"Every spring he'd bring out a hidden bottle of good brandy and ask, as
though asking to enter the king's palace, all important and sweaty from the
expectation, whether this spring I wouldn't be promoted to a new rank. And
what was I? A prison guard. For all time. Poor Pop. When he walked through
town by my side, God forgive me, he was just like a peacock. He didn't even
walk like a man, he seemed to flutter along next to such a regal officer. And
he died, poor soul, and I never told him what I actually did up here in the
army.
"Everyone else in town knew perfectly well, but whenever any relative, or
someone who had just arrived, asked him where his son worked, he would go
to the gate and point proudly toward the barracks. Where did you say you
were from?"
"The north."
"That's fine, buddy. Better than being from these parts. Damn these parts."
"Tell me, old man, what wall down there that leans against the bluff, on the
rock..."
"Wait, poor soul. We'll get around to the wall, too. Don't rush it, heaven
forbid. It's all for the well. We're next to a wall here, too. Some see and
some don't. Why, when my old man died..."
"Gramps! Don't tell me the story of your life now. Say, what are you doing
here alone? What's the reason for living in this abandoned barracks? And
please, tell me, what is that down there, I mean, when did that water on the
wall begin to..."
"Conversation with you is hopeless, brother. Where'd you ever learn how to
talk to people, anyway? I talk about people, and you about the wall. Let's
take a seat, if that's the way it has to be. Ah! Do you have anything to drink
in that huge bag? I've never seen anyone but a plumber with one like that. Is
there some little bottle left over?"
"No, but there will be tomorrow. I'll come again tomorrow, if I can - if - if it
doesn't interfere with your works, because..."
"You really will have to. I can see that."

Next morning, for the first time since he had reached the caravansary, his
customary ceremonious first cup of coffee in the old part of "Europe" failed
to hit the spot. Everything bothered him that morning, even the amiable
waiters who had been informed from the very first day about the artist
Valdeg; they seemed to have conspired to be slow and inconsiderate.
He climbed up toward the barracks, checking whether he had brought all the
equipment he would need.
The old man was waiting for him. He raised his hand in greeting, and when he
saw Valdeg take a bottle out of his bag, he smiled and pushed an old
Austro-Hungarian armchair toward him, the kind that men once grabbed and
risked their careers for, offering him a seat.
"I'd rather go to the gate first. I'll start with it."
"You're really serious about drawing all this. My, but you find the strangest
things worthwhile."
"You didn't even tell me your name yesterday."
"What's in a name? My father gave me the name Harun, after some Harun
al-Rashid, the caliph of Baghdad. I even know his title today, they made me
say it over and over again. The Baghdad caliph of Abasovic."
"The Abbasid caliph?"
"No, brother, Abasovic. A poor father is always a fool. Just listen, Harun.
Prison guard and emperor of Baghdad. And I won't know what the men I
guarded called me until we stand up there before His righteous face. Come
on, let's have a shot. But please, let's not start the conversation the wrong
way this morning. Let old Harun teach you. First you sit here in silence a bit,
then you pour the drinks and take a little sip, then you sigh for all your
troubles and for all those who aren't with you at that happy moment, then
you take another little sip, and then sit in silence again. Now, that's a
conversation. After a second or third sip, you start slowly, as though coming
in from some field, you say a few words, then a question, but not a serious
one, and then you're quiet again, then you take another sip and... Dear
brother. You have to take it step by step. And you, before you even entered
the house, yelled, "Tell me everything!" When everything is said
straightaway, then you've got nothing straightaway. A bag of garbage. You
take it out and empty it. Who would go around carrying Everything all day
long? And when you talk to a man slowly, and even draw a few words out of
him, then in the excitement of the conversation, even what has been thrown
out long ago, can be gilded as it slowly emerges. Something exists only when
it unfolds slowly. There, I've begun as though giving you religious instruction.
Sit down, pitiful soul."
