The Seamstress of Ourfa

by Victoria Harwood Butler-Sloss

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Maps

  Who I Am

  Khatoun Khouri

  Khatoun and Iskender Agha Boghos

  Sisters-in-Law

  The Singer

  Leaving Home

  Work Horse

  Aleppo

  October Skies

  Small Stitches Will Keep Us Together

  Aram Bohjalian

  Am I Still a Woman?

  Allegedly

  Like a Plum

  Walk

  A Flock of Birds

  Mgrdich Yotneghparian

  Our Neighbours

  Keep Quiet and Sew

  Words

  The French

  A Mouse Nest

  Index of foreign words

  About the Author

  The Seamstress of Ourfa

  by

  Victoria Harwood Butler-Sloss

  Copyright Page

  Copyright © 2018 by Victoria Harwood Butler-Sloss

  All rights reserved. Published by Armida Publications Ltd.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,

  photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without permission of the publisher.

  For information regarding permission, write to

  Armida Publications Ltd, P.O.Box 27717, 2432 Engomi, Nicosia, Cyprus

  or email: info@armidapublications.com

  Armida Publications is a member of the Independent Publishers Guild (UK),

  and a member of the Independent Book Publishers Association (USA)

  www.armidabooks.com | Great Literature. One Book At A Time.

  Summary:

  The Seamstress of Ourfa richly recreates the culture of the Armenian community in Ourfa at the tail end of the Ottoman Empire. The eponymous seamstress, Khatoun, creates beautiful dresses that leave her customers’ husbands dizzy with desire, while her sister in law Ferida cooks sumptuous feasts to sustain a growing and lovingly described group of relatives and the waifs and strays they adopt. The author creates a finely textured sense of family, only slowly making the reader aware that the date is creeping nearer to 1915 and the genocide of the Armenian people in Turkey. When the horrendous events of those years start to unfold, the traditions and lives of the Armenian people are slowly yet inexorably torn apart. The Seamstress of Ourfa does not shy away from the painful realities of those years, but manages to maintain a sense of cultural continuity into the 1960’s, where the author’s surviving family reunite in Nicosia, Cyprus.

  [ 1. FICTION / Cultural Heritage. 2. FICTION / Family Saga. 3. FICTION / Literary. 4. FICTION / Women . 5. FICTION / Historical / General. 6. FICTION / Family Life / General. 7. FICTION / Biographical. ]

  Cover design by: Annie Damianou

  anniedmn.com

  contact@anniedmn.com

  Motifs by: Victoria Harwood Butler-Sloss

  Map detail from: The Treatment of Armenians in the Ottoman Empire 1915-16 by Viscount Bryce, G.P. Putnam & Sons, 1916.

  Map of Ourfa, hand drawn by Victoria Harwood Butler-Sloss

  First edition: June 2018

  ISBN-13 (paperback): 978-9963-255-59-7

  ISBN-13 (kindle): 978-9963-255-60-3

  ISBN-13 (epub): 978-9963-255-61-0

  Dedication

  I’m thirty-four and I meet a man with very blue eyes who looks inside me.

  He tells me he can see me at sixteen, at eight, as a child when he makes love to me.

  His eyes open and close very slowly next to my face. Sometimes they half close and look down and they are grey-green, cool, and then they slide up and pierce me with open sky. Sometimes he lies close and breathes into my mouth and the breath is sweet, whatever we’ve done. I clutch momentarily at the edges

  of this deep drop into his love, then free-fall, my chest open to the heart,

  and drift in on his sweet air.

  For William with love.

  Sept 21st 1967- March 13th 2018

  Acknowledgments

  None of this would be possible if not for my family. Iskender Agha Boghos, Khatoun Khouri, Umme Ferida, Alice Avakian, Haygaz Avakian, Takouhi and Verginia Avakian, John Harwood, Jack Patey, Billy and Ann Patey, Robert Gombie Harwood, Arum and Roibhilin. You continue to give my life stories. Thank you.

  Also, John Tracy Clinic where I sat and wrote in between classes; they know how much I love them.

