by Ivo Andrić
“Here, next to me!”
Omer repeated his invitation and, unexpectedly, took hold of the headman’s right hand with both of his. It was white and strangely yielding, huge, and heavy as unbaked dough, and yet it was somehow possible to feel the dormant striking power emanating from the hand so big that both the pasha’s strong, slender, finely proportioned, dark hands could not quite cover it, and next to it, they looked small and dry, as if charred.
While not obviously opposing him, Zimonjić still hesitated to sit down; unmoving, he blinked and finally spoke. His voice, which also conveyed hesitation, was in color and pitch paler and more humble than might have been expected from that powerful body and masculine face.
“Shouldn’t we . . . invite my companions as well . . . so we all take part in this conversation. If you . . . have no objection?”
He stuttered a little when he spoke, roughly in those places where Omer’s name or title should have come, but for some reason he seemed not to wish or be able to pronounce it.
“I have no objection, but I think it’s best that we talk first, just the two of us, as two leaders, and they can join us later. I have companions as well, and as you can see, I haven’t invited them. Company and work don’t mix.”
The headman nodded, without a word.
Speaking calmly, but at the same time from a height and warmly, Omer thanked the headman for having defeated the company of Ali Pasha’s men at Zijevanj, and thereby proved himself a loyal subject, wise leader and friend of peace and order. He spoke of Ali Pasha of Stolac as of a man whose time had come and gone, calling his men scoundrels and scroungers. He mentioned the sultan’s intentions that the decree, or Hatti-Sherif, of 1839 should finally be implemented. This would benefit the whole state, but particularly the Christian population. However, he added in parenthesis, the headman and his people had to be careful of the Montenegrins, who were impulsive, restless and quick to cause trouble.
The headman shifted a little in the cheap Austrian armchair, covered in green plush, which had disappeared under him.
Omer then spoke about the order which, by hook or by crook, had to be introduced into the whole of Turkey, including Bosnia and Herzegovina, about the military power at his disposal, which no rebel could withstand, about the new, improved position of the Christians, about the important role and great responsibility which men such as Knez Bogdan had among their people. His eyes flashed several times, and his right hand clenched slowly into a fist and just as slowly relaxed. Zimonjić said nothing. Looking at his broad face, large, thin, firmly closed mouth and high forehead, the lower half sunburnt, while the upper half, normally covered by a hat, was white and smooth as a young man’s, Omer went on to speak about the headman’s family, which had long been known in Istanbul. He mentioned his distant forebear Knez Jovan, who had twice come before the sultan, his father, the priest Aćim, whom the people had loved and the Turkish authorities respected. And the result of all this was that he, Knez Bogdan, had been called to be far more and better than he was now, one of the pillars of the new order, a true leader and the only head of his people.
Zimonjić sat without a word or gesture, just once passing his palm over his eyes, as if brushing away an invisible thread of autumn silk. Omer found that silence provoking; he assailed him with words, as though storming a closed city. After the flattery and barely concealed inducements came threats. His voice was no longer deep, hoarse with tobacco, and it no longer came from his chest but from somewhere in his head, through his nose, unpleasantly shrill. In this voice he spoke in a lively manner about the exceptional times and his task in Bosnia.
It happens only once in a hundred years that the imperial seraskier comes to Bosnia, once or not at all, but when he comes there is nothing he cannot do, he can bind and release, take away and give, raise a man high and cast him low; all he cannot do is start or stop the rain, but anything else he can do. And only fools fail to see that, and only the senile beys put their trust in their royal mandates and title deeds, not realizing that those days are long gone and that their papers are no use even for lighting a bonfire in the middle of Sarajevo. They are ignorant, blind men, who do not understand the present and do not see what is happening around them or where the world is going. They do not even remember the past, otherwise they would know what it means when the seraskier arrives with the imperial army. They do not know that such a man can do anything, except for one thing: he cannot go back to the sultan with the job not done. They do not know, unfortunately for them, that such a man has no need to account for either the number of heads that fall or the ducats spent. And they should know. Anyone should know if he wishes himself and his family and his people well. And woe betide those who do not see this in time.
The seraskier, who now looked tired and irritable, gradually changed his way of speaking. That familial tone was steadily fading. And his last words contained the trace of a foreign accent.
Zimonjić said nothing. He blinked a few times, which could have been interpreted as an insignificant smile or restrained approval or nothing at all.
Finally, Omer too fell silent. But he found silence more difficult than speaking, which had not been easy. He lowered his gaze to the ground, but he could not stay that way for long, and as soon as he raised his eyes, they beheld the same sight. Before him sat the gigantic headman from Gacko, apparently good-natured and polite, but puzzling and offensively reserved; he sat and smiled a smile that conveyed nothing, just as the few words he uttered did not say anything specific and did not commit anyone to anything. Besides, who could tell whether it was a smile or a wild grimace, whether those were words or the contented growling of a huge, healthy body? And it was all beginning to annoy him. From the outset, he did not himself know why, he had been kinder and more cordial than he wished to be and than the position and importance of a village headman deserved. Now he was angry, but he did not show it. On the contrary, like a gambler who knows he can only get back what he has lost through a new and greater stake and more daring play, he increased his kindliness. He suddenly changed the course of the conversation. He asked how Ali Pasha’s men had fought, how they had been armed, then abruptly moved on to something else.
