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  littlemoredirtthanhehimselfhadfound.

  Dauthodjadidallthathecouldtosavethe han andkeepitgoing.Firsthespent

  his own money and then he began to borrow from his relatives. So he patched

  thingsupfromyeartoyearandkeptthepreciousbuildinginitsformerbeauty.

  Tothosewhoreproachedhimforruininghimselftryingtopreservewhatcould

  notbepreserved,herepliedthathewasinvestingthemoneywellforhegaveit

  as a loan to God and that he, the mutevelia, should be the last to desert this bequestwhichitseemedallothershaddesertedandabandoned.

  This wise and godfearing, stubborn and obstinate man, whom the town long

  remembered, allowed no one to turn him from his vain effort. Working

  devotedly, he had long become reconciled to the idea that our destiny on this

  earthliesinthestruggleagainstdecay,deathanddissolutionandthatmanmust

  persevere in this struggle, even if it were completely in vain. Sitting before

  the han whichwasfallingintodissolutionbeforehiseyes,herepliedtoallthose

  whotriedtodissuadehimorpitiedhim:

  'Thereisnoneedtofeelsorryforme.Forallofusdieonlyonce,whereasgreat

  men die twice, once when they leave this world and a second time when their

  lifeworkdisappears.'

  When he was no longer able to pay day-labourers, he himself, old as he was,

  rooted up the weeds around the han with his own hands and carried out minor repairstothebuilding.Soitwasthatdeathovertookhimonedaywhenhehad

  climbed up to repair a cracked slate on the roof. It was natural that a small

  town hodja could not maintain what a Grand Vezir had founded and which

  historicaleventshadsentencedtodisaster.

  AfterDauthodja'sdeaththe han rapidlybegantofallintoruins.Signsofdecay

  appearedeverywhere.Theguttersbegantocrackandtosmellnasty,theroofto

  letintherains,thedoorsandwindowsthewinds,andthestablestobechoked with manure and weeds. But from without the perfect building still looked

  unchanged,calmandindestructibleinitsbeauty.Thosegreatarchedwindowson

  the ground floor, with grilles as delicate as lace cut in soft stone from a single block, looked peacefully out upon the world, but the simpler windows on the

  floorabovealreadyshowedsignsofpoverty,neglectandinternaldisorder.Little

  bylittletravellersbegantoavoidspendingthenightinthetownor,iftheydid,

  stayedatUstamujić'sinnandpaidfortheirnight'slodging.Theycamemoreand

  morerarelytothecaravanserai,eventhoughtheyhadnottopaybutonlytowish

  peace to the Vezir's soul. At last, when it become clear that the money would

  nevercome,everyoneabandonedanypretencetocareforthebuilding,eventhe

  new mutevelia, andthecaravanseraistayedmuteanddesertedandfellintoruin

  anddisrepairasdoallbuildingsinwhichnoonelivesandwhichnoonelooks

  after.Wildgrasses,weedsandthistlesgrewaroundit.Ravensnestedontheroof

  andcrowsgatheredthereindenseblackflocks.

  Thusbeforeitstimeandunexpectedlyforsaken(allsuchthingsseentohappen

  unexpectedly)theVezir'sStoneHanbegantodisintegrateandfalltopieces.

  But if the caravanserai, due to unusual circumstances, was forced to betray its

  mission and fall into ruin before its time, the bridge, which needed neither

  supervisionnormaintenance,remaineduprightandunchanged,linkingthetwo

  banksandbearingacrosstheriverburdensdeadandalive,asithadinthefirst

  daysofitsexistence.

  Initswallsthebirdsnestedandintheinvisiblecracksopenedbytimegrewlittle

  tufts of grass. The yellowish porous stone of which the bridge was built

  hardened and contracted under the alternate influence of moisture and of heat.

  Eternallybeatenbythewindswhichblewupanddowntherivervalley,washed

  by the rains and dried by the fierce heats of summer, that stone in time turned

  whitewiththedullwhitenessofparchmentandshoneinthetwilightasiflighted

  from within. The great and frequent floods, which were a heavy and continual

  menace to the town, were unable to do anything against it. They came every

  year, in spring and autumn, but all were not dangerous and fateful to the town

  beside the bridge. Every year, once or perhaps twice, the Drina rose in tumult

  and its muddied waters roared down, bearing through the arches of the bridge

  torn-upfencesfromthefields,uprootedstumpsoftrees,anddarkearthywaters

  filled with leaves and branches from the riverside forests. The courtyards,

  gardensandstoreroomsofthehousesnearesttheriversuffered.Buteverything

  endedthere.Atirregularintervalsofbetweentwentyandthirtyyearscamegreat

  floods which were afterwards remembered as one remembers insurrections or wars and were long used as a date from which to reckon time, to calculate the

  ages of citizens or the term of men's lives ('Five or six years before the great flood....''Duringthegreatflood....').