"Mr. Harun, sir, if it's permitted, I'd like to go and work a little."
"Well, now you've paid my way into heaven with that 'sir' of yours. Sonny, I
stopped being 'sir' the day they gave me that guard's uniform. And I really
think I stopped the day my mother gave birth to me. Go on, now. I'm just
ragging you a bit. How could I ever change those habits of yours?"
After he'd finished drawing the gate, he felt perturbed as he headed up
toward old Harun, expecting to find him, old and alone he was, completely
drunk and incapacitated by the liquor that he himself had brought.
He felt ashamed when he entered the old man's room. Harun was sitting
there that very first glass, almost full, staring somewhere out the large
window that looked onto the entire misty top of the strange caravansary.
He went up to the old man and began to leaf through his drawing tablet,
showing Harun what he had just sketched as though he were a close friend
and colleague of the same standing, something, something that artists do
rarely and with difficulty.
Harun took the drawing tablet without a word and began to leaf through it
once again, causing Peter to smile briefly, for he suddenly resembled his old
professor from the Academy of Art in Paris.
The old man took a sip, then offered Valdeg a glass, keeping his eyes on the
artist's face: "You're not from where you are sonny. You originate in some
place special. God has blessed your hands. Who'd ever say that my suffering
and atonement could look like that? If a person didn't know better, and saw
this, he'd like to come here, expecting to find some kind of palace. Peter,
dear Peter. What you have done here is dangerous. Dangerous.
"When you transform that damned gate into something so beautiful, imagine
what you'd do with something really beautiful."
Valdeg accepted the glass and drained it.
"Just look. Not even five or six sips. Straight down the hatch. Is that what
you do up there in that north of yours?"
"Grandpa Harun, are there any pipes down there by that southern wall over
the bluff?"
"Yes, yes. There used to be big, dangerous barrels there."
"I was thinking of water pipes."
"How could a water pipe be a gun barrel? I don't understand a thing you
say."
"Grandpa Harun, down there along that wall over the bluff, are there any
pipes there, for water, some old bathhouse, or a fountain?"
"Fountain?! Oh, yes. There used to be one down there. They'd shove you
against the wall, open that enormous fountain as big as the sky, and then
start to spray. That there water you're asking about would carry you away
forever, into the mud and some excrement that no one has seen yet. Woe to
whoever comes across that fountain.
"But, sonny boy, let me ask you something. What did you really come for?
We've been beating about the bush for two days, and neither of us
understands the other. Is that north of yours so complicated? What do I look
like to you, anyway, when you won't ask plainly, talk plainly? Speak openly,
damn it to hell, even if everything goes to ruin. What you've got to say isn't
something wondrous that can't be swallowed. And even if it were, forget it,
we'll roll it down there over the bluff, and let anyone who wants to figure it
out. Come on, let's hear it. It's leaked out. Don't high-step around anymore,
for goodness sake. You've tired me out, and you're going to ruin my simple
pleasure with this bottle. Did you say Peter? Well, out with it, and let the
devil be damned. Whoever carried off everything from this place, let him now
take what you've got under your tongue, and whatever comes of it, if you
say so. Let's heat it."
"I don't know how to even start, Harun. You've spent your whole life here
inside, understand, inside these walls, along the corridors and around the
cells. I'm only inside when I draw. Otherwise, whenever possible, I'm outside.
I go around, I follow every path that can be taken. But down there, out
there, on that wall raised above the bluff, there above that beautiful little
stone plateau covered with moss, I've been looking at something since I
arrived in the caravansary... It's a natural wonder, if that is nature, if that
down there isn't..."
"Oh, poor Peter. Get it out. Say it. You can't? Of course, you can't. What
you want to say now, the reason you come to see me, can't be said.
"Sit down, poor thing, you're shaking all over. You're certainly thinking of
that female wonder, down here on the wall? That's what you saw, Valdeg. A
door?! That female doorway enticed you up here? Oooh, poor Harun, I've
spent the past two days and nights all flustered and full of questions,
wondering what it could be. Well, son, now we can speak plainly.