“Hey, you really don’t smoke?”
“Well . . . I’m not in the habit. No.”
“Ah-ha! And I smoke even at night.”
“Oh?”
That “oh” of the headman’s was more a vague sound than a word, and insofar as it was a word, it said nothing, not affirming nor denying what had been said, nor stimulating further conversation. Omer immediately raised his voice in a falsely bright and cordial, familial way.
“But you’re right, you’re right! That’s why you’re healthy. And your health is good, isn’t it? And, you know, your manhood?”
Zimonjić ignored the question as though it had been asked in a foreign language. And the conversation took off again in a different direction. Omer asked about the current situation on the border with Montenegro, who were the prominent people on the Montenegrin side, and what they were like. Zimonjić replied briefly, noncommittally. The border was “like any border,” and there weren’t any particularly important people there. Avoiding silence, Omer asked about the Turks around Gacko and in eastern Herzegovina. What were they like now? Any bullies left? The headman answered in a slightly more lively but still vague manner. There were a few bad people, he could give their names and list their misdeeds, but it would be better if his companions helped.
Seeing that conversation with this man, at least now and in this manner, was impossible, Omer Pasha rose, called his servants and ordered them to bring Zimonjić’s companions up. The four leading men came in and sat down. They were big burly men, not as tall or as strong as Knez Bogdan but stronger and taller than the seraskier. They talked, even without being prompted, interrupting each other. Omer Pasha listened, as if from a distance, looking past them. Wherever he had quelled uprisings, in Asia as in the Balkans, he encountered the common people and their
representatives, and such encounters always provoked in him a painful kind of pity, mixed with revulsion, which drove him to curtail the conversation and break off contact. But these men, who spoke the language of his childhood, were even more difficult and disagreeable and seemed to him like lesser beings, who had been born, lived and grown old for a life of struggle but had not developed or properly looked at the world. It was an effort to listen to them. And only once did he bring them back, coldly and sternly, to the matter in hand. Zimonjić said nothing. It all came to an end with Omer Pasha’s formal thanks and praise and encouragement to persevere on the path they had taken. He stood up, the men did the same, looking straight at him as if expecting him to say something more, the most important thing. Now they were standing in a row like soldiers, their caps in their hands, while Omer passed in front of them. The last in the row, a thin old man with a bristling moustache and prominent Adam’s apple, heavy silver decorations on his chest, responded to the pasha’s praise somewhat sharply:
“Yes, sir, everything is as you say, but we still bear heavy taxes and all kinds of burdens on our shoulders.”
Omer, who was standing right in front of him, a head shorter, smiled and placed a hand on the man’s large decorations.
“I’ll relieve you of them.”
The old man bowed his head a little, as though wishing to see whether his decorations were still there, while Omer removed his hand, still smiling, and repeated that he would put an end to all oppression and revoke all unjust levies and tolls. He advised them to stay a few more days and look around Sarajevo. And during that time, they would be his guests and could order whatever they wished of food and drink at the inn where they were staying. They should not stint themselves. He shook each of them by the hand, but when he reached Zimonjić, he said quickly and unexpectedly:
“But you, vojvoda, will stay to lunch with me today.”
Zimonjić again threw his head and the upper part of his body slightly back, like a man pausing to see better and pull himself together. He opened his mouth to say something, gesturing toward his companions. Omer interrupted. He should not concern himself. Lunch had been prepared for them at the inn. Finally the leading men left, turning awkwardly, casting surprised and anxious looks at Zimonjić.
•
The two men, now alone, face-to-face, did not resemble each other in any way except one: a painful sense of anticipation and uncertainty.
In his thoughts, slow moving and heavy, Zimonjić assessed the prospects and possibilities of this forced intimate meeting. What could Omer do to him? Would he go on trying to win him over to his and the Turkish cause through flattery and bribery? Or, after lunch, would he hand him over to the guards and hold him here in prison? That had happened with earlier viziers. Or would he poison him? No, he wouldn’t do that. I’m not that weighty or important a figure, and, besides, the seraskier would gain nothing from my death, he has no need to imprison or persecute me, and still less to have me killed. There’s no reason to fear that. The danger here is Omer himself. He’s evil and bloodthirsty, heartless and shameless, but clever and skillful, cunning as a serpent. He knew Omer’s background, and he knew the bloody trail left behind wherever Omer passed in the Turkish Empire. And even if he didn’t know, what he had seen and heard here for the last two hours had been enough. When you see such a man, who is too sure of himself and what he says, so quick and sweetly spoken, who offers you only what you don’t ask of him, approves what you say, yet sticks to what he had in mind, you know he’s a callous scoundrel and you’d best avoid him as far as you can. He knew that for sure. And if they’d been outside, among rocks and forest, he could have done, but how can you avoid a man you’re left alone with, in his power, in his house, eating his accursed bread?
