by Ivo Andrić
She was beautiful. The kind of beauty that blooms unexpectedly in impoverished surroundings as though it had wandered in from nowhere, to flare up in the midst of misery, illness, ignorance, all kinds of ugliness, lasting a short time and usually ending badly. Skilled in handicrafts, she had a lively imagination and a well-developed gift for mimicry, and she was eloquent and a good storyteller. Kostake vaguely remembered that other women listened to her attentively and that her stories often made them laugh to the point of tears. He recalled that he did not like to watch or hear that, troubled by mixed feelings of shame and jealousy; shame that his mother was putting on a show in front of other people; and jealousy, that she thus gave herself to others, and not to him alone.
Yes, she was a beauty, but one of those weak and helpless women who, having taken their first reckless step, tend to be grabbed, trampled on and destroyed by men as they pleased, like an unfenced garden. And people mercilessly exploited and abused not only her but also her little boy.
Hard work, poverty and a disorderly life, about which at that time he could not know much, and later did not dare think about, meant that she faded early and died young.
After his mother’s death, the child stayed with some Macedonians, makers of confectionery and soft drinks. He worked for his food and clothing—meager food and shabby clothing. But the black-haired, blue-eyed, lanky boy aspired to return to the “high society” in which his father and mother had first served. Somehow he made his way to Prince Gika’s kitchens, where he assisted the dishwashers. His concern with cleanliness and an innate need for order lifted him out of the half-dark scullery. He assisted the lads who served in the dining room, first only serving drinks and later also food.
The slender, taciturn young man’s hard work and orderliness were immediately spotted by the then all-powerful majordome of the prince’s house, old Tanase Nenishanu.
Tanase was a dour, portly man, who had grown old as an unrivalled master of his profession, worn out by work and perhaps still more by his passions, acknowledged and unacknowledged, acceptable and unacceptable. An old bachelor who lived alone, he formally adopted the young man and gave him his family name.
The way the adoption was interpreted by the numerous servants in the household was far from fine or pure, though it was perhaps the one genuinely noble and entirely selfless act in the life of this dissolute old man. But, under the protection of his adopted father, who had amassed a considerable fortune, Kostake rose to the post of head servant. When the young prince went to France for six months, he took Kostake with him. After the prince returned to Bucharest, Kostake stayed abroad for a further half year, visiting the great hotels of Switzerland, Italy and Austria. And on his return, when Tanase gave up his post and soon died, Kostake took over his position, though he was not yet thirty. He stayed there until Omer Pasha’s young wife asked the princess to release him to work for her.
Kostake immediately agreed to the change. To give up work and life in the nobleman’s house, and Bucharest, where he had spent most of his life, to follow new people into unknown lands, to see new places as his new employers moved around—all that seemed to him like a benign twist of fate, the miraculous salvation for which he had always secretly hoped.
By then Kostake Nenishanu had become a typical eccentric. A bachelor like his late father, he lived for his work, which he was known to carry out with great skill, but, like his father, he was dogged by the same untested and unproved yet persistent reputation of being an enemy of the female sex if not of well-mannered, good-looking young men. In fact, he lived a chaste, retiring life, with a small number of acquaintances and even fewer friends. But the staff of this household were inclined to wrongful and scurrilous interpretations of everything around them. At the same time, life in the prince’s establishment and particularly his stay abroad had taught him a great deal. But perhaps it would have been better had that not happened as it meant that he was able to look more deeply into himself and behind him. In vain did he strive only to look ahead. The higher he rose, the more compelled he felt to look back at what had been, to see what he had left behind, and that in turn made him aware of the poverty of his origins and the incomprehensible misery he carried within him. He was tormented by a need to face and examine both himself and his surroundings. And that was hard for anyone, but particularly for a man who had been beaten while still in his mother’s womb and left entirely alone in the world, with dark memories of his childhood and vague, confused proclivities.
Then came the critical years after the age of forty, when a sensitive man is beset by the complex crisis of his first intimations of aging combined with the belated crises of an unlived youth, when a man is shaken to the core of his being by a desire to change everything.
