Omer Pasha Latas Read online

  But now Omer Pasha had cut down. Luxury no longer gave him pleasure, nor was it necessary or appropriate on the very border with Austria, among the raw and envious Bosnian people. Even so, his household was large, excessively so.

  Among the mass of people who lived around the pasha, with various titles, from the divan-effendi to the last seizbasha, titles did not mean much, what mattered was the actual influence an individual had over the pasha. So it was that a lower-ranking official could often be more important than those who were by rank and calling far above him. Hence none of the pasha’s numerous retinue should be valued by name, rank or appearance but by real power and the role he played.

  When you heard the word kavedžibaša, you thought of what the word denoted: the man in charge of the pasha’s coffee, supervisor of the lads who prepared, roasted, ground, brewed and served coffee in the residence. But when you saw Ahmet Aga in person, you saw a mountain of flesh, a dull and drowsy creature who thought, wanted and felt nothing. And in both cases you would be mistaken. This kavedžibaša was not what he appeared to be, anything but. His skill in carrying out various duties for the pasha, including the most unpleasant and complicated ones, and largely those, while disturbing or annoying the pasha as little as possible, his devotion, his utter discretion, his great cunning and still greater disregard for others—all that gave him far more influence over the pasha and a far wider sphere of operation in the residence than his title suggested.

  Ahmet Aga was the son of a convert, born in Macedonia. Of massive build, this man knew many languages and had seen much of the world, and he had an athlete’s strength that nothing seemed to destroy entirely, not his age nor the unhealthy ways of the residence.

  Overweight, apathetic and taciturn, he spent the whole day half-prone smoking a narghile, undermining his health by his immobility and his greed for fine, delectable foods. Omer Pasha’s physician Dr. Schram used to say that each of Ahmet Aga’s individual organs was at war with all the other organs, and all of them together were at war with Ahmet Aga himself. The only thing that could make him stir, drive him to open his eyes and show any sign of life, was the seraskier’s summons. The instant Omer Pasha called or appeared nearby, or simply passed on a message about a task to be completed, this cumbersome, immobile man, hardly able to see through his fat and considering no one in the world worthy of a thought, let alone a word or movement, would leap up like a youngster, suddenly becoming light, alert and eloquent, swift, enterprising and resourceful. But as soon as the pasha’s command was carried out and completed satisfactorily, to the pasha’s satisfaction of course, the kavedžibaša subsided once again into his immobility in which the entire world, with all its people, good or evil, meant nothing to him.

  The kavedžibaša was able when necessary not only to increase his strength tenfold but to alter his character and talents. It was as though he had no personal, set habits or qualities: they appeared and changed according to the seraskier’s needs and whims. As required, Ahmet Aga was able to be, or to seem, miserly or generous, eloquent or taciturn, now kind and accommodating, now sharp, rough and heartless, now ignorant and dull, now sharp-witted and well-informed, even about things he had never heard of, if his duties required it. For him people and duties existed only insofar as they entered into the sphere of the seraskier’s interests, and only for as long as they remained there.

  Ahmet Aga had grown old in the seraskier’s service. He had been with Omer Pasha for nearly six years, and before that he had served two pashas, one of whom had become grand vizier. This experience had taught him how to serve important men. His basic rule was to do exactly what he was told and not concern himself with anything else, for whoever was able to obey and satisfy a pasha could have everything he wanted and achieve whatever he wished. But one had to invest one’s entire being, all one’s strength, skill and concentration. For a particular kind of task, you had to make yourself the main, the only, indispensable aide. You had to be convinced and to convince others that the pasha’s will and the pasha’s interests were the supreme law and most sacred duty, to which every other consideration must give way and every obstacle fall. For the pasha, there could be no such thing as “I don’t know,” “I can’t,” “there’s none” or “it can’t be done.” When the pasha wanted something, you had to know everything, have everything, be able and know how to do everything; you should not consider anyone else or let anything get in the way. That is how you had to serve. And, in fact, such zealous service is difficult only at the beginning, before you have become completely hardened and taken hold of all the strings that move both the pasha and those around him. Once you have achieved that, you can harness others to do the work, treating them with the greatest severity while all you do is display constant zeal. You are the one who receives orders from the pasha, you transfer them at once to those lower down and demand they are carried out unconditionally. And when the task is done, you inform the pasha. In this way the pasha knows only you, and only your easy, pleasant side. You are the one who receives rewards and recognition and decides who among those lower down should be acknowledged and rewarded. And when you have thus become trusted and indispensable to everyone, then in fact you no longer serve others, but both the pasha and all those round him serve you. Anyone acting like this secures his place in this world in the best possible way, for the pasha rules the world and he rules both the pasha and the world. That was how Ahmet Aga acted, and he was able to, because his position meant that he did not have to take much account of people, their sensitivities or interests. That had already become a habit, almost second nature. Exceptionally perceptive and cunning, he quickly weighed all the possibilities and determined what he wished to achieve, then went straight for his goal, without wasting words, beating about the bush or caring about appearances. His innate cynicism offended people, humiliated them and embittered them for life, but also disarmed them, subjugated and softened them, so that he could achieve whatever he wished.

