Death and the Dervish (Writings From An Unbound Europe) (47 page)

I stood and waited for him to reel off that mass of words; he would get even more upset. They could all get as upset as they wanted. And I thought about how everyone was worried about Hadji-Sinanuddin, how they were all upset and indignant, while no one had been saddened or angered when they took me away; no one had said what one honest man should say on behalf of another. Who was not honest, I or they? But maybe one should not talk about honesty; everyone thinks that his concerns are honest. And I did not belong to them: I did not belong to anyone; I had to do everything on my own. On my own, as before, but now they would be my army, and I would not be obliged to them at all. I did not belong to them, nor did I care about them. I had sent one of them to his doom, and now they would try to save him, unaware that they were working for me. And for justice, because God was on my side; and they could be as well, unwittingly.

It had been my duty to do that (I said this to the old man, belittling what I had done), and it would be my duty to do even more. If we did not defend justice there would not be any justice. I did not want to rise up against the authorities, but I would be struck by God’s punishment if I failed to speak out against the enemies of the faith, and they were anyone who undermined its foundation. If we did not stop them they would be encouraged by our fear, and would do more and more evil, scornful of both us and God’s law. But could we allow this? Did we dare to tolerate this?

I don’t know much about the enemies of the faith, Ali-aga said, but we can’t allow good people to be tyrannized. And it’s our own fault that we let all sorts of criminals and good-for-nothings push us around. We look down on them, we stopped caring about them, and so they became bold and forgot who they are. But be that as it may, we wouldn’t have
woken up had they been smarter. “Send for the kadi,” he ordered me, forgetting all propriety, just like any other man whose wealth gives him the right to dispose of other people.

I was afraid he would say that, and I had prepared for it in advance, not knowing what the kadi might do. It would be good if the kadi refused to come; he would enrage both the old man and the bazaar shopkeepers. But if he agreed, if the old man frightened or bribed him into releasing Hadji-Sinanuddin, everything would end miserably before it even began. Therefore I opposed his intention, because of the small possibility that I would have ended up looking ridiculous. The only thing left for me to do would have been to wait hopelessly for another opportunity.

I asked calmly, confident of my reasoning: “Why do you need the kadi? His own safety is more important to him than anything you might offer or threaten him with. If he releases Hadji-Sinanuddin, he’ll be accusing himself.”

“What do you want? For us to wait and look into a crystal ball? Or to pray?”

“We should send a letter to Constantinople, to Hadji-Sinanuddin’s son, Mustafa, telling him to do everything he can to save his father.”

“By the time the letter reaches him it’ll be too late. We have to get him out before then.”

“Let’s do both. If we can’t save him, then let them at least not escape punishment.”

He gave me an anxious look, as if he were stunned by the possibility of his friend’s demise.

“An honest man such as he could do no evil. So what can happen to him?”

“That’s what I thought about my brother. And you know what happened to him.”

“That was different, for God’s sake!”

“What was different, Ali-aga? That Hadji-Sinanuddin isn’t small and insignificant like my brother, that he’s got someone to stand up for him? Is that what you want to say?
Maybe it’s true, but both the kadi and the musellim know that. So why did they imprison him? To release him when you make threats? Don’t be naive, for the love of God!”

“What do you want? Revenge?”

“I want to stop evil.”

“All right,” he said, wheezing. “Let’s do both. Who’ll write the letter?”

“I’ve already written it. You can also put your seal on it, if you want. And we need to find someone to take it, as quickly as possible. And someone needs to pay for that. I don’t have any money.”

“I’ll pay. Give me the letter.”

“No. I’ll take it.”

“You don’t trust anyone, do you? Maybe you’re right.”

The post station was a strange place. I remembered it for its smell of horses and manure, for the strange men who show up from nowhere and leave for somewhere, for the absent gazes in the empty eyes of travelers who send their thoughts ahead like an advance guard, or drag them behind themselves like luggage; they are lost, like exiles.

But surprisingly, now they all looked at me, curiously and suspiciously.