It was in this state of mind that Kostake came into Omer Pasha’s disorderly household, as a desired and welcome change; and, after a while, that was how he arrived in Sarajevo with the pasha.
Kostake’s appearance and his unusual way of dressing stood out both in the residence and in the town.
He was one of those tall people with a certain disproportion between the upper and lower parts of the body. It would be hard to determine whether his legs were too long or his torso too short, but with each of his movements it was clear that he was put together differently from other people. Above his broad thin shoulders he had a small head with a pale face. Both his beard and moustache were shaved, which provoked the greatest surprise among the townspeople of Sarajevo. The lines of his face were irregular and asymmetrical, as if blown by the wind. What stood out particularly were his large mouth and big, slightly sloping eyelids with long lashes under black, curved eyebrows. His lips were usually pursed, like those of a man lifting a weight or a patient experiencing pain, but not wishing to show it. His eyes were blue, the blue of a plant, and for the most part resembled two flowers, recently picked, not quite equal in size or the same color.
That was what Kostake’s face was like when he was alone, anxious and thoughtful, and he was anxious and thoughtful whenever alone. But as soon as he was with other people, in conversation, his face altered, and it was altered in several ways, depending on whether he was talking to those higher in rank than himself, lower or his equals. His thin lips then lost that customary pout and were capable of delivering words, flattering and pleasant, curt and cold, or angry and harsh. The expression of his blue eyes became seductively soft and agreeable, or indifferent, even hard and severe, with the blue of steel. All in all, his face was capable of great changes, abrupt and without transition. It could look boyish and shy, or old, experienced, self-assured and proud to the point of arrogance. It happened sometimes, if circumstances required it, that a smile would pass over his face and link all its various different lines into an almost attractive whole; but the glow of that smile never quite reached his eyes, which always remained a little anxious. Nor did the smile come from within; rather it appeared like a brief gleam from an invisible reflector, flashing unexpectedly, and equally swiftly and strangely vanishing, without much connection with the subject of the conversation.
The man’s slender body moved around the residence from early morning until late at night. It slipped in everywhere, softly, with no sound or effort, but briskly and decisively. And his unusual face kept changing, depending on the person he encountered and the job in hand. With the calm confidence of a eunuch, he entered the women’s side of the residence, where Saida Hanuma always had some task for him or an issue to discuss.
Kostake’s clothes too were unlike those worn by any of the other staff. Gray or black narrow trousers of a Western cut, a snow-white shirt with a bit of starched lace on the front and cuffs. A short house-coat with no lining, of light material with yellow or black stripes. Round his neck a white kerchief clasped with a gold pin. Bareheaded like no one else in the residence, with thin, only slightly graying hair held down with pomade in a few waves of unequal form and size. On his feet low soft shoes of dark green or cherry-colored kid.
So att
ired, with easy, swaying step, he reached every corner, carrying out his tasks almost imperceptibly. And the tasks were numerous and complex. Kostake was responsible for everything to be eaten and drunk in the residence. Nothing was ordered or acquired, chosen, paid for, prepared or served without his oversight and participation. Sweetmeats and fruit for the harem, a variety of drinks for the seraskier and his guests, everyday and formal lunches and dinners à la turca or à la franca—it was all his concern. Everything in the cellar, in the larders, in the kitchen or the dining rooms—it was all under his stern eye. He kept the keys to everything. He was tireless and merciless in his constant battle against waste, malfunction, disorder and theft. The order, cleanliness and accuracy, and also the tranquillity, contentment and reputation of Omer Pasha’s great household depended on him.
For those who served under Kostake in the residence, life was not easy. He selected the women and men who worked in the kitchen or served at table, and personally monitored the state of their health, their cleanliness and behavior. When they served at table, in the European manner, he would measure with a special piece of ribbon the distance of one plate from another, arranged the candlesticks, chose and placed flowers and other decorations. He was a source of torment not only for the cooks and servants, but also for shopkeepers, suppliers and all the vizier’s providers. Out of a sack of potatoes he would pick one between thumb and forefinger—always the worst—sniff it, and then, with a grimace of disgust, throw it back in a wide arc. That meant: not suitable for the household. And there was no further discussion, no point in arguing or defending oneself. He would return the potatoes up to three times, or until they were as they should be.
