The Seamstress of Ourfa

by Victoria Harwood Butler-Sloss

  And still they come, the line of people that stretches back as far as the northern suburbs. And yet, it is whispered, these are only the remnants. The survivors of groups ten times this size. Shuff-shuff-shuff under the scorching sky. A woman stops, folds in on herself like paper and crumples to the ground. The procession shifts around her but keeps moving, avoiding her with no attempt to move her aside.

  Urhai. Edessa. Al Ruha. Ancient City of Prophets. A crossroads. A market. A collection point. A dump. Ourfa today is a holding pen for exiles – a teeming concentration camp rife with disease. The khans – hearth and home to travellers for centuries are now little more than prison cells. People arrive in the morning, die in the afternoon and are dumped in mass graves at dusk. All summer they’ve been coming. The ones that survive are regrouped and sent across the border, ending up who knows where under the desert sun. For now, the majority of the caravans are herded together into the Millet Khan near the Turkish armoury, and it is towards this cramped and filthy destination that the procession is headed.

  “Why are some of them naked?” Alice asks, her face scarlet from heat and embarrassment. “Who’s taken their clothes?” When nobody answers she pulls off her headscarf and holds it out towards the shuffling crowd. It hangs from her fingers, untouched. “Why won’t they take it?” she asks, flapping it impatiently. Suddenly she is jerked backwards, Ferida’s calloused palm covering her face. The headscarf is gone, snatched from her fingers in a cloud of dust and horse’s hooves. Voghbed is now wailing in Ferida’s arms. Alice strains forward, past Ferida’s grip, and watches her scrap of clothing dance away on the tip of a bayonet waved by a smiling gendarme. A venomous hiss slips through Ferida’s lips.

  “You see!” she spits, “You put us all at risk with your stupid games!”

  “I’m sorry…” Alice starts to cry, but Ferida is not listening. She has her face inches from Khatoun’s, the veins in her neck like knotted rope.

  “Happy? Happy now?” she shouts. “Why do you want your children to see this? What will they learn? They’ll have time when it’s our turn. Enough!” She elbows a gap in the crowd and herds the children in front of her. “You can come if you want or you can stay and watch, I don’t care, but these kids are going home.”

  Alice hesitates for a second, torn between mother and aunt but a vicious cuff to her ear gets her moving. She reaches back, grabs Khatoun’s hand and pulls her along with them. Ferida kicks and swats people aside until she has the whole family in front of a narrow gap between houses.

  “Down here,” she says, pushing them ahead. “Stick together and for God’s sake Alice, shut up! Stop crying.”

  They wind their way through the alleyways, Ferida handing Voghbed over to Khatoun and moving forward to take the lead. Khatoun brings up the rear, her face ashen, her eyes swollen. The streets are empty of people, the houses firmly shuttered. Apart from the few dogs stretched out in the gutter, not a soul can be seen. They are either lining the roads where the marches are coming through, or sitting upstairs, their chess pieces moving silently across the board as they tiptoe from room to room in self-preservation. Chess, a good waiting game.

  When the first caravans had come into town, people had stood side by side to watch them, the Armenians muttering prayers, their Turkish friends shifting their feet in embarrassment. But something had happened just days ago that had changed things. A boy (apparently not much older than Alice) had yelled something at an old man in one of the marches. A joke, perhaps. Who knows what he’d said or why, but further along someone else had pushed the same man and then a stone had struck him square between the eyes. The man fell without complaint and a gendarme rode up. People held back, melting into the shop fronts in fear until they saw the gendarme laugh. He directed his horse right over the old man’s body and the crowd gasped and then cheered as his bones cracked. A momentary pause, like a wave receding and then they began to spit and howl, pushing and shoving to see who would fall. Since then, similar stories had surfaced and Armenians hardly dared come out to greet the caravans any more. It only took one incident, the snatch of an apron, a horse rearing for the crowd to turn ugly.

