The Seamstress of Ourfa

by Victoria Harwood Butler-Sloss

  Khatoun had watched Iskender’s face as he read the last letter. A sentence to himself, pause, his reply out loud. A backwards sort of letter-reading from which Khatoun had learned what her father wanted of her by what her husband obviously did not. Iskender had looked anxious even as he nodded encouragement in-between paragraphs. It was another twelve page opus, full of stories about the geese, the rosewater batch and how Khatoun’s imagined life must be ‘across the desert and a long way from home.’

  Khatoun knew it would be a blow to Iskender (“Business is good, we all love Aleppo, city of a million churches! Yes, yes, life is grand!”) if all his women wanted to go back home. And that is exactly what would happen if she floated the idea. There was no way Ferida would let her travel alone and if Khatoun took Baby Alice and Ferida with her, what about Seyda? Not a day passed without Seyda mentioning her husband’s grave; who was visiting, praying, plucking the weeds from Abram’s face? As Iskender folded the letter and slid it back across the table to Khatoun it was Seyda who spoke.

  “Did you know it takes a human body as long to decompose in the earth as it does to grow a baby in your belly?”

  “Have another drink, Mayrig,” Iskender said sucking on the corner of his moustache. Seyda ignored him.

  “If I died tomorrow and you buried me, I would be bones by the time your next baby is born.”

  Khatoun tucked the letter into her pocket and looked up. It had only been that morning that a familiar knot in her gut had sent her retching into the yard. She hadn’t said a word but now all eyes were fixed on her. She shrugged.

  “I was going to say something…”

  “She shouldn’t travel when she’s too far gone,” Seyda said shaking her head. “Khatoun’s father desperately wants to see her. There’s another baby on the way. So?”

  “So?”

  “It’d better be sooner than later.”

  Iskender had dragged the scarlet-lined suitcase out from under his bed that night. He’d emptied it of books, polished the key and handed it to his wife. A flurry of packing had followed, busyness masking delight. Bundles of clothing and gifts grew in a pile by the door until earlier today, when, with the sky still a shade between pink and grey, Iskender had loaded them up onto the wagon and the women had set off, leaving their neighbours huddled in a knot.

  “Look out for bandits!”

  “Mountain lions!”

  “Wolves!”

  “Come back soon.”

  “Of course.”

  “Insha’Allah.”

  And they were off.

  Khatoun and Baby Alice are sprawled out comfortably in the back of the wagon using the luggage as pillows. Above them the sky is a dome of blue, a few fat clouds scudding lazily by. Ferida and Seyda sit up front, mostly allowing Fundug free rein.

  “If you reach up you can grab them,” Khatoun says pointing to the rolling clouds. Baby Alice chuckles, her fat hands grasping at the air.

  “Hrshdugig! Hrshdugig,” she calls out, making everyone laugh.

  “Hello angels!” they wave up at the sky, “Hello hrshdugigs!”

  The hurrying clouds are gathering just over the ridge in the direction they’re headed. Bulbous-silver, iron-grey. Down the slope on the other side, still several hours away, lies Baghshish, their first port of call. The Glore Boghos household. Family, food and respite from the dust. Sophia’s confident smile welcoming them. The air is warm, the plateau below still bathed in gold although here and there, the first pinpricks of lamplight can be seen. It’ll be dark soon and the women want to be on the other side of the hill, already descending, before then.

  “Come on, Fundug,” Ferida urges, “all the hay you can eat when we get there.” The horse quickens pace and Khatoun closes her eyes and tries to tune out Ferida’s voice. She loves her sister-in-law but the better the mood, the more disgusting the jokes. The last one, about a flea and a moustache and a hapless woman’s private parts was too much. Khatoun leans back and moves a shoe from under her shoulder blade. Alice is breathing heavily, her eyes closing. Here and there tall fennel bushes line the dirt road, their fragile limbs delicate skeletons after the heat of summer. A bird flits amongst the bushes. A dragonfly skims by in search of water. Something cries out and Khatoun follows Ferida’s finger up into the sky. Above them, to the left, two hawks circle in wide, lazy arcs. One calls, the other follows.