“Is the letter important?” the postmaster asked.

“I don’t know.”

“How much money did Ali-aga send?”

I showed him.

“It seems important. Do you want me to make a deal with the courier?”

“I have to tell him who to give it to.”

“However you want.”

He brought the courier into the room and left.

The courier was in a hurry.

“A letter with no name? It’ll cost more than that.”

He looked at me impudently with his small eyes. His face had been roughened by the wind, sun, and rain, and there was something merciless in the expression of that man, who
galloped along distant roads bearing messages concerning the fortunes and misfortunes of others, unconcerned with their tears and happiness.

“I’m not the one paying. I’m just delivering it for someone else.”

“I don’t care. I need to be paid in full now. And the tip when I come back.”

“Half now, half when you get back. And you’ll get the tip from the man you’re taking it to.”

“That’s never certain. If the news is good, they forget to pay it because they’re happy. If the news is bad, they get angry and forget anyway.”

“The man you’re taking the letter to occupies a high position.”

“That’s even worse. People like that think it’s an honor for us to serve them. I need to be paid in full now.”

“It seems that you’re blackmailing me, my friend.”

He was holding the letter in his palm, as if trying to guess how heavy it was.

“Maybe I am. How much do you think I’d get if I gave it to someone else?”

“Who else?”

“The musellim, for example.”

I stiffened with fear, and could feel myself breaking out in a sweat under my shirt. No one can ever anticipate everything; we rely on luck more than we think. All of my calculations and preparations had been in vain—the greed of a courier could ruin me at the outset. He had sniffed out my inexperience immediately, and I had nothing that could have instilled fear in him.

In the fear that came over me my first thought was to get hold of the letter at any price: my hands were already trembling, ready to grab the courier by his neck. Fortunately, I succeeded in regaining control of myself, I even smiled, and said calmly: “Do what you want. I don’t know what’s in the letter, and I don’t know whether it’ll be worth it for you.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Listen to me, friend. Maybe you’re joking, but I don’t trust you now. Give me the letter.”

“I’m joking, you say? I’m not. I wanted to see whether it’s dangerous, to know what I’ve got. Now I know, it’s dangerous. You told me yourself.”

“What did I tell you?”

“Everything. You froze when I mentioned the musellim. You know very well what’s in the letter. Here it is, take it. Another courier is leaving in five days. You’ll have to pay him even more.”

I paid what he wanted, and gave him the silladar’s name, thinking with relief how stupidly he had been joking with both of our lives.

I left, tired, almost exhausted by the horrible thought that I should not let him get away alive with that dangerous letter. But I had given the letter back to him when I saw that he was only playing a cunning game.

And yet I had done that too easily, freeing myself rashly from some inner pressure. I was seized by doubt as soon as I went out into the street. Had I myself admitted my guilt and caused my own ruin? Had I left evidence against myself in the uncertain hands of the courier? Before this I had thought foolishly: I’ll do everything on my own. But how can a man do everything on his own?

Twice I decided to go get the letter from him but turned back around, without any real determination to leave the game. And yet the third time, when my fear drove me to it, I went as far as the yard of the post station, to stop everything, to tear up that incriminating piece of paper. But the courier was not there. He had gone to the bazaar; no one knew why.

Now I could only wait. I walked the neighboring streets, restless, fearful, angry at myself, not knowing whether I should keep walking stupidly in circles or hide, so unsure of myself that I felt like a frightened child. “I shouldn’t have done this,” I thought, reproaching myself, not knowing
exactly where I had gone wrong. Should I not have tried anything, or just not have sent the letter? Not to have tried anything meant giving up on everything, not to have sent the letter meant not doing anything, reconciling myself, but that was what I did not want. Then where had I gone wrong? Or was I so nervous about the chance occurrences that I had forgotten to include in my calculations, but that are apparently decisive in life? Or about my inevitable dependence on many people, none of whom I could trust?

