The Seamstress of Ourfa

by Victoria Harwood Butler-Sloss

  And where does that come from? One minute you are simply a friend and then ‘click’ a key turns and all you can think of is burying your head in their neck and smelling the warm, sweet air that nestles there. What is that? What does it?

  Is it that you catch them looking at you in a surprise moment, unawares? Or that they then hold your gaze once caught? Is it that when they draw away from a friendly hug you imagine your neck elongating so that your face can dive headlong into the pool of warmth at their collarbone? Or that you kiss ‘hello’ in line with everyone else and the corner of your lip accidentally catches the corner of their lip and your stomach sinks into your deep wet sea and your knees want to buckle and you realise? Is it that they lean across you and you catch their smell and you want your hair to smell of them – that if your hair smells of them the way you want it to, it means you have loved them good– the way you suddenly want to?

  Once he was in my mind, I couldn’t get him out – he was there constantly, everywhere I turned. And I knew lust and desire and joy at the casual mention of his name. That soft brown skin, my lips hungry to suck. His arms around me. Oh, I dreamt of his arms long before I felt them. He would stand near me, just feet away, and my body would arch towards his. If I had taken a knife, I could have cut the air between us, fed it to the birds and watched them fall to the earth like stones with the weight of it. I dreamt of him touching me everywhere. Under the moon, watched by the sun, by the light of the fire, in my hair, my breasts, my thighs. Thinking about him even now turns me to flame, and I’m dead. Just think about that.

  It was at the Pink House. He came often – at times when everyone else would be asleep. That was most of the day in those times. We slept to avoid hunger and heat. And I slept in the kitchen because it was cool and because I knew that sometimes he would come. And when I let him in we never spoke of what was between us. But the way he held his head high and slid his eyes over to me – my knees would drop and my stomach would turn and I would flood and have to leave the room. And the thud of my heart broke down walls.

  And you would come to the door and I would let you in and do anything that you bid of me. My own life meant nothing and the risks that you brought gave shape to my life. I would carry anything for you – take it wherever you asked. And one day your hand touched mine as you passed me a package and you held it there. And my heart flew through my veins, trembled in the palm of your hand and I shut my eyes and you moved behind me and I felt the heat of your chest as you put your lips to my neck. And we moved towards the darkness where not even the shadows slept and we lit it up with fire.

  And you never knew that I carried you a child. A tiny little thing – just a few months in my womb – and Grundug sat with me the night that I lost her. There was nothing to see – just blood and blood and blood – and I sat in the bathroom and poured water over me in bucketfuls and our child was washed away. Never mind, never mind. I was past bearing children – that much I knew. I was not one of those women ripe into old age – I was barren from misuse and only the thought of you could fill my breasts with heaviness. I had no place being a mother. With a child everyone would question my morality and forget that I had conceived in love. And that is what matters. I mothered love and not one person knows.

  And one day he left. You want to know how? Vanished. Came to the house, broken and torn and told us bad news. I nearly dropped to the earth when I saw him. Held his face in my hands, carefully, as if it were the most precious thing in the world, and Khatoun sewed him together. I cradled his face, drank it in. I only took the cigarettes so I could pass them to him, to touch him again. And later, on the roof, Khatoun stood with one arm around Iskender, the other on his shoulder as he lay casually against her leg. And was I jealous? Yes, but I loved Khatoun more because she could be close to him and I couldn’t. So I shut my eyes and flew though her body into her hands to feel his warmth.

  And eventually we were alone and I said very little as I undressed him and bathed his sweet body. Let it seep away, I told him. And I meant it to myself because I knew he would go and I wanted it to be over already – I didn’t want to visit that pain at all. And my face…my face was burning when I left the white bathroom. And that was the last time.

  He left me something and I tell you, I was too scared to open the rag he had pressed to my heart. Too scared even to touch it, so I gave it to Khatoun. When she unwrapped it and I saw his gold teeth, I knew that was all I would ever own of him. That, and the memory of his smile.

  So lift up my pillow as you strip the bed and find those nuggets of gold I have kept safe all these years. And say what you want – that I was mean, I hid my gold in my mattress, I knew nothing of life and I died alone, without love. And I’ll laugh, because only I know.

