Omer Pasha Latas

by Ivo Andrić

  She did not understand because she could not, what she was hearing, but for a long time thereafter she lived with a vague fear that she found hard to bear, because it went against her entire nature. And so another occasion would arise when she had to face, roughly and tangibly, what she was incapable of predicting and forestalling.

  Up to now, she had got by. She resisted as best she could. She defended herself with the very beauty that was the cause of men’s aggression. The nature of her beauty was such that it inspired a kind of respect in even the most cynical seducer. Her naive trust and her carefree manner too were a kind of defense. But since she had been in Bucharest she had found it harder to defend herself, while the assaults had become more frequent, insidious and unexpected.

  Had she been able to return to her hometown, where there were still living reminders of her father and her childhood, perhaps she would have met with greater respect, perhaps men would have behaved differently. Perhaps she would have encountered love. But for the time being there was no question of return, and here people were steadily discarding their mask of decency and consideration.

  And now at the head of that pack was Onkel Niki himself, genteel, lame, pathetic Onkel Niki. That was a truly unexpected disappointment, the pinnacle of the shame that was closing in ever more tightly around her. When she was a child, her father had often told her that people had in and around them enemies of one kind or another against whom they had to fight and obstacles they had to remove. But there was never any mention of this, the worst that could befall one. She was assaulted from all sides by males hungry for young flesh. There were so many, she might have been the only female in the world. These men would never grasp the simple truth that the female being sitting before them, attracting them so irresistibly, was not here for them, and was not merely what they saw and desired: she was a whole, complex person, with specific characteristics and needs, and her own soul, at the end of the day. No one asked her what she thought and felt, what she believed, what she expected from life, they simply stretched out their hands toward her throat and waist, as if drowning. Some pretended to be interested in her music, others whispered verses to her, some offered money and property, others rolled their eyes, sighing, as they spoke of love stronger than death. But they were all the same; you could not trust even the most restrained and decent among them; no one wanted anything from her for her sake, they all wanted the same thing—her, her herself, naked, spread out like a carpet, for them to tread underfoot and sully. They all wished to get close to her, unbearably close, to open her up and exploit her like a mountain rich in ores, to rummage and sift through her like the sandy floor of a gold-bearing river.

  Even in the early years, in Vienna, alone and free, she had the feeling of being stalked and ambushed by men, but found it all rather amusing and strange, a cheerful game, but even so she would shiver inwardly and quicken her pace, seeking to shelter somewhere, to cover and protect herself. Since her father’s death, that feeling had become much stronger.

  Yes, she had been thinking about this for a long time, not daring to draw a clear conclusion, avoiding talking about it with anyone. But now this evening, in this spacious bedroom, she gave her heart full rein and for the first time spoke out loud, not to this miserable cripple whom she no longer noticed but to herself and her loathsome male pursuers who were closing off all paths for her. Let them keep the ridiculous and unworthy pleasure they offered her as “love,” but that was in truth physical contact and sullying; she did not understand it, nor did she wish to get to know it, but this evening, here, in this first great, salutary attack of fury, she discovered another pleasure, her own: that of defending herself from assault and avenging herself for insults, cutting off at least in words, since she had no other means, the hands that stretched out to her; mercilessly, cruelly and painfully honestly calling all those men around her by their true name, along with their “passions” and “raptures,” their pretense, tricks and deceit; showing them that she had matured, that she was not afraid of them, that they disgusted her.

  She had no inkling until this moment that she was capable of such resolve, that she had so many words at her disposal, such gestures and expressions of contempt, that she could be free to the point of shamelessness and courageous to the point of madness, that this was where all her strength lay.

  “Yes,” she went on, in a powerful voice, already hoarse from shouting, “yes, you raise yourselves up and strut around like masters of the world, but you need only to be alone with a woman for an instant and you start behaving not like human beings but lustful monkeys. Ah, if you could only see yourselves the way I see you! There would be nothing left of your strength and arrogance. But, of course, you can’t do that, and that’s why you go on forming your slimy circles of ‘admirers’ round every even slightly good-looking woman. Ugh, devil take you, you monkeys! Ugh, ugh, ugh!”

  At that moment she came to, surfaced from her fury. At first she could not understand why she was standing there, disheveled and half-naked, in the middle of the room, spitting in all four directions. But then suddenly she was overwhelmed by such cold shivering that she threw herself into her bed, covered her head with her green feather quilt and began to weep convulsively in loneliness and fear.

  Onkel Niki had succeeded in reaching the door and was silently disappearing.

  The following day she woke up cold, calm, a stranger to herself. Onkel Niki came at midday. He endeavored to be as cheerful as ever, while the look in his sad eyes begged for forgiveness. She was kind and naturally warm to him. He suggested they go for a drive outside town. She declined. An hour earlier she had sent a boy to Omer Pasha’s residence and asked that a carriage be sent for her that afternoon.

