Death and the Dervish (Writings From An Unbound Europe) by Mesa Selimovic Page A

childlike act, because it corresponded neither to my years nor to the garb that I wore. But surprisingly, long afterward I remembered that shameful weakness as an infinite relief: for a brief moment I had been separated from everything and returned to my childhood, under someone’s protection, freed from years, events, and painful decisions. Everything had been placed in hands stronger than mine, and I was wonderfully feeble, with no need for strength, protected by omnipotent love. I wanted to tell him how I had rushed through the mahals the night before, frightened by the sinful excitement of the people, poisonedby strange thoughts myself. I always felt that way when I was upset and unhappy, as if my body were searching for a way out of my torments, and it was all because of my brother. And he, my father, had come because of him. I knew that, and wanted to tell him how the fugitive had hidden in the tekke and how I had not known what to do, how everything inside me had been pulled out of joint, so that I had wanted to punish both the fugitive and myself, that morning, and moments before, although it did not matter, nothing was in its place any more. And so I sought refuge on his chest, like the small child that I had once been.
    But this feeling of tenderness passed quickly, like a flash of lightning. Then I saw an old man before me, confused and frightened by my tears, and I knew that they had been foolish and unnecessary. They would kill any hopes that he might have had, since there was only one thing on his mind; or they would convince him that I had failed in life, and this was not true. It was also clear to me that he would not understand anything I meant to say, things that I did not merely want but rather passionately desired to say, like a child, or a weakling: his horrified eyes and the watchful guards of my reason would have stopped me immediately. We wanted the same thing from one another, each placing his faith in the strength of the other, both of us powerless, and that was the saddest part of this pointless encounter.
    I asked him why he had not come to the tekke. Even strangers stay there, and he knows how happy he would have made me. And people will wonder why he wanted to spend the night somewhere else, since we haven’t quarrelled or forgotten one another. The inn is a disagreeable place, everyone stays there. It’s only convenient for someone who has no place to go, you never know who’s coming or leaving—there are all sorts of people around these days.
    To all of my entreaties, with which I tried to delay what was to follow, he gave the same answer: he had arrived late the previous night and had not wanted to bother me.
    He waved me away when I asked whether he had heard about the murder in the inn. He had.
    He did not agree to come over to the tekke. He was going to leave that afternoon, and would spend the night in a village with friends.
    “Stay for a day or two. Get some rest.”
    He waved me away again and shook his head. Before, he had talked well, slowly, he had had time for everything, arranging words into harmoniously composed sentences. There had been a certain peace and confidence in his soft, unhurried manner of speaking; it seemed that he was above all things and that he was in control of them. He had believed in the sound and meaning of words. And now this feeble gesture with his hand meant surrender in the face of life, an abandonment of words, which could neither prevent nor explain his misfortune. He shut himself up with this gesture, and hid his confusion before his son, with whom he no longer knew how to speak. He hid his horror at the town that had met him with a murder and darkness, and his helplessness in the face of the troubles that had ruined his old age. He wanted only to conclude the affair that brought him here, and immediately to flee the kasaba, which had taken all that he had, his sons, his confidence, his faith in life. He looked around, looked at the floor, pressed