Death and the Dervish (Writings From An Unbound Europe) Read online

  How could I now tell the dying man: follow the path of your Lord obediently, when I shuddered at that hidden path, of which my minute knowledge did not have the slightest notion?

  I believed in the Last Judgment and in eternal life, but I also began to believe in the horror of death, in the fear of its opaque blackness.

  I had not yet made a decision when I was led into one of the rooms. A young maidservant showed me the way. I walked with my eyes lowered, so I would not see her face and could think up something, anything. I’ll lie to you old man, God will forgive me; I’ll tell you what you expect to hear, and not these muddled thoughts of mine.

  He was not there. Without raising my eyes I noticed that the room was free from the heavy odor of the sick, which, after a prolonged illness, cannot be removed by cleaning or airing, nor by the burning of incense.

  When I looked up and searched for this man who had long been ill but did not smell of death, I beheld a beautiful woman on a divan, a reminder of life more powerful than could be good for me.

  Maybe it is strange for me to say this, but it is true: I felt uncomfortable. There could have been a number of reasons. I had prepared for a meeting with an old, dying man, and was oppressed by dark thoughts myself, but I came before his daughter (although I had never seen her, I knew who she was). I am unskilled in conversations with women, especially with women of her beauty and age. Around thirty, it seemed to me. Young women merely imagine life and believe words. Old women fear death and listen to tales of paradise with a sigh. But women like her know the value of everything they gain and lose, and they always have their own reasons for what they do, reasons that might be strange, but are rarely naive. Their mature eyes are free even when lowered, and unpleasantly open even when hidden behind their eyelashes. Most unpleasant of all is our awareness that they know more than they show and measure us by their own strange standards, which are beyond our understanding. Their undeceivable curiosity, which emanates even when concealed, is protected by their inviolability, if only they want it. And as we stand before them we are protected by nothing. They are certain of their strength, which they do not use but keep like a saber in its sheath, always with a hand on the hilt, and they see in us potential slaves or despicable creatures who are proud of our useless strength without reason. Their foolish self-confidence is so convincing that it affects us even as we detest it. We remain fearful despite our faith in some unknown possibility, some spell, some secret power of the devil.

  This woman also had a special power that did not belong to her, but rather to her lineage. Her posture and gestures, self-assured and commanding (that is how she motioned for me to sit down) appeared tempered, softened by something I could not determine, by a habit, by a soft gleam in her eyes, which were shaded with kohl in the slit of her veil, by an arm, curved like a swan’s neck, that held one end of the thin fabric, by a strange allure that effused from her like a magic spell.

  The daughter of the devil, cursed the dervish and thought the peasant in me, both of them astonished.

  Darkness drifted into the room; all that showed white were her veil and hand. We sat at almost opposite ends of the room, with only its insufficient width and an uneasy expectation between us.

  “I called for Hafiz-Muhammed,” she said, secure in the half-darkness.

  She was not satisfied, or it seemed so to me.

  “He asked me to come in his place. He’s ill.”

  “No matter. You’re also a friend of this house.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  I wanted to say more, something more ceremonious: that otherwise I would not have earned such warm, friendly words and would not be worthy of our benefactor’s attention, that their house had a special place in our hearts, and so on, like in a song. But it all came out muddled.

  Some maidservants brought in candles and refreshments.

  I waited.

  The candles burned between us on a table standing to one side. She appeared closer and more dangerous. I did not know what she had in mind.

  I thought that I had been summoned on account of her father. I would have come even if I had not been hoping for a miracle, some hidden opportunity, some stroke of luck that would help me try to save my brother. Somewhere among my words of death and paradise I would slip in a word seeking mercy for him. Maybe it would help, maybe the old man would perform a good deed before his great journey, of which we know nothing. Maybe he would thus raise a memorial to himself. Maybe. Because shortly before death we remember that two angels sit on our shoulders and record our bad and good deeds, and we are eager to improve our accounts. It is hard to die more profitably than with an act of kindness that remains fresh and unsoured after us. And he could have easily helped me as well as himself. Aini-effendi would be more concerned with not displeasing his rich father-in-law than with keeping some poor wretch in prison, if Ali-aga decided that simply releasing him, without any sacrifice or worry, would serve as a stepping-stone on his path to heaven. He could not earn anything more easily, and I did not believe he would refuse.

