and everything, made it seem that each time his name was mentioned he was actually physically present there as well and built the illusion that he was omnipresent. If such a thing were allowed, probably some of his loyal subjects would even have felt sorry for him. Yet this omnipresence fuelled stories about the ruler’s doubles: the high visibility of a single person could only be created by replicating him, and since that was not possible, stories were invented that the ruler had doubles. Later, the reasons for the ruler’s simultaneous appearance in several places at once were expanded to include his avoidance of assassination.
Yet on his journey, the pack train of horses and people that drew out in front and behind him to the horizon helped him to begin to gather his thoughts. In the first place, it was clear that he could never return again. Escape was hardly feasible, and even if he managed, he wondered what he would do with that kind of freedom. The new masters of his fate knew who he was; he had not reached this place as a child found by accident, but rather as a carefully selected young man, with a name, a surname and a pedigree. His departure for the Turkish Empire was actually decreed. He was indeed taken abroad, not to vanish but rather to vanquish. He needed to be smart and practical. His own father had advised him to make the best of the whole situation, and to even try to profit from it.
He prayed that God would not forsake him. He prayed that his memory would not betray him. At this moment, ‘being his own man’ meant ‘remember everything’. As time went by, his memories slipped from his conscious into his physical self and thus built the organic memory that makes one what one actually is – in truth, the stuff one is made of. He had to be afraid of forgetting. He thought that if he forgot, he would cease to exist. He did not know that the body is able to read like the mind does: at that moment, in order to defend him from the new, it was actually reading through his entire childhood, his language, his faith, his parents, his brothers and sisters, his time in the monastery cell, and storing all of that in the farthest reaches of his body, preparing the messages of that language for a kind of hibernation, however long it might take. In that way, his memory could last with certainty.
It was only with the passing of time that he began to understand why his new hosts, at the same time masters and owners – did not have to worry about how much he and the other children with him would forget or not forget of what they had left behind. The tempo of events that followed and the sheer volume of new commitments would resolve that problem all by themselves.
When writing a book with at least a partial background of historical facts, it is almost impossible to avoid mystification, accidental though it might be. For example, when I thought through about all the coincidences that occurred as I wrote this book, it turned out that I started writing my novel about Mehmed-pasha Sokollu at the precise moment marking five-hundred years since the birth of his ‘first half’, that is Bajica Sokolović, in 1505. I thought to myself, well alright, I will incidentally be the single individual who will celebrate such an important anniversary, which passed with only the minimum of public interest.
Visiting for a while in Turkey in that jubilee year, I also did not notice that anyone paid any particular attention to the anniversary, either. It was as if this unique opportunity was given to me to subtly mark the occasion by writing about it, at first for myself, and later for the general public. Because, by the time this book is published, the anniversary will no longer be timely, in fact it won’t even exist. Why, indeed, even as I write this, the time has (already!) run out. Thus, a celebratory mood ought to be kept under control or should at least be hidden by coincidence – a fortunate turn of events that it was overshadowed by another celebration – the coming of the New Year.
A party turned into a commemoration.
An anniversary replaced by New Year.
Mehmed-pasha disguised as Santa Claus!
A true possibility that seems like a joke. Cynical humour created by circumstances rather than the writer’s talent. Like when a writer works without an outline and yet ends up with a novel without substance.
The big question is: what is coincidence in writing? The writer loves to displace, invent, augment, to multiply and then divide, organise, borrow... but above all he loves to intertwine. And when he does, then everything is possible. That is why his possible guilt for incidental (mis)deeds of which he is not even aware can be forgiven like the transgressions of a child. First of all, because those (mis)deeds occur accidentally and incidentally; they were not the goal but are simply there without forethought. Secondly, because their consequences can hardly be so dramatic that they are irreparable. And even if they are irreparable, they are not far-reaching. Thirdly, because the basic idea still remains as the centre of attention – the misdeeds are concomitant. Finally, does any one really take a writer seriously and at his word? That is another additional reason, if not also a justification, for why he is allowed to intertwine things so easily. And not to be held responsible.
Here is an example of such a (mis)deed: in the chapters that are supposed to be dealing with the present (like this one), at least for now, I keep having conversations with myself! Is that good or bad? Perhaps in the end I will realise that it is, after all, good for the book, although I doubt it at the moment. Why don’t I allow the heroes to head down their paths, to – as they say – develop? Well, perhaps it is not their time. And on the other hand... it so happens that I am one of those heroes (the one with the initials V.B.). Am I not developing as a character through this very same dialogue with myself? Hasn’t the reader begun quite clearly to make certain conclusions about him (me)? I mean, the reader should be drawing certain conclusions. If they don’t draw them, who will?
They stopped in Jedrene, or Edirne in Turkish, the famous imperial winter residence and former capital city.
After a rest, the caravan with its large number of children continued on toward the interior of the country. Bajica, along with a small group of a hundred or so, was detained at Edirne. The beauty of the place and the sheer luxury of the exterior of the caravansary occupied their attention and their thoughts. They almost forgot all the difficulties and the length of the journey they had just made. Before them lay their first life challenge, which they could not be aware of, nor could they clearly place it for themselves; they were merely comparing where they came from to where they had arrived, and as of yet they still had not even had the chance to see the second courtyard, much the less the third courtyard inside the caravansary.
Their senses were already overwhelmed, and no one had even offered them anything.
They were sent to the soldiers’ barracks, which lay next to the room belonging to the Sultan’s guard. A few guards were assigned to them – keepers who spoke Serbian, but who addressed them in it only insofar as their service demanded: they were not allowed to say anything privately, much less to offer any sort of explanation. Each of the future courtiers was supposed to understand by himself however much he was able to.
In the census books, in addition to the existing facts brought from Bosnia and Serbia, their new Turkish names were entered. Bajo Sokolović became Mehmed Sokollu. They were ordered to respond only to their new names from then on. They began learning Turkish immediately. Their lessons were based on the gradual learning of the basics of communication, but they also included concepts that they had to learn by rote, with the explanation that these things would be clarified later, when they began to study the Qur’an. Their language classes went on all day, interrupted only by physical exercise and scanty meals. Before falling asleep, Baja still called himself Bajica, but this would not last long: completely exhausted like all the others, he would go to sleep instantly.
The first months went by like a whirlwind. As soon as they had mastered their new language enough to communicate