  “Must have found food,” Seyda says, pulling Ferida’s hand out of the air and back onto the reins.

  “Or guarding their nest.”

  “No, they’re after carrion. I can smell it. That means wolves will be coming. Ai! What’s that?” she startles as a handful of pebbles trickle down the slope and scatter in front of them. “Keep moving.”

  “Most likely a bird we startled,” Ferida snorts. “And there is no mountain lion. And there aren’t any wolves. That’s just a story cooked up by jealous husbands to scare their wives into staying at home.”

  “Maybe there aren’t any wolves. Maybe there are,” Seyda says. “But there are definitely snakes. They love the smell of babies, that’s why I want her kept up off the ground,” Seyda gestures towards the back of the wagon.

  Ferida laughs – a short, sharp bark, “Mayrig, stop! It’s not the season for snakes. There are no wolves. The birds are just stupid things in the sky. Everything is scared off this path anyway, what with all the horses and people coming and going.”

  “What people? What horses?” Seyda asks. “There’s no one else for miles, just us and them.” She looks back up at the birds.

  “Yes. And if we watch them for too long we’ll lose our balance, fall over the edge and break our necks and die,” Ferida jokes. She can’t tell whether Seyda is serious or not and in a way she doesn’t care. She’s going to see her dog Grundug again and that’s all that matters. Not even her mother’s odd mood can bring her down. Fundug, Grundug and their recent acquisition, the grey kitten, Mundug. Animals. So much simpler than people. As far as Ferida knows, no one has ever come to harm along this road. Still, she slaps Fundug’s rump again. They should keep going. Trouble never catches a speedy foot.

  “Stop,” Seyda announces suddenly, “I want to stop.”

  “Stop? Now?”

  “Yes. Stop the cart.”

  “You just said to keep moving,” Ferida snaps. Old ladies, pregnant women and infants. She makes a mental note never to travel with them again.

  “Stop the cart!” Seyda insists, “I’m hungry.”

  “Oh, food. Why didn’t you say?” A quick bite to eat would make them all feel better, Ferida decides. “I’ll stop at the bend.”

  A short distance ahead, a flat, sandy outcrop wide enough for several wagons hangs over the valley. The rock’s surface has been carved with names and love letters, and here and there, little piles of stone clamber in impromptu sculptures. Ferida guides the horse to a rest, jumps down and stretches out, rolling her head first around one way and then the other. Aleppo shimmers beneath them, her ancient Citadel crowning one hill, her skirts spreading to the surrounding moat below, the souq opposite hemming her in. Ferida interlaces her stringy fingers and presses them to the sky, making them crack. She likes the souq.

  It didn’t matter where you ended up in the world if you could find the souq. And Aleppo’s rivalled all those in existence. Ferida was at home in those narrow alleys filled with carpets and textiles and hair dye. The jewellery sparked vivid daydreams and the beautiful inlaid woodwork intrigued her. Who, she wondered, would be lucky enough to receive such wonderful stuff? The silver trays and lapis beads? The perfumed vials and floating silks?

  On her solitary treks she most often found herself in the alleyways, watching her face distort in the beaten copper cooking pots. Nothing could compare to this colour – not silver, not gold. Love for Ferida was food. Perfume, not frankincense, but the pungent aroma from one of the huge mounds of spices piled at her feet. Touch, a hand deep in a sack of red lentils, a twig of cinnamon curled around itself. Up on this ridge, in this s
ilence, it is hard to imagine the noise and smell of the city below. The orospou women giggling around café doors, the street kids picking through choked gutters. The delicious aroma of skewered meat spitting over charcoal.

  “Do you think he’s eaten already?” she asks, leaning into the wagon for a bundle. She unwraps it and starts pulling cheese and olives out of an earthenware crock.

  “Iskender? No,” Khatoun pushes another pot towards Ferida with her foot, “Here. The bread. He’ll forget, of course.” She slides off the back of the wagon, trying not to disturb Baby Alice who is still fast asleep. Seyda spreads a cloth over the floor of the wagon, throwing one end over Alice as a blanket and Ferida hands out large sheets of flat bread filled with cheese and olives.