"I go down that way, too. That little path along the wall is my path, Peter.
What I really think is that some woman from heaven happened to be here
when her labor pains began. She got caught here and stayed like that, open,
over that chasm. She was petrified by some kind of fear. She started to give
birth on that wall, and then the dawn caught her. When she saw where she
was and what lay under her, nothing but that gray bluff, she became
terrified and stuck right there to the wall in horror. That's how it was, and no
other way. That's why it's so wet there, on that reddishness. On this side
the wall's as dry as gunpowder, and on that side it's always damp. And
where else is it always cool and damp except at a woman's door? It only
heat us when you bring in the key. But, sonny boy, there is no key for that
door there.
"Dear Peter, we're here in this barracks almost for the same reason: you find
it strange, and to me it's been a millstone my whole life.
"So listen to me well. You asked about the fountain. The water. The pipe
down next to the wall. For two centuries, down there along the lower wall
above the bluff, that was where they executed those who were sentenced
to death. There. They washed them of their lives at the damned fountain.
For two centuries.
"And you know, Valdeg, it's one thing when a man dies peacefully, and his
soul is released slowly, like a breeze, and rises up to where they're waiting
for it. But everything's different when it's forced out by a bullet. And I've
seen both one and the other, so I can talk about it for some time to come.
"It's even more trouble when there's no desire to go. I've seen the men being
taken away. Some go like sleepwalkers. They don't even have to be led.
They look at that wall as though it makes them happy. When the firing squad
shoots, they fall down peacefully, and their souls almost take wing, poor
things, as though they could barely wait.
"But, son, when they drag them along, wrestle with them, and they yell and
clutch at the morning, it makes your heart break. They call each person by
name. They yell so much that a man really thinks - just who said that
tomorrow would be a better day if they execute the poor wretch that
morning?
"Well, when the souls of men like that are forced out, they simply gush.
They're so terrified of the bullet that they explode like the cork on a bottle of
champagne. Where's the poor soul to go, forced out as it is; it rushes to
that wall, then goes right through the stone. It doesn't form a little cloud, it
goes through the stone. It escapes through that door you saw, it wants to
escape through the opening of that woman from heaven. It gushes so much
you can't ever forget it. Such poor souls, forced out by bullets onto that wall
for two centuries, finally broke through that door. They had to go
somewhere, if only through the stone. Well, that's the door you saw...
"And, my child, if someone was to draw that door for me so that I could put
it on the wall in this room, I'd kneel more obediently before that picture than
before any other god. Every single day, until I pass on. My religion forbids me
from praying before any picture, but if I had that... Maybe then I'd fulfil my
promise and somehow do what I'm here to do until I go. But who would
tempt fate because of a crazy old man and copy down something whose
master and purpose are not known?
"Now, come along with your Harun."
With slow steps, almost stealthily, the old man led him down along the edge
of the wall whose other side held the unusual fresco. Valdeg noticed that
Harun was now walking differently and had lost the sluggishness and
impression of crippled legs that he had when he came out of the underground
corridors of the barracks.
Helping each other, they climbed to the very edge of the wide wall. 
Both of them trembled before the abyss. The river was so far below them
that no babbling could be heard.
Old Harun sat on the edge of the wall with his legs dangling. He helped
Valdeg sit next to him. Peter liked nothing better than heights, particularly
when they were within touching distance, like that edge where nothing
would prevent him from falling.
"You're not afraid, you northerner?"
"I love it."
"You see that little island there in the middle of the river - that sandbank?"
Valdeg nodded.
"Well, you're in luck, that's where they are. Each of those little pebbles down
there is one of the souls that a bullet forced out from men who were
executed down here, behind our backs, for two whole centuries. Dear
brother, no one in the world is as ready as a river to receive and console.
