Death and the Dervish (Writings From An Unbound Europe) (28 page)

I did not suspect anything. I was not expecting anything. But I knew that they would spin their filthy web around me.

That afternoon Hassan stopped by the tekke. I thought that he looked at me differently than he had the night before, with respect and with a certain disbelief, as if he were surprised, as if he had not expected such an act of rebellion from me. Now that it had happened, I found reasons for it, in hindsight, bolstering my feelings of injustice and indignation.
My brother is dead, I thought, and if I couldn’t save him I can at least mourn him. I worried that Hassan would criticize me for not having done anything else, earlier, when it had not yet been too late; but he mentioned nothing, as if he had forgotten it. I was grateful to him for that forgetfulness. I paid more attention to what he thought than to what I did. His opinion had begun to mean a great deal to me, because he knew everything: he could have hurt me badly.

His surprised look was dear to me for another reason as well. Maybe I had never felt as I did then how much our moods, how much our decisions depend on those around us. If Hassan and Hafiz-Muhammed had been shocked, if they had condemned my speech as something imprudent, I would have also been upset. As it was, their approval of it relieved me of the burden of doubt, and I knew: I had done what I had to; what I had done was good. Maybe ill-advised, but necessary. Hassan was surprised; he had not thought that I was someone to be reckoned with. Well, I had showed that I was.

Such feelings of pride are pleasant; they protect us from remorse.

What I had said in the mosque was sorrow, astonishment, stifled sobs, and maybe even a stifled howl. But all of it had been mine. A sorrowful attempt at retaliation and defense. But when I had said it, it suddenly became something else. No matter how it had begun, no matter what it had been, it turned into a common burden and condemnation. And it bound me, for it was no longer mine alone, because of the words that I had spoken. Hassan also said this (he told it to Hafiz-Muhammed; I heard it from inside): he had not heard more sincere sorrow or more serious accusations for a long time. Like the others, he had been fixed to the spot where he sat, shaken by the moving simplicity of such ordinary words and by the grief of a man who wept, but also spoke. I felt that we’re all guilty and miserable, he said.

Was I now supposed to forget everything that had happened and everything I had said? Words also bind us, they are also deeds; they bound me before others, and before myself as well.

But when I went out into the garden, they were already talking about something else. I was sorry that I was not the object of their thoughts for a longer time, but it did not matter. What is said in my absence means more than what is said in my presence.

“We’re talking about Hassan’s father,” said Hafiz-Muhammed when I walked up to them.

As if he did not want me to begin another conversation. And I thought, magnanimously, that everyone has his own problems, and thank God that it is so.

Hassan spoke as usual, cheerfully, mockingly. He was easy and superficial in everything, in his thoughts, in his feelings, in his relationship toward himself and others (I forgot that the night before he had stayed with me until dawn, full of sorrow). My father is strange, he said, if that needs to be said at all, since everyone is strange except colorless and faceless people, who again are strange since they have nothing of their own. In other words, their character is precisely their lack of character. Except every one of us, of course, because we grow so accustomed to ourselves that everything that’s different from us seems strange, so it could be said that whatever is not us is strange. So my father is strange because he thinks that I’m strange, and the other way around, and so on and so forth. There’s no end to our strangeness, and maybe we should consider that in itself strange. The difference between them is that his father thinks that he, Hassan, has brought misery upon himself with his way of life. And Hassan is convinced that there are many ways for a man to bring misery upon himself, but the least likely way is to do what he wants as long as it doesn’t disgrace him. And so, it turns out that his father is miserable because Hassan is content, and his father’s idea of happiness, both his own and
that of his family, would be for Hassan to be genuinely unhappy.

“Have you seen him since you’ve come back?” asked Hafiz-Muhammed, smiling.

“I’ve tried. I wanted to name for him all the ways that men can become miserable. And to ask him who is bothered by my way of life. I like it, as one does an unsightly, worn out shoe. Maybe it won’t keep out water, maybe it looks funny, but it fits. You don’t feel like taking it off in the middle of the street; you don’t even know you’re wearing it. Why shouldn’t my life fit me? Why should it be a nightmare?”

