The Seamstress of Ourfa

by Victoria Harwood Butler-Sloss

  Khatoun gets up from the floor and dusts off her shalvar. “Wait here, Moug,” she tells Arshalous. “If you need anything, come and find me.”

  “Hayde!” Ferida yells, flapping her apron at Khatoun. “She hasn’t got all day!”

  Loucia has already been shown to the Ladies’ Room and there she sits, on the sofa, feet crossed neatly at the ankle. Khatoun has only met her a handful of times – the usual weddings and births – and over the years Loucia has become solid – stout makes her sound fat. Rather, she is like European furniture, the fabric of her dress stuffed and straining at the buttons. Her bun is so tight it pulls the corners of her eyes up and her feet could easily be in a pair of shoes three sizes larger. She sits beaming at her attendant audience, one hand clutching a row of amber prayer beads, the other a small crocheted bag.

  Mertha and Thooma sit opposite, swallowed by the large horsehair armchairs and there is suppressed mayhem from all four of Khatoun’s children who have run in to see their little-known aunt. Khatoun pushes them away good-naturedly and perches on the edge of the sofa just as Iskender sticks his head around the door. He stares at his sister in disbelief and she laughs at him.

  “You are too thin brother and I know it’s not from lack of food!” She grins as Ferida elbows through the door past Iskender with a tray of pastries in her hand. “Even in times of war Ferida will keep us fat!”

  Ferida swats her sister’s comments away. “This is the last of the batch and it’s stale. There’s no more flour, butter or sugar, so enjoy.”

  Iskender hovers in the doorway clearing his throat until Ferida hands him a single kurabia on a plate. “I’ll be in the little room,” he mouths backing away, the plate balanced on upturned fingers.

  The family swarm Loucia, watching her eat the lightly dusted pastries as they bombard her with questions. She swallows and nods, answering them in-between mouthfuls.

  “I’m here for an hour.”

  “The family are fine.”

  “Yes, all of them musicians. Aleppo? Well, Aleppo is changing.” She ends the meeting with a wave of her hand. “I promise I’ll speak to you all again but I need a quiet word with Khatoun first.”

  Mertha and Thooma gather the children and shuffle out of the room, dawdling at the door, reluctant to lose sight of this magnificent woman. Only the promise of a repeat visit in the near future prises them out of the room. Ferida reorganises the biscuits on the plate, slips two into her pocket and disappears.

  Finally they are alone. Loucia stuffs her beads in her bag and produces a clean, white handkerchief.

  “Right. I’ll get straight to the point. I hear you sprang some girls from the Millet Khan.” She dabs at her face.

  Khatoun nods, “Nine in all. Three are here, four now if you count Hripsime. The others are with a friend. It was her idea. The friend. Without her, it would have been impossible.”

  “Yes. Begum Șenay.” Loucia gathers a pile of crumbs and deposits them into the jardinière next to her. “A stupid woman with a heart of gold. If it weren’t for her husband she’d be a prostitute you know. Like her mother. Like her sister. Even her aunt was…well that is another story but yes, orospou stock, the whole family.” She takes a bottle of cologne from her bag, sprinkles it onto the handkerchief and wipes the back of her neck. “Anyway, that’s irrelevant. What’s important is that she got those girls out of there. For that, we are in her debt. However…” she pauses. “She has to give them up.”

  “Give them up?”

  “Think about it. What does her husband want those girls for? Tavli? Pishti? Chess?” Loucia inhales the cologne, waves the handkerchief in the air between them then exhales heavily. She leans forward, her dress creaking like a galleon. “This is how you do it. Talk to your friend, slowly, slowly; a few hints about her husband, his desires, his wandering eye. I know Begum Șenay. Soon she’ll want those girls out of there and that’s where I come in. When your friend has finished playing with her Armenian dolls she can send them to me.” She sits back and dabs at her neck again.

  Khatoun can feel her cheeks going pink. This is unjust, this way of depicting her friend to whom they owe a lot. She’d liked Loucia until a minute ago. Now she is not so sure. She nods at her sister-in-law, her lips tight.