  Mgrdich Yotneghparian

  The Pink House, Assyrian Quarter, Ourfa, October 23rd 1915

  Khatoun

  The skies were in labour

  The earth was in labour,

  And so was the crimson sea.

  And in the sea a small red reed

  Was also in labour.

  And out of the reed came smoke

  And out of the smoke came flames,

  And from the flames dashed forth

  A blond youth

  With fiery hair,

  And a flaming beard,

  And his eyes were two blazing suns![1]

  “Don’t open it!” Ferida screams. “Don’t you dare open it or we’ll all be killed!” She’s clutching her favourite pilaff pot over her head, ready to hurl it as frantic banging threatens to separate the back door from its hinges.

  “Don’t you even go near that door,” she hisses, raising the pot even higher. Who she intends to hit is uncertain, but the tone of her voice is enough to stop Khatoun halfway between kitchen table and thudding door. The banging stops abruptly and Khatoun looks at Ferida with the sprinkling of pilaff littering her shoulders and cautiously moves past, pressing her face against the peeling blue paint of the door.

  “Maybe it’s someone we know,” she mouths.

  Another huge knock slams against her cheek and the ancient hinges screech at the force.

  “What if someone needs help?” she says, rubbing her face and reaching for the bolt, not yet daring to spring it.

  “So help me God – if you open that door I will brain you!” Ferida snarls.

  Too late. With a flick of her wrist, Khatoun undoes the heavy metal rod and slides it back, turning the key with her other hand. The door flies open and the stench of sweaty meat and cordite lands, large and bloody at their feet. Up in a flash, their intruder slides the bolt back into place, drags the dresser across the door, scattering dishes everywhere, and spins around to face them. Ferida screams, her pilaff pot finally released from her grip and clattering to the floor.

  Standing in front of them, eyes wild, face black with soot, is their old friend, Aram Bohjalian. He is almost unrecognisable from the genteel, bookish person they know. Gone are the spectacles, the French-cut boots and fine suits they recognise. Instead, he sports a head-dress tied across the forehead, a rifle in one hand and Ferida’s meat cleaver (just acquired) in the other. The hair escaping his filthy headgear is long and tangled and, despite the current length of his beard, he wears a smile. A jagged, unruly flap that curves from ear to mouth, exposing the whole left side of his jaw.

  Ferida screams, staggers back against the table and retches all over the floor. Khatoun rips off her apron and plunges it into a pitcher of water and holds it up to Aram’s broken face. His eyes dart around the room, casing the shadows that loom and scatter in the flickering light. He smells rank, sweaty, like rotten lamb. He leans back against the dresser, pries the dripping cloth from Khatoun’s fingers and pushes his face together with a sharp intake of breath.

  “It’s over,” he says, the words sliding over his tongue in a bloody mess. “Mgrdich is dead.”

  And just like that the noise outside stops. The bells fall silent, the high-pitched scream that has been consta
nt this last hour vanishes and the desperate footsteps echoing through the alleyway disappear into a hole.

  Ferida stops swabbing the floor with her rag-draped foot and Khatoun stands motionless, her fingers still dripping. The silence scares Grundug, who’s been sliding around their skirts, getting under their feet. Convinced he’s done something wrong he slopes off under the table, tail between his legs. And then the cacophony outside starts up again.

  Khatoun pushes Aram into a chair and peels the wet apron from his face. “I can sew this together,” she says inspecting the gash. “Hold it in place for now.” She presses the apron back into his cheek and wipes her bloody fingers on her dress.

  Behind them a door creaks open and Iskender’s skinny frame looms in the half-light.

  “I heard banging,” he says groggily.

  “Yes.”

  “Everything all right?”

  “Yes, jan…”

  “We’re fine!” Ferida’s apron flaps impatiently. “Oosht!”

  “You’re sure…”

  “No,” Aram shakes his head and winces in pain. “It’s over. Mgrdich is dead. The Turks have captured the Armenian Quarter and everything is in flames. This is it, Iskender, efendi. The end.”

