. Now our father has a reason for joy and says: that’s what happens to disobedient sons.”

As I spoke I noticed with horror that the weak light in the mufti’s eyes was going out, they were becoming heavy and tired, and something lost appeared in his expression. Hardly opening his mouth, he asked:

“Who didn’t obey that?”

O great God! I was moving forward continuously, but getting farther and farther away. As soon as I neared my real goal, he became frightened. As soon as I tried to make use of what I had built, he destroyed it. There was no end to my task!

I hurried onward, blindly. There was still at least a spark of life in him, otherwise he would not have even asked that. I had become uninteresting, I had wearied him with my philosophizing. I had not been playing the game, but mocking him; I had been carried away by my bitterness, and everything had begun to sound serious. Dizziness was coming over me: please, wait a little longer, don’t go out, just a moment more.

The last gleam of sunlight faded, and I stood in an icy waste, with a long, dead night ahead of me. But I could not even scream.

I lost my confidence; the ease with which I had combined my words disappeared. I sensed that they would no longer fly or flutter, they would crawl along the ground like blindworms.

Only one more handful of crazy words, O God, you have to give them to me, I’m fighting for someone’s life!—I prayed desperately, but the prayer did not help. I was crushed by my failure, I could see it in his face.

Where are you slipping away to, brother Harun?

Everything I said after that was useless and futile. I was forced to disclose my purpose.

The mufti sank more and more quickly into boredom, sank deeper and deeper into a pool of dead apathy. The world would begin to die out because of him.

Malik slept, with his head on his breast.

“I’m tired,” the mufti said, almost as horrified as I was. “I’m tired. Go now.”

“I haven’t told you everything.”

“Go now.”

“Order them to release him.”

“To release whom?”

“My brother.”

“Come tomorrow. Or tell Malik. Tomorrow.”

Malik woke up, afraid: “What happened?”

“God, how boring.”

“Do you want to play chess?”

“Nothing happened.”

He gave answers out of order, skipping over questions, miraculously remembering some word that would later receive an answer, and none of it seemed to make any sense at all.

He went out, without looking at us, dejected; maybe he had even forgotten that we were there. But maybe he was fleeing from us.

I had not defeated his boredom. It had overcome both of us. I could hardly wait to leave. If I had known what it was, I would never have even dared this attempt.

Malik gave me a murderous look, and, with bouncing steps, carried his sluggish body away, hurrying after the mufti.

“He told me to come tomorrow.”

“I don’t know anything. Ugh, you’ve ruined me.”

So, now it was over. Maybe I should nevertheless have grabbed the mufti by both of his ears or given him a fillip on his yellow forehead. And I still did not know where Antioch was or what language we had spoken. The entire time it seemed to me that I was standing on my head, that I was hanging between the floor and the lamp, that I was holding the ceiling up with my shoulders, lost, driven insane by his boredom and my desire to overcome it. I had indeed spoken that strange language, but to no avail. Maybe it would be futile the next day as well, because I would already be discouraged by today’s failure. I had to come again, but I would not come without faltering, and not only would I not know where Antioch was—damn that city!—but I would not even know my own name. We would again torture one another like an old couple on the second night of their wedding, after the first that had failed pitifully. Only none of it would last as long, since neither of us would hope for very much.

I had nowhere to hurry to now. His yellow, sluggish hand had not, in a fleeting moment of vitality, written the order: Release the prisoner Harun.

Was it because of this that Harun the prisoner sank into an even deeper darkness?

I went out; they led me out, pushed me out, and in front of the house the forgotten Kara-Zaim was waiting for me. People did not remember him after twenty years; I had forgotten him after an hour. He was the only one who did not forget—and that’s how life is.

“You took a long time,” he said, watching me with interest.

“Does a duel take less time?”

“They usually come out sooner. And they usually look confused.”

“Do I look confused?”

“I wouldn’t say so.”

Kara-Zaim’s eye was not exactly sharp. Let it be as he said.

“We talked about everything.”

“But did you talk about me?”

“He told me to come tomorrow.”

“I see. Tomorrow, then.”

And we went once more along the clean path of river stones. And we would walk it again, tomorrow.

I thought that I would not have the strength to talk with Zaim, that I would not even hear what he was telling me, but I heard, and I answered, although everything inside me had been overturned, although I was still standing on my head. And I began to right myself slowly, slowly, certain that everything would seem even stranger when I came to myself. It would seem like drunkenness, or a bad dream. I would believe that I had been struck by a spell, and that nothing had really happened.

Zaim did not know what was happening inside me. He thought that I had been successful.

“It’s good,” he said, “that he called you to come tomorrow. Usually he doesn’t do that. That means that he likes you; that means that you’re in his favor.”