The poor things came gushing out, there below us, expelled, and when they
found themselves above this void where nothing awaited them, they turned
to stone. They fell down to the river like pebbles. That's how it went, from
life to life, from cursed dawn to yet another dawn - the whole sandbank. I
wouldn't even set foot in that water down there, particularly not me with
this big lame, plaguy feet. Those down there always heard my footsteps in
fear. That water is holy, honest it is.
"One year, a man started to build a house, and he pestered me about taking
the sand from that very island. He said it was just what he needed. Dear
brother.
"First I tried to talk him out of it. I tried everything. I took him to another
place, trying to convince him I knew where the best gravel could be found. I
lied and told him that the military experts had shown me a secret place.
Nothing worked. You can't deal with a fool, and that's it. I gave up and let
him take it away.
"I spent that whole summer sitting there right where you are, watching him
take that petrified misery up the mountain, suffocating them in cement and
building them into a house. And nothing happened.
"Well, when he had put on the roof tiles and invited people to celebrate, I
wasn't there on the wall, but I heard their songs echo through the night.
"When they went home, having eaten and drunk their fill, and after the
household had gone to bed to spend their first night under that spacious
roof, they had just gone to sleep when some sort of commotion and yelling
could be heard along the walls. They say that everyone in the house could
plainly hear the walls.
"They all barely had time to escape when the house began to tremble like
some sort of huge bird whose wings have been glued together. It wanted to
fly, but couldn't. There was a little more flapping and jerking, and then all of
a sudden everything crumbled. Absolutely everything!
"That man came to see me, his eyes as big as saucers, terrified. He came to
ask me what to do, since I had told him long before what he should not do.
"I told him, give the river back what belongs to it, and you'll atone for
everything. If you do that, there will be no more solid house than the one
you build.
"Well, he followed my advice. He started to bring it back. People crossed
themselves and were amazed, but he just loaded it up and took it back. He
returned every single pebble. Brother, I never told him, or anyone else, why
his house collapsed.
"The man would have died on the spot out of fear if he found out he'd used
petrified human souls to build his house.
"So you see. Now the time has finally come to tell you what I'm doing here.
And you asked me from the gate, without even entering, am I the
watchman, am I the watchman or not? Let's go back up so I can give you an
answer. Some kind of chill's come over me, God forbid. It's like someone is
listening to us. And, the bottle is up there, too."" 
They walked at a funereal pace, dragging themselves along. Valdeg was
briefly obsessed with a vision of the mosaic formed by the gravel down
below, some enormous composition from old Harun's story. A mosaic of
petrified souls. But he was not skilled at making mosaics, and then the very
idea of moving these stones once again, gluing them close together, forcing
them into an unnatural form, almost made him ashamed of his thoughts.
When they entered the room, old Harun sat down and started to unbutton
his shirt. "Pour the drinks, Peter. Now we're the same, there's no more host
and guest here. And I suppose in this house there never really was. Where
did you ever see a prison guard be a host? Dear brother, as though I'd been
here all alone for years and became the host."
"Mr. Harun, sir?
"Please, for heaven's sake, don't call me 'sir'. No one who has sat with me on
that wall can call me 'sir'. I'm speaking to you like I've spent my whole life
with you, and you call me 'sir' again. You northern jackass, you and your
manners. Out with it."
"I didn't expect any of this. I just wanted to visit the barracks a little, to ask
in particular whether I could leave my bag here, and then disappear after a
few days. But since we've already gotten into all of this, I'd like to ask you,
sir?
"There you go again with that 'sir'."
"All right, all right. What does a prison guard feel when he takes a prisoner
down there to be executed? This sounds really awful. But, after days and
days, sometimes months of some sort of acquaintance, some sort of
companionship?
"Dear son, a prison guard is the least talkative person in the world. Where did
you ever see a doctor going around a house talking about what happened at
work that day, who he had to cut and what, and who died and how? Come
on.
"If I wasn't here for the reason I am, you would only have gotten a 'hello',
'you can', 'you can't', 'after you', 'good-bye'.