  “I’ve made you angry,” Loucia says, eyes sparkling. “Good – that’s what I meant to do. Obviously from your reaction you trust your friend. That’s reassuring, because I trust your judgement. But still – I wouldn’t trust her if I were you.” She laughs. A trill like a bird. “Confused? Excellent! Now you know me. They call me the Devil’s Advocate.”

  “The Devil’s Advocate?”

  “In a certain circle of friends – it’s the way I argue. Anyway, listen to me. If your friend doesn’t get sick of those girls, someone else in that house will. It’s a snake pit, in case you hadn’t already gathered. So much venom there I wouldn’t accept a cup of tea. Eventually they will want to discard them. I’ll tell you what to do then. Keep your mouth shut and your ear to the ground and we can help them – and a lot more too. It’ll all become clearer in time. When you need to get word to me, go and visit your old friend, Aram Bohjalian. Yes, him. Your bookish accountant. Don’t look so surprised. Books have deceptive covers. Other than that, I want you to promise me that you will stay indoors. It’s not safe to wander the streets any more – despite your wonderful peasant disguise this morning.” She helps herself to another pastry, wraps it in her fragrant handkerchief and tucks it into her bag, “For the road.” At the door, she pauses for a moment, weighing something up. Her eyes search Khatoun’s face before she leans forward, her dress wheezing at the seams. “One more thing. I’m going to send some friends to see you from time to time. Ever heard of Mgrdich Yotneghparian?”

  “Mgrdich? Of course. He’s a legend.”

  “A legend?” Loucia hoots and the unmistakable sound of a button popping off and rolling across the floor accompanies another creak as she rocks back on her heels. “I like that. A living legend. Anyway, some friends of mine will come and see you and I’d appreciate you helping them out in a small way now and then. You know, food, shelter, arms.” She hoots again. “Only joking!” She envelops Khatoun in a hug, leans into her ear and whispers. “You can die in a storm or you can step outside and pin down the tent before the storm takes it.” She kisses her sister-in-law on the forehead and puts her finger to her lips. “And when people ask you – you haven’t seen me. Ever.”

  The children have been waiting in the hallway, hanging about on the staircase, and the clamour starts all over again with them shadowing Loucia through the kitchen into the back alley where she hurls handfuls of sweets up into the air. When they straighten up again, fists full, Loucia is gone.

  Despite the brevity of the visit, Ferida is happy. Colour has flooded her cheeks and her feet slip across the scrubbed floor with ease, her bad knee suddenly oiled and working like a ballerina’s.

  “Didn’t she look well?” she beams. “Like an English lady, my sister Loucia. Like their old Queen Victoria!”

  “Yes,” Khatoun agrees. She’s exhausted, her eyes aching. Too much has already gone on today and it is only mid-morning. “I think I’ll lie down for a minute. I’ll be upstairs.” She heads towards the front staircase, sticks her head in on Iskender and finds him asleep in his chair. She tiptoes over, watching the breath flutter the edges of his moustache. He opens one eye, startled.

  “Reykjavik,” he shouts, one hand flinging out and stabbing the map on the wall. “Oh. Sorry…I thought you were Loucia for a moment. But of course, that’s impossible. What would my sister be doing here?” His chin drops, he lets out a sigh and his eyes roll back in his head. Khatoun leans forward and slips the empty glass out from between his fingers.

  “I’ll be upstairs with the children,” she whispers. “Call me if you need anything.” He snores.

  Bzdig Shoushun has gathered the children into their bedroom. Her workload has doubled since there’s no more school for the boys. Sef
erberlik again. Afrem is sitting on the floor in the corner, protecting his pile of paper and pencils from Solomon who is pummelling him with fat, sweaty fists.

  “No! You can’t do a drawing!” Afrem yells. “It’s my paper and I need it!” Solomon wails even louder when he sees his mother at the door.

  “I want to draw” he cries, “and Afrem won’t let me!”

  Two dolls swing listlessly in a hammock by the window. A pile of wooden blocks towers above the menagerie of stuffed insects covering the floor. Bzdig Shoushun sits in the middle, her eyes filled with tears.