And then, probably from fatigue, I felt myself calming down wearily and surrendering to the wait. Nothing depended on me any more, and I could not change anything. God would decide what was going to happen. But that was not right. Not that it mattered, but that was not right. I had not even considered the courier. He was so unimportant, how could he destroy me now? But no one can consider all the couriers in life.

Before noon I tried to find him again, without knowing why I was doing it; so much time had passed that he could have done whatever he wanted. But I could not find him, he had departed on his long journey.

If he had shown them the letter, everything would soon be over. I had nowhere to run.

I did not have the strength to wait. Those two hours of uncertainty had worn me out. I left for the musellim’s office, to rid myself of this nightmare. And as soon as I made up my mind to do that, I felt relieved. The end would be the same, whether they found me or whether I gave myself up. And yet everything was different, as I was going to meet the outcome myself. My courage returned, and a more cheerful mood, because I had changed the game, taking the decision upon myself. Maybe facing the threat in this way seems petty and resembles self-deception, but that is the point. To act, not to wait. To be a player, not a victim. Maybe that is the essence of courage. Had it taken so many years for me to discover such an important secret?

I told the guard who I was and requested to see the musellim. The guard should not say: some dervish, but should remember my name and rank. It was important.

If he agreed to receive me, I could tell him all sorts of things. I could have sought mercy for my friend, Hadji-Sinanuddin. Or explained why I had asked the guards to release him. Or warned him of the agitation that reigned in the bazaar. Or told him countless things that in no way obliged me but showed my goodwill.

I was not quite calm, but I knew this was better than anything else I could have done: I was not trying to hide or run away, I had come to talk to him of my own will, with good intentions and a clear conscience.

If he had seen the letter, they would lead me in at once, and everything would be explained very quickly. And even if he had seen it, there was still hope. The letter was Ali-aga’s, I had only written it. And I had come to tell that to the musellim.

And while I waited, thinking about everything he might ask, it occurred to me that—in addition to this unpleasant waiting and conversation full of half-truths, and even lies—I would have to do all kinds of other things that are not pretty, for a deed that was. Maybe I would be forced to do things that I would have been ashamed of in an uneventful life, for justice, which is more important than all of our petty sins.

But I could still stop myself, if that was God’s will.

O God, I whispered to myself eagerly, looking at the grey sky over the kasaba, heavy with snowy clouds, God, is what I’m doing good? If it’s not, shatter my firmness, weaken my will, make me uncertain. Give me a sign, make the branches of the poplars sway with only a breath of wind; it wouldn’t be a miracle in this autumn weather. And I’ll give up, no matter how great my desire to do this.

Not a single poplar on the riverbank stirred. They stood still, silent and cold, hanging by their thin tops from the
cloudy sky They reminded me of the poplars of my home, above a bigger and prettier river, under a sky bigger and prettier than this one. This was not an opportunity to delve into my memories; they came like a flash, like a sigh. And disappeared. And what was left was the gray day in front of me, and the heavy clouds over my head, and some kind of muddy sludge within me.

Would Is-haq’s shadow appear? This was his time.

The guard returned. The musellim could not see me

“Did you tell him who I am? You didn’t forget to mention my name, did you?”

“Ahmed Nuruddin. The sheikh of the tekke. He says he’s busy. Come again some other time.”

He did not know about the letter.

Suddenly all the shadows disappeared. I forgot about the poplars, the gray day, my sorrow, my memories. I had been right: I should not wait for anything, I should go out to meet everything. If one is not stupid or cowardly, he is not helpless, either.

The kadi’s servant-girl was standing in Ali-aga’s yard, wearing her best clothes. Zeyna told me in a whisper that the kadi’s wife was with Ali-aga; she had had to go to get her twice. The aga had demanded that she come no matter what, Zeyna did not know why.

I stopped at the very bottom of the stairs. Above, through the open door, I could hear a conversation. I would not have listened in on it had it not surprised me and had I not needed to know what it was about. The old man demanded from his daughter that the kadi come to him no matter what. He absolutely insisted on it.