  Brenda Richie for employing me and providing a quiet office with a fountain where I finished the first draft in between ordering flowers, checking mail and feeding the baby.

  Colin Thubron for telling me to do it.

  Marianne Jean Baptiste, Akure Wall, Marilyn Acons and Cynthia Bond for reading early pages and heaping encouragement.

  Aminatta Forna for many many things, including the number of times she pushed me, introduced me and shared a glass of wine over gossip.

  Elise Dillsworth for totally believing in me and making me laugh through every rejection.

  Aline Ohanesian for continual support and for spending that hilarious afternoon with me checking the veracity of expletives in other languages.

  Kumru Bilici and Leyla Servet Konuralp for always answering questions so snappily on Facebook.

  The Book Club girls for nagging me non-stop to give them a book to read.

  Krista Gelev, for research and help with indexes.

  Edith Weil, Julian Beeston, Virginia Mileva, Kyla Gelev, JC Barros, Ayala Elnekave and the esteemed Mary Woronov for allowing me to exploit their patience and artistry.

  Annie Damianou for the beautiful cover, Kate Ivanova for feeling my pain when I cut two chapters, James Mackay for his eagle eye and Elena Lipsos for her fine-toothed comb. You all helped over the finish line.

  And of course, Haris and Katerina at Armida for kittens and tashinopita while editing and the birth of this book. Thank you.

  Everything’s a story.

  Maps

  Who I Am

  Nicosia, Cyprus, July 1968

  Vicky

  She’s heading towards me at speed, her black plastic slippers slapping the tiled floor as she comes. I think she’s an adult but I’m not sure. Her face is wrinkly but she’s only a finger taller than I am and I’m seven. She must be Nene Khatoun, my great-grandma who is very, very old. As ancient as the hills, Mummy says, and everyone knows ancient things shrink. Here she comes, making a beeline for my corner. Luckily there are lots of people between us and she can’t get round them easily. She has to keep stopping to get her balance. Eyes quick, I search for someone to help me but everyone’s busy.

  The room is full of people. My family I’m meeting for the first time. They live here in Cyprus and Mum, Rob and I came on an aeroplane across the sea from England to see them. Now we are drowning in them. In the middle of the room is an old man in a dressing gown and a blue crocheted hat and he’s crying. He’s got Robert stuffed under one arm and Billy under the other.

  “Tvins! Tvins!” he’s screaming, even though they’re not. Robert is my brother and Billy is my cousin even though they do look alike.

  Jumping up and down next to the old man is a lady with red hair and a film star dress. She’s kissing both boys and messing up Rob’s parting and singing a song, “Achoognered bidi oudem, kitignered bidi oudem.”

  I know what she’s saying, even though it’s Armenian. I understand that much. She wants to eat Robert’s eyes and nose! Before I can warn him, before I can move, I am finally attacked. The midget great-granny has me locked in her arms. She smells of mothballs and onions and her lips turn in over
her pink gums which hold no teeth. There’s a cave in her mouth that wants to suck me in. I don’t know if I want to cry, or faint, or have a comforting wee in my pants but as I look into her eyes, only inches above mine, she says my name and the whole world stops.

  “Vicky.”

  She winks at me, undoes the top button of her spotty dress and I climb in, crack open her ribcage and nestle into her heart. In here I feel the safest I have ever felt in my life. It’s my blue eiderdown and lentil soup and Fleur in ‘The Forsyte Saga’ after a hot bath in winter. It’s new, like a pomegranate split open, ready to eat. It’s the taste of milk and honey. The smell of lily-of-the-valley in our front garden in Bromley, especially after the rain. She is the rain. The rain that runs down the windowpane that I follow with my finger on long car journeys. She is with me now and for always, the angels sing. All ways.

  “Always dreaming!” Mummy says, yanking at my arm. I’m in shock – being dragged back to earth so rudely. That’s parents for you – they teach you manners and then they don’t use them. Mummy wants to introduce me to all the people in the room. I look over at Nene Khatoun and she nods. Suddenly I can hear her voice even though it’s Mummy’s lips that are moving. Nene Khatoun can speak to me without opening her mouth just like they do on the telly, on magic shows. Telepathy, it’s called. Or ventrilolilolism, that thing with a creepy doll. I listen to Nene Khatoun’s voice inside my head, watching Mummy’s Coral Frost lipstick move, woowah woowah. Nene Khatoun is telling me important stuff.