  But I knew nothing about her. She would not be able to talk with me about anything, and I could not be of any use to her. I failed to see any connection between us.

  We faced each other like two warriors with their weapons hidden behind their backs, like two adversaries hiding their intentions within themselves. We would reveal ourselves when our combat began. I waited to see what she wanted to capture, what she wanted to take away, and hope still lived in me, although it was not so strong as it had been a few moments before. This woman was too young and too beautiful to think of the angels that record our deeds. This was the only world that existed for her.

  She did not search for words or hesitate very long; she was indeed like a warrior who marched into battle without faltering or turning back. That was due to her status, as well as to mine. If she had ever wavered, she did not in front of me. At first I followed her deliberately soft voice, which had the timber of a zurna,* and listened to her speech, which resembled embroidery or a string of pearls, words and phrases completely different from those of the townspeople, somewhat withered yet ornate, with the aura of those old chambers and something enduring.

  “It’s not easy for me to say this—I wouldn’t tell it to just anyone. But you’re a dervish. You’ve certainly seen and heard everything, and helped people as much as you can. And you know that in every family things happen which aren’t pleasant for anyone involved. Do you know my brother Hassan?”

  “I do.”

  “I’d like to talk about him.”

  Thus as she began, she said all that was necessary: she flattered me, showed her confidence in me, cited my title, and prepared me for the unpleasant things she was going to say, thereby including everyone, so I would not forget that disagreeable affairs befall all families, and not only theirs. Although the evil was thus greater, the disgrace was smaller, since it was universal, and could be discussed without shame.

  This uselessly nice introduction was followed by a fairly well known complaint about the black sheep of the family and great hopes that had been shamefully betrayed. The family’s stray sheep was not bothered by its blackness, while for the others it was sorrow and grief, disgrace before the world and fear before God. People would recite this lovely lament in front of us, sometimes sincerely, hoping for assistance, which we would promise but rarely give, but most often so we would witness to others that they had done everything in their power, approached even the clergy, and that it was not their fault that the evil was ineradicable.

  I knew this story by heart; it had been told to us for a long time now, and my interest dwindled as soon as I heard it. I listened with a feigned attentiveness, and covered that up with an insincerely watchful expression. With no reason, I had expected something that would astonish me. But nothing could. She would say what was appropriate, complain about her brother and ask me to talk with him, to try to bring him to his senses; I would listen to this allegedly melancholy confession with sympathy,
and promise to do everything in my feeble power, relying on God’s help. Nothing would change, but she would be at peace because she had fulfilled her duty and everybody would know it. I would talk with Hassan, trying not to appear silly, and Hassan would continue to live as he pleased, glad that his family was furious about it. And no one would receive any harm from any of this. Or benefit. Least of all my imprisoned brother and I. For she spoke without a real need, without any prospects for benefit or success, from a weak feeling of social obligation that was intended for the ears of those outside the family. And I was supposed to proclaim it. But that was only polite behavior, a posture that suited the reputation of the family, a justification for other, unafflicted families, a disassociation from the culprit, his expulsion. She gained little, not nearly enough for me to seek mercy for my brother in return. Those family renegades such as Hassan occurred more and more, it seemed that they had become fed up with the order and reputations of their fathers. Hassan was only one of many, so it was not even a particular disgrace, but an occurrence like many others, which human will could hardly control.

  Her story was of no interest to me, for I knew the end as soon as I heard the beginning, and I was not moved at all by her complaint, since it was insincere. But she also knew how to show restraint; she did not want to exaggerate. For her it was enough to state it. There was a certain acceptable insensitivity in this fulfillment of a duty that her heart had not sought.

  As I no longer had any reason or ability to listen to her attentively, I concentrated on observing her. This I did with interest, and she might have thought that it was on account of her words. Thus, we both appeared polite.

