“You and Miša are lucky they don’t have these anymore. Imagine — just when you were getting comfortable at school, in come the Turks on a devsirme and they snatch you boys up like a pack of animals. They do this to all the Christian boys they can find — they throw them into the back of a prison cart and drag them across the country. And behind the cart, a long line of weeping mothers begins to form. The women beg for the return of their sons. They offer anything — money, their homes, even their own bodies. And the Turkish guards keep them back with whips. Whips! Can you believe it? The women are bleeding from the whips, but still they follow. And when the cart is full, they return to Istanbul and they force the boys into Islam. They force them to become Islamic priests or warriors. Imagine this! How would you like to be kidnapped and forced to believe in something you don’t believe?”
“It doesn’t sound so bad. It’s a free ticket out of here. And I hear Istanbul was pretty nice back then.”
Danilo flicked some water at his son. “Ah! You have no idea. You’re too spoiled to even understand what it’d be like. A belief in God is the closest thing to your heart. No one can tell you what to believe. That is the one truth in life. But the devsirme was how the Turks kept these lands under their control. They were very smart. They kept us in fear by taking our boys, the same boys who might grow up to cause them trouble. Fear is the most powerful weapon, more powerful than any weapon you can hold in your hands.”
He paused. They listened to the water churtling down the chute into the pool.
“So here come the Turks, into the Mileševa Monastery, and they tell the two boys: ‘You must come with us.’ And you know what Bajo, the eldest, says? He says, ‘I’ll go. Take only me. Leave my brother.’”
“No way I’d do that. I’d be like, ‘Take him — look how big that guy is. Leave me; I’d be a shitty warrior.’”
“Watch your language.”
“That’s what I would say.”
“No, you wouldn’t. You’d do the same thing as Bajo.”
“How do you know?”
“Miroslav, just let me tell the story. This story has a certain rhythm to it and you’re ruining it.”
“I’m just saying that you don’t know what I’d do.”
“So the Turks, they actually listen to Bajo. They take him away to Istanbul and leave Makarije behind. And on their journey back, they of course must pass through Višegrad. But this was before the bridge was built. They have to ferry across the Drina. And the mothers who are following them, they cannot go any farther. They’re left weeping on the shore, watching their sons disappear across the river, disappear forever into Islam. And Bajo remembers this image of his mother weeping with the others.”
“The mothers could swim.”
“That isn’t the point. The Drina’s too dangerous to swim there. The current’s too strong.”
“Not so dangerous for a mother who’s crazy with grief.”
“The mothers don’t swim, okay? They’re stuck on the shore. Let me tell the story. You can tell the next story, but I’m telling this one now, and the teller gets to make the rules. That’s how it works.” Danilo paused, scratching at his shoulder as if trying to remember what happens next. “So Bajo arrives in Istanbul and begins to study the Ottoman system. At first he is confused, hopeless. He contemplates stealing a guard’s knife and plunging it into his own heart. But one night he’s visited by his mother in a dream, and she says that he must survive so that she can one day see him again. And when he wakes from this dream, he makes a decision: not only will he cooperate with his captors — he will defeat them at their own system. And this is what he does. Little by little, Bajo learns their ways. He discovers he has a natural gift for learning their Turkish methods of law. In fact, he’s so good that they quickly recognize his talents and they begin to promote him through the ranks. He gains influence with the inner court and develops a reputation for fairness in all matters. As the years go by, he continues to rise, leaving his rivals in the dust. Soon he becomes a governor and then eventually a third vizier and then a second vizier and then finally, after many years, he becomes the grand vizier. He’s now the chief adviser to the sultan himself, but everyone knows the grand vizier makes everything happen. And by this time he has a new name: Mehmed-paša Sokolovic. Once a poor boy from Sokol, an Orthodox Serb, and now responsible for the whole Ottoman Empire. Rich and powerful, able to affect the course of time itself!”
“So what?” said Miroslav.
“So what? Are you listening to anything I’ve just said? He decided to become someone who no one thought he could be. This, my son, is incredible.”
“Not so incredible for the other brother.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was left in the monastery. He didn’t become the grand vizier. His brother was trying to help him, but he ended up screwing him over.”
“Ah! Well, this is where the story gets interesting. Many considered Makarije to maybe not be so wise as his brother Bajo. He was even thought by some to be a little dim-witted. Maybe he was a bit overweight. But he did not do so bad for himself, either. He stayed in the monastery and studied very hard, and slowly he rose up through the levels of the church, one by one. Nothing was given to him by favor, nothing came easily. He earned everything through his patience, through his loyalty, through his utter devotion to God. And at the end of his life, he was ordained as the Serbian patriarch. Saint Makarije of Pec. This is the same Makarije, the same poor boy from Sokol, brother of Bajo. We celebrate his feast on the twelfth of September. Remember, when we roasted Dragan’s pig? And Miša caught the rabbits?”
“Miša crushed the rabbits. We couldn’t eat them.”
“Two brothers in the same family, and each grows up to be the head of a different religion. It just goes to show you that nothing is decided when you’re born. Everything is still possible. If you decide to change your life, you can.”
“Or maybe everything is decided already. How do you know that they weren’t always going to end up like that?”
Danilo thought about this. “That could be. Who’s to say how God works his plans?”
“Is that a true story?”
“Of course it’s true. Why would I make something like that up?”
“It sounds like bullshit.”
“I told you to watch your mouth.”
“Sorry, but it does.”
“You think I’m lying to you? Then what about the bridge? You think the bridge is a lie?”
“What bridge?”
“The Turkish Bridge! This is Mehmed-paša Sokolovic’s bridge! He never forgot the dream of his mother saying she must see him again, nor did he forget the image of the women wailing on the banks of the river as he was being taken away. This image haunted him for the rest of his days, and so when he became grand vizier, he ordered a bridge to connect the two sides of the Drina. The sad part of the story is that when he came back to see his bridge completed, his mother was already dead. It was too late. He, too, wept on the banks of the river, and dedicated the bridge to her memory. And it was the story of this bridge that won Ivo Andric his Nobel Prize. Stories are powerful things. But you knew this. You read his book in school.”
Miroslav shook his head. “I pretended to read it. It was too boring to read. All I remember is about that black Arab who lived inside the bridge.”
“What? You didn’t read it? But that book’s our history! Andric is our most famous writer! How could you not read it?”
“How do we know Andric wasn’t also full of bullshit?”
“Miroslav! I won’t say it again.”
“I’m just saying. That was a novel. Everyone acts like this was true, but no one knows what was really true.”
“How can you say this? You can see our history with your very own eyes. You can walk to the kapija of the bridge and read the inscription in Turkish from the sixteenth century. You can look out at the river and see. A river cannot forget. It remembers every person who has ever put their foot in it. It’s like a book of all time.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is true,” said Danilo. “And this hammam — the one we’re in right now — this was also built by Mehmed-paša. We’re sitting in history. We’re sitting in the middle of the story. You can feel the water on your skin. So don’t tell me this isn’t true when it clearly is.”
They sat. The waters steamed.
“It’s a good story, Tata,” said Miroslav finally.
“I’m not telling you any more stories,” said Danilo. “You can find your own stories.”
Miroslav closed his eyes and thought of the Turkish Bridge, where he had learned to fish with wire and string. He wondered if a river could actually have a memory, then he held his breath and submerged himself in the scalding waters. For the first time in his life, he felt mind and body separating. He had found the secret. He floated above himself, among the clouds of steam, watching his body sink down and down, further and further, three thousand meters into the center of the earth, into a small, hot place from which all things would eventually arise again.