Everywhere and in all his tasks, Kostake was the same, fanatical about order, cleanliness and accuracy, stern and uncompromising in putting his notions into practice.
Such a way of working meant that this eccentric majordome soon became one of the seraskier’s marvels, talked about throughout Sarajevo. But there was no doubt that it was due to him, his work and his maniacal persistence that Omer Pasha’s kitchen was renowned and that the viziers in Istanbul might have envied him for it. And Kostake Nenishanu immured himself in that kitchen, enslaved to it. No one knew and no one questioned what he did apart from his job, how he lived, or indeed whether he lived. And that thin, feeble man, who was able in this barren and neglected land to produce everything that was required for a varied and refined cuisine, appeared not to have any connection whatever to food and drink, as though he was not the one who fed the whole horde of gluttons and spoiled gourmets in the residence. No one remembered seeing him lunching or dining like a man of his station. He ate what he could, when he could, in passing, as he sampled the food being cooked. In fact, he did not really eat at all, taking only an occasional mouthful, without sitting down, the burned end of a piece of liver or half a boiled egg. And that was all. Except that he sometimes took a piece of cake to his room, as if in secret, and nibbled it if he woke up at night. This room, with its spacious antechamber, some other tiny rooms, nooks and crannies, and a large enclosed balcony, made up a whole small apartment. This was his world to which no one had access. This was where he spent his free time. The rooms were always cleaned by the same woman, and it was said that they were spread with exceptional fabrics of various colors and adorned with paintings and engravings about which people in the residence whispered as of something strange and shameful.
That small apartment and his genteel and carefully chosen clothes were his only eccentricities, his only expense and luxury. Otherwise, he had neither friends nor female acquaintances. He rarely went out, and then only for short solitary walks by the river, and, at major holidays, to church, where he would stand for at least half the liturgy. He had the seraskier’s special approval for this.
That was all, all that was known. Idlers and gossipmongers struggled in vain to find some “hidden” attributes of the man they found puzzling. And as they found nothing, nor could they have found what did not exist, they indulged in arbitrary assumptions and fabrications, in which everyone unconsciously attributed to Kostake something of their own desires, inclinations and anxieties. They did this all the more easily and assiduously because they had hit upon a man who did not defend himself from slander, or avenge himself, living aloof from all idle talk, intrigue and gossip.
If someone had consciously wished and specially devised a way to provoke and annoy this surly, mistrustful and unbelievably conservative Bosnian populace, to alienate from them every living person in the residence—he could not have done better than to behave exactly as Kostake behaved, everywhere and on every occasion.
From the outset, Kostake had consistently adopted a particular attitude to the servants and various officials in the house. No one ever heard him shout or curse, but he was strict and merciless in his punishments. Without belittling anyone, he was able to raise himself above everyone else. It was as if they did not exist for him outside official business relations. In a way, Ahmet Aga, the kavedžibaša, was an exception; Kostake was attentive to him, often sending him the best dishes from the kitchen, while the sullen, overweight kavedžibaša was particularly considerate toward Kostake. Otherwise, from the beginning, the two men had tacitly but strictly laid out the boundaries of each of their tasks and interests; and thus, in friendship, but without closeness, they lived well, and, as each looked out for himself, they also looked out for one another. It sometimes happened that they exchanged visits, Kostake would call in at the coffee kitchen, or more often Ahmet Aga would appear in the kitchen to have a whiff of the dishes as they cooked.
On the occasion of one such visit to Ahmet Aga, Kostake happened upon two Christian women in the coffee kitchen; one was old and the other young and tall. The older woman, on one side of the room, was whispering something to Ahmet Aga, while the younger one stood in the middle of the room, her head held high and eyes lowered, like a statue.