  “I must have dozed off,” Khatoun says, rolling her bread up tight. “Look at the sky now.” The sun is low, the rays slanting towards them in luminous sheets through the gaps in the clouds.

  “Never mind the sky,” Seyda snaps, “we were talking about your husband. He’s probably starving by now.” She slams the lid of the bread pot down, her nostrils flaring.

  Ferida widens her eyes at Khatoun, snipping the air in front of her mouth with an imaginary pair of scissors. “Keep quiet,” she mouths. And then, out loud, “Iskender will be fine,” she tells Seyda, “If he goes hungry he’s an idiot.”

  “An idiot? You think it’s funny to starve? You make jokes about your brother like he’s some idiot? What is he doing back there all alone? And what are we doing in the middle of nowhere? Not here. Not there!” Seyda gestures around her with her hands.

  “We’re on our way to see family,” Khatoun says gently.

  “On our way? In your mind. In my mind we’re leaving family behind.”

  “Enough, Mayrig!” Ferida barks. “Iskender will be fine. I left enough provisions to feed a city. Digin Iskuhi is going to cook for him. No one is going to starve.”

  Seyda glares at Ferida. She dusts her hands on her skirt and starts back in the direction they came from. “Maybe it’s me then. Maybe I’m the one who’ll starve. I will never see Iskender again, that much I do know.”

  “Don’t be stupid, of course you will. Wait! Where are you going?”

  “It used to be we all stayed together under one roof,” Seyda shouts over her shoulder. “Now we spend our lives scattered, shuttling between who we were and who we have become.”

  “I thought you were looking forward to travelling!” Ferida explodes, her voice shrill with agitation.

  “It’s too confusing. Backward, forwards. All this travel just deepens the need for one place. And stop following me! I’m only going to relieve myself. I need privacy, ouf! Just pray the wolves don’t get me.”

  Seyda disappears around the bend and Ferida throws her hands up in the air and walks back to Khatoun. “Don’t ask me,” she says, shaking her head. “She was fine and suddenly her mood changed. No idea why.”

  “What does she mean, she’ll never see Iskender again?” Khatoun asks.

  “Nothing. It’s just her talk. She’s worried he’ll go to pieces. You know what he’s like, writing – what is it he calls it – haiku? Sleeping in his clothes with nobody to watch over him except friends. And what friends? Those two with the automobile – the so-called artists? I’ve never seen so much barab glir in my life as their paintings!”

  Khatoun laughs, “Maybe we should keep going. I’m sure she’ll feel better in Baghshish. Shall I wake Alice to feed or let her sleep through?”

  “Let her sleep. But you’re right. Let’s go. It would be nice if we’d turned the hill before sun down…What? What have I just said? Asdvadz! What’s wrong with everyone today? You’re looking at me as if I just said something wrong,” Ferida steps back, exasperated.

  “Iskender,” Khatoun says. “I just remembered. I promised Iskender I’d watch the sun set over Aleppo. He said he’d stand on our roof and do the same. Then we’d know we were thinking of each other at the same time.”

  “Of course,” Ferida smirks, “let’s hang around until it’s too dark to put one foot in front of the other, just for him. No wonder he forgets to eat. Both of you have your heads up in the clouds. Come on – if we sit here much longer you’ll be waving to your husband from right here – we’ve got less than an hour of light left. Look at the sky.”

  As Khatoun packs up the wagon, Seyda drifts back, walking straight up to her and kissing her lightly on the forehead.

  “I’m sorry,” she says with a shrug, “I have no idea what is wrong with me. These strange thoughts keep taking over my brain. My heart feels heavier with each footstep – I have no idea why.”

  “Maybe you’re tired, Mayrig,” Ferida says, “Why don’t you rest in the back while we continue?”

  “Yes, I think I will,” Seyda says, “I’m getting old suddenly.” She climbs up into the wagon and huddles next to Alice under the blanket. “Wake me up before we get there so I can fix my hair. I don’t like any of the grey to show.”

  Ferida gives Khatoun a hand up onto the seat next to her and Fundug sets off. The hills ahead are still bathed in warmth and the air is calm.

