Death and the Dervish (Writings From An Unbound Europe) (39 page)

“Hot-tempered, hard-headed, impossible,” the old man concluded softly.

But that was no longer love.

That was better, I thought faintheartedly, subconsciously justifying my detachment. That was better—no sweet words,
no empty smiles, no deception. Everything is nice as long as we do not ask for anything; and it is dangerous to test our friends. Men are loyal only to themselves.

While I thus, flinging dirt at others, gave vent to my restlessness, with neither pleasure nor malice, the shop grew dark, and the blue shadows turned black.

I turned around: the musellim was standing in the stone doorframe.

“Come in,” Hadji-Sinanuddin said to him, without getting up.

Hassan rose calmly, without haste, and motioned for him to sit down.

I moved aside, for no reason at all, thus revealing my anxiety. I saw him from up close for the first time since Harun’s death. I had not known how this encounter would be, and I did not know now, as I watched him uneasily, shifting my gaze to him, from Hassan, from Hadji-Sinanuddin, from my own hands. I was confused and frightened, not by him, but by me, because I did not know what would happen, whether my wounded self would thrust me at him in the worst moment and in the worst way, or whether my fear would make me smile submissively at him in spite of everything I felt, because of which I would despise myself for the rest of my life. I was losing my composure; I felt a cramp in my bowels and a painful rush of blood into my heart. I took the tobacco box that Hassan offered me (had he sensed my anxiety?) and, barely raising the lid, began to gather the slender yellow fibers, spilling them onto my lap with trembling fingers. Hassan took the box, filled a
chibouk*
and offered it to me; I smoked, I drew in the sharp smoke, for the first time in my life. I held one hand with the other, and waited for him to look at me or say something to me, feeling that I was damp with sweat.

He wouldn’t sit down, he told Hadji-Sinanuddin; he just stopped in on the spur of the moment. As he was passing by, he remembered that he wanted to ask him something.

(The rush of my blood abated, I breathed more easily, and gave him furtive glances. I thought that he was even gloomier than he had been before, even uglier, although I did not know whether it had ever occurred to me that he was gloomy and ugly.)

It was none of his business, but he had been told that Hadji-Sinanuddin would not pay the seferi-imdadiya, the war tax, which had been decreed by an imperial order; and because of that others were also reluctant to pay. And if respected men, like Hadji-Sinanuddin, did not perform their duty, what could be expected from the others, spendthrifts and loafers, who did not care about their country or their faith, and who would let everything go to ruin if only their piasters remained untouched in their coffers? He was hoping that this had been an accident, that Hadji-Sinanuddin had forgotten or neglected to do it, and that he would do it as soon as possible, immediately, so there would not be any unnecessary trouble, which would not be of any benefit to anyone.

“It wasn’t an accident,” Hadji-Sinanuddin answered calmly, without fear or defiance, having patiently waited for the musellim to say everything he wanted to. “It wasn’t an accident, and I didn’t forget or neglect to do it. Rather, I don’t want to pay what isn’t due. The rebellion in the Posavina
³
—that’s not war. So why should we pay a war tax? And the imperial decree you mentioned doesn’t apply in this case. We should wait for the Porte’s response to a petition that has been sent by the most distinguished men. And everyone thinks the same; no one has been influenced by anyone else, so if there’s an imperial decision for it to be collected, we’ll pay.”

“Hadji-Sinanuddin Aga wants to say that it’s safest to obey the imperial will. And if we pay now, we’ll be doing it of our own free will and against the law, and free will and lawlessness create disorder and discord,” Hassan cut in. He stepped between them from the side. His face was serious, his arms folded on his chest; he was politely ready to explain
all the details to the musellim if he had not understood.

But the musellim was not one for jokes and was not hindered by this ostensibly naive interpretation. Without showing impatience at this interruption or anger at his open mockery, or even scorn, for which a man of his position never has to seek a reason, he looked at Hassan with his heavy motionless eyes, which even his own wife would not call gentle, and turned to Hadji-Sinanuddin:

“However you want, it doesn’t matter to me. I just think that sometimes it’s cheaper to pay.”

