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

his knotty fingers together, hid his eyes. I was sorry and depressed.
    “We’re scattered all over,” he said. “Only trouble brings us together.”
    “When did you hear?”
    “The other day. Some caravan drivers came through.”
    “And you came at once? Are you afraid?”
    “I’ve come to see what this is all about.”
    We talked about the imprisoned man who was my brother and his son, as if he were dead, without mentioning his name. He, who had disappeared, brought us together. We thought about him even as we talked about everything else.
    My father watched me with fear and hope now, anythingthat I said would be fateful for him. He did not mention his fears or expectations; he superstitiously avoided saying anything definite, fearing the evil magic of words. He merely added a last reason, the one that had in fact brought him here:
    “You’re respected here, you know all the important people.”
    “It’s nothing serious. He said something he shouldn’t have.”
    “What did he say? Can you really be imprisoned for a word?”
    “Today I’ll go to the musellim.* To find out why and to ask for mercy.”
    “Should I go as well? I’ll tell them that they’ve made a mistake, that they’ve imprisoned a most honest man, that he couldn’t have done anything bad. Or I’ll fall on my knees, let them see paternal sorrow. And I’ll pay them if need be; I’ll sell everything I own and pay them, only let them release him.”
    “They’ll release him; you don’t need to go anywhere.”
    “Then I’ll wait here. I won’t leave the inn until you return. And tell them he’s all I have left. I’d hoped that he would come back home, so the fire of my hearth won’t die out. But I’d still sell everything, I don’t need anything.”
    “Don’t worry. Everything will be all right, with God’s mercy.”
    I made up everything except the part about God’s mercy. I did not have the heart to leave him without hope, and could not tell him that I knew nothing about my brother. My father lived in the naive belief that my presence and reputation would be a possible shield for him. I did not want to mention that my presence had not only not helped him, but that my reputation had been cast into doubt as well. How could he understand that a part of my brother’s guilt had also fallen on me?
    I left the inn, burdened by the duty that I had acceptedout of consideration for my father, without knowing how to perform it, oppressed by the careless words that he had blurted out in sorrow. He never would have spoken them had he been in control of himself; in this way I saw how great his sorrow was. And I also saw that he had written me off: I no longer existed for him, it was as if I were dead and my brother were all that he had left. That was what I should tell people: I’m dead for my father; my brother is all he has left, give him back to him. I no longer exist. Peace to the soul of the sinful dervish Ahmed, he’s dead, he only appears to be alive. If my father had not been so stunned by his sorrow, I never would have learned what he thought about me. And now I knew it, and saw myself differently, through the eyes of someone else. Was the path that I had chosen so worthless for my father that he would bury me alive because of it? Did my calling really mean nothing to him, were we so distant from each other, so different, on such totally opposite paths that he did not even recognize my existence? He did not even regret losing me; so long ago, so thoroughly had he recovered from this loss. But maybe I was exaggerating, maybe my father would have also come as quickly on my account, if something had ever happened to me. And maybe then he would have thought only about me, because one feels closest to whoever has it the worst.
    What is it that suddenly happens, what stone slips from our foundations, leaving everything to collapse and crumble? Life had seemed to be a solid edifice, without a single crack, but an unexpected tremor,