  “It won’t make any sense now but will in the future,” she says. “It’s about who you are.”

  I listen hard. I know I may have to depend on these words one day. Mum pushes me in front of the red-haired lady in the lovely dress, wipes my eyebrows and tugs at my hem. The lady has stopped singing that song and is smiling at me. Colgate, three ways clean.

  “This is Auntie Verginia, Mummy’s sister,” Nene Khatoun’s voice says. “She’ll show you her dzidzigs when she gets undressed. Look at them. Her body is not as loud as her laugh.”

  Auntie Verginia does laugh a lot. She sticks her fist in her mouth and bites it and does a little dance. I wonder what her dzidzigs look like under her clothes. She smells like a film star. As soon as I have pecked her on the forehead someone else grabs my face and smooshes it together. I look like my favourite dolly after Robert squashed it with his chair leg.

  “This is my little girl, my daughter, Alice. Your Grandmum. Same person, just different names. Listen to her when you can’t hear me. She saw things at your age that a child cannot unsee.” Nene Khatoun’s voice is like a whisper in my ear.

  Grandmum Alice has so many lines on her face, I can’t imagine her ever having been a little girl or a daughter, but I know she must have been, once. That’s the way of the world. We’re born wrinkly and then we go smooth for a while and then we go wrinkly again and our heart – which is really a clock – stops and we’re dead.

  After some cheek pinching Grandmum Alice lets go of my face, pokes around in her pocket and hands me some toffees. She leans down to kiss me and when she pulls away we’re attached by a curtain of hair – mine – caught in the row of needles pinned under her collar. She gently unpicks me then pushes me back so she can see the travelling outfit Mummy made me for this trip.

  This is the grooviest thing my mother ever sewed. A lime-green mini with stars and moons and planets on it. I’m still wearing the matching coat on top even though I’m boiling. The coat is not fastened with buttons, nor with hooks, but by a chunky zip with a huge Go-Go-girl ring on the end.

  I strike a pose then do my special ‘Top of The Pops’ dance for them. They clap as I dance, Grandmum Alice and Auntie Verginia, who is now doing the squashy face thing to me and singing her “I’m going to eat your eyes and nose!” song again. When I finish, they drag me towards the sofa. Towards the old man in the crocheted hat. I stare at his feet in blue flip-flops. His toenails are yellow and the big toes are hairy.

  “This is your Grandad Haygaz.” Nene Khatoun’s voice, Mummy’s lips. “An orphan with no ties to bind him. We became his family and he carried us here.” When I look up at his hands I see that he could easily carry me in just one of them. Mum tells me to do the dance again.

  When you’re alone and life is making you lonely,

  You can always go – downtown!

  I sing as I shimmy and twist.

  Forget all your troubles! Forget all your cares! And go

  Downtown! Lala lala lala, Downtown! Lala lala lala laaaaaaah![1]

  I sing as loud as I can, hoping that Grandad Haygaz will stop crying. Instead, he lunges at me and buries me in his arms. Old Spice. I know that smell.

  “Downtown, downtown,” he croaks, “Downtown!”

  Mummy sits next to him on the sofa and perches me on his knee. He inhales my hair and we sit facing the door opposite as he sobs down my back. I’ve never seen a grown man cry so much – usually they shout.

  “He’s happy,” Mummy whispers. “He’s crying because he’s happy.” I’m not sure I believe her. Parents lie sometimes, and I already know he’s an orphan and they’re always sad, even if they get given another spoonful of gruel. Anyway, I move away as soon as I can, thankful that it’s Robert’s turn to display his travel outfit now. Maybe he can use the hanky he wasn’t allowed to blow his nose on to dry Grandad’s tears.

  I look away and there, in the doorway, is another person I’ve never seen before, her long face watching me. Where do they all come from, this family of mine? Nene Khatoun’s voice follows me.