“You wanted to tell him that? But you didn’t want to see him.”

“How could I tell him if I didn’t see him? I wanted to see him first, since that comes first, but the first thing for him was that he didn’t want to see me. And so neither of my wishes was fulfilled.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“He spoke through the mouths of others. It sounded like my father, and I was so moved that I’d have gladly kissed the mouth that said it, which was so young and innocent that it didn’t even know what it was saying.”

“You should go again.”

“For the girl?”

“Whatever you want,” said Hafiz-Muhammed and laughed. “Just go.”

“How many times do I have to go? How many times is a son obliged to go in vain?”

“One more time.”

Hassan looked at him suspiciously and asked:

“Have you been to see my father?”

“Yes.”

“So you’ve been there. But why? Do you want to bring two stubborn men together for one empty reconciliation?”

“Let whatever happens happen. I told him that you’d come today. Try to talk to him. Fathers are easily moved.”

“Oh yes. Especially mine.”

With unease I recalled my conversation with the mufti. It resembled this one a little, but I had been forced into it. So what was this?

I thought, somewhat saddened, that he might be reconciled with his father and, with a trace of envy, that he would forget me.

I performed the abdest and went to the mosque.

It was a dim, cloudy evening, I remember it well. I looked up at the sky, I did so according to an ancient peasant habit that I had not yet lost, although I had no need for it. And I was able to sense changes in the weather, days in advance. But this time a cloud deceived me, took me by surprise; I was too preoccupied with myself. And I was wishing for that cloud and bad weather. Maybe that was why I did not even see it coming. I had been nurturing the irrational hope that my father would not leave for the kasaba in rainy weather.

The day grew weary; in the west the sky was still red. I remember, against the red background of the sky I saw four horsemen at the end of the street. They were pretty, as if embroidered on red silk, as if sewn onto the blazing sky behind them. It seemed as if four solitary warriors were standing on a wide field, before a battle, calming their horses with movements that were barely perceptible.

When I started toward them, the horses lurched forward, spurred by blows that I could not see, charging abreast of each other, closing the narrow street from one wall to the other.

They were coming at me!

There was a time when I was not a coward; now I do not know what I am. But in that situation neither courage nor cowardice could have helped me. I looked back; the gate was too far—ten steps away but unreachable. I waved to the horsemen: Stop, you’ll trample me! But they kept whipping their horses’ crops, speeding them up, moving closer and
closer. The earth shook with the most terrible rumble that I have ever heard, and the four-headed monster, furious and bloodthirsty, approached with unbelievable speed. I tried to run, or thought that I did, but there was no strength in my legs. I could hear the horses breathing down my neck. I shuddered along the length of my spine at the blow that was about to strike me: I would fall; they would trample me under. I pressed myself against the wall, flattening myself against it, but they could still reach me. I saw above me the gaping mouths of the four horses, huge, red, full of blood and foam. Four pairs of horse’s legs flailing all around my head; four cruel, beastly faces and four open, beastly mouths, red and bloody like those of the horses; four pizzle whips, four vipers hissing at me, wrapping around my face, neck, chest. I felt no pain, I saw no blood, my eyes looked with horror at the countless legs and countless heads of that looming monster. No! something in me yelled silently, more terrible than fear, harder than death. I did not even think of God, or His name; all that existed was red, bloody, unfathomable horror.

Then they left, but I still saw them before me. They remained imprinted in the bloodstained cloth of the sky, and within me, even under my eyelids, as if I had been looking into the sun.

I could not, I did not dare to move. I was afraid that I would collapse onto the cobblestones. I did not know how I had kept standing, since I could not feel my legs under me.

Then Mullah-Yusuf came up to me, from somewhere, I did not know where. He looked frightened.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Oh yes, you are.”

“No matter.”

His full, healthy face was pale. His eyes showed astonishment and sorrow. Was he grieving for me?