  “Not long before be sunset,” Ferida says. “I’m not promising anything but if we make good time, maybe I’ll stop at the top for a moment, before we turn the hill. Then you can do your goodbyes.” She’s used to Khatoun and her brother now and although she’d never admit to enjoying their love games, she likes the look she catches on Iskender’s face as he pokes at his dinner with a fork across the table from his wife. The only men that ever look at her are tradesmen and most of them keep their gaze low in the vain hope that she won’t harass them for too long over the poor state of their meat or their sorry looking vegetables.

  “I’m sure Iskender will be fine without us,” Khatoun whispers turning to look at her. “Maybe your mother is worried he’ll miss us so much he won’t get anything done.”

  “Of course she’s worried and do you blame her? What other man do you know that likes poetry – especially in foreign languages? And don’t say his friends from the club – they’re just as odd. And if he wasn’t so generous with those same useless friends we’d all be doing better. What use is a restaurant if everyone eats for free? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve stood over tables waiting for them to pay. They look up at me, then glance over at him and then start with that story about how they just popped in and Iskender ‘invited’ them to dinner. I smile like an idiot and wait till they dig in their pockets. I can see them seething but I don’t move a single muscle until the money’s in my hand. Vordevans, all of them,” she spits into the ground. “I frighten them.”

  “That’s not hard. You used to scare me when I first met you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Ferida snorts. “You’re the scary one with all those disappearing acts and silent treatment. We thought you might crack at any minute and do something like the leather-man’s wife. Remember what she ended up wearing? What a disgrace.”

  “Be serious,” Khatoun laughs, “you frightened me. You’re so big.”

  “Yes, and look at you. Even a small fire can burn down a big house.”

  “Iskender will be fine,” Khatoun pronounces, more to herself than Ferida. “Without all of us to worry about he’ll do much better. I hope so. He’s usually more of a book person.”

  “A ‘book person.’ I’m going to tell him you said that when I see him. ‘Your wife thinks you’re bookish.’”

  “You know what I mean,” Khatoun sighs. “He’s good with numbers and languages but not with having to talk to all those people every night.”

  “What are you saying? He doesn’t speak to the patrons at all – just hovers like a bat in the corner, twiddling his moustache. I’m telling you, he may be my brother but we’re definitely not cut from the same cloth.”

  Before Khatoun can reply, a plaintive wail from a goat reaches their ears followed by the gentle whinny of horses. As if in response, Fundug quickens her pace, blowing softly through her lips. Around
the curve, nestling in the throat of the hill just below them they can see a small farmstead. The pungent smell of dung and chickens drifts up and Fundug snorts with pleasure.

  “Our last look at civilisation,” Khatoun muses. “One day, when we travel this road, I’m going to go down and meet the people who live there.”

  As if by answer there is a sudden thud of hooves then a billow of dust and a beautiful stallion appears, blocking their way forward. Fundug stutters to a halt, the cart clattering behind her. The stallion has a rider – an imposing, hatchet-faced stranger towering above them – his lambskin hat making him appear even taller. He has deep-set eyes, a craggy mountain face and a smile littered with gold. He nods politely, lights the cigarette dangling from his lip and squints against the smoke.

  “Good evening, ladies.”

  “Evening.”

  “Going far?”

  “Maybe,” Ferida answers tersely.

  The man points across the sky to the lowering sun. “It’ll be dark soon,” he says.

  “We know what time of day it is,” Ferida snaps back. “That’s why we’re in a hurry.” She flicks the reins across Fundug’s back but the mare is far too interested in her handsome new friend and digs her heels in, whinnying softly at the stallion. Embarrassed at the disobedience, Ferida stares the man down and barks, “So. What do you want?”

  “Nothing,” he smiles back, toying with his cigarette. “Just greeting strangers on the road.”

  “We’re stopping at Baghshish, ouch!” Khatoun answers, pushing Ferida’s fingers away with her elbow. “That’s not too far is it?”

  “Not far,” he nods. “The Glore Boghos farm. Good people. Any relation?”

  “No!” Ferida jabs Khatoun again. “We’re the maids.”

  The man throws his head back and looks down at their neatly hemmed dresses and soft leather shoes. “You don’t dress like maids,” he says.

  “How would you know?” Ferida asks. “Got any maids yourself?”