  “I’m trying to keep them happy,” she says, “but I can’t.” She turns to Solomon. “Listen, Afrem needs his paper to do his classes. It’s not a game. Leave him alone and come and play with me.” She stretches her arms out and tries to coax Solomon over, but he runs towards Khatoun grizzling instead. Alice stands aloof, a crochet hook in one hand, a red woollen hat in the other.

  “They’ve been arguing since Auntie Loucia left,” she says. “They’re disturbing me.”

  At this moment a pile of clothing erupts and Voghbed sits up, crying. He wanders over to Khatoun tangled in a sheet, a pair of pale blue trousers dangling from his hand.

  “He’s wet himself,” Alice says wrinkling her nose up at her brother. “You smell of tshishig.”

  “Go downstairs,” Khatoun tells Bzdig Shoushun, “and dry your eyes. I’ll look after them. Go on. Go.”

  Bzdig Shoushun picks up the scattered toys and piles them into a basket. She casts her eye around the room and with a quick bob, flees.

  “What is the matter with everyone?” Khatoun asks the children. “Have we been mean to poor Bzdig Shoushun? Don’t forget, she’s only a girl like you. Maybe we ate too many kurabia and the sugar has got to you. Or maybe…” she turns to Solomon, “Maybe you swallowed a cockroach? You look like a cockroach, waving your arms around like that. In fact,” she leans over her son, “I can see your wings growing.” Solomon looks over his shoulder and laughs.

  “That’s not wings! That’s legs like a cricket! I’m turning into a cricket!” He takes off across the room, bouncing in a frenzy. Voghbed sits clapping in glee at his mother’s feet before jumping up and doing his best to imitate his brother. Then Alice throws her crochet down and begins to twirl on the spot.

  “And I’m a butterfly!” she cries, swirling her skirts out as she spins around. “I’m a yellow butterfly!” Only Afrem hangs back, still serious until the noise in the room grows too loud and he too throws his wad of papers up into the air and they all dance like lunatics in a rain of schoolwork. Solomon runs to the window, attempting to open it so he can throw paper down into the street and Khatoun has one arm around his waist, just about to lift him down from his rickety chair when an unearthly howl rips through the house. They run en masse to the balcony, thinking it to be Grundug, and look down into the courtyard where the old dog likes to sun himself in the mornings. It is not Grundug but Ferida wailing at the top of her lungs, lashing out at the plants around the fountain. She throws her head back and claws at her dress, ripping the bodice apart in a burst of buttons that is quite unlike her, as she looks past them, up towards heaven and cries.

  At that moment there is a gentle cough behind Khatoun. Arshalous stands on the landing clutching a wet rag, her feet bare.

  “I’m sorry, Digin Khatoun,” she says. “I came to tell you. It’s Hripsime. I was stroking her gently and she opened her eyes and smiled at me and now she is gone.”

  A Flock of Birds

  Ouzounian Street, Nicosia, Cyprus, October 23rd 1969

  Ferida

  So that’s me. I’m dead. Me. Ferida. Iskender’s sister. Everyone’s Umme. That’s me huddled at the foot of the bed looking like I’m about to climb off. Yes – you thought everyone died peacefully in their sleep looking as if they were about to float down a river with their hair undone. Well not me.

  I had a fight with death at the very end. Saw it coming, didn’t mind, relaxed into its arms and then remembered where I had put the dolma scoop. You see, you need a long smooth instrument to scoop a courgette out cleanly. Tomorrow it’s dolmas for lunch and as I felt myself slip from life – before I had entered the tunnel of bright light – I remembered the scoop. It was up on the roof where I’d caught the kids using it as a telescope – trying to burn out their eyes by looking up at the sun, stupid dungulughs. If I didn’t get out of bed and bring the dolma scoop down to the kitchen, no one would be able to dig the pulp out of the vegetables. So, I sat up, almost touched my feet to the floor, but death had me by the ankles and that was that. A brief struggle and I gave up and lay in a heap.