  The sun whips the sky. The cool breeze that usually sweeps through the alleys has disappeared and a thin layer of dust covers everything. The markets and shops are closed and for once the family are not forced to wind around endless stalls, sidestepping the hawkers and their globules of spit. In a short while they reach home and Ferida takes a string of keys from her pocket, fiddles with a padlock and unbolts the large double doors. She stands with one arm up, holding the door ajar and ushers everyone in under her sour armpit, slamming it shut behind them. She slots the large wooden beam into its brackets across both sides, leans against the heavy wood and exhales. The lilting strum of a saz fills the hall from Iskender’s office and Mertha emerges from the corridor leading to the kitchen, her arms outstretched to her grandchildren.

  “You’re just in time for lunch,” she beams. “I’ve made beans and pilaff and boiled an egg for you,” she smiles at Alice.

  The children kick off their shoes and race across the hall in bare feet.

  “I want an egg!” Afrem shouts.

  “Me too!”

  “And me!” The boys chase Alice towards the kitchen and disappear, the door slamming behind them.

  Ferida sits down and pulls off her shoes, cursing under her breath.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Mertha asks. “You look ill.”

  “Me? Ill? Ask your daughter,” she jabs a finger in Khatoun’s direction.

  “Khatoun?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “So what’s going on?”

  Ferida grinds her foot on the floor, finding a seam between tiles to file away at the thick yellow skin on her heel. “It’s your daughter who’s sick. Sick in the head. She took us – all of us – to see the marches. She says she wants her children to see everything. Says they’ll learn about life that way. At the risk of getting their throats slashed. Asdvadz. If you ask me, there are some things nobody should ever see.” She picks up her shoes and heads towards the kitchen, her feet sliding into her slippers as she goes.

  Thin columns of light shaft down from the ceiling. Another song starts up on the saz. The sweet smell of hashish hangs in the air.

  “Well. You shouldn’t be outside in the sun,” Mertha says, poking at the children’s shoes with her foot, arranging them into a neat row by the wall. “You’ll ruin your eyes once and for all. That’s what the doctor said.” She smiles at Khatoun, turns and heads towards the kitchen, her stout, comforting figure retreating into shadow. “I’m feeding the kids.”

  “There were children their age in the march,” Khatoun whispers to the empty room. She follows the shafts of light up to the domed ceiling and the hallway bleaches white. She leans against the wall, turning her face to the side, pressing it into the soft plaster. Cold, smooth, damp. Black blooms where the lamps stand. Khatoun breathes slowly, the drum of her heart calming, the pressure behind her eyes subsiding. Tac atac atac atac. The clatter of machines vibrates through the walls.

  Past the fragrant cloud seeping under the door of Iskender’s office and on to the workrooms, Khatoun pauses at the door. As soon as she enters, the sewing stops and the girls stand.

  “Sit down,” Khatoun waves her hand at them, “or is it time for lunch already?” She crosses over to Margarit who is clutching a pair of shalvar.

  “Beautiful work,” she tells her inspecting the bright coloured embroidery that circles the ankles.

  Margarit smiles, “Peacocks. Like home.”

  Khatoun traces the birds with her finger. When she looks up, the girls are still standing, watching her.

  “What?” she asks. “What is it?”

  One pair of eyes darts to the next, then the next, then the next. A chair creaks. Margarit takes the shalvar from Khatoun’s hand. “We heard you went to see the marches today.”

  “I did.”

  The rustle of silk tissue.r />
  “I went. And I took the children. I wanted them to see it with their own eyes, not hear wild stories about it, that’s all.”

  “And?” Serpuhi is staring at her from her seat by the window.

  “It was a mistake.”

  The clamour breaks and questions fly.

  “What did they look like?”

  “Do you know where they’re going?”

  “Which towns are they from?”

  “How many…?”

  “Stop.” Khatoun holds her hand up to stem the barrage of questions. “One at a time. It’s mostly women and children. Nobody knows where they’re going. They’ve come from everywhere – Samsun, Erzerum, Trebizond. Here and there they stop and regroup so unless you ask them, it’s impossible to tell.”

  The girls shift uneasily.

  “Kharpert?” Bzdig Shoushun asks.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Probably.”

  “Sivas?”

  “Marash?”

  “Is it just big towns, or are they evacuating all the villages as well?”

