“Imagine! We each owneth our own cot and only four of us liveth in a tent!” Vanouhi exclaimed, glancing around the room, well-lit after Takouhi had pumped the Primus lantern. “Who expecteth such luxury?”
A singing spree wafting from the boys’ tent interrupted the girls’ evening chitchat. Mannig hoped the hush would allow her thoughts to wander back to Barone Mardiros. She valued silence, which gave her space to imagine him nearby.
“Or expecteth so many boys at our camp?” Takouhi said, picking up her spindle. She never sat idle and the spindle seldom left her hands. “I hope to marry someday, have children … see my grandchildren ….” Her forlorn voice spun out in much the same way as her spindle twirled in the air, spinning fine thread for her trousseau.
“I hopeth as well,” Vanouhi sighed, as she crocheted a doily. “These boys are too young for us. I pray that the Basra community arrangeth worthy husbands who can stand shoulder to shoulder with us, suiting our age and heritage.”
Mannig widened her eyes. Talk about boys spiced up her thoughts.
Am I growing up?
The boys and girls were all growing up—together and individually, perhaps as unaware as Mannig was. Mannig’s group, now fourteen years old and still labeled “little orphans,” were the youngest at the Basra camp. This had been the case in Mosul and Ba’qubah for the past three years. “Little” described neither their growth nor their behavior. They kept their pampered status because no child younger than they had survived the deportation.
Mannig knew nothing of the clues, causes and consequences of adolescence. To her, menstruation—called “the curse”—was an aberration caused by her ordeal and her sensitive breasts, misshapen anomalies. She disliked her pubic hair and suspected that it was tied to the “curse.” Why else would the hair dry into clots, requiring warm water and dexterous fingers to cleanse? Such a nuisance, such embarrassment! She died a thousand deaths while washing the soiled rags in full view by the river. As painful as was her confusion about her monthly flow, she learned how to contend with it by invading someone else’s privacy. She spied on the older girls, who washed their menstrual cloths and let them dry in unobtrusive areas. She learned by osmosis—no questions asked, no explanations given. When something confounded her, she tossed the ensuing sensations and emotional turmoil under her cot.
Vanouhi and her sister, among the groups of “big ones” in their late teens, worried about dying as spinsters. Their anxiety over the absence of traditional matchmaking between parents and relatives loomed large. Mannig vaguely understood their desperation to find suitable mates. They often wept for so-and-so in Van, probably intended for them, and damned the gendarmes for confiscating their precious trousseaux. “Vye, vye, vye!” Takouhi often moaned.
“Without youth, without beauty, what haveth we?” mourned Vanouhi.
“What wits haveth we to find a husband?” Takouhi murmured.
Getting married remained far from Mannig’s thoughts. Lately, however, her own nervousness in the presence of boys puzzled her—especially during the evening recreational sessions. When among the girls, vivaciousness seasoned her dancing, her playing “jack” with stones collected from the riverside. As soon as the boys stomped into their masculine dance, Mannig’s stance stiffened and gaze dropped. Her pulse thumped in her temples as she watched a string of boys, locked together in a circle shoulder-to-shoulder, stomping a folk dance.
She panted in tempo to their earthy rhythm.
Her eyes followed one special boy.
Taller than the others, he danced in a controlled fashion—like an experienced adult. Unlike the rest, chin lined up with his right shoulder, he thumped his steps in sync with the dancers, never glancing at his footwork. His style mesmerized her. I could do the same with the girls. She focused on his face. Nice. His pointed nose separated his long dark eyebrows and a fine mustache hugged his upper lip. Dazzling.
She shook her head to cast out sad memories and returned her attention to the good-looking boy. Intelligent. She wanted to speak with him, but for a dry lump rising in her throat. After all, boys and girls were segregated in all aspects of the orphanage life. They studied in separate classes, slept in secluded tents, huddled with their own gender on the other side of the nightly bonfire and lined up only with one another to perform the masculine folk dances.