  During the glamorous reception and concert he hosted, Omer Pasha had told her as they parted that he hoped they would meet again. He had an only daughter who showed interest in music and he would be most grateful if one day Miss Defilipis would come to tea and use the occasion to assess the child’s ear and musicality. Whenever she was able and willing to call on the little girl, she should let him know and he would send a carriage for her. Excited by the splendor of the occasion and the music, she had not listened properly but had promised that she would do so some day.

  She let quite a few days pass, but today she had done it, and as decisively and naturally as if this had indeed been the appointed day.

  She was met and escorted by Omer Pasha, formally and grandly dressed as though this too was a reception. The little girl was blond, taciturn and frail. She showed a considerable degree of musicality, but also the distractedness so common with delicate children. She could not take her eyes off the silk frill on Ida’s sleeves.

  As she was leaving, the general remained with Ida for a few moments in the vestibule; and as she drew on her gloves, he said unexpectedly but warmly and as if confiding that the little girl had no mother, and that the “harem people” could not be a substitute. He regretted that his only child did not have a noble, generous woman to guide and educate her. He pressed her hand, observing her with burning eyes. She was touched and confused. She was not sure what was being asked of her and so she did not give a specific answer. She simply promised she would try to work with the little girl. And she did. And always, at the beginning or end of the “lesson,” the general would be there, in a black cavalry uniform with black braid on his chest, with his dark, sunburned face framed in his black beard and slightly graying, thick hair, long and parted like a deacon’s. His German speech, with its barely perceptible Austrian, Slav accent, his appearance and bearing—was all correct and in keeping with his officer’s rank. But there was something mysterious and enigmatic about the man. He was different, more restrained and upright than the idle and spoiled gentry of Bucharest among whom she moved. It was like a moment of rest and security for her, a piece of firm, relatively peaceful ground under her feet.

  On one other occasion he told her, in passing, that his little daughter, in his nomadic military life, was too of
ten left to her own devices and how obliged and grateful he would be to a woman who would devote a little bit of attention and time to her.

  And that was all. While the men from her circle, both young gallants and those who could have been her father or grandfather, were ever more overbearing, as if they knew or sensed that this girl was lost, that there was little prospect of her returning to her unsettled country and her native town where she had many relatives, but none close, a fair amount of property but in the present circumstances no income. This great beauty seemed abandoned, left to chance and some passerby, all too easy and attractive prey. And that deceived them into bold and offensive behavior.

  It also accounted for her abrupt and unexpected decision. True enough, Omer Pasha did his part. One day, unceremoniously, he offered her his hand. The proposal was militarily clear and almost crudely direct. He said he felt “love and respect” for her; if she felt that she might be able to reciprocate similar feelings, then the matter would be settled. He spoke calmly, with no change in tone or smile. They would be married before the cadi, of course, and she would have to wear a veil when out of the house. That was all. Apart from that, she would be able to retain her faith and go to church if she wished, and at home she could dress and live in her European way. They would reside in Istanbul, in his house, on an estate outside the city, or in whatever place he had to spend any length of time with his garrison. She would have everything she needed. He mentioned the difference in their ages but with confidence in his voice, smiling for the first time. He asked her to think it over for a day or two and then to give him her answer sincerely and openly. He clicked the heels of his lacquered shoes, on which fine miniature spurs jingled lightly, and kissed her hand ceremoniously.

  She was astonished. She did not close her eyes that whole night. She wanted to reflect, but she could not, sought a decision but did not manage to find one. In moments of exhaustion she wept abundant, quiet tears. She did not herself know why, since she otherwise rarely cried. And when day broke and she saw from her window the red sun over the gardens, she sat down at her desk and without reflection or hesitation wrote the general a short letter: she thought she would be able to share his feelings and accepted his offer.

  Throughout her youth, the figure of her father had been before her, like a signpost, but at critical crossroads her mother appeared suddenly, inexorably indicating the direction she should take.

  That is how it was this time as well. I am in such a strange and difficult position, the girl reflected, that I can only be helped by something exceptional. She could be saved from a certainty that was terrible, and unbearable, by a leap into the unknown. The Turkish general she hardly knew, with his firm hand and tranquil gaze, marriage into a harem, security, and the veil under which she would find peace and protection. All that seemed unbelievable, but everything pointed to it. And since that was the case, let it be.

  And then everything went smoothly and without delay. She realized how truly powerful such a man, the commander in chief, was and how his wishes and commands were carried out and implemented thoroughly, down to the smallest detail, not only in official affairs but also in his personal life. The rest she would discover and get to know as time went on.

  And she did. What and how, only she knew.