Kostake was on the point of turning back, but suddenly changed his mind and stayed on; and, to the kavedžibaša’s surprise, he even tried to join in the conversation. He saw that the women had brought some sewn linen, that the older one was called Ivka, and the younger one Andja. The young one called the older one Aunt.
The kavedžibaša knew Ivka to be a good seamstress who also undertook procuring, which earned her more and more easily than her sewing, and he had already had some dealings with her because she always had some lost young girl, fugitive wife or widow with her, and as soon as she had placed one somewhere she found another. And each of them was ostensibly some kind of relative. It was now clear to Ahmet Aga that Ivka had brought this tall “relation” for him to see and perhaps mention in the appropriate place.
This offended his pride as an official of the residence and his professional self-esteem. He was angry. This meant—he thought to himself—that every pimp in Sarajevo knew about the seraskier’s weakness for female flesh and, worse, they impudently imagined that they could bring whatever they wanted to the residence and offer it to make a bit of easy cash. And he knew in advance that this well-developed, strong girl, with her pure, open face, something bold and provocative in her eyes, had no prospect of appealing to Omer Pasha, who had never liked such athletic, masculine types, and the older he grew, the more inclined he was to a soft, submissive type of woman with a fragile, boyish figure.
Ahmet Aga told Ivka this at once, roughly and quite loudly, despite her discreet whisper, without of course mentioning the seraskier or his name. The women left, the older one with a lot of conciliatory words and apologies, and the younger one with her head erect and eyes lowered, calm and cold in her impassive, sulky silence. And the kavedžibaša would have forgotten their visit, had Kostake not reminded him of it. Later that same day, he came back to the coffee kitchen and made enquiries, in a roundabout, awkward way, about the women. Ahmet Aga looked at him with his large, slightly bloodshot eyes, before which nothing could be hidden, and asked in surprise why he wanted to know. And then he added, more good-naturedl
y, that if he was really interested, he should hurry, as goods of that quality didn’t stay long in shop windows and didn’t wait for hesitant customers.
Kostake hesitated. He visited Ahmet Aga more often, like a timid boy, expecting advice and instructions from him. He ordered shirts from Ivka. And she came to him in that connection, but always alone. He paid well and always gave her new orders. He began to go to Ivka’s house on Bistrik Hill, to give her at first small and then ever larger gifts. The old woman accepted Kostake and his gifts, but the girl was evidently avoiding him. Ivka tried to persuade her protégée to be attentive to this generous foreigner, from whom it would be possible to extract many more gifts and cash, she reprimanded her and told her she was crazy to reject such a wealthy and refined employee of the vizier’s. But none of her efforts, nor Ahmet Aga’s intervention, had any effect on the recalcitrant girl, who refused it all without a word.
In general she spoke little, and when she did her tongue seemed heavy, as though she was sucking a sweet, carelessly and indistinctly, not caring whether anyone heard or understood her, almost to herself, and not looking the person she was speaking to in the eye. A young, strong creature, self-sufficient, who did not want to explain her decisions or actions to anyone. And when Ivka pressed her, scolding and insisting, she would simply hiss, wilfully and inaudibly through her teeth: that she knew what she knew and nothing would induce her to go to that man.
Weeks passed, and there was no change in the affair. But Kostake changed, profoundly and for all to see. The thought of the fair-haired, silent girl seemed to have crept under his skin. At first, it was a pleasant, ticklish trembling, and then something like a thin little flame, and then a fire that gave him no peace, but conjured up a hazy vision wherever he looked. The girl from Bistrik.
It seemed to him that she was a woman with whom something could happen. He saw this in her big, strong arms, in the firm gait of her powerful legs, in each movement, and even in her silence. It was not that it seemed so, he was sure of it. He could already foresee the moment when he would burst into flame as he had never managed before, he saw movements, his own and hers, he exulted in his happiness. She was the only woman with whom, finally, he would be able to experience the ardor he had always imagined.