  “What does it matter?” Serpuhi interrupts. She snips a beard of coloured thread from the back of a heavily beaded cuff. “Eventually they’ll take all of us. Cities. Villages. Farms. Wherever we’ve come from, we’re all going to end up in the same place.”

  Before Khatoun can calm the girls down, a sudden, urgent banging at the front gate sends them into a greater frenzy. Grundug howls in the courtyard and Bzdig Shoushun starts to cry. “I pricked my finger,” she mumbles. “I almost ruined the shalvar.” Nobody moves. The banging starts up again.

  “I’ll go,” Lolig says, grabbing a çarshaf from a hook on the wall and throwing it over her dress. She sticks two fingers in her mouth and whistles. “Grundug! Come with me. Come!”

  The girls sit, unpicking their tacking, scissors poised over ragged seams until Lolig’s sunny face pokes around the door once more. “It’s for you, Digin Khatoun. It’s Begum Şenay. She says she has a fitting.”

  Khatoun slaps her head with her palm. “Of course. The time. It ran away today.” She hurries out of the room, smoothing down her hair. “Serpuhi, the a la Franga evening gown in gold tissue and the rose peignoir. Bring them to the parlour please.”

  Three women sit on the overstuffed European armchairs in the Ladies’ Room. Two of them veiled completely in simple green, the other wearing a lighter, ornate pink, embroidered with gold.

  “May God’s peace be upon you,” Khatoun says, her fingers skimming a line from heart to forehead.

  “And upon you. And blessings to you and your family,” her visitor counters. They kiss. Eyes, hands, faces.

  Lolig appears at the door, deposits a tray of thimble sized coffee cups and a pitcher of water on one of the low tables and disappears again. When they are alone, Begum Şenay peels off her outer layer and lets it drop to the sofa. Folds of creamy flesh pillow about her. Pale, waxy skin, big brown eyes and a full set of gold teeth. She stretches out her arms and a cloud of rose envelops her.

  “I’m so excited!” she beams, clapping her hands, setting the bracelets jingling, the flesh aquiver below. “I can’t wait to see what you’ve done. When my husband sees me in these dresses he’ll forget that skinny bitch Orlan and remember why he married me!”

  The two veils on either side giggle and stamp their feet in glee. A tap on the door and Lolig and Serpuhi sail two beautiful gowns in, their faces averted. The two veils stare at them as they leave, nudging each other behind Șenay’s back. Across the hallway the mournful tune of Iskender’s saz plays on.

  One of the veils heaves Begum Șenay to her feet while the other pushes from behind. Begum Șenay scoops up her dresses and disappears into a small antechamber separated from the main room by a heavy velvet curtain. With much giggling and slapping of flesh she disrobes and squeezes into the first dress; a Parisian cut designed for scandal with its tight bodice and bare shoulders. She dances into the parlour, suddenly light on her feet, twirling like a little girl. The veils ooh! and ah! and prod at her monstrous décolletage.

  “Orospou!” Begum Șenay laughs. “All men love a whore in the bedroom!” Her friends ululate as if they were at a wedding party.

  “You’ll be a mother in no time!”

  “Or die practising!” They dance around her waving their hands, almost crying with laughter.

  Khatoun stares at them quietly, fingering a small fold of cloth stuck with pins. “You look beautiful,” she nods. “If you stand still now I can finish the hem.”

  Begum Șenay stops dancing and stares petulantly at Khatoun. “Ouf. What’s the matter with you today?”

  “Nothing,” Khatoun shrugs. “Just my eyes. They’re giving me trouble today.” She takes a handful of pins and slips them between her lips.

  Begum Șenay steps up on a little stool, the gold tissue lighting up her glorious breasts. “Rubbish!” she snorts. “Something else is bothering you.”

  The saz stops playing and the house falls silent. Across the hall, Iskender’s chair scrapes back and he pulls himself up by the edge of the table. He coughs noisily and spits into a handkerchief.

  “Aha! An argument with your husband,” Begum Șenay smiles. “That’s it, isn’t it?” The veils lean in to each other and whisper. The sound of Iskender clearing his throat bounces down the hall as he shuffles towards the kitchen.

  “No,” Khatoun shakes her head. “No problems with him.”

