The Peace Machine

by Oezguer Mumcu

  Celal cut him off: “If that peace machine you’ve been going on about is truly so wondrous, wouldn’t the same results be achieved if it were used on all the world’s kings, sultans and generals?”

  Sahir blinked and then sighed, placing his hand on Celal’s shoulder. “Electromagnetism,” he said, “is perhaps the most democratic force in the world. It exists everywhere in every single moment. It has the power to influence every single person’s soul. You’re right. If we could use the machine on those people who make decisions about war and peace, our work would be much easier.

  “But we have Monsieur Pierre’s calculations. It could work for one, maybe two generations. Another problem, however, is that we don’t have a power source that is strong enough to make the machine work. We’re just not ready. And what’s more, the human race is so complex—there are some people whose souls will never respond to it. The entire project could be shattered by just one king or sultan who is not affected by the peace machine, because they could drive their peace-loving citizens to war. True, we hold the key to world peace. But if it were to be used in the wrong way, the already warped order that humanity has brought into being would be destroyed. Celal, that’s why the people should rule their countries. We will activate the machine when every single country is freed from the aggression of its ruler. And then no one will think of going to war, howl battle cries or hack at people’s throats with daggers. No, Celal, using the peace machine to take down only kings, queens, sultans, maharajas or tsars simply would not do. The democracy of electromagnetism requires that countries themselves be democratic.

  “Arif once said to me, ‘People do not want to go to war unless they’re driven to fight.’ Meaning that, if people were left to decide for themselves whether or not to go to war, the chance of war breaking out would be slight. But as well as giving power to the people, we need something that can soothe their troubled souls. Pierre discovered that something, or at least he discovered the way to that something. You know, Celal, all across the world there are immense war machines designed for the sole purpose of killing. A thousand years ago, who could have imagined that ships of iron could float? Who would have ever believed that a piece of metal no bigger than your little finger could be fired from a metal contraption that fits in your hand, and kill an enemy far, far away? Well, we will build a peace machine to oppose their war machines, and once our machine has done its work on people’s minds and souls, nobody will ever think of war again. But first of all, the people must have a say in government so that the peace machine can offer a remedy for their woes.”

  The Orient Express departed from Paris, making its way to Strasbourg and from there to Munich. It would have been conspicuous if Celal and Céline had travelled together in a private compartment, so they stayed in separate cars. During the two weeks they’d spent in Paris and throughout the train journey, Celal had been making subtle romantic overtures to Céline which she had brushed aside, sometimes graciously and sometimes with far less tact. Still, as the train steamed towards Vienna, Celal found himself praying that it would break down so that he could spend more time with Céline. The train, however, appeared to have no intention of breaking down. As it rolled steadily along the tracks, Celal silently cursed the engineers who had designed the sturdy 2-4-0-class locomotive and decided that he would try to enjoy his dinner with Céline in the dining car as best he could.

  “I’ve realized that I really like travelling by train. The fact that the earth is round has always frightened me. I worry that the people on the bottom half of the earth will fall off. It’s not just the people, though: mountains, buildings, trees, oceans… I’m scared by the idea that everything will be gone. No, that’s not it… It’s more like I worry that it’s not quite clear what is on the top and what is on the bottom. After all, the earth is just a ball in a void. Maybe we’re the ones on the bottom. For me, the idea that I’m hanging upside down is completely unacceptable, even humiliating! I’m sure you’ve heard that most people dream of falling. As for me, I feel like I’m falling when I’m awake. But that strange feeling vanishes when I’m travelling by train. The rails are secured firmly to the earth and the train glides along them as if the earth is perfectly flat. It’s like the way that having a ceiling above your head reassures you that you’re not going to fly off into nothingness.”

  Céline settled deep into the leather seat in the Wagons-Lits dining car and held out her crystal wine glass to Celal: “Cheers.” Smacking her lips, she went on. “I’ve realized how fond I am of oysters, wild duck, charcuterie boards and mixed dessert platters. True, Sahir has never been stingy, but this time he really has shown no mercy to his money. Then again, you never know—he might even own this train. Sometimes it shocks me to realize that a person I know well is actually something of a mystery to me.”

