The Bridge on the Drina (26 page)

These idle, laughing women were a cause of scandal to all, some more some less. The people wondered and felt insulted for a time and then began to grow accustomed to them, as they had grown accustomed to so many other innovations, even though they did not approve them.

In fact it could be said that all these changes on the bridge were insignificant, fleeting and superficial. The many and important changes which had taken place in the spirits and habits of the citizens and in the outward appearance of the town seemed as though they had passed by the bridge without affecting it. It seemed that the white and ancient bridge, across which men had passed for three centuries, remained unchanged without trace or
mark even under the 'new Emperor' and that it would triumph over this flood of change and innovation even as it had always triumphed over the greatest floods, arising once more, white and untouched, from the furious mass of troubled waters which had wanted to flow over it.

XII

Now life on the 
kapia 
became even livelier and more varied. A large and variegated crowd, locals and newcomers, old and young, came and went on the 
kapia 
all day long until a late hour of the night. They thought only of themselves, each one wrapped up in the thoughts, moods and emotions which had brought him to the 
kapia. 
Therefore they paid no heed to the passers-by who, impelled by other thoughts and by their own cares, crossed the bridge with lowered heads or absent glances, looking neither to right nor left and paying no attention to those seated on the 
kapia.

Among such passers-by one was certainly Milan Glasičanin of Okolište. He was tall, thin, pale and bowed. His whole body seemed transparent and without weight, yet attached to leaden feet, so that he swayed and bent in his walk like a church banner held in a child's hands during the procession. His hair and moustaches were grey, like those of an old man, and his eyes were always lowered. He did not notice that anything had changed on the 
kapia 
or among the people gathered there, and passed among them almost unnoticed by those who came there to sit, to dream, to sing, to trade, to chat or simply to waste time. The older men had forgotten him, the younger men did not recall him and the newcomers had never known him. But none the less his fate had been closely bound up with the 
kapia, 
at least judging from what was said about him or whispered in the town ten or twelve years before.

Milan's father, Nikola Glasičanin, had settled in the town about the time when the insurrection in Serbia was at its height. He had bought a fine property at Okolište. It was generally believed that he had fled from somewhere or other with a large but ill-gotten fortune. No one had any proof of this and everyone only half believed it. But no one ever definitely denied it. He had married twice but none the less had few children. He had brought up one child only, his son Milan, and left him all that he possessed, whether open or hidden. Milan, too, had only a single son, Peter. His property would have
been sufficient and he would have left that to his son after his death had he not had one vice, only one, but that an overwhelming passion —gambling.

The real townsmen were not gamblers by nature. As we have seen, their passions were other and different; an immoderate love of women, an inclination to alcohol, song, lounging and idle dreamings beside their native river. But man's capacities are limited, even in such matters. Therefore their vices often clashed with one another, contradicted one another and often completely cancelled one another out. This did not mean that in the town there were not men addicted to this vice, but the actual number of gamblers was always few in comparison with other towns, and for the most part they were strangers or newcomers. Anyhow, Milan Glašicanin was one of them. From his earliest youth he had been entirely given over to gambling. When he could not find the company he needed in the town, he would go to nearby districts whence he would return, either weighed down with money like a merchant from a fair or with empty pockets, without watch or chain, tobacco pouch or rings, but always pale and washed out like a sick man.

His habitual place was in Ustamujić's inn at the far end of the Višegrad market. There, in a narrow windowless room where a candle burned day and night, could always be found three or four men to whom gambling was dearer than anything else on earth. In that room, shut off from the world, they would crouch in the tobacco smoke and stale air, with bloodshot eyes, dry mouths and quivering hands. They met there frequently, day or night, slaves to their passion like martyrs. In that little room Milan passed a great part of his youth and there left a good part of his strength and property.

He had not been much more than thirty when that sudden and to most people inexplicable change took place in him, which cured him for ever of his driving passion but at the same time altered his whole way of life and completely transfigured him.

One autumn, some fourteen years before, a stranger had come to the inn. He was neither young nor old, neither ugly nor handsome, a man of middle age and medium height, silent and smiling only with his eyes. He was a man of business, entirely wrapped up in the affairs for which he had come. He passed the night there and at dusk entered that little room in which the gamblers had been shut up since early afternoon. They greeted him with distrust but he behaved so quietly and meekly that they did not even notice when he too began to put small stakes on the cards. He lost more than he won, frowned uncertainly and with an unsure hand took some silver money from an
inner pocket. After he had lost a considerable sum, they had to give him the deal. At first he dealt slowly and carefully, then more swiftly and freely. He played without showing his feelings but was prepared to stake the limit. The pile of silver coins before him grew. One by one, the players began to drop out. One offered to stake a gold chain on a card, but the newcomer refused coldly, saying that he played for money only.

About the time of the last prayer the game broke up, for no one had any ready money left. Milan Glasičanin was the last, but in the end he too had to withdraw. The newcomer politely took his leave and retired to his own room.

Next day they played again. Again the stranger alternately lost and won, but always won more than he lost, so that once again the townsmen were left without ready money. They looked at his hands and his sleeves, watched him from every angle, brought fresh cards and changed places at the table, but all to no purpose. They were playing that simple but ill-famed game called 
otuz bir 
(thirty-one) which they had all known from childhood, but none the less they were not able to follow the newcomer's mode of play. Sometimes he drew twenty-nine and sometimes thirty, and sometimes he stood pat at twenty-five. He accepted every stake, the smallest as well as the greatest, overlooked the petty irregularities of individual players as if he had not noticed them, but denounced more serious ones curtly and coldly.

