Hamam Balkania. Vladislav Bajac

one hundred grown up men and schoolboys. When we drew close, we saw that they were trading football cards for their albums before the beginning of the World Football Championships in June of 2006 in Germany! I was surprised by my intuition, which had precisely described this phenomenon in the manuscript of an unfinished book only a few weeks before and in which, on that occasion, the protagonists were Pamuk and I. I told him about it. Instead of answering, he reacted even more surprisingly: he got noticeably involved with the people and their football cards. The whole situation overwhelmed him completely. I was hardly able to drag him away from there.

      I bet that he went back there after I dropped him off, because of a sudden rain shower, at the restaurant of that hotel whose outer walls were all of glass, so he could sit and record his impressions, and draw in his blue notebook what he had seen in his mind’s eye.

      Then again, I went back there, too. I discovered that, in today’s childhood as well (for children and adults alike) money has no place. The only difference was, I found out, that there were no prizes for finished albums. And that adults had gotten involved in the game too, apparently in a state of childhood regression. It would be nice if the reason for that were the introduction of a new naïveté in the game. The adults here were not accompanying little kids but were playing equally with them – like kids.

      They had never heard of a ‘knockout’.

      Perhaps all of this was happening for a reason and not accidentally, right on the square named ‘Terazije’.¹⁸

      I am certain that, in Pamuk’s notebook, something was recorded about this exchange of the naïve and the establishment of equilibrium (between the large and small participants, the excess and lack of cards). If I only had the least bit of talent for drawing (like Pamuk does), I am sure that I would be in a dilemma about this testimony of simplicity – is it better to write something down or should it be drawn?

      It is quite obvious from this account that I have never been much of an expert or fan of football. Like with other phenomena, however, I was attracted by the oddity of its collateral consequences or connections. Not so long ago I watched the film The Cup by the director Khyentse Norbu. This is an incredible melding of Tibetan art and western European film technology (and most likely production money). Against a background of indescribable remoteness and distance from the modern world, we see Tibetan Buddhist priests, in addition to their thousand year-old chanted mantras, along with their completely childlike naïveté, organising their watching of the televised broadcast of the World Football Championships within the gates of their monastery and of their – not so football oriented – beliefs. The absurd connection of the un-connectable through the unbridled humour in this film, shows how everything is human, and especially that which seemingly could never be. In the film, the ‘acting’ is done by Tibetan disciples and teachers themselves, with names (and titles) like Neten Chokling, Lama Godhi, Jamyang Lodro... Thus, once again, local boys and grown men.

      It so happens that, soon after my fascination with this film, a friend of mine showed up after just spending a year of his life with these ‘football heroes’ from the top of the world! And like a true kid, he told me, “They’re just like in the film!”

      It now seemed to him that he might be able to better understand the extremes in the behaviour of those who had converted to the new faith and to reach a greater understanding toward the split character of those who had not done so.

      The janissaries were prime representatives of the former. They were used mercilessly as if they had no roots, families or any reason of their own for living. Everything was expunged from their lives so that the drive to serve the sultan could be imprinted in its place. Well trained, they acted accordingly: regardless of the battle tactics of the commanders, as individuals, they penetrated all the boundaries of courage and literally rushed headlong into battle, and often to their deaths. On the other hand, this headlong rush often saved them; seeing them like that, the enemy frequently gave up in battle, often in tactical retreat, and sometimes even running for their lives. In this way Allah, or their former God (or both at the same time), actually saved them from their own madness. That is why they were uncontrollable in their victories. Using the far-reaching reputation of their intrepidness, they often plundered, raped, tortured and murdered at will. Unless the sultan or the grand vizier personally forbid them. Not only did they take delight in the role of proving their bloodthirstiness, they also showed their loyalty beyond all limits of good taste. And when something of the spoils did not fall into their hands, they also uncontrollably raised their voice against their commander and showed him that same unbridled impudence that was even able to upset the ruler. The ruler would in turn delegate the grand vizier to quiet them down. There were cases when, at such moments, they paid him no heed either and thus managed to overthrow him; even killing a few of the grand viziers along the way. However, when they were content with the booty, they would again become fanatically obedient to their lord, behaving as if nothing at all had happened.

      Bajica interpreted such behaviour as a kind of madness, because it could not be explained with reasonable arguments. Their rebellions were violent, fast, heated and dangerous. As soon as their demands were fulfilled, and when the leaders had been punished, the uprising would die out with equal speed and determination. These abrupt changes in their disposition kept the rulers under a constant tension. Truth be told, in that tension there was a kind of justice; if unquestioning loyalty was wanted, then the rulers had to count on the occasional risks that such allegiance implied.

      Although this behaviour among the janissaries was essentially caused by their proselytisation, it seemed to Bajica that it was not the fundamental reason. After all, these men became part of a living legend as time went by. That legend, primarily according to military standards, rightly made them into elite units that were unmatched either in the sultan’s army or any other.

      If the coals of their former faith glowed beneath the flame of their new one, this too could be seen among the agas, beys, pashas and other commander-converts. In order to advance as quickly, easily and indubitably as possible, many of them became greater subjects of Allah than most of the Ottomans. Much more complicated were those who remained divided in their loyalties.

      It was easiest to die. Any infidel could afford himself that luxury just by immediately, clearly and completely showing that he did not want to convert to the new faith. Yet, even that was not enough to receive the death sentence. Namely, the Ottomans did not think they should be opposed in their ideas. To the contrary, they forced no one (except those chosen for the devshirma) to convert to their faith. Death came only if someone drew a weapon on them.

      To a certain extent, it was harder to not accept Islam and remain a subject with one’s own faith. But it was even more difficult to not forsake one’s faith, and go into the service of another! To others, this certainly looked like cupidity. But what other choices were there? Had staying alive become something unnatural? Shameful? Should one die in order to exist? Extinguish an entire nation only to go on procreating? And how does one do that?

      All of these questions were a burden on his soul. He had not yet met anyone who could even pose these questions clearly, much less answer them. The most he could do was to gather partial answers from those around him.

      Thus, just as his whole nation was divided in two halves, neither of which could be naturally defended by a foreign entity, so it was that every individual was divided in half, yet did not have anything to say about it. Or, perhaps, for some of his compatriots that decision had not been made. But there was a trap in front of the decision: when making that decision, the only thing that was impossible was to remain true to oneself and oneself alone.

      It was quite fortunate that such great questions without answer came up right in the middle of a military campaign, and Bajica was forced to end this sort of self-torture and go on with his participation in the events of the day.

      The conflict on the swampy battle field at Mohacs between the two armies or, better said, the Hungarian heavily armoured, and therefore hardly manoeuvrable, cavalry against the Ottoman cannons, lasted for only two hours. The Hungarians were scattered by the artillery and did not even manage to engage the