Mingle with him. She hesitated. Learn his dance steps. Not while others watched. As much as Mannig’s instincts urged her to act, she resisted. Be it from shyness or decorum, Mannig refrained from asking about him. Since traditionally Armenian boys received special treatment, Mannig inferred that one should talk with them only if absolutely necessary. Imposing silence upon her own self became normal. It sufficed to observe that he was handsome. Her heart chimed for him, but her mind prevented her from revealing her curiosity. Her entire being wondered at the crossfire between her head and her heart. She dared not express emotions, even if she could name such feelings.
Resting on her cot that night, she veiled her longing. Aware of emotions both indefinable and unfamiliar, she felt alone, and the loneliness pained her. She needed a confidante, a listener, a mother. I want you, Mama. Tears rolled sideways onto her pillow—her smothered heavy breathing accompanying their silent sting.
She wondered if a mother spoke the language of the heart. Deprived of parental guidance, she also lacked experience with adults. She could learn nothing about sensitive issues from her tent mates—they were inexperienced adults, only a few years older than she. She dared not confide in Adrine lest she trigger the trauma of her rape in the desert. She had no background to help her make intelligent guesses about the opposite gender. She could only depend upon her intuition.
She pulled her quilt up to her neck and drew her knees to her chin. Visualizing the tall boy’s posture, she mused about his mustache. How did he manage to eat without the bristles stealing their share? What a nuisance. Her father wore a mustache. How did he manage in Adapazar? Glimpses of long ago … she was so little … memories faded … the gendarmes killed him. She wondered if Mama had been as attracted to him at a dance as she was to this boy now at the Basra orphanage. She liked being this young man’s secret admirer. There was no harm done if it lasted only a few days. Her infatuation shifted from boy to boy as predictably as evenings followed days.
One late night, when singing and dancing ended and all withdrew to sleep, an extraordinary music breezed inside the walls of Mannig’s tent. The vocalist’s phrasing and accent soared above the rich and profound melody. The rich orchestration of woodwinds, brass and percussion, though unfamiliar, melodiously vanished into the deep, cool and moonless night. A team of stringed instruments in the background reminded her of her mother’s violin in Adapazar. She focused on them. The vibrations fell hauntingly upon Mannig’s ears.
Music? Not in the desert.
32—The Foxtrot
Mardiros removed the “Plaisir d’Amour” song from his gramophone, wiped the disc with a velvet dust-glove and slid it into its slot in the accordion storage.
The midnight calm slowed his fingers’ search for a foxtrot. Might the music be audible outside his tent? He had requested a tent at the edge of the orphanage, preferring an inconspicuous location. His lodging was an army tent among a hundred others, and his bed was a cot, like all the orphans’. The similarities ended there.
He lowered the volume while considering which disc he should introduce to the children. Sometime tomorrow, he ought to play an aria by Enrico Caruso or Dame Nellie Melba. He wanted the orphans to experience a sampling of the fine arts—to replenish some of the deprivation in their lives. A good beginning might be one or two of the latest European dances. Granted, the music was hardly necessary for the welfare of the orphans. He could teach them the foxtrot. That would bring novelty to the camp. And hold Mannig in my arms? A sheepish smile spanned to his ears.
He had just arrived from Baghdad. The train ride, delayed several times and lasting longer than usual, had tired him. He sniffed the re
mainder of his brandy, brought from Moscow by Khosrov, his oldest brother, on his pre-war emissarial stint. The overpowering aroma lacked the subtlety of French cognac. He swished it gently in the tea glass and gulped it. He pulled up his silk pajamas, purchased in Sumatra during his mission raising funds for the Armenian orphans. Treading barefoot on the Persian carpet, he lit one final cigarette and reclined on his padded cot.
He almost saw his mother’s smile in the rings of his cigarette smoke—Belgian cigarette smoke. Beaming internally, he reflected how she had kept her silence throughout the emotional outburst on the balcony of their Qasr in Baghdad—only the night before.
All four brothers and their families had assembled on the balcony, an extension of the parlor cantilevered over the Tigris River. The sprawling ceramic tile floor had provided the setting for many soirées prior to the war, but since then, it had become the family’s communal gathering place after supper.