  “Do you trust Sahir?”

  “I place my trust in my father, not Sahir. You see, I simply can’t accept that he dedicated his life to a fantasy, that he died on some far-off mountain all for the sake of a fantasy. Actually that’s just the official line. Truth be told, I understand nothing of electromagnetism, or of how the peace machine works. To be honest, my dear Celal, the real reason that I got involved in all this was for the fun of it. Have you noticed that I’m a little superficial? I struggled for a long time with that. In the end, I lost the struggle. That’s just how I am. I’m not interested in much aside from travelling the world and working on my pictures, and the circus is a great way to explore the world. I’ve been to so many countries and seen so many cities. And it makes me happy to think that if one day I have grandchildren, they will brag to their friends that their grandma was once a lion tamer.”

  Celal picked up the chicken leg on his plate and took a savage bite out of it.

  “I stole a chicken when I was a boy.”

  “Just one?”

  “And some goats.”

  “Your grandchildren probably aren’t going to brag about you as much as mine will about me.”

  “What, do you think being the Colossus at the circus is going to be child’s play?”

  “Not exactly. But a lion tamer? Clearly nothing beats that. And it requires great expertise.”

  “Let me ask you this: do you think you’ll acquire that expertise by the time we get to Belgrade?”

  “I’ll get off in Vienna, where I’ll join the circus. We have some shows there, so I’ll have time to work on my routine. Then we have shows scheduled in most of the other Habsburg cities, too. There’s little chance of a revolution breaking out there, but being in a circus is a great way to gather intelligence and sow the seeds of revolution. We’ll spend about six months touring in Austria-Hungary before we go to Serbia. That’ll give you enough time to work your way into the ranks of the revolutionaries in Belgrade. Just make sure you don’t kill anyone along the way.”

  “So when will I see you again?”

  Céline picked up her knife and, looking into Celal’s eyes, took his right hand. A slight smile tugged at her lips before she dragged the knife across his palm, making a deep cut. Then she picked up a napkin from the table and pressed it on the smile-shaped wound.

  “We will see each other again before this has healed.”

  She took a piece of paper out of her purse.

  “Sahir thinks that this young lieutenant may make things easier for you. His name is Dragan Petrovic. They’ll tell you in Belgrade where to find him.”

  Céline got up and started heading for the door of the dining car.

  “Céline!”

  She stopped and turned around.

  “What happened to Jean? Why was he killed?”

  “Celal, please. That’s another story. You’ll find everything out when the time is right.”

  Céline turned back towards the door, which Celal rushed to hold open for her. As she gave him a nod of thanks, he placed his bloodied hand on the back of her neck and kissed her lightly on the lips.

  “We will meet again before you have forgotten about
that kiss,” he said.

  Céline laughed. “Celal, I don’t think your grandchildren will brag about what you just did.”

  “Until we meet again.”

  7

  The Young Lieutenant

  DRAGAN PETROVIC spent much of the spring of 1903 consumed by dreams of marriage. But because he had done the same in the winter months of 1901 and the summer months of 1902, no one took him very seriously.

  Those winter months had been bitterly cold yet Dragan Petrovic’s heart was aflame with the desire to marry Maria, his landlord’s spinster daughter. Maria’s hips were of such voluptuous girth that she was unable to pass through the narrow doorways of most of the old shops in Belgrade. The doorways of the shops in the newer buildings, built in the Viennese style, could accommodate her hips, but those were quite beyond her means.

  So that’s how everything started between them: lanky Dragan, a young lieutenant, started going shopping for Maria. There wasn’t a single doorway that he couldn’t pass through.

  In that chilly winter of 1901, Maria’s curves filled Dragan with a warmth that seeped into the depths of his being. With his black eyebrows and red moustache, the lieutenant would set off in the evening, stomping through the frozen mud in search of lace, slips, socks, shoes and hats, dreaming of how one day he would strip them from Maria’s body.