“I don’t care whether it’s cheap, but whether it’s just.’”

“Justice can be expensive.”

“And injustice as well.”

And they took a long look at each other. I could not see the musellim’s expression, but I knew what it was like; and the old man even smiled, kindly and good-naturedly.

The musellim turned and went out of the shop.

I wanted to go outside as soon as possible, the air that he had breathed would suffocate me, I would be driven mad by what the two of them would say, making fun of him.

But these men kept surprising me.

“So?” asked the old man, not even watching the musellim leave. “Have you changed your mind?”

“No.”

“Hassan never retracts his words, just like the emperor. I can’t get anything done today.”

He laughed, as if Hassan’s refusal made him happy, and brought the conversation to a close: “When will you come again? I’m beginning to hate both my obligations and those of others; they keep me from my friends.”

Not a word about the musellim! As if he had not been in the shop, as if a beggar had come in, asking for alms! They had forgotten him, immediately, as soon as he crossed the doorstep.

I was baffled. What kind of elegant, noble-minded pride was this, that so utterly rejected everything it despised? How
many years and generations have to pass for a man to stifle his desire for mockery, spite, and reproof? I did not notice that they were doing it on purpose, or restraining themselves. They had simply erased him.

It was almost as if they had insulted me. Was it possible to ignore that man in such a way? He deserved more. He had to be thought about. He was impossible to forget, impossible to erase.

“How was it that neither of you said anything about the musellim when he left?” I asked Hassan in the street.

“What’s there to say about him?”

“He threatened and insulted Hadji-Sinanuddin.”

“He can ruin you, but he can’t insult you. You have to watch out for him, like fire, like any possible danger. That’s all.”

“You speak like that because he hasn’t done anything to you.”

“Maybe. And you were upset. Were you frightened? You spilled the tobacco.”

“I wasn’t afraid.”

He looked at me, surprised probably by my tone.

“I wasn’t frightened. I just remembered everything.”

I had remembered everything. God knows for which time, but differently than ever before. I had been upset when he came in, and while he was talking with Hadji-Sinanuddin, I could not sort out my thoughts, or stop any of them. They rushed through my brain, spooked, flustered, confused, burning with memories, hurt, rage, pain—right until he threw his cold, concentrated glance at me, heavy with scorn and condescension, unlike the way he looked at both of them. Then, in that brief moment when our eyes met, like the points of two sharp knives, it might have happened that fear prevailed in me. It had already appeared, and it flooded me, quickly, like a river rising over its banks.

I had experienced difficult moments before. Within myself I had been clashing with contradictory opinions, reconciling
rash impulses with cautious reasons, but I did not know that I had ever, as at that moment, turned into the battlefield of so many opposing desires, that such hordes of unexpected wishes had charged and tried to break out, held back by cowardice and fear. You killed my brother, bloodthirsty rage shouted in me, you insulted, destroyed me. But at the same time I knew it was not good that he saw me precisely with those men, who despised and resisted him. So I found myself by accident, without my own will, on the opposite side, against him; but I would have preferred for him not to know it.

It seemed that it was this very fear that had been decisive. It was brushed aside by my shame for myself, the worse and gravest shame that gives birth to courage. My distress subsided; the mad rush quieted down; thoughts no longer flew through me like birds over a fire. I was aware of only a single thought, a calming quiet began, in which angels sang. Angels of evil. Exulting.

That was the joyful moment of my transformation.

Afterward, almost lit up with this new fire from within, I would watch his stout neck, his slightly hunched shoulders, his stocky figure. I did not care whether he would turn around; I did not care whether he would look at me with a smile or scorn. I did not care; he was mine. I needed him; I tied myself to him with hatred.

I hate you, I whispered passionately, averting my gaze, I hate him, I thought, watching him. I hate, I hate. Those two words were enough for me; I could not say them enough. That was a delight, young and fresh, lush and painful, like longing for love. It’s he, I said to myself, not permitting him to get very far away from me, not allowing myself to lose him. He. As one would think about a beloved girl. Sometimes I let him get away, like a game animal, so I could follow his tracks, and then I would approach him again until he was in the sights of my eyes. Everything that was disjointed, confused, and scattered in me, everything that sought an exit
and solution calmed down, abated, gathering strength, which increased continuously.