  I had in fact been watching her from the very first moment of our encounter. She surprised me with the beauty of her smooth face, which gleamed through the thin fabric of her veil, and with the subdued light of her large eyes, which revealed a passionate rashness and deep shadows within. But that was a hasty glance, anxious, insecure, in expectation of what she would say, and it told more about me than about her. And when her spell wore off, when I entrenched myself in the safety of my ostensible attentiveness, she enticed me to view her with my eyes and without uneasiness.

  This was not ordinary curiosity for a better glimpse of these strange creatures, so foreign to our world, a curiosity we rarely satisfy. We might not even feel it in our encounters with them, out of understandable considerations. I suddenly found myself in a position to observe her secretly, without disturbing anything in our relationship, since in front of her I remained a dervish who respected her will and dignity. I felt somewhat superior, as I knew what she was thinking, and looked at her freely, but she could not see me. She saw nothing of me and knew nothing about me. This was an advantage we might often desire, but seldom receive. It was man’s ancient desire to be invisible. Yet I did not do anything improper, I watched her, calm and composed, and I knew I would not have a single thought that I would remember with shame.

  First I noticed her hands. While she held the veil with prescribed, fixed gestures that restricted their possibilities, they were separated and unexpressive, hardly perceptible. But when she let go of the fabric and put them together, they suddenly came to life and became a single entity. They would not begin their movements rashly or move briskly, but in their silent motionlessness and slow wandering there was a strange meaning and so much power that they drew my attention again and again. It seemed that at any moment they might do something important, something decisive. Thus an air of expectation arose, constant and exciting. They rested together on her lap, in an embrace, as if smothering each other in quiet yearning or keeping each other from wandering off, from doing something unreasonable. They remained motionless in an incessant, barely perceptible rippling, like a restless shiver, or a light spasm of excessive energy. Then they parted, without haste, as if by agreement. They hovered for a moment, looking for one another, and then alighted tenderly on a satin knee like amorous birds, embracing again, inseparable, happy in their silence together. This lasted for a long time, then one moved and began to stroke the satin under it, and the skin under the satin, with fingers that contracted slowly and passionately. The other lay nestled on top of it, silent, listening to the smooth silk rustle inaudibly on her round, marble knee. Only occasionally would they tear themselves away, and one would embark upon a journey of its own, to brush softly the earring on the edge of an ear hidden timidly under black hair with a reddish tinge. Or it would pause in the air as if to hear a word or two, and then withdraw without much interest for the conversation to meet the other, which was silent, offended at that small lapse in attention.

  I followed them, surprised by the expressiveness of their independent existence. They were like two small creatures that had their own realm of life, their own needs and love, their own jealousy, longing, and lewdness. At one moment I was delighted, at the next frightened by the crazy thought of the isolation and senselessness of that petty life, so similar to every other. But that was a quick and harmless thought, a single, momentary beat of another life in me, which I did not want to awaken.

  I also watched them for their beauty. They began at her wrists, which were enclosed in bracelets and the embroidered cuffs of her silken shirt. Their joints were tenderly oval and inconceivably slender, their knuckles limpid. Most beautiful of all were her fingers, long and supple; their fair skin was perfectly smooth, with shadows at the joints. They seemed strangely alive as they slowly opened and closed into a transparent calyx, like petals.

  But if at first I paid attention to those two little creatures, two small animals, two octopi, two flowers, they were not the only thing I noticed, not even at the beginning when I had been mostly watching them, nor later on as I discovered her like an unknown land. Everything about her was harmonious and inseparable: the look of her eyes, lightly shaded with kohl, which merged with the gestures of her arm, barely hidden by the transparent fabric of her shirt; the slight tilt of her head and the glimmer of an emerald set in gold on her brow; the unconscious quiver of her foot in its silver-embroidered slipper; her smooth, even face, along which a tender light effused from somewhere within, from her blood, which changed into a warm glow; the moist flash of her teeth behind seemingly lazy, full lips.