  Afterthesegreatfloodslittlemovablepropertyremainedinthatlargerpartofthe

  townwhichlayonthelowsandystripbetweentheDrinaandtheRzav.Sucha

  floodthrewthewholetownseveralyearsback.Thatgenerationspenttherestof

  itslifeinrepairingthedamageandthemisfortuneleftbythe'greatflood'.Tothe

  end of their lives men, talking amongst themselves, recalled the terror of that

  autumn night when, in the chill rain and hellish wind, to the light of an

  occasionallantern,theywouldtakeouttheirgoods,eachfromhisownshop,and

  carry them to higher ground at Mejdan and there store them in the shops and

  warehousesofothers.Whenthenextday,inthecloudydawn,theylookeddown

  fromthehillsideonthetownthattheylovedasstronglyandasunconsciouslyas

  their own blood, and saw the darkened muddied waters rushing through the

  streetsatrooflevel,theywouldtrytoguesswhosehouseitwasfromwhichthe

  foaming waters were noisily tearing the roof plank by plank and whose house

  stillremainedupright.

  On feast days and festivals and during the nights of Ramazan the grey-haired

  toilworn and anxious fathers of families would grow lively and talkative when

  the conversation turned to the greatest and hardest event of their lives, to the

  'greatflood'.Aftertheintervaloffifteenortwentyyearsinwhichtheyhadonce

  more restored their fortunes and their homes, the flood was recalled as

  something great and terrible, near and dear to them; it was an intimate bond

  betweenthemenofthatgenerationwhowerestillliving,fornothingbringsmen

  closer together than a common misfortune happily overcome. They felt

  themselvescloselyboundbythememoryofthatbygonedisaster.Theylovedto

  recallmemoriesofthehardestblowdealtthemintheirlives.Theirrecollections

  were inexhaustible and they
repeated them continually, amplified by memory

  andrepetition;theylookedintooneanother'seyes,sceleroticandwithyellowing

  whites,andsawtherewhattheyoungermencouldnotevensuspect.Theywere

  carriedawaybytheirownwordsanddrownedalltheirpresenteverydaytroubles

  intherecollectionofthosegreateroneswhichtheyhadexperiencedsolongago.

  Sitting in the warm rooms of their homes through which that flood had at one

  time passed, they recounted for the hundredth time with special enjoyment

  movingandtragicscenes.Andthemoreharrowingandpainfultherecollection

  thegreaterpleasurewasthereinrecollectingit.Seenthroughtobaccosmokeora

  glass of plum brandy, such scenes were often transformed by distance and imagination, magnified and embellished, but not one of them ever noticed that

  this was so and would have sworn that it had in fact so happened, for they all

  sharedinthisunconsciousexaggeration.

  Thustherestilllivedafewoldmenwhorememberedthelast'greatflood',about

  which they could still speak among themselves, repeating to the younger men

  thattherewerenolongersuchdisastersasintimepast,butnosuchblessingsand

  goodlivingeither.

  Oneoftheverygreatestofallthesefloods,whichoccurredinthesecondhalfof

  theeighteenthcentury,wasespeciallylongrememberedandbecamethesubject

  ofcountlesstales.

  Inthatgeneration,astheoldermenlatersaid,therewaspracticallynoonewho

  rememberedthelastgreatfloodwell.Nonetheless,onthoserainyautumndays

  all were on the alert, knowing that 'the waters were hostile'. They emptied the

  warehousesclosesttotheriverandwanderedbynight,bythelightoflanterns,

  alongthebankstolistentotheroarofthewaters,fortheoldermenaffirmedthat

  theycouldtellbysomespecialmoaningofthewaterswhetherthefloodtocome

  would be one of those ordinary ones which visited the town every year and

  causedminordamage,orwhetheritwouldbeoneofthose,happilyrare,which

  floodedboththebridgeandthetownandcarriedawayeverythingthatwasnot

  onfirmfoundations.NextdaytheDrinadidnotriseandthetownthatnightslept

  soundly, for men were tired out from lack of sleep and the excitement of the

  nightbefore.Soitwasthatthewatersdeceivedthem.ThatnighttheRzavrose

  suddenlyinamannerneverbeforerememberedand,redwithmud,piledupat

  itsconfluencewiththeDrina.Thusthetworiversoverwhelmedthewholetown.

  Suljaga Osmanagić, one of the richest Turks in the town, then owned a

  thoroughbred Arab horse, a chestnut of great value and beauty. As soon as the

  reinforced Drina began to rise, two hours before it overflowed into the streets,

  this chestnut began to neigh and did not calm down until it had awakened the

  stable-boys and its owner and until they had taken it out of its stall which was besidetheriver.Sothegreaterpartoftheinhabitantswereawakened.Underthe

  chill rain and the raging wind of the dark October night began a flight and a

  saving of all that could be saved. Half-dressed, the people waded up to their

  knees,carryingontheirbackstheirwakenedandcomplainingchildren.Atevery

  moment dull crashes could be heard when the tree stumps which the Drina

  washed down from the flooded forests struck against the piers of the stone

  bridge.

  Up at Mejdan, which the waters had never in any circumstances been able to

  reach, windows were all alight and flickering lanterns danced and quivered in

  thedarkness.Allthehouseswereopentowelcomethosewhohadsufferedand

  who came drenched and despondent with their children or their most precious

  belongings in their arms. In the stables burned fires by which those unable to

  findaplaceinthehousescoulddrythemselves.