My heart found something to hold on to.

I hate him, I whispered deliriously, walking down the street. I hate him, I thought, saying the evening prayer. I hate him, I said, almost out loud, as I entered the tekke.

When I woke up the following morning, my hatred was awake and waiting for me, with its head raised, like a snake coiled in the folds of my brain.

We would no longer be apart. It had me, and I had it. Life had acquired meaning.

At first I was pleased with this delirious, somewhat dreamy state, similar to the first moments of a fever; all I needed was that black, horrible love. It almost resembled happiness.

I had become richer, more defined, more generous, better, even smarter. The dislocated world settled back into place, and I again established a relationship with everything. I freed myself from the dark fear of life’s meaninglessness. I could make out the desired order ahead of me.

Go back, sentimental memories of childhood. Go back, slimy powerlessness. Back, terror of ineptness. I was no longer the flayed sheep driven into thorny underbrush. My thoughts were no longer groping in the dark, blindly. My heart was a glowing cauldron that boiled with an intoxicating potion.

I looked everything in the eyes, calmly and openly, fearing nothing. I went everywhere I thought I would see the musellim, or at least the top of his turban. I waited for the kadi in the street and followed after him, looking at his narrow, hunched back, and went away slowly, alone, exhausted by my hidden passion. If hatred had a smell, I would have left the scent of blood behind me. If it had a color, my footprints would have been black. If it could burn, flames would have leaped from all of my orifices.

I knew how it had been born, and when it grew stronger
it no longer needed a reason at all. It became its very own reason and end. But I did not want it to forget its origins, so that it would not lose its0 strength and heat or neglect those to whom it owed everything, and thus become everyone’s. It should remain faithful to them.

I went to Abdullah-effendi again, the sheikh of the Mevlevi tekke, and asked him to help me find my brother’s grave. I’ve come to him, I said humbly, because I don’t dare to go myself and ask those who have power to show or not to show mercy; they’ll refuse me, and then all doors will be closed to me. Therefore I have to send others in my place, and I’ll nurture my hopes until I find them. I’ve come to him first, I trust in his goodness and will hide behind his reputation, since my own is no longer high, and God Himself knows that this happened through no fault of mine. I would be greatly obliged to him, because I want to bury my brother as God has commanded, so that his soul may rest in peace.

He did not refuse me, but it seemed to him that because of my misfortune I knew less and was not as worthy. He said:

“His soul has found its peace. It’s no longer human. It’s crossed over into another world, where there’s no sorrow, unrest or hatred.”

“But my soul is still human.”

“Are you doing this for yourself?”

“For myself as well.”

“Do you grieve or hate? Beware of hatred, so you won’t sin against yourself and others. Beware of grief, so you won’t sin against God.”

“I grieve as much as is human. I’m wary of sin, Sheikh-Abdullah. I’m in God’s hands. And yours.”

I had to listen to his teaching calmly and to win his goodwill with my dependence. When they think they are above us, people can even be generous.

I was not powerful enough to have the right to be impatient; nor weak enough to have reason to be furious. I made
use of others, letting them feel superior. I had a signpost and a mainstay; why should I have been small-minded?

He helped me; I was granted permission to enter the fortress and find the grave. Hassan went with me. We also took servants, with an empty coffin and shovels.

We were taken to the fortress graveyard by a guard, or servant, or gravedigger: it was hard to say what that silent man was, unused to conversation, unused to looking people in the eyes, timidly curious, angrily obliging, as if he were continuously torn between the desire to help us and the desire to drive us out.

“There it is,” he nodded toward an empty clearing above the fortress, with cankers of fresh earth and wounds of sunken graves, overgrown with brambleberry and weeds.

“Do you know where the grave is?”

He gave us a furtive glance, without a word. That might have meant: “Of course. I buried him.”