  Iskender stares into the kitchen, shifting from foot to foot. “Oh,” he manages eventually, through fingers and moustache.

  “I’m going to stitch Aram’s face back together,” Khatoun says. “I need a sharp needle. Boil a pot, Ferida.” She crosses over to Iskender and pauses, burying her face in his chest. His arms reach around her and they stand there together, creaking like floor boards until Iskender lets out a sigh, leans down to kiss his wife on the head and steers her out of the door.

  “Good. Yes. You get a needle, I’ll get some drinks.” He follows his wife down the corridor and returns moments later, a flask under his arm, a nest of shot glasses clutched together in yellowing fingers. He pours several drinks and hands a glass to Aram, who stares at it.

  “Oh! I’m an idiot!” Iskender says, slapping his forehead. “Let me help.” He lifts the cup to Aram’s lips and, with a sideways tilt, messily slips some of the dark liquid into the good side of his mouth. “This’ll work wonders…ouf…sorry. It’s just a dribble. From Scotland. My special reserve. It’ll be a long time before we see any more of this, so enjoy.” He throws down a shot himself and pours an immediate refill.

  When Khatoun returns she finds Ferida out of her stupor, sorting clean rags out from a large sack of cuttings. A pot of water is bubbling over the stove and Khatoun plunges two needles into the flame, watching them glow red momentarily before settling down next to Aram. She takes a reel of cotton from her pocket, unwinds and licks the end and threads both needles. From her bodice she extracts a small vial and measures out two drops of liquid into a glass of water.

  “Milk of the poppy. Drink it,” she urges, holding Aram’s face together as he lifts the glass to his lips. “And sorry, but I have to do this. Put the glass down, yes. Now hold onto the table leg and don’t let go.” She takes a length of rope and ties Aram’s hands together around the table leg. “I’m sorry, jan, not for long, just squeeze tight.” She soaks a rag with alcohol and carefully cleans the area around the wound. With a razor and held breath, she removes as much hair as possible from around the jagged flesh. A deep moan rumbles up from Aram’s belly and Ferida slides in behind his chair. She takes his head in trembling hands, holding it in front of her like an unborn child, her tears slipping down the inside of her nose and onto his headdress. Slowly, with precision, Khatoun inserts the needle into his flesh and stitches him back together, finishing off with the second needle.

  “Talk now,” she says, snipping the thread at the end. “You won’t be able to later.” She undoes his hands and dips the needles into her glass of whisky before taking a swig.

  Iskender has been stoically watching the water boil. He turns back to face them, his face grey. “Finished? Good.” He slides a packet of cigarettes across the table to Aram, which Ferida nimbly intercepts, taking one for herself. She lights it and hands the packet to Aram, offering him the flame from her match, her fingers tenderly cupping his.

  “Tell us everything,” she says softly, sitting back. “We haven’t seen you for months.”

  Aram slumps forward over the table, the adrenaline already abandoning his body. His hand shakes and he smokes so slowly, an inch of ash quivers at the end of his cigarette. He drops the whole thing into the ashtray in front of him and watches it smoulder. His face is curious to them now. A patchwork of what it once was. When he opens his mouth to speak, Khatoun notices for the first time that he is missing two teeth. He touches the stitches gingerly then pulls off his head covering and buries his filthy fingers in his hair.

  “I don’t know where to start,” he sighs. “The one person who could have saved Ourfa is dead and our hopes have died with him.” He snorts, inhales too deeply and begins to cough. “We are lost,” he says when he catches his breath. He looks around the table at his friends, takes his glass and holds it to his lips but cannot drink. Sudden, great sobs wrack his body. Ferida throws her cigarette down, stubs it out on the scrubbed floor and pats his back like a dog.

  “He put the bullet here,” Aram weeps, pointing to his forehead. “Here, where it’s written. He took his own life right in front of me. And that’s it. It’s over.” He wipes the tears into his beard and whimpers. “Mgrdich was the only person alive who could have saved Ourfa.”

  “Trouble maker,” Ferida retorts. “That’s what he was.”