  “Well, what then? I don’t want you to ruin my dress with whatever is making you miserable. Get it out. Hayde, we’re all friends here. Maybe we need to burn lead over your head and throw it in water to catch the evil eye.”

  “No. It’s just me.” Khatoun tugs the silk over Șenay’s wide hips, smoothing the material down. “I’ve been arguing with everyone today.”

  “See, I knew it. Why?”

  Khatoun strokes the skirt of the dress to the floor and surveys the hem. “I went to see the marches arrive and my family are upset. I took the children with me.” She folds two fingers of fabric up from the bottom and secures it with a pin.

  “To see the pilgrims? Why would you do that?” Șenay rotates a fraction on the dais and Khatoun continues to pin. “Of course your family are upset. In this heat with all those people! No wonder you look sour.”

  “You sound like Ferida.”

  “Your sister-in-law? Ouch! I don’t look like her too, do I?” The two veils giggle and slap Begum Șenay’s thighs.

  “No.”

  “Allah is merciful. But you still haven’t answered me. Why should the pilgrims concern you? They’re just people being moved because of the war. Why would you want to see them?”

  “I don’t know.” Khatoun leans back for a better look at the hem.

  “So, what did you see?”

  “Not much.”

  “Then why are you so sad? Really, Khatoun, I don’t want you to ruin my dress with your mood,” Șenay teases. “I need sex in here, not sadness!”

  Khatoun laughs. A short hiccup of air.

  “Well? What did you see that’s upset you?”

  “Women. Mostly,” Khatoun says pulling a pin out from between her lips. “I saw mostly women. And children.”

  “So? What were they doing?” Begum Șenay inches around on her podium.

  “Walking.”

  “Walking?”

  “Some of them.”

  “Some of them?”

  Khatoun stands and adjusts the shimmer around Begum Șenay’s shoulders. “I saw some children walking. Others carried.”

  Begum Șenay looks at her friend. “How so? Carried? Why? Are they sick?” Her hands flutter up to her throat.

  “Some. Some of them are sick, yes.”

  “And the others?”

  Khatoun shrugs. She crosses over to the door and calls for Lolig who comes running in wiping her mouth with a cloth. “I’m sorry to disturb your lunch,” Khatoun says to the girl. “Can you bring me some more of this gold from the work room?” She turns back to face Șena
y. Alice and Afrem run past the door and thunder up the stairs, laughing. Dust dances like smoke in the chinks of light filtering into the room through the shutters. The two veils peel back a corner of fabric and sip their water. Shortly, the door pushes to and Lolig enters, carrying a bolt of cloth and some scissors. She waits for Khatoun to cut off a section then leaves.

  “I’m going to give you another layer here,” Khatoun says stroking Șenay’s bodice. “It’ll be softer – more alluring.”

  Begum Șenay steps down, allowing Khatoun to drape her with more fabric.

  “How young?” she whispers.

  Khatoun pats her breast.

  “Babies?”

  Khatoun nods. The dust swirls in the sunlight. “Some. Most of the babies are left behind.”

  “What do you mean? Left behind?”

  “In different places. There’s a tree by the walls to the north of town. The one covered with rags. I heard they drop them in the shade of that tree.”

  “The prayer tree?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “And…”

  “They carry on walking.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Begum Șenay flaps at the gossamer tissue around her face. “Who would leave their baby under a tree and carry on walking? I mean, anybody could just come up and steal it. That’s nonsense.” She takes a step back and squeezes onto the sofa between the two veils who immediately lean in and start fanning her. She plucks at the neckline of the dress for a moment before getting irritated. “Stop! Take it off. I’m too tired for this today.” Her hands flutter about her face and then fall in her lap. The two veils heave her up and deposit her behind the velvet curtain once more and she reappears a few minutes later, fully covered.

  “I’ll do some work on this before I see you again,” Khatoun says, fingering the Parisian dress. “It should be ready the day after tomorrow.”

  “Merci, hanum. Merci,” Șenay says, retreating from the room, touching her heart and folding into the embrace of her companions and out of the door. Khatoun can hear them at the gate, screeching at their man, Bayram, for falling asleep in the phaeton. With a “Hayde!” they are gone and the house is finally silent.