"Ah, but when you sketched the gate the way you did, when I saw what all
you could do, then I opened this lock a little that wakes up every morning
amazed that it can still open and that everything inside hasn't broken and
stopped.
"Now you're going to laugh, but I'll tell you all the same, you've got a nice
name, brother - Peter! Like a king. And, my northern king, when a man
spends forty years in those corridors and bars, he rusts just like that iron. I'll
have a hard time admitting this to Him, but I've seen all kinds of things, I
sure have.
"When they take some beast down there to the wall, you don't really care.
You won't go or watch. You let someone younger go who can barely wait,
since the fools have made it into - God forbid - some sort of ceremony. They
all get gussied up, serious, important, some important people push their way
past you, when in normal circumstances they wouldn't even dare pass in
front of your house, and so a young guard feels that he's participating in
something important, and they're all the worst shits. They shoot and you
think, thank God. And then there were those that make your heart break.
Brother. You're disgusted with yourself for days, you don't eat, you shower
twice a day, as if you?
"But once?
Harun paused. He lifted the corner of his untucked shirt and wiped his
sweaty face. He motioned to Valdeg to pour him a drink, and he looked at
that moment like a man whose words and throat had been closed by an iron
door that he had not even given him time to take a last breath. He took a
little sip, stood up, walked slowly around the room, and as he stood silently
facing the window, it seemed to Valdeg that he had trouble stopping his
moaning. When he calmed down, he took a chair and brought it a bit closer
to Valdeg.
"Once I guarded a child. They told him he had killed someone. That's about
all they told him. They hushed up everything else about life. Well, now, if
they'd at least executed him right away, while he was still dazed, there'd
have been no grief. He wouldn't have even understood. But for some reason
they were determined to wait and wait. Oh, dear God, help me, I've never
told anyone this before.
"I took the kid under my wing. I started to teach him all sort of things. Like I
knew things; well, just what I knew then. And he was as pure as driven
snow. Wherever you stepped, his gracious soul peeped out. Wretched Peter,
how you get me to say this?
"That morning finally came. Damn them to hell, ever since then I've begun to
do some serious praying.
"I saw with my own eyes that the day was crying for the lad. A feeling of
horror came over the entire barracks, the garrison, all the regiment, the
guards, the prison - everyone. Nature wanted to explode in the rush to get
out of this place. Strange.
"The fat henchmen stood there in their uniforms, decorated with all the
garbage they could find. They asked the young man if he had a last wish.
"The boy was weeping through that rarified silence, and the whole barracks
was, too.
"The child asked if I could go down there with him, to the wall. Could I stand
next to him during the execution. He took hold of my hand while he asked
them, as though I was going to take him for a walk. Poor child, he didn't
even know that you have to go to that water all alone.
"That was the first time I went down there, to that sandbank, and looked for
his pebble. I recognized him right away by his dappled eyes. They were all
white, and he was dappled. And you could see he had just arrived, he hadn't
gotten used to water yet. Whenever he got wet, he dried real fast.
"He wasn't used to either this side or that."
The old man stopped talking. He pushed his glass away and slowly took the
bottle in his open hand. As he drank, it seemed that his bare chest, weighted
down by the drops of painful sweat, would explode.
Night was drawing nigh, when old Harun started to speak again. "So, that's
what I'm doing here. As soon as the barracks was emptied and stopped being
that, I decided to come back here and move into this big admissions building.
And it was late in my life, too.
"Harun, whose crazy father named him after Harun al-Rashid, the caliph of
Baghdad, decided to live here alone, atone for his loathsome life, and pray
for all those in the cells, those down on the sandbank, for these walls, locks,
rust, to pray and pray and pray, whether anyone was listening or not. And
don't ask me another thing. Nothing."
Valdeg heaved his equipment bag over his shoulder, went up to old Harun,
bowed deeply, and kissed his hand.

(Translated by Alice Copple - Tosic)