By 1921 and in the Kouyoumdjian tradition, the family had resumed the interrupted ritual in full style again. The servants walked in and out, back and forth, several times carrying trays of iced plum-juice and tartlets. The men received permission from their mother—Managuile Hanum, the widowed matriarch of the Kouyoumdjians—to take off their jackets, and the ladies fanned themselves, shooing away flies. A dozen cousins, ages six to late teens, mingled near the gramophone cabinet inside the louvered doors of the parlor while the adults lounged on divans along the balcony rails for the cool breeze. They made disclosures and confessions and aired squabbles within the hearing of the matriarch.
Mardiros, having been absent for a while, became the center of attention, especially after announcing his plan to return to the orphanage in the morning.
“Not again?” Khosrov, the oldest brother, reprimanded him with a wagging finger. “You forget quickly. All four of us brothers sat on the very same divan, in the exact same place, and agreed to band together after the war and indulge in new ventures at the Felloujah farms.”
“Why did I bother to go all the way to the World Agronomy Exposition in Belgium?” Dikran, his other brother, blazed with anger while puffing on cigarettes he had brought back with him. “We planned to combine my newly acquired knowledge with your engineering skills.”
Mardiros refrained from belittling them for their selfishness and insensitivity to the life and death matters of the orphans. He knew not to alienate any Kouyoumdjian. They remained extremely generous with monetary contributions to save the Armenian children, even though only he gave of himself to the cause.
“At 32, you are still a vagabond,” Diggin Rose—the widow of Karnig who had died in the Turkish prison in 1917—rebuked him in her usual turned-up nose manner. “No wife, no family, no bow to decorum.”
“When are you going to settle down?” Diggin Hermine, his other sister-in-law, continued. “Listen to your brothers. They are all older, wiser and more practical than you. Besides, we want a wedding from you.”
Mardiros disdained any matchmaking attempts, but Diggin Hermine was his favorite sister-in-law, so he tolerated her interference. For the sake of family harmony, he camouflaged his boredom over their plans to find him a suitable bride. Certainly, he did not disclose his attraction to a special orphan—especially since orphans, like step-children and non-lineage maidens, were shunned from the matrimonial ladder. Phew! His lips were sealed. He knew his heart, and he knew who occupied it. His overheated state prompted him to stand and lean across the balcony railing for cool air.
A few passenger bellems glided from shore to shore, disrupting the mellow beams of a near full moon reflected downstream. He wished he could share the picturesque scene with Mannig. He had grown up with all the material comforts, but now he longed for something beyond riches. He knew Mannig’s capacity to overcome the stigma of orphan-hood. He hoped his family would come to admire her as he did.
He knew he must leave.
He loosened his tie and went back to justifying his quest to see the orphans properly settled. He refrained from lecturing about their needs, simply predicting that they would soon be permanently taken care of. “The Patriarchate of Jerusalem is about to declare its grand plan for them,” he said to explain why he was neglecting his family and business affairs. “I will return to normal life very soon.”
A glance at his mother convinced him he had satisfied her expectations. The amber prayer beads with their black tassel still coiled in her hand rested in the lap of her gray satin skirt. Her eyes narrowed at him and a twitch raised the edges of her upper lip. He wanted affirmation and he found it in her contented expression. “That’s settled,” he said and kissed her hand.
He veered toward the circle of children mouthing the lyrics of a French song. He put on another disc and cranked up the gramophone. “Now, who will foxtrot with me before I pack away ‘His Master’s Voice’ and retreat to my quarters?” He took the hand of Isgouhi, his oldest niece, before giving the others a chance. “Out on the balcony,” he said, quick-stepping into the open air. He held her close and led as smoothly as a professional dancer. While he visualized holding Mannig in his arms, he caught a glimpse of delight in the watchful eyes of his family, especially his mother.
Early next morning, he awakened feeling determined and doubly encouraged.
Very unlike a matriarch, Managuile Hanum stealthily stopped Mardiros’ valet at the door of her quarters. “Hamid, after you load his luggage in the motorcar, come back here,” she instructed. “I want Barone Mardiros to have a few personal things at the camp.”
Upon her insistence, Hamid managed to fit a rolled up Persian carpet and two leather-covered hassocks into the trunk, necessitating the wrapping of His Master’s Voice in a quilt and holding it in his lap in the passenger’s seat, next to Mardiros.