  She was only a body; everything else was supplanted by it. She did not awaken desire in me; I would have not allowed myself that. I would have stifled it at the very beginning, with shame, with the thought of my age and title, with the awareness of the danger that I would have exposed myself to, with the fear of an unrest that could be more serious than disease, with my habit of self-control. But I could not hide from myself the fact that I watched her with pleasure, with a deep and peaceful enjoyment, with which one watches a calm river, the evening sky, the moon at midnight, a tree in bloom, the lake of my childhood at dawn. Without a desire to possess her, without the possibility of experiencing her completely, without the strength to leave. It was pleasant to watch her lively hands chase one another, forgetting themselves in the game. It was pleasant to hear her speak. No, she did not have to say anything, it was enough that she existed.

  Then it occurred to me that even this joyous observation was dangerous, and I no longer felt superior or hidden. Something unwanted came to life in me. It was not passion, but something maybe worse than that: memory. Of the one and only woman in my life. I did not know how she had emerged from underneath the sediment of years; she had not been so pretty as this woman, not even similar to her. Why did the one recall the other? I was more concerned with that distant one, who no longer existed, whom I had been forgetting and recalling for twenty years. She surfaced in my memory when I neither wanted nor needed her, bitter as absinthe. She had not appeared for a long time, so why did she come now? Was it because of this woman, whose face came right out of sinful dreams; was it because of my brother, to make me forget him, was it because of everything that had happened, so I would reproach myself? So I would blame myself for all of the missed opportunities which I could no longer bring b
ack?

  I lowered my eyes. A man must never think that he is secure, or that his past is dead. But why did it awaken when I needed it the least? She was not important, that distant woman, the memory of her replaced the hidden thought that everything might have been different, even the things that hurt me. Go away, shadow; nothing could have been different, and there would have always been something else that hurt. Nothing would improve if things were different in our lives.

  The woman who had sent me adrift brought me back to herself.

  “Are you listening?”

  “I am.”

  Had she noticed that I had become preoccupied?

  “I’m listening, go on.”

  I actually listened now; that was safer. And as I did, I heard with surprise that she was not telling an utterly ordinary story. It was not truly unusual either, but it was not boring, and listening to her was worth more than watching her. My hope suddenly lifted its head.

  She told me what I already knew about her brother’s strange lot: that he had finished school in Constantinople6 and attained a position that corresponded both to his knowledge and the reputation of the family (she overemphasized the former and underemphasized the latter, as his position was not high, but in this way she balanced everything out). They were all proud of him, especially his father. But then something unexpected happened, that no one could explain, that no one knew the real reason for, not even Hassan: he changed completely. As if that wonderful young man had never lived, she said. And everyone wondered in utter bewilderment where his knowledge had gone, which even the muderrises* had recognized, how so many years had disappeared without a trace, where the origin of the evil lay. He left his post without telling anyone, returned home, married inappropriately, and began to associate with common people. He took to drinking and squandering his fortune, doing unheard-of things around the kasaba with his companions and with tavern-dancers (her voice lowered, but did not break), and at other places that should not even be mentioned. Then he became a caravan driver (there was disgust, almost horror in her voice): he brought cattle down from Wallachia7 and Serbia and drove them to Dalmatia and Austria, working for other merchants as a middleman, as their servant. He lost a great deal, ruined himself. His estate was dwindling; he had sold half of what his mother had left him. Hassan’s father went out of his mind, and even fell ill because of him. He implored him and threatened him, all to no avail: no one could turn him from his path. Now his father would not hear of him, he would not even allow Hassan’s name to be mentioned in his presence, as if his son did not exist, as if he had died. She had cried her eyes out in front of her father, but nothing helped. Then she said something that aroused my attention; the zurna began to play an interesting tune. Her father had decided to deprive him of his inheritance, to compose a will before respected people and publicly disown him. And to keep this from happening, to keep things from getting worse than they already were, she was asking me to talk with Hassan so that he would renounce his inheritance himself, voluntarily. In that way his father’s curse would fall from him, and the shame of the family would be lessened. She added that her husband, Aini-effendi, knew nothing about any of this, he did not want to come between father and son. Everything she was doing to lessen the misfortune was of her own account, and we could help her greatly, Hafiz-Muhammed and I, because she had heard that Hassan visited our tekke, and she was glad that at least sometimes he talked with good and sensible people.