  “That’s Umme Ferida, my sister-in-law. Your great-great-aunt. Eat her food and watch the slippers on her feet. They’ll fly off and bite you if you behave badly.”

  Umme Ferida tuts and disappears back into the shadows. I can hear kitchen noises and then someone pokes me in the back with a gun, just where they should be careful because it’s my kidney and that’s a delicate organ.

  “Dungulugh!” Auntie Verginia says, slapping Billy across the head in a waft of perfume.

  “Your cousin. Billy. Almost your brother. Never fight amongst yourselves. Blood and water, blood and water, remember that.” Nene Khatoun looks at me as if what she’s saying (or really, the voice in my head) makes any sense. Does it? Billy aims at my skull, blows it apart and kicks my brains under the table.

  “Oi! Behave!” Uncle Jack yells from the balcony. He’s Billy’s daddy who picked us up at the airport when we arrived. He’s got ginger hair and a moustache and is wearing nothing but shorts.

  “Seaside tomorrow?” he asks. I nod eagerly. He blows a smoke ring at me and turns back to watch the telly which is on the other side of the balcony. That’s possible because it never rains in Cyprus – Mummy told me – so no problems like getting electrocuted and dying in the middle of I Love Lucy. Billy whoops like an Indian and runs off. A gentle hand lands on my shoulder.

  “And this, of course, is Nene Khatoun,” Mummy says.

  “That’s me,” says my great-grandma, smiling her pink smile. “Open your eyes and you’ll always be able to hear me. I have many stories to tell.”

  Mummy is looking at me and Nene suspiciously, so I salute like a Brownie and Nene winks again before disappearing slip-slop, slip-slop into another room, her head bobbing like one of those toy dogs in a car.

  As she leaves, Umme Ferida comes in with a tray. They almost collide in the doorway and Umme Ferida hisses. She’s got funny legs that poke out the bottom of her skirt, very wide apart. She’s wearing her slippers and I can see they are good for smacking. The back is folded down and the heel is slim enough to fit the palm of her hand. She’s bringing us drinks in bottles. There are pretty glasses on the tray and a plate of powdery biscuits. Umme Ferida puts the tray on a little wooden table that has holes carved in the legs like lace and pearly white flowers set in the wood. She pulls up a string that’s tied around her waist and separates a large key from the bunch. She uses this to open the bottle caps. I’ve never seen this before. She does it
like flicking a coin, dropping the caps in the tray afterwards. I pick one up. The edges are pretty zigzags and inside there’s a bit of cork which smells sweet. The top has a dent in it, where the key bent it back. I put it in my pocket. Umme Ferida sees me and raises one eyebrow. I’m sure I see her slipper itching to fly off her foot but instead she hands me the other two caps and tries a smile. She picks up a glass and pours a drink in it. Sideways. ‘Coca-Cola’ the bottle says in loopy writing. We drink lemon squash at home and Lucozade when we’re ill. This is different. This is black velvet lit with sparkler fire. I watch the Coca-Cola fill up behind a hula-hula dancer on a Hawaiian beach. Umme Ferida hands me the glass. I look over at Mummy to see if it’s all right to accept this gift, but she’s too busy with Auntie Verginia, so I take it. I don’t know whether to drink it or save it forever in its lovely glass, so I sip it two bubbles at a time.

  I’m getting tired. I don’t want to meet family any more – they are too many, too much. I feel a bit sick. Homesick. Time to become invisible. I slip off my coat and let my hair fall over my face. Now that I can’t be seen, I feel better. I wonder how Daddy is, all alone back in England holding the fork. He’s probably asleep. Is it late there like it is here? I can smell mothballs. Nene Khatoun is back, followed by Billy. She’s holding something behind her dress.

  “It’s a bed!” Billy shouts, ignoring the fact that I am invisible. “We made it together!” They place a small wooden doll’s bed in my hands. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

  “I banged it in with a hammer. Look.” Billy shows me the nails underneath. The headboard has a pattern drawn in pencil then traced over with something sharp. A milky blue marble is glued on each corner.