Hamam Balkania. Vladislav Bajac

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 without difficulty (while in the presence of their teachers and supervisors, they also had to speak it among themselves), they began to read and write intensively. And even though it existed from early on, a clearly visible selection was now conceived: those who proved to be among the best were chosen to study various fields of scholarship and to enter them quickly, broadly and profoundly. Then they were immediately tested on the things they had learned and sorted into groups according to ability. One thing was common and clear to all of them; that their training was subjugated to the one and the same goal – that they were all to serve one master and him alone. Within that framework they were fit into various positions, but those were only nuances in relation to the unifying submissiveness and to the resulting blind and united fealty.

      The Imam of Edirne converted them to Islam in a ritual, a humble and highly simplified ceremony. They were also circumcised. Only then were they able to attain true religious and spiritual knowledge, along with vigorous and varied military training. Before long the breadth and length of their combat exercises was completely matched by the time spent in lectures on Islam, in the study of the Holy Qur’an and in their community prayers. Bajica felt like they were making a super-man of him, capable and competent for all sorts of exploits of the body, mind and soul. He did not waste his strength on resistance; it was clear to him that through opposition he would not manage to ward off the inevitable. In that way, he at least had the comfort (or the illusion) that he was participating in the decision making process of his acceptance, without knowing if it was it forced or voluntary?

      It was as if he was thinking in Turkish, but dreaming Serbian. Thus translating himself from one language into the other and vice-versa, it seemed that he was preparing his very essence to be the eternal guardian of the boundary between dreams and reality. Maintaining his balance on such a sharp edge, as time went by, it began to remind him of the skill of the tightrope walker at the bazaar. As the height increased, the danger of the fall grew as well, and of its consequences, but the profit from his possible success also rose. Actually these contradictions were the essence of his present, and also future – and therefore entire – life, were they not? The choice was completely limited: he could allow