“The drive from here to the train station is close,” she said to appease Hamid. Leaning over to Mardiros, she gave him a bundled embroidered shawl. “Don’t tell your brothers I gave those to you. Now, go! God be with you … send me a telegram as soon as you arrive in Basra.”
Mardiros smiled when he saw the contents of the bundle—a carton of Belgian cigarettes and a bottle of Russian brandy—gifts his brothers had given her from their travels in foreign lands. He always wondered whether she favored him for being her youngest child or whether she actually admired his compassion for the orphans. He hoped for the latter.
Now Mardiros lay on his cot, looking at the tent ceiling beyond the glow of his Belgian cigarette. He understood why the Kouyoumdjians preferred comfort, luxury and society, to a life in the ‘camp,’ as they referred to the orphanage, denigrating the status of its inhabitants. But he felt compelled to finish his job. Seeing the orphan’s permanently settled would be his biggest and final task.
He crushed out the butt of his cigarette and rolled over to one side. Content with his decision, he needed to rest tonight; tomorrow he’d let the fire in his belly glow.
The wake-up bells chimed with the sun’s appearance along the horizon. The ringing invited Mardiros out to catch the jutting rays vying with the rising mist along Shatt el-Arab. Dewdrops glistened on the tent’s lines. The fresh breeze recharged his resolve. He watched the delicate rays suffuse the atmosphere.
“Welcome within our midst, again!” Sebouh called, approaching. “You slept well, I pray?”
“The best,” Mardiros said, stretching his arms. “Those cots are a match for any four-poster mahogany bed.”
The two men—both gentlemen, benefactors, and teammates—patted each other’s shoulders and proceeded toward the smoke, the ringing bell and the chatter of the breakfast crew.
Sebouh enumerated the improvements made at the orphanage during Mardiros’ absence. He had secured blankets for the approaching winter, replaced the volunteer girls with real cooks and installed drainer-pipes for the latrines. “The girls are really happy that we have raised a big tent for large gatherings,” he concluded his oral report.
“It looks the Basra community has come to our aid,” Mardiros said
.
“Now it is your turn,” Sebouh said, retrieving a silver cigarette case from the pocket of his tweed jacket. “You must go to Basra, hire teachers and promise them decent pay. Let’s hope some will be willing to trek out of Basra daily.”
“The distance is an easy ride,” Mardiros said while he scanned the area—beyond the tents and the improved pathways. He glanced from orphan to orphan, head to head, face to face, near and far. The tall communal tent, dotting the sky, towered over the smaller tents in its shade. Which small tent might be Mannig’s? He hoped her abode might be en route to his tent.
“The Basrawi Armenians and I cannot see eye-to-eye on many issues,” Sebouh said. “You are a better negotiator. I’m certain they will lend an ear to you.” He offered Mardiros a cigarette before putting one between his thin lips.
Mardiros scrutinized Sebouh, thankful for the credit he gave him, which was due to his coup in securing funds from the Singapore Armenians. He lit a match and, reaching to light Sebouh’s, noticed a carefully groomed moustache—a radical change in his customarily clean shaven appearance. After lighting his cigarette, he inhaled a long stream of smoke, his gaze fanning the area in search of Mannig.
“Sebouh Effendi, Sebouh Effendi!” The call caused the two men to turn and take notice.
Adrine stood at their heels. “You probably need to spend time with Barone Mardiros today,” she said. “Would you like me to take your class?”
Mardiros relished being recognized, especially since she had approached them from behind. He glanced at Sebouh and noticed a complete change in his expression. His eyes mellowed and his breathing grew more rapid, disturbing his black moustache. Furthermore, he flaunted a generous smile, a challenge to gentlemanly manners. Could Sebouh be attracted to this girl? He looked at her again. A pretty girl. A slender Greek nose accentuated her hazel eyes. Although she flinched at times while addressing Sebouh, she remained composed. She held herself erect and, with great self-assurance, listed the topics that needed reviewing in class.
Between the Two Rivers: A Story of the Armenian Genocide Page 25