The presence of this newcomer at the inn tormented and irritated Milan Glasičanin. He was in any case at that time feverish and washed out. He swore to himself that he would play no more, but came again, and again lost his last coin, returning home filled with gall and shame. The fourth and fifth evenings he managed to control himself and remained at home. He had dressed and prepared his ready money but none the less stood by his resolution. His head felt heavy and his breath came in fits and starts. He ate his supper in haste, scarcely knowing what he was eating. Finally he went out, smoked, walked up and down in front of his house several times, and looked at the silent town in the clear autumn night. After he had walked thus for some time, he suddenly saw a vague figure going along the road who turned and stopped before his house.

'Good evening, neighbour!' shouted the unknown. Milan knew the voice. It was the stranger from the inn. Clearly the man had come to see him and wanted to talk to him. Milan came up to the fence.

'Why didn't you come to the inn tonight?' the stranger asked casually, calm and indifferent.

'I was not in the mood today. Are the others there?'

'There is no one left. They all left earlier than usual. Come along
 
and let's have a hand together.'

'It is too late, and there's nowhere to go.'

'Let us go down and sit on the 
kapia. 
The moon will soon be rising.'

'But it is not the right time,' Milan objected. His lips were dry and his words seemed as if another had spoken them.

The stranger went on waiting, certain that his suggestion would be accepted.

And, in fact, Milan unlatched his gate and followed the man, as though his words and thoughts and efforts had all given way before that calm power which drew him on and from which he could not free himself, however much he felt humiliated by this stranger who roused in him resistance and revulsion.

They descended the slope from Okolište quickly. A large and waxing moon was rising behind Staniševac. The bridge seemed endless and unreal, for its ends were lost in a milky mist and the piers merged into the darkness; one side of each pier and of each arch was brightly lit while the other remained in the deepest shadow. These moonlit and darkened surfaces were broken and cut into sharp outlines, so that the whole bridge seemed like a strange arabesque created by a momentary play of light and darkness.

On the 
kapia 
there was not a living soul. They sat down. The stranger took out a pack of cards. Milan started to say how unsuitable this was, that they could not see the cards well and could not distinguish the money, but the stranger paid no attention to him. They began to play.

At first they still exchanged an occasional word, but as the game grew faster they fell silent. They only rolled cigarettes and lit them one after the other. The cards changed hands several times, only to remain finally in the hands of the stranger. The money fell soundlessly on the stones which were covered by a fine dew. The time had come, which Milan knew so well, when the stranger drew a two to twenty-nine or an ace to thirty. His throat contracted and his gaze clouded. But the face of the stranger, bathed in moonlight, seemed calmer than usual. In not quite an hour Milan no longer had any ready money. The stranger proposed that he should go home and get some more and said that he would accompany him. They went there and returned and went on with the game. Milan played as if dumb and blind, guessing at the cards and showing by signs what he wanted. It almost seemed as if the cards between them had become incidental, a pretext in this desperate and unrelenting duel. When he again ran out of money, the stranger ordered him to go home and
bring some more, while he himself remained on the 
kapia 
smoking. He no longer thought it necessary to accompany him, for he could no longer imagine that Milan would not obey, or play a trick on him and remain at home. Milan obeyed, went without argument and returned humbly. Then the luck suddenly changed. Milan won back all that he had lost. The knot in his throat tightened more and more under the stress of emotion. The stranger began to double the stakes and then to treble them. The game grew more and more swift, more and more intense. The cards flew between them weaving a web of gold and silver. Both were silent. Only Milan breathed excitedly, sweating and feeling chilled alternately in the mild moonlit night. He played, dealt and covered his cards, not from the pleasure of the game but because he had to. It seemed to him that this stranger wanted to draw out of him not only all his money, ducat by ducat, but also the marrow from his bones and the blood from his veins, drop by drop, and that his strength and his will-power were leaving him with every new loss in the game. From time to time he stole a glance at his opponent. He expected to see a satanic face with bared teeth and eyes like red-hot coals, but on the contrary he still saw before him the stranger's ordinary face with the intent expression of a man working at an everyday task, hastening to finish the work in hand which was neither easy nor pleasant.

Once more Milan rapidly lost all his ready money. Then the stranger proposed staking cattle, land and property.

'I wager four good Hungarian ducats against your bay with its saddle. Is it a deal?'

'I agree.'

So the bay went, and after it two packhorses, then cows and calves. Like a careful and meticulous merchant, the stranger numbered all the beasts in Milan's stables by name and set down accurately the value of each head, as if he had been born and reared in the house.

'Here are thirteen ducats for that field of yours you call 
salkusha. 
Have I your word?'

'You have.'

The stranger dealt. Milan's five cards totalled twenty-eight.

'More?' asked the stranger calmly.

'One,' muttered Milan in a scarcely audible voice and all his blood rushed to his heart.

The stranger slowly turned a card. It was a two, a lucky draw. Milan muttered indifferently through closed teeth.

'Enough.'

He closed his cards, concealing them feverishly. He tried to make
his voice and expression indifferent, to prevent his opponent from guessing how he stood.

Then the stranger began to draw for himself, with open cards. When he got to twenty-seven he stopped and looked Milan in the eyes, but Milan looked away. The stranger turned another card. It was a two. He sighed quickly, scarcely audibly. It seemed that he would stand pat at twenty-nine and the blood began to flow back to Milan's head in a joyful presentiment of victory. Then the stranger started, expanded his chest and threw back his head so that his eyes and forehead shone in the moonlight and turned up another card. Another two. It seemed impossible that three twos should turn up one after the other, but so it was. On the turned-up card Milan seemed to see his field, ploughed and harrowed as it was in spring when it was at its best. The furrows whirled about him as in delirium, but the calm voice of the stranger recalled him to himself.