In his own way, Zimonjić’s host was also troubled and confused. It was fairly clear that this big highlander would stick to his silence or to words that conveyed nothing more than silence, but Omer Pasha could not and would not accept that. A strange personal defiance goaded him to drive this matter to a conclusion. It was true he was intent on finding someone among the leading men on that border whom he would win over and if need be exploit, but it was not urgent or so important that he invest much in seducing this great hulk of a man. At this moment, he was not thinking so much about that as about his own strange, impatient need to soften this peasant and draw him a little closer, pull him into a more intimate or at least personal conversation.
Revived, smiling again, as at the beginning of the audience, the seraskier gave orders for lunch. Serving lads came and went silently. Two were dressed in black semi-European suits with wide trousers that narrowed at the ankle like shalwar, and a long jacket fastened with countless buttons right up to the chin. One was dressed in a picturesque Turkish costume. He was black. They appeared and vanished soundlessly, and the seraskier’s instructions were brief and half-audible. As they left the room, they moved most skillfully backward, and in every way they seemed to the headman like the acrobats he had heard about but never seen. One of these lads brought in drinks and snacks. Four different kinds of brandy and cognac in four crystal decanters connected as a single set by a network of silver strands.
Omer began again to talk about Zimonjić’s moderation.
“What, you don’t drink spirits either? How can that be! Won’t you try some aniseed?”
Zimonjić declined with neither word nor gesture but with the whole weight of his smiling silence.
“All right, aniseed is new to you, but this is grappa from Stolac, you should try it.”
They settled on the grappa. Then, with unbelievably slow and dignified formal movements, Zimonjić took the little glass, which appeared as tiny as a woman’s thimble in his hand, raised it to his lips and, taking a small sip, returned it to the table. Omer mixed his fragrant aniseed with water, turning it milky.
One of the lads in black came in again, his arms crossed on his chest like a corpse, and said something in a muffled tone. The seraskier rose and led his guest to lunch. They just crossed a broad, half-dark corridor along which the lads slid like shadows, pressing their backs against the wall to let the gentlemen pass, as if the space were narrow.
The room they entered was far smaller, furnished in European style, with two windows. In the center was a table set in the European manner. The meal consisted of many different dishes, but it did not last long, because everything was brought in and removed rapidly. They ate in silence, Omer fast and absentmindedly, as if throwing the food behind his back, and Zimonjić slowly and calmly. The burly man, in his heavy woolen clothes with their silver ornaments, altered as he ate, becoming light and convivial but also wary. He took small portions circumspectly, slowly raising them to his mouth and chewing them imperceptibly. Of the cutlery laid out, he used only a spoon. He often wiped his mouth with a napkin, then used the thumb of his left hand, with the delicate movement of a fastidious man, to lift his moustache away from his lips.
After the stewed fruit, in which Zimonjić just moistened his small (in his hand, incredibly small) spoon, Omer rose silently, and his guest followed. They moved onto a large divan covered with white fur. Here, when the coffee was served and Omer lit a chibouk, the conversation began again.
The seraskier now asked questions, about conditions in Montenegro, about agrarian relations, administration, supplies in Herzegovina. Zimonjić replied as before: to the first with silence and a brief dismissal, “Ah, who could know?,” to the rest with a slow, detailed account of the people’s needs and difficulties.
Omer watched him out of the corner of bright, seemingly smiling eyes, observing him steadily and keenly, as though in this meeting the questions had become secondary and his gaze the focus, and as if he still could not size him up or assess him properly. The more he looked at Zimonjić, the more amazed he was by the build, clothing and conduct of his guest.
The forty-year-old headman looked youthful and hale. His face unblemished, just slightly tanned, unusually broad, without lines, b
ut oddly composed of many broken surfaces and prominent features. When it was at rest, it brightened, becoming smooth and guileless, like that of a healthy child, but when, for no apparent reason, individual parts of that face began to move and alter, it acquired a tormented, sharp, dangerous and underhand expression. Long, stiff, black hair and an immobile, drooping moustache. Behind the thick lowered lashes his eyes glinted, vaguely flickering between mild confusion and an embryonic smile, giving all he said an expression of well-meaning ambiguity. However, it was clear the look that came through the narrow opening between his lashes, as through gun sights, was not his real look: that was hidden behind his lowered eyelids and from there, unseen, it saw everything.
The headman was wearing the formal attire of the Gacko region, made of coarse felted cloth, with no finer fabrics or silk cording; only his waistcoat was of red baize trimmed along the edge with broad gold braid. The outfit gave him the appearance of a statue, particularly the narrow silver ornaments on his chest and white leggings of felted cloth, fastened down the side by a dense row of yellow metal hooks, taut as if they were to burst with the strength of his calves.
But, for all his bulk and stiffness, this man’s bearing was natural and free, as if there were no other way, no people anywhere in the world with different ideas and a different way of dressing and behaving.