  Then, as the weather began warming up, Maria’s hips started to become an obsession for Dragan, like a fishbone stuck in his throat.

  He had dreamt of a home with the broadest of doorways, a home where he and Maria would spend the long winter months together. And then that dream was wrenched from his hands.

  Towards the middle of spring he found out that he was being transferred to Deligrad, a town in the east. The fishbone started to work its way loose, and when he moved out with his few possessions he became nothing more than a former tenant to Maria, just one of the five young men who had helped her with her shopping.

  Maria had never had the slightest interest in Dragan. Young moustachioed men of slender build simply didn’t set her heart racing. No, she longed for a man with a thick black beard and flashing eyes, a man of few words. And when her heart pounded, the sound could be heard two streets away. It wasn’t because of her broad hips that she’d never got married. Rather, she’d just never met anyone crazy-hearted enough to be able to handle her.

  Never knowing that Maria had referred to him as “that toothpick boy”, Dragan set off wracked by pangs of remorse, but at the same time he was filled with an equally powerful feeling of relief. In addition, the prospect of spending the summer in Deligrad appealed to him. Everyone knew they had fought two great battles against the Turks there, but knowing that is one thing and breathing in the scent of blood and gunpowder as a patriotic young soldier wearing a uniform drenched in sweat is quite another. Wandering the battlefield daydreaming about how Karayorgo had driven off Ibrahim Pasha and the Janissaries made his spirits soar to lofty heights and set his heart pounding with zeal.

  In the town square of Deligrad there was an old villager who would sing a song about the legend of Milos Obilic, the hero who’d killed the sultan with a blow of his dagger:

  “Obilic, son of the Dragon / Took wing for the plain / He drew his dagger / And stabbed the Sultan straight in the heart…”

  Dejana, the villager’s granddaughter, had hair that reached down to her waist. As her grandfather’s voice breathed sweet pain into Dragan’s soul, the curls of her hair worked their way into his heart. For Dragan, Dejana glowed like the new sun of the old Kingdom of Serbia. Although she was rather petite, when she sang along with her grandfather she looked as though she could cleave the Plain of Deligrad in two with a sword and rend asunder the chains of Serbian captives with smouldering coals plucked from deep in the earth.

  Dragan’s moustache stood tall and proud, and his spine seemed to have taken on the hardness of a diamond. He had it all worked out. He was going to set up a home with Dejana, a simple place befitting their homeland. He’d already decided that he was going to ask the old man for his granddaughter’s hand in marriage.

  However, when summer gave way to autumn, Dejana’s hair quickly lost its lustre. The curls hanging to her waist became matted and tangled like dead moss. As autumn settled in, Dragan’s misery grew deeper as the shadows grew longer. His admiration for Dejana waned day by day, making him feel as though he’d betrayed his people. In the midst of that depression, he once thought of committing suicide with his ceremonial sword on the Plain of Deligrad so that his blood would seep into the soil, absolving him of his sin.

  But he would never remember that thought later, because it occurred to him one night just seconds before he passed out on his hard bed after drinking a copious amount of wine, a boot dangling from his foot.

  What saved Dragan Petrovic from the shame of his expired love was an unexpected summons to Belgrade.

  It was the middle of winter in 1903. In order to avoid running across broad-hipped Maria, he rented a flat in an attic on Skadar Street, which was far from his old neighbourhood. Nearly everyone else living in the four-storey building worked in the palace kitchens.

  In truth, it wouldn’t normally have been possible for him to rent a place on Skadar Street on his salary, but a captain he’d met in Deligrad, one Petar Jovanovic, had said that the landlord was a friend of his and would give him a good deal.

  So Dragan Petrovic moved in, paying a third of the usual rent. He would never find out that Celal was paying the rest, or that the owner of the building ran a press that printed political flyers of the most radical kind.