  In a few hours (hopefully before I go stiff) someone will find me and stretch me out into some kind of elegant pose. Imagine that. For the first time in years my body will be unbent – soft, pliable – and no one will complain at my hunched shoulders ever again. No, they’ll cry because I’m dead and even though we all know it’s coming, we still weep and wail at the time.

  So, I’m dead. Now listen and I’ll set you straight on a few things. I have something to tell you but if I open my mouth and a flock of birds flies out you have to catch them, all of them, hold them close to your heart and never let them go. What I’m going to say has to be held tight in the palm – not twisted and turned into a story for later. Oh no. This is just between you and me.

  You see, people always spoke to the others and slid around me silently. Because I scared them. They thought I knew nothing about life but what did they know? I knew love. You want to know how long I cried for my dog Grundug when he died? Months. Yes, grief fades with time but it takes a long time passing for memories to turn happy. I remember Khatoun telling me, in her way, what had happened to Grundug and the slam it gave to my heart. We try to bury memories with the dead but every now and then they spring up like ghosts to haunt us. Grundug had died in the winter and I remember seeing a shadow in the courtyard and thinking it was him and the pain hit me that he was gone. And I looked up at the sky and counted off the months and it had been a whole winter and some of spring and still I was crying for my dog. So laugh at me, but let me tell you – loving animals is not stupid. No. Your animal loves you through everything. Whether you are married or not. Or ugly. Or a bad seamstress. Or the elder sister, the maid, the cook, the floor-sweeper with the rickety legs, bad back and slipper in hand. Yes, our pets love us. And Grundug – let me tell you – he saw it all. He knew what I knew and sat patiently by my side while I lost my child.

  Ah, now you’re listening but I’m well ahead of my story here, so be quiet and wait.

  I knew from an early age my path was different. My sisters all got married – plucked like ripe fruits from my side while I began to wither. I wasn’t really interested then. Men seemed stupid to me, and women even more so. People joined up together for no reason other than their parents thinking they would make a good match – no talk about feelings. No whisper of love. In my mind, love is what makes marriage and family.

  I have watched mothers with their children and they cannot help but love their child. But ask them how they feel about their man and they will tell you words like “respect” and “gratitude” and “sadness” because they are widowed, but they rarely say, “I will lay down my life for him.” No, for men and women, sometimes you have to wait, like I did, to find true love. Patience is an egg that lays great things.

  So the years slipped by and people spoke of me as if I was never going to hear their stories but I heard them all. I saw the looks and the heads shaking as my years passed. And then more passed and I earned respect from other women and then, by then, where were we? My brother was an alcoholic; don’t let’s waste words. He would drink until everything came spilling out of his eyes instead of his mouth. He could tell you many things once, but even though it still went in, because of the drink, he filled up with sadness and that’s all that came out. I could have slapped him many times, my older brother. He saw and loved what he had in front of him but could he tell a
nyone? No. Just that pathetic note at the end of his life. Well, it was too late. A human being needs to hear those words. “I love you”. Trust me – I am one that knows.

  And more years passed and it was war. You want to know how painful it is to survive? To watch shadows of yourself pass by in an endless stream with their hair unbound? To catch the eye of some young woman, still pretty despite disease, and say goodbyegoodbyegoodbye as her feet throw up dust? The shame of living as corpses gathered at my door and I had nothing to give them – just water and a pat on the head before I limed my hands rid of them. I couldn’t feed them all. Why delay death for them? Prolong it? I got to know the smell of death long before it caught up with the flesh and I got sick of it. Sick of the stench of pain and injustice and begging and refusal and shutting off my heart. That must be why it happened.

  He came to our house and like everyone else I said how lovely he was – sweet, charming, polite – even to me. He noticed me in a small way – asked after my health – and I noticed him barely at all. And then, if I’m honest, I remember thinking one day that if I would or could or were not who I was, I might have liked him in that way – but my life was different. And so he came and we loved him, all of us, like an Auntie loves a boy and one day he came to the house and it was my birthday – and he took me in his arms to tell me “Bon anniversaire!” and it was different. It hit me like a slab and from nowhere I fell, fell into love.