Omer Pasha Latas
Page 32
Kot pressed himself against the wall, quivering with revulsion and dying of boredom, constantly detaching the captain’s hand from his shoulder. But the captain, who had that evening uncharacteristically downed a glass too many, would not be deterred or silenced, but went on, in a childish, plaintive voice entirely at odds with what he was saying:
“That’s my nature, that’s, presumably, the way I was born. I don’t go running after sluts as my comrades do, no, never, you must have seen that for yourself. By some innate instinct, I’m drawn to dangerous women, serpents, vipers. It’s a kind of sorcery. When I catch sight of a woman and she seems familiar—I’m done for. It means that a circus drama is beginning. I can’t let go of such a woman. We grapple until she gives in, and until then—I’m lost. But once she says ‘yes,’ it’s all over for me. And nothing that follows is any longer important or of interest to me. The sorcery’s over. It’s enough to make a man envy simple people, like our colleague Halil, for their direct, animal attitude to women. You recall how joyfully he spoke about women, always smiling, tall and strong? ‘When I run into a woman, either my staff breaks in two or her thing’s in bits. There’s no third way. That’s what we gunners are like!’ Ah, yes, yes! Poor Halil, and it was women that did him in. Do you remember?”
Did he remember? Well, perhaps he did remember something, but all he could think of now was the spasm gripping his intestines, a spasm from drinking and abhorrence. Between two spasms a dark burning cloud rose in him, to his eyes and the crown of his head, dispersing slowly and from it came the affectless bass voice, over a thick cigar, of their regimental physician, Dr. Fritz: “Reuf ist ein Mann, der mit Frauen nicht fertig wird”* or the laughter of their former good friend, the cheerful wild Lieutenant Halil, with his strong, white teeth, now lying under the earth because of his excessive passion for women.
So Captain Kot “listened” to Reuf, until the pain in his chest was suddenly so strong that it raised him from his seat. He felt he would suffocate if he did not stand up. He summoned all his strength, stretched out his arms, as if blind, pushed the man next to him out of the way and, guiding and supporting himself against the walls, stepped out into the cold, dark hallway. There, leaning his forehead on the wooden balustrade, writhing like a worm, he vomited at length, in bursts, as if discarding everything, even what he had never drunk or eaten. He could now see more clearly and breathe more easily. He returned to the large, smoke-filled room. Fortunately, Reuf had got hold of someone else to talk to about love and women. Kot found a low chair in the corner of the room, sat down and, still shivering with cold and tension, fell into a drunken sleep.
Some in that noisy company dozed a little, some not at all. But when a gray, misty day dawned, they all rose, as if by command. Some quickly splashed their faces with water and straightened their crumpled uniforms, others did not even do that. Stumbling, and continuing their interminable tales, they descended the steps. Outside, grooms were waiting with horses. Around the compact group of people and horses, in the cold air, there spread, from their voices and lungs, restless wisps and little clouds of breath, like ornaments of whipped-up steam, human and animal. Endeavoring to appear sober, they mounted swiftly and immediately fell into the regulation order: ten officers in front, according to rank, grooms at the rear, and two trumpeters at their side.
Day was breaking, slowly and with difficulty. Fog closed off the view, from the low roofs of shops and bakeries thick smoke rolled onto the ground. Ice splintered under the horses’ hooves. Chilled and stiff, the riders moved on slowly, controlling their inner shivering and looking straight ahead.
At that moment trumpets suddenly blared. Kot quivered and instinctively wanted to cover his ears with both hands. The metal sounds jarred his ears and he felt as if shame were splashing over him like filthy water. Ah, he was familiar with the tune of the military march the soldiers were parodying, and its stupid, obscene text. Oh, not again! Not here!
And now those trumpets with their blaring, twisting sound informed the Sarajevo citizens, who were rubbing their eyes behind their closed windows or just opening their half-empty shops: “Here, now you can all see, the imperial commander seraskier Ekrem Omer Pasha, whose eagle eye watches over order in the land, is sending officers from his murtad-tabor to carry out the regulation ritual of the faith so everything that is under his hand is truly in order, according to the law and local regulations and the will of our exalted sultan!”