  Anyone who observed Ahmet Aga sitting motionless on the divan, not looking at anyone nor listening to anything, might have thought that this man was just enduring like an animal or decaying like a tree stump. And that was, essentially, the case, though not entirely. It was certainly possible to say that he lived for what he could consume and he did so with pleasure, curiosity, even a certain sensitivity but little human feeling. However, in front of this somnolent and gruffly taciturn man, sunk in his own flab, stretched a broad image of the world and its landscapes, its variety and seasons. That image was broader and richer than could have been supposed from his confined way of life, his dull appearance and uncouth behavior. It was manifested in food and drink, in everything that he was able to take into his mouth, between his teeth, to sense on his tongue, in his nose or his throat. He took silent pleasure in early sorrel with young lamb, the way others delight in an idyllic green landscape under a March sky. Oranges, dates and pomegranates excited his imagination like tales of journeys to distant lands. Two drops of lemon juice could sometimes be an experience only he could savor. Smoked meat, stewed dried fruit and sweet pastries meant the same to him as the warmth of a home and hearth. A misted glass of the exceptional Sarajevo water opened up for him a picture of healthy young creatures washing at a fountain in the early morning, singing with joy. But there is little point in listing all this, because it is hard even to hazard a guess at what food and drink, calmly and knowledgeably prepared, meant to him. He took alcohol in such small quantities that he could hardly be said to drink. He took sips, half-sips, often merely breathing in the aroma, but, at the right time, even that could conjure up before him who knows what kind of image, distant and unusual, leading him to reflections about who knows what.

  He experienced his feelings toward people, and his moral judgments about them, if there was anything in him that could have been called moral, through his senses and that was usually how he expressed them. He responded to whatever did not coincide with his views or interests with expressions from the world of his se
nses. “Get lost, you’re nauseating, bitter!” “Go away, you stink!” When he decided that someone was of feeble intellect, he would say that his head was “stale,” “underdone” or “overcooked.” His lips would purse and his cheeks pucker as if about to spit out something tart and revolting.

  Of course, all that applied to his dealings with people of the same status as himself or, particularly, with those of lesser status, because if it was a matter of someone higher-ranking, or indeed the pasha himself, he became a mechanism as cold and insensitive as steel. In such cases, he knew neither hunger nor thirst, neither delight nor disgust.

  That is what the kavedžibaša Ahmet Aga was like and he lived in Omer Pasha’s residence with that understanding of life and service, carrying out the most varied tasks, which in most cases had nothing to do with coffee or the coffee kitchen.

  It would be hard to say exactly what was included in Ahmet Aga’s duties, because it was not recorded anywhere or clearly defined. Certainly, all informal audiences, and therefore also the one with Karas, went through him. In addition, he was a kind of bursar, but only for particular kinds of jobs. Regular purchases and payments were carried out by a manager of expenses and a treasurer, but when foodstuffs, cloth or some other goods had to be acquired cheaply or even free of charge, when a temporary shortage of cash required taking a sizeable loan, then the task fell to the kavedžibaša, who arranged it all. And, of course, he did it deftly and discreetly, so that the seraskier neither suspected nor knew anything about the ugly, unseemly side of the whole business. That was no easy matter, nor could anyone else have done it better.

  Somehow or other, Ahmet Aga was able to cope with all these numerous complex tasks. The ones he found most difficult were connected with Omer Pasha’s great, capricious and callous carnality. Ahmet Aga had to find and procure young women, girls and, in recent years, children, both girls and boys, bring them in secretly, unseen above all by the scheming, jealous women in the harem, and keep them, conceal, feed, produce them when required, then pay them off and remove them from the master’s sight when they were no longer needed and when they could have become difficult and dangerous.

  It is easy to say this in a few bland words, but only Ahmet Aga knew what it was like in reality, from close up, all the details and unexpected twists—unpleasant, complex, often terribly, insolubly tangled, but it all had to be resolved. The last two years had been particularly difficult.

  Ever since he had entered middle age, with the first signs of premature aging, the seraskier had become increasingly insatiable, and, as it sometimes seemed to Ahmet Aga, unpredictable. His excessive, shameless sensual demands matched his general sense of personal power and greatness. He was beginning to lose his sense of proportion, to forget not only what was permissible and natural and what was not, but also what he himself really wanted and could do and what he could not. He was in a dangerous phase of his life when his unhealthy imagination promised more than limited human reality could offer. The irritability that overcame the seraskier as a result was later vented on Ahmet Aga, under any pretext.

  That was why all his tasks connected with the seraskier’s greed for sensual pleasure, which Ahmet Aga thought of as “that business,” were the hardest and most hateful to him. And there were many. They came from all directions, when you least expected them, and created unpredictable difficulties, which the seraskier must not know about and generally did not. But it all landed on Ahmet Aga’s shoulders. However it turned out, Ahmet Aga carried out the dirtiest and most difficult part of the work that preceded the seraskier’s whims and that, sooner or later, followed. He was the one who was subjected to the victims’ curses, the seraskier’s displeasure and the hatred and contempt of everyone else.