  “Sht! Let the man speak!” Iskender says, hushing his sister with a raised finger. He turns back to Aram. “You were in the Armenian Quarter?”

  “Yes.”

  “With Mgrdich Yotneghparian?”

  “Yes. With Mgrdich and his men.”

  “What were you doing there?” Ferida asks. “I didn’t know resistance fighters needed accountants.”

  “We were friends. I was fighting, not accounting.”

  “Fighting? Asdvadz!” Ferida crosses herself.

  “I was there when the police came looking for Mgrdich. They broke in through the roof and it went badly, depending on whose viewpoint you take. It was the trigger for the resistance, which is what Mgrdich wanted…”

  “And now the whole Armenian Quarter is in flames?”

  “Yes.”

  “With everyone trapped inside…”

  “Yes.”

  “Surrounded?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the hero that started it all just killed himself?” Ferida shouts. “What kind of hero is that? All he did was prove that if you resist you end up dead, just like everyone else!”

  “Ferida!” Iskender yells. “Sit down! Let the poor man catch his breath. Can’t you see what he’s been through?”

  Ferida flings herself into her chair and downs her shot with a grunt. Khatoun has been listening quietly, jabbing at the spool of thread with a needle. She stops, looks up at Iskender and then across at Ferida. “You know I knew him,” she says, sticking the needle under the collar of her dress and slipping the cotton reel into her pocket. “Mgrdich. God rest his soul. I smashed his egg with mine one Easter and he was mad – said I wasn’t a lady.”

  “You were friends?” Iskender asks, his cigarette stuck to his lip. “You and Mgrdich Yotneghparian?”

  Khatoun shrugs. “Neighbours. Friends. A long time ago. The brothers used to trade, they had a khan and we knew them that way. Mgrdich and I were the same age. We used to meet at church. Easter. Christmas. Mgrdich wasn’t really friends with anyone, although all the boys loved him.”

  “The girls too,” Ferida snorts.

  “He was troubled. Even back then. They said it was being an orphan made him wild. ‘He prefers horses to school and rifles to books,’ that’s what they said. His brothers had to send him away in the end. The older two, the sensible ones, Nerses and Kevork. Mgrdich ended up in the desert with tribesmen, Arabs, Kurds, I don’t know. They say he was a no
mad, really, in his heart. Anyway, that’s where he learnt to ride and hunt. Out in the desert.”

  “Bet that’s not all he learnt!” Ferida scoffs reaching for another cigarette and lighting it. Aram has slumped forward in exhaustion, his head resting on his arms, his face turned to the side. Outside, life is in turmoil but there is a sense of calm in this smoky kitchen. The pots are boiling on the stove, hissing and spitting as if beans and lentils are all that matter in the world. Grundug has buried his nose in his armpit and is busy snuffling out fleas. Every now and then he looks up, sneezes and wipes his nose with his paws.

  Ferida exhales two perfect streams of smoke from her nostrils. She taps her cigarette into the ashtray, pokes the mound of ash with the tip.

  “He came here, you know. Your friend.” She takes another drag and casts her eye around the table. “About a month ago. Dressed like some Arab. Didn’t tell me his name, but I knew. Said he was a friend of our sister Loucia’s.”

  “Don’t talk rubbish,” Iskender says, ash dropping from his lips. “Now everybody knows this Mgrdich?” He pats at the ash with his finger, working it into the grain of the wood. Ferida ignores him and continues with her story.

  “He was looking for Khatoun. When I said she wasn’t available he gave me a basket to give to her. Said it was bread and could she carry it to Mariam Hanum in the Armenian Quarter.”

  “Mgrdich’s sister,” Aram mumbles.

  “Exactly,” Ferida rolls her eyes.

  “And?” Iskender asks. “What did you do?”

  “What do you think I did? I took it. He said they needed bread so I took it. Heaviest bread I ever carried. Two men followed me all the way there and back. Armenians dressed as Turks, but I knew. Kept their distance and watched me like a bird watches its nest.”

  The pause that follows is so long Ferida wonders if she actually spoke the last words or just thought them. Eventually, Iskender shakes his head.