  After just one year of marriage, Saida Hanuma began abruptly to change. At first the changes would only have been apparent to those who lived close to her, but they were unexpected and incomprehensible. She began to drink. To start with, she drank only sweet, “women’s” drinks in company, with jokes and laughter, but then she moved rapidly on to stronger liquids. She drank at all times of day, alone and sullen, hiding away in dark corners. With swift movements, she poured into herself wine or brandy, turning to the wall the way hardened secret drinkers do. She drank and the alcohol changed her rapidly and obviously. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that it brought to the surface new features that contradicted her previous appearance, behavior and actions. She put on weight and seemed to grow taller; her movements became heavy and slow; the expression in her beautiful big eyes, which had until recently radiated the pure brilliance and freshness of moonlight, was now increasingly obstinate, hard, mocking and provocative. She liked to immobilize people with that gaze, defiantly, and to say, sharply and huskily, exactly what she thought about something or about the person she was talking to. Sometimes she used such coarse and scurrilous words that everyone wondered, astonished, where she could have picked them up. Then, she would fall into gloomy silence and sit motionless, with an unpleasant expression of boredom and disgust on her face. She evidently felt the need from time to time to vent her anger on one of the servants, on whatever trivial pretext, and if there was none, she invented one. The magnitude of her wrath and fury grew. For some time it had been confined to the lowly and her subordinates; now it included Omer as well, whom she only ever called “my lord and master,” “mein Herr und Gebieter,” pronouncing the phrase with high irony and a little laugh like a sob.

  The relationship between Omer Pasha and his Austrian wife was strange, strange but not happy. Initially, this woman, her whole being, her appearance and bearing, and everything she was, all her abilities, had seemed to him like an undreamed-of asset, an exceptional gift in his wholly fortunate destiny. She brought him exactly that carefree, amiable and bright quality, strong and self-assured, that Austrianness which he had once, at the beginning of his career, felt that he might have been able to attain, but which he had long since left behind, and which he could never have in Turkey. Her music, her refined and natural bearing, then when she was alone her sure good taste in everything, everywhere, her ability at any moment, in all things, to know what should be said and done, and doing it with natural charm, with no doubt or hesitation, with no shadow of a thought it could be done otherwise.

  •

  The relationship of Omer and his Austrian wife was all it could be and had to be: strange, and anything but happy, but happiness could hardly have been expected here. Perhaps the pasha had chosen this young woman because he felt that she was all that was lacking in his happiness, while she had married him because she was in any case heading toward new misfortune. This was just a shorter and more unusual path to it, but it changed nothing, because any other path would also have led her, sooner or later, to the same end.

  KOSTAKE NENISHANU

  AMONG the very large staff that arrived in Sarajevo along with Saida Hanuma and the harem, there was an official with a special post. This was Kostake Nenishanu, the pasha’s maître d’hôtel or majordome, as he liked to call himself. He was the chief cook, supervisor of all the kitchens and senior overseer of the staff, a kind of chief of protocol for luncheons and dinners. Existing regulations and tradition made no provision for such a position, or at least not in this form. The pasha had taken him into his service while he was stationed in Bucharest, where he had more to do with foreign diplomats than with Turks.

  In Omer Pasha’s extensive household people ate, slept and dressed in both Turkish and western styles. The pasha himself was more inclined to Turkish cuisine and the Turkish way of sleeping. But since Mademoiselle Ida had become Saida Hanuma, his lawful wife and lady of the house, many changes and innovations had been introduced that favored Western ways of the house. One of the changes was the introduction of this new post in the residence.

  From the outset, Kostake was under the personal protection of Saida Hanuma. His official name was Antoine, but this was only relevant in the presence of foreigners and foreign guests. People in the residence called him by his real name, while citizens of Sarajevo called him the Bosnian variant—Kostać.

  Few people in the residence had a clear, publicly acknowledged biography, even so quite a lot was known about each of them, and that tended to be what those concerned least wanted known. More would have been known had the servants and officials of the residence not been engaged in constant quarrels, jealousies and animosities, so that it was hard to extract the truth about a person
from this tangle of fabrication, slander and intrigue. In fact, one might say that everyone there had three different sides: first, what he would like to be, which is to say the way he presents himself; then, the way others describe him; and finally, what he really is.

  Kostake was one of those for whom only the second half of life is transparent and even so only partially. People knew little about him, and would learn still less from him personally. He spoke several languages. In addition to Romanian, he spoke Greek and Turkish, then French, as much of it as he needed for his work, and with his own Macedonian, he could get by quite well with the local people. This knowledge of languages served him well in all areas except when talking about himself.

  He did not know much about his origins in any case. His father had come to Romania as a young man from somewhere in Macedonia in search of work and was employed as a gardener for a landowner, near Ploesti. There he married one of the landowner’s servants, whose parents had also come as migrant workers. He died young. Kostake did not remember him. His mother was then seduced by one of the house servants and deceived into going with him to Bucharest, where, after two years of terrible life, he betrayed her, sold her and abandoned her to her fate.