by Paul Busson
I walked round the building. No, it had no second entrance. There was no doubt about this. I looked again at the flat red tiles of the entrance, worn down by many feet. They were the last earthly thing Sennon’s feet had trodden upon.
In the afternoon I took an interpreter with me, a sly young man, and paid a visit to Akhmed, the Sheikh of the Halveti. I was at once admitted and drank coffee with him and a young, earnest-looking Dervish. We sat on a parti-coloured divan in a well-lighted room. The interpreter conveyed my words to the Sheikh.
No, the Zotniye (gentleman) had come in vain. It was indeed known to them that an Austrian soldier was supposed to have gone into the Tekkeh, and never come out of it. But it must be a mistake. For there is only one door to the Tekkeh.
Good! But how was the thing to be explained? Who was the Dervish in the brown mantle, who wore the turban of the Halveti, and the amber beads?
Ah, had I known the life of Melchior Dronte, known something about Iza Bekchi! But at that time the sheets of Voraufs account were lying in my house, thousands of miles away from Albania on the German highroad lined with poplars, sealed and packed, invisible even to the moon, when it looked into the windows of my room.
The Dervish? they answered. He was not one of their company. Besides, the door of the Tekkeh was always locked, with three old locks, each of which weighed about two pounds; very old locks from the days of Sultan Osman.
But surely there was an explanation of some sort - there must be some explanation. How did Vorauf and the Monk pass through the locked door?
The grey-bearded Sheikh and the young Dervish looked at each other. Then they looked at me and at my interpreter with an expression of polite contempt - yes, I had grown accustomed to such looks since I came into closer touch with the Moslems - then they talked to each other in rapid and low voices. I distinguished the words “syrr” and “Deyishtirme.”
The old man made a bow to me. He was very sorry not to be able to help me. But he knew nothing about it.
Nay, they knew nothing, the Dervish chimed in. The interpreter translated his words to me.
They surveyed us with an expression of polite question. Their eyes told us:
“May we beg you to leave us to ourselves again, inquisitive sirs?”
We rose to go. There was nothing more to be discovered. That was plain.
The Dervishes were exceedingly polite. The Sheikh touched the carpet with his hand, then his mouth and forehead.
“What was it they talked about by themselves?” I asked my interpreter as we stood again in the dazzling sunshine beneath the cypress trees, where the wild pigeons were laughing and cooing over our heads.
The interpreter shrugged his shoulders perplexedly and looked at me sideways.
“They not spoke like Shqiptars, not Albanian, Zotniye,” he said. “They very low spoke. I not understood. It was Osmanli, turc, mon capitaine, you understand?” (He said the last words in English.)
“What do the words Syrr and Deyishtirme mean?” I asked. I had remembered them quite well.
The interpreter shook his head, and said:
“Syrr - that means mystery, yes; and Deyishtirme, this you say in German Umtausch."
“Yes, but what can it mean?’
“Le mystère, mystery of the transformation - a change into living body - vous comprenez?”
“Old wives’ tales!”
Yes, time had stood still there. Story-tellers sat in the coffee-houses, and when it was dark the Turks would go about only in twos and threes, they were so afraid of djinns, afrits and ghouls...
But I, Dr. Kaspar Hedrich...
Transformation! This means that my good Sennon Vorauf... What had he said? What did Riemeis’s letter say? “They call me.”
In my distress I went again to Section headquarters.
“Impudent swindle!” shouted Lieutenant Switschko. “The fellow has deserted. The Turks were in it. I saw them with my own eyes bowing to the ground before him, and the women came to him to have their sick children healed. I ought really to have put a stop to the whole business from the very beginning... Are you coming with me to the mess, doctor?”
No, I was not coming. Nor did I want to see Riemeis any more, nor Corporal Maierl. I was very melancholy . Oh, to have had these precious papers before me! Why did they come into my hands so late!
But Sennon had desired it so, Sennon himself, that is Evli.
Here I am, sitting quite alone. It is midnight. All has passed Ion; ago. Life is short, and missed opportunities do not return.
What wanderings are in store for me. what travels?
“Syrr” the wind sighs in the poplars. Syrr! - mystery!