Anarchistbanjo's World

The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel

I walked around the building. No, it had no second exit.
Nowhere. I looked once more at the flat, red bricks of the
entrance, hollowed out by feet, over which Sennon had stepped
for the last time.
In the afternoon I took an interpreter with me, a young
and clever Spaniard, and went to see the Sheikh of the Halveti,
Achmed. I was immediately admitted and had a drink of coffee
with him and a young serious-looking dervish, on a colorful
tray in a bright room. The Spaniard told the Sheikh what I said
to him.
No, the Sotnie (Herr) had come for nothing. It was well
known that a soldier of Austria entered the Tekkeh and never
came out again. However, this must be a mistake, because the
Tekkeh has only one door.
Yes, fine. But how to explain the thing? Who was the
dervish in the brown robe, with the turban of the Halveti and
the amber necklace?
Oh, if only I had known the life of Melchior Dronte! If I
had known about Isa Bektschi! But at that time the sheets with
Vorauf’s transcription were lying in my house thousands and
thousands of miles away from Schipnie, on the country road
with the poplar trees, sealed and wrapped, not even visible to
the moon when it looked through the window of my room at
night.
Yes, the dervish? It had been none of them. Moreover,
the door of the Tekkeh was always locked- with three old locks,
each of which weighed close to two pounds; very old locks
from the days of the Sultans.
But some explanation – must there be some explanation?
How did Vorauf and the monk get through the locked door?
The sheikh with the white beard and the young dervish
looked at each other, glanced at me and the interpreter with a
look of polite disdain; yes – I was used to such looks, since I
had gotten to know Mohammedans, and then they spoke
quickly and quietly with each other. I understood only the
words “syrr” and “Dejishtirme!”
The old man bowed to me. He was very sorry that he was
not able to help me. Unfortunately nothing more was known.
No, unfortunately, nothing is known, agreed the dervish.
The interpreter translated. We were looked at amiably and
inquiringly. The eyes said, “May we now ask to be alone again,
my curious Herrn?”
I stood up. There was nothing more to be learned. I could
see that. The dervishes were very polite. The sheikh touched
the carpet with his hand before he brought it to his forehead
and mouth.
“What were they talking about?”
I asked the Spaniard as we stood in the blinding sunlight
under the cypress trees and listened to the laughter and
gurgling of the wild pigeons above us. The interpreter shrugged
sheepishly.
“They not talk like Shiptar, Albanian, Sotnie,” he said.
“They speak very softly. I did not understand. It was Osmanli,
turc, mon capitaine, you understand – -.”
“What do the words ‘syrr’ and ‘Dejischtirme,’ mean?” I
asked.
I had remembered them well from memory.
The interpreter shook his head, then he said:
” ‘Syrr!’ It is secret, yes, and ‘Dejischtirme’, says in
German: an exchange.”
“Yes, and what does it mean?”
“Le mystere – the secret of the transformation–a
transformation in a living body -. vous comprenez?”
“Fairy tale! Fairy tale!”
Yes, here time had stopped. In the coffeehouses, and
when it got dark, the Turks only went out in twos and threes, so
afraid were they of the jinns, the Afrits and the Gulen.
But I, Doctor Kaspar Hedrich – —
Transformation. So the good Sennon Vorauf. What had
he said? What did it say in Riemei’s letter?
“I am called!”
Then, in my distress, I went once again to the
Headquarters.
“Cheeky swindle!” shouted Herr Lt. Switschko. “The
fellow deserted. The Turks were in on it with him. I have seen
it myself, how they bowed down to the ground before him, and
the women came to him with sick children. I should not have
tolerated the story from the beginning. Would you like to come
with me to the Menashe, Herr Regimental Surgeon?”
No, I did not go. I also didn’t want to see Riemeis and
Corporal Maierl. I was very sad. Oh, these precious leaves in
front of me! Why did these leaves have to fall into my hand so
late? But he had wanted it that way, Sennon, the – yes, the Ewli.
I am sitting here all alone, and it is midnight. All that is
long gone, life is short, and what I have missed will not return.
What wanderings are in store for me, what paths?
“Syrr,” sighs the wind in the poplars. “Syrr!”

Mystery!
End.