  With the help of an officer he met through Sahir, Celal had located lieutenant Petrovic in Deligrad. He’d found him standing in the town square listening misty-eyed to an old man sing songs of heroism. By pulling some strings, Celal had had Dragan Petrovic reassigned to Belgrade.

  Towards the end of winter, Dragan met Apis. He also fell in love with Vesna Jevric, a young woman who worked at the palace, and yet again the longing to marry stirred in his heart.

  At around three o’clock one Saturday afternoon, Dragan met up with Celal. Both men were wearing civilian clothes, as Celal had planned. Celal led Dragan down an alley that led from the rather ritzy Zeleni Venac Square, walking slowly at first and then quickening his steps until he stopped in front of a building. He looked around to make sure that no one was watching, and motioned for Dragan to follow him as he started making his way down a narrow flight of stairs.

  At the bottom of the stairs there was a rusty-green steel door, invisible from the street, above which was a sign that read “The Acorn”. Dragan had heard about the place. It was a tavern where revolutionaries and officers were rumoured to gather along with the most radical representatives of the National Assembly, which the King would dissolve whenever it suited his whim. According to some, revelries were held there with women of dubious morals.

  Radovan, his neighbour in the building on Skadar Street and the palace’s head pastry chef, had told Dragan about one such night as if he had been there himself. He caught hold of Dragan’s arm in the narrow stairwell where they were talking and whispered unspeakable things in his ear. Naturally, Dragan responded frostily. “I forbid you from speaking to me of such matters,” he said, trying to defend the honour of his uniform and the army.

  All the same, in his dreams he began to see revolutionaries in gleaming helmets as they sat atop powerful horses, the grateful faces of their rescued comrades gazing up at them. Then the scene would shift and he’d find himself passionately making love to a woman in a high-ceilinged room with marble floors, a place he’d realize was The Acorn.

  One morning he woke from such dreams, and as he was walking out of the house Radovan greeted him with a lecher’s conspiratorial wink. Dragan felt quite uneasy at moments like that. He would even think about going to the bathhouse run by a Bosnian from Novi Pazar in an attempt to cleanse himself. But the thought of the bathhouse just made him feel all the more guilty, so he prayed and prayed,
trying to find peace of mind.

  Celal rapped on the steel door three times and it swung open, filling the narrow stairwell with the sound of men’s voices, thick tobacco smoke and the sour smell of alcohol. Even though the stench of debauchery made his stomach turn, Dragan followed Celal inside. This unexpected turn of events rattled Dragan, making his bladder and intestines suddenly convulse with painful cramps.

  Inside the tavern, everyone was listening with rapt attention to a man giving an impassioned speech. The speaker was wearing nondescript clothes and was completely bald, except for a woolly tuft of dark hair above each of his ears. He had a bulbous nose like that of a ventriloquist’s puppet, thick lips, an unremarkable forehead, and a rather Teutonic moustache. His hairless pate was covered in splotches of sweat, a trickle of which was running down his left temple.

  Unable to contain himself, Dragan asked Celal, “Is that Dragutin Dimitrijevic?”

  Celal nodded and with the faintest of smiles said, “Now be quiet, young lieutenant, and listen to what Apis has to say.”

  Apis’s voice was not impressive, and his words were not particularly moving. His attire, expressions and appearance all came across as quite ordinary. But somehow all of that ordinariness so decisively combined in a single person was in itself striking, magically transforming Apis into a demigod in the eyes of his admirers.

  The fifty or so tough-looking men in the café were as tame as kittens as they listened to the speech, silent apart from the occasional murmur of approval.

  “That soft-bellied Alexander Obrenovic took over the kingdom and now he’s shaking his arse in front of two whores, just biding his time before he rapes the people’s freedom. The first of those whores is that dotard Franz Joseph in Vienna, the depraved head of the Habsburg dynasty which hides its incestuous, twisted face behind bushy sideburns. He is the gaoler of the prison where they keep our people, a trader in our captive comrades.”