“If they ignored the guidance of the Koran,” he said slowly, “what guidance did they receive?”
“A very good question.” The imam put his fingertips together. “In one sense, none at all. The true Karagozi believed in no one but himself: he believed that his was the soul that persisted in every state—creation, birth, death and beyond. The rules were irrelevant. But the ridiculous thing is, he had rules of his own, too. Magic numbers. Secrets. Superstitions. A Karagozi will not set his spoon on the table, or stand on a threshold, that sort of thing.
“Obeying the petty regulations of the order allowed him to break the laws of God. It is scarcely to be wondered at that all sorts of bad types were attracted to the Karagozi order. Let’s not exaggerate. The original impulse, if confused, was pure. The Karagozi followers thought of themselves as Muslims. That is, they attended prayers in the mosque, like everyone else. The Karagozi element was another layer in their spiritual allegiance, a secret layer. They were organised in lodges, what we call tekkes. Places of gathering and prayer. There were many of them, in Istanbul and elsewhere.”
“Were all the Karagozi Janissaries?”
“No. All the Janissaries were Karagozi, broadly speaking. Which is not the same thing. Perhaps, my friend, we have been too quick to speak of them and their doctrines in the past tense. The blow to the Janissaries? A setback. Maybe, in the end, a cre—ative one. You know, faith may sharpen itself in adversity. I would imagine that we have not heard the last of the Karagozi. Perhaps not under that name, but the currents of spirituality they tap are deep.”
“But proscribed, as you said. Forbidden.”
“Ah, well, here in Istanbul, yes. But they have made a long journey. Once they listened to a baba from the steppe. Since then they have passed through the heartlands of Islam, the Domain of Peace, and now they stand on its borders. As sentinel, perhaps.”
The imam smiled.
“Don’t look so surprised. The doctrine of the Karagozi won many frontiers for Islam. Perhaps it will do so again.”
“Which borders? Where do you mean?”
“They are strong where you’d expect them to be. In Albania. Where the Janissaries were always strong.”
Yashim nodded.
“There’s a poem. You seem to know a lot, so perhaps you know this, too.”
He recited the verses he had found nailed to the Janissary Tree.
Unknowing
And knowing nothing of unknowing,
They spread.
Unknowing
And knowing nothing of unknowing,
They seek.
The imam frowned. “It is, I recall, an Karagozi verse. Yes, I know it. Highly esoteric, don’t you agree? Typically secretive. It goes on to suggest some form of mystical union with the divine, as far as I remember.”
“What do you mean, it goes on?”
“The poem you’ve quoted is incomplete.” The imam looked surprised. “I’m afraid I can’t recite it exactly.”
“But you could, perhaps, find out?”
“By the grace of God,” said the imam placidly. “If you’re interested, I can try.”
“I would be grateful,” Yashim said, rising.