Luckily, he was the first one to see me; in front of him I
would act courageous. I did not know why, but I had to. I could have shown my fear in front of anyone else, only not in front of him.

“Let’s go into the tekke,” he said softly, and it occurred to me that I was still standing against the wall, for no reason.

“I’ll be late for the prayers in the mosque.”

“You can’t go to the mosque like that. I’ll go for you, if you want.”

“Am I bleeding?”

“Yes.”

I started toward the tekke.

He took me by my arm, to help me.

“I can manage,” I said and freed my arm. “Go to the mosque, the people are waiting.”

He stopped, as if ashamed, and gave me a gloomy look.

“Don’t leave the tekke for a day or two.”

“Did you see everything that happened?”

“Yes.”

“Why did they attack me?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll lodge a complaint.”

“Don’t do that, Sheikh-Ahmed.”

“How can I not do it? I won’t be able to face myself.”

“Don’t do it. Forget about it.”

He did not look me in the eyes. He was pleading with me, as if he knew something.

“Why do you say that?”

He said nothing, averting his gaze. If he was afraid, he did not know what to say; if he knew something, he wanted to say nothing about it; if it occurred to him that it was not his affair, he regretted having said anything. My God, what had we made out of him?

It was because of him that I concealed my fear and weakness, because of him I wanted to go to the mosque covered with blood, because of him I said that I would lodge a complaint. I wanted to remain upright before this young man;
we had strange ties to each other. He pitied me, for the first time. And I had thought that he hated me.

“Go,” I said, watching the color quickly return to his cheeks. “Go now.”

It would have been more natural for me to go mad from the fear that this unbelievable event had caused. But miraculously, I lived through that first moment intact and, keeping everything inside of me, I succeeded in brushing it aside, suppressing it, blotting it out for the time being. Horrible, a naive memory said within me, but it was unable to bring anything to life. I was also proud that I had concealed my fear, and I still had a pleasant feeling of courage—not very certain though, but sufficient for me to delay everything.

While Mustafa and Hafiz-Muhammed, shocked and frightened, undressed and washed me I tried in vain to keep my arms and legs from trembling, although I still had enough strength not to feel shame or fear. It was as if a bed of dying embers flared up a few times and the terrible rumbling and fear would suddenly come to life; but I had succeeded in turning everything back to the time when it was still happening and nothing hurt yet. It’s over, I said to myself, nothing has happened that should upset me too much. If only it doesn’t get worse; if only it ends with this. And I listened avidly to their incoherent conversation, to Mustafas inquiries about what had happened, since he could not understand any of it, and to Hafiz-Muhammed’s astonished gasping, which alternated with awkward words of encouragement and angry snaps at Mustafa, and threats to someone indefinite, unknown, whom he called
they.
His stuttering disapproval supported a vacillating feeling I had of indignation at the insult that had been inflicted on me, and when Mullah-Yusuf returned from the mosque and stood by the door, silent, my desire to do something grew even stronger. I took advantage of it immediately, frightened by another desire, the desire to do nothing. I wrote out a complaint to the vali’s mullah, and gave it to Yusuf to copy.

When I lay down I could not get to sleep. I was bothered by the complaint; I still had it, and was not sure whether to send it or tear it up. If I tore it up, everything would end there. But then everything that had been hidden would come to life, and the dying fire might flare up again. I would again hear the bloodcurdling rumble of hooves. If I sent the complaint I would preserve my conviction that I could defend myself, that I had the right to make accusations. I needed to be able to believe this.

It seemed that I had just fallen asleep when I was awakened by noisy footsteps and candlelight in my room. I saw above me the man with the flat face, the one who had brought the musellim’s threat. Another man, someone I did not know, held the candle.

“What do you want?” I asked, frightened, jarred out of my sleep, startled by their impudence.

He did not hurry to give an answer. He looked at me scornfully, curiously, as he had the night before, in a cunning, friendly manner, as if he and I shared some joke that brought us closer and gave us occasion to be cheerful without saying anything. The other was holding the candle over my bed, as if I were someone’s concubine.