  Saida Hanuma, Omer’s legal wife, possessed with the worst kind of jealousy that arises not from love but resentment and vanity, created scenes and quarrels with her husband, but only from time to time, while she persecuted Ahmet Aga at all times and persistently with her contempt, creating problems for him and doing him harm whenever she could, calling him “callous scoundrel” and telling everyone it was a shame that no one had yet found a rope-maker to make a rope strong enough for this “king of procurers” and that she would gild the palms of one who did.

  And no one else had anything better to say, or whisper, about the kavedžibaša either, not the officials and officers at the residence or the townspeople who gossiped about him since they could not gossip about the seraskier.

  And, if truth be known, however cold and heartless he was, Ahmet Aga was himself somewhat nauseated by “that business.” In his own way, of course. Looking at the world, and everything in it, from his coffee kitchen and exclusively from the point of view of his strange profession, he tended to see the whole of Omer Pasha’s life only from that angle, in a false, distorted perspective. He saw just one aspect of the personality of the imperial marshal, strategist and administrator: his lust. The seraskier achieved positions and the highest decorations, he ruthlessly subjugated territories, conducted politics on behalf of the state and for himself, waged major wars, made a name for himself both in the empire and the wider world, but for the kavedžibaša all that was secondary and unimportant, almost unreal. He saw his master, was able to see him, only in connection with “that business.” And despite the fact that he carried out these tasks without a word of reproach, with no hesitation or pang of conscience, with the soulless rhythm of an insensitive mechanism, despite looking on calmly and himself doing so much that was ugly and unjust, and being prepared to do even worse until the end of his days, nevertheless, sometimes, unintentionally, even he found himself thinking about the seraskier’s carnal lust as a curse of a special kind, all the more incomprehensible to him because he himself, cold by nature, knew only one passion, that of a glutton and gourmet. That was not, reflected the kavedžibaša in a kind of lament, like eating Turkish delight and washing it down with cold water, then wiping your mouth and that’s the end of it. No, this was something else, this got tangled and taut and tripped a man up, troubled his sleep and waking hours, maddened him, corroded and sullied him, so that he had to keep washing but was never clean, forever eating and never replete. While at the same time it created constant anxieties and upsets for so many others, through no fault of their own. Above all, for himself.

  And what worries and shocks they were. For the seraskier was so blind and insatiable, capricious and self-willed in his passion and lust, so focused on his desires and so steeped in them, that he no longer saw the women, girls and boys, the objects of his lust, as living people who had existed before he set eyes on them and desired them and who had to go on existing afterward. He could not comprehend that these human beings, in addition to satisfying or trying to satisfy his passion, also had a personal life, quite apart from him: their own interests, desires or demands, their own home, parents and friends. He found the very thought insulting and it angered him as lack of respect for his person, as impudence and blackmail. The kavedžibaša did not dare so much as mention these things; it was up to him to resolve all resistance, conflicts or misunderstandings as best he could, while the seraskier had to be satisfied and content.

  During the short time that they had been in Sarajevo, the kavedžibaša had to contend with two major “headaches” of this kind, to say nothing of minor ones.

  While they were still in Travnik, he had procured a renowned beauty from Livno, a Christian woman, who had left her husband for a Turkish lad, but before he had managed to have her converted and marry her, the young man had been killed in a fight and she was passed from hand to hand. Very soon, she ended up in Ahmet Aga’s coffee kitchen.

  At first, Omer Pasha was thrilled with the new arrival, but he soon tired of the ample, aggressive woman, who required a lot of space. Now she had become superfluous. But she had no wish to leave. Ahmet Aga removed her from the pasha’s sight, but he had to maintain her in a separate little house. He offered her money and tried in vain to drive her away. The woman, who evi
dently delighted in loud scenes, wrung her hands and shouted:

  “Kill me, I have no one and nowhere to go to!”

  She threatened to jump into the first deep whirlpool she came across, having first publicly announced why she was doing it. She appeared so untamable and determined that even Ahmet Aga was a little frightened of her. To get rid of this difficult woman, he felt the best course would be to find her a husband. He undertook to do this, and she agreed.

  His eye fell on a tailor who came to the residence to make covers for the divans, a certain Atif from Vratnik, a nondescript, timid man of limited intelligence. Ahmet Aga circled around him, deliberately and patiently, as he worked, or invited him to his quarters, showering him with sweet empty words, feeding him delicacies and constantly urging him to marry. He did this brusquely, without much restraint or beating about the bush. For, when he wanted to talk someone into something, the kavedžibaša first got the measure of a man and then proceeded accordingly, with confidence and no consideration, as if dealing with a log, not a living human being. He appraised the tailor as “half a man” from every point of view, a worthless, two-legged creature who deserved no respect.

  “I’m going to marry you off,” the kavedžibaša told him one day, without looking at him, as if not expecting an answer.

  The tailor nibbled his Turkish delight and sipped water. He seemed more embarrassed and overawed than pleased with the great honor the seraskier’s powerful kavedžibaša was unexpectedly showing him.

  “Yes, indeed, I’ve found a girl and arranged it. I’ve done all this, because I like you, you’re a good craftsman, and I appreciate that. So there you are.”