  The leading merchants of the town, after they had placed the people in the

  houses,TurkishinTurkishhomesandChristianandJewishinChristianhomes,

  gathered in the great ground-floor room of Hadji Ristić's house. There were

  the mukhtars(theMoslemleaders)andthe kmets(theChristianheadmen)ofall

  thequarters,exhaustedandwettotheskin,afterhavingwakenedandmovedto

  safe quarters all their fellow citizens. Turks, Christians and Jews mingled

  together. The force of the elements and the weight of common misfortune

  broughtallthesementogetherandbridged,atleastforthisoneevening,thegulf

  thatdividedonefaithfromtheotherand,especially,the rayah from the Turks:

  SuljagaOsmanagić,PetarBogdanović,MordoPapo,thebig,taciturnandwitty

  parish priest Pop Mihailo, the fat and serious Mula Ismet, the

  Višegrad hodja, and Elias Levi, known as Hadji Liacho, the Jewish rabbi well knownevenfarbeyondthetownforhissoundjudgmentandopennature.There

  were about ten others, from all three faiths. All were wet, pale, with clenched

  jaws,butoutwardlycalm;theysatandsmokedandtalkedofwhathadbeendone

  tosavethepeopleandofwhatstillremainedtobedone.Everymomentyounger

  people entered, streaming with water, who reported that everything living had

  been taken to Mejdan and to the fortress and put in houses there, Turkish and

  Christian, and that the waters down in the valley were still rising and invading

  streetafterstreet.

  As the night passed—and it passed slowly and seemed enormous, growing

  greaterandgreaterlikethewatersinthevalley—theleadersandrichmenof

  thetownbegantowarmthemselvesovercoffeeandplumbrandy.Awarmand

  close circle formed, like a new existence, created out of realities and yet itself unreal,whichwasnotwhatithadbeenthedaybeforenorwhatitwouldbethe

  dayafter,butlikeatransientislandinthefloodoftime.Theconversationrose

  and strengthened and changed subject. They avoided speaking of past floods

  known only in tales, but spoke of other things that had no connection with the

  watersandwiththedisasterwhichwasatthatmomenttakingplace.

  Desperate men make desperate efforts to appear calm and indifferent, almost casual. By some tacit superstitious agreement and by the unwritten but sacred

  laws of patronal dignity and business order which have existed since olden

  times,eachconsideredithisdutytomakeaneffortandatthatmomentatleast

  externallytoconcealhisfearandhisanxietiesinfaceofadisasteragainstwhich

  hecoulddonothingandtotalkinalighttoneaboutunrelatedthings.

  But just as they began to grow calm in this conversation and to find in it a

  momentofforgetfulness,andtherebytherestandenergythattheywouldneed

  sogreatlyinthedaytocome,amanentered,bringingwithhimKostaBaranac.

  That young merchant was wet through, muddied to the knees and dishevelled.

  Dazzledbythelightandconfusedbythenumberspresent,helookedatthemas
/>   if in a dream, wiping the water from his face with his open hand. They made

  roomforhimandofferedhimplumbrandy,whichhewasunabletoraisetohis

  lips.Hiswholebodyshivered.Awhisperranthroughtheroomthathehadtried

  to leap into the dark current that now flowed in a sandy torrent immediately

  abovethespotwherehisbarnsandgranarieshadbeen.

  Hewasayoungman,arecentsettler,whohadbeenbroughttothetowntwenty

  years before as an apprentice, but had later married into a good family and

  become a merchant. A peasant's son, he had in the last few years by daring

  speculation and ruthless exploitation become rich, richer than many of the

  leading families of the town. But he was not used to loss and was unable to

  support disaster. That autumn he had bought large quantities of plums and

  walnuts,farbeyondhisrealresources,reckoningthatinwinterhewouldbeable

  tocontrolthepriceofbothdriedplumsandwalnutsandsoclearhisdebtsand

  makeagoodprofit,ashehaddoneinpreviousyears.Nowhewasruined.

  Sometimewastopassbeforetheimpressionmadeonthembythesightofthis

  ruinedmancouldbedispelled,sinceallofthem,somemoresomeless,hadbeen

  hit by this flood and only by inborn dignity had they been able to control

  themselvesbetterthanthisupstart.

  The oldest and most prominent amongst them once again turned the

  conversationtocasualmatters.Theybegantotelllongstoriesofformertimes,

  whichhadnosortofconnectionwiththedisasterthathaddrawnthemhitherand

  surroundedthemonallsides.

  They drank hot plum brandy and embarked on recollections of earlier days,

  abouttheeccentriccharactersofthetownandeverykindofstrangeandunusual

  event.PopMihailoandHadjiLiachosettheexample.Whenthetalkinevitably

  returnedtoearlierfloods,theyrecalledonlywhatwaspleasantorcomical,orat least seemed so after so many years, as if they wanted to cast a spell upon the watersandtodefytheflood.

  They talked of Pop Jovan, who had once been parish priest here, who his

  parishioners had said was a good man but did not have 'a lucky hand' and that