*“Reuf is a man who can't make any headway with women.”
DEPARTURE
THEY ARE leaving. No one says so, no one utters the words or any like them out loud. No, but they live and are present everywhere, in the thoughts, gestures and expressions of people, in their smiles and greetings in passing, even in the silence that interrupts a conversation for a moment, while two glances cross, meaningfully. That is how it has always been in this country, the realization of even the deepest desires is met with silence. Just, they are leaving! Those words contain all the secret wishes and hopes of these people, often vague, absurd, mutually contradictory; they bear also their pathetic victory; everything is contained in the words that no one utters, that are not noted or written anywhere, but are known, seen and felt, breathed in with the air, drunk with water, eaten with food, sipped with coffee and smoked with tobacco.
They are leaving. No other thought, no questions asked: not who is leaving, nor where they are going, nor why. Just as it does not occur to anyone to ask: why did they come, or what is now driving them to leave, or would they return by some other route and in a different form, or would someone still more onerous come in their place. They are leaving, but not because that had been the most ardent desire of this town and of all living creatures in it, from the leaders among the people to a mangy cat in a gutter, but because they should never have come and because they had already accomplished all their evil tasks. And our incomprehensible but great and intoxicating joy lies in the fact that we can watch their backs and spit on their tracks. They are leaving, and that is the only good they could have done us, and they are doing it because they have to.
“They’re leaving!” each person says to himself, silently, nor does it occur to anyone to explain those words and thus spoil the satisfaction they bring. And that precious pleasure will last as long as the departure, just a few days. But that is a blessing in this country where pleasure is scarce.
What counts is that they are leaving, vanishing, disappearing, at least from our country, and we are staying on our own land, to endure, to live out our lives, to eat their bread as well as our own, and to warm ourselves in this sun, which was once also theirs. That is the only victory of which we are capable. And it is our right that we be victorious.
•
That day too came and it seemed like any other day, though it was hard to believe it would ever dawn over Sarajevo.
It was like that earlier procession, when they arrived, but now they were going downhill and away, decimated, their clothing and decorations worn, with a subdued sheen. But the good weaponry, the strict military order was there. In that respect, it was still a real army.
But not in any other respect. Quite a few people went to the Old Market and onto the town hills, but they were not the same people. They were mostly those who wanted, in a superstitious way, and of course unobserved, to spit on the army and to whisper a spell and a curse: that it should drift forever, such as it was now, around the world but never find its way back to Bosnia. Finally, many wished, in their impotence and poverty, to be able at least once to pride themselves on having seen the back of this seraskier too and of his cursed army. In the end there were, as there had been at their arrival, a few idlers who would spend the whole day hanging around the marketplace, vainly looking for novelty or distraction.
The official farewell was reduced to a minimum, plain and unassuming, completed in a whisper, almost unnoticed. There were always more people to greet a vizier than to see him off, particularly this one. Only those who had to be there w
ere present. Even so this time too there was a brief but solemn moment celebrating this heartless occasion.
The richly equipped and well-rehearsed military band that had once come with the seraskier and astounded the Bosnians with its energy and skill, remained for the most part in Sarajevo as the garrison band, with the artillery and pioneer troops. The battalion that went as protection for the seraskier and his headquarters had a small group of trumpeters, drilled by a Viennese junior officer, a good musician and incorrigible drunkard. He was of aristocratic origin and had apparently studied music seriously in his time, but all that had been drowned in alcohol and a bohemian life. However, that man, whose name was von Bilek-Rokhauzen, had days and weeks of formal, sorrowful self-control. Then he would stop drinking, spruce up and settle down, practicing regularly with his trumpeters and himself composing, telling people that when he was only sixteen there had been a public performance in Vienna of a suite he had composed. That did not usually last long. Ten days on, he would begin to drink again, to argue and talk nonsense and swear that the time would come when the world would hear more about him and that half of Europe would be dancing to his music.