The Seamstress of Ourfa

by Victoria Harwood Butler-Sloss

  “And where did you find pigeon?” Ferida asks, slipping between Serpuhi and the Meat Man. “There isn’t a bird left alive in this town.”

  “Ah, the secrets of the trade,” Etci Tosun says tapping his nose with a grimy finger. “You interested or not?”

  “I’m interested – but you’ll be splitting them open so I can check for maggots before I leave.”

  “Maggots, pah! You insult me, Ferida Hanum; if you weren’t such a handsome woman I would be offended.”

  Ferida waves her hand in his face. “Enough, pezevenk! Now show me the birds.”

  “Birds?” Etci Tosun feigns surprise, elaborately counting out the coins in his hand. “But you’ve only given me enough for one pigeon!”

  “Listen to me, dungulugh. I need to feed twenty people – I need more than one measly pigeon.”

  “Well…” the Meat Man scratches his head, tipping his chin back and looking over her shoulder at Serpuhi. “I have orders. People in high places.”

  Ferida turns her back on him. “Serpuhi.” She puts her hand out for the little purse hidden in Serpuhi’s skirts, extracts two more coins and spins back to face the butcher.

  “Give me five birds.”

  “Three.”

  “Four, or I’ll let it be known you’re pilfering doves from haremlik gardens with your orospou friends.”

  Etci Tosun’s face breaks into a fetid smile. “You are stupendous, Ferida Hanum! Four birds for the lovely ladies coming right up.”

  He disappears into a back room and returns with a bloody parcel. Ferida sniffs as he opens it for her inspection. She peers into the birds’ bony cavities and shoves the package to the bottom of her bag with a nod.

  “They’ll do.”

  “See you tomorrow, my partridge!” The butcher grins, leaning against the doorjamb and pretending to inspect his nails once more, forcing them to squeeze past his bloodied paunch as they leave.

  “You stink bad and you’re a rotten thief,” Ferida retorts, hustling Serpuhi out into the sun. “If one of my girls gets sick I’ll be roasting your tail.”

  They have only gone five paces when they remember poor Grundug. His leathery rope is still tied to the post outside the butcher’s shop but Grundug is no longer attached. The tether has been severed and a tiny damp spot on the threshold indicates where the mutt’s nose lay just moments before.

  “Lost something?” Etci Tosun asks.

  “My virginity,” Ferida snaps, scanning the meydan. “Grundug!” she yells, shading her eyes against the sun. “Stupid dog. He’s taken off for home again. I’ll give him the slipper for this.”

  “Maybe he was hot, Ferida jan. Poor Grundug…he’s old,” Serpuhi starts.

  “I know how old he is!” Ferida snaps back. “He’s still supposed to be our guard dog. Come on, let’s stop dawdling. We need okra – there’s a girl at the other end who sometimes has them. Damn okra – it’s the only thing I can’t seem to grow.”

  As they step around the defecating children there is a sudden cry at the far end of the street. A group of Turkish soldiers start battering down a door whilst a woman shrieks from behind the latticework of her window above. As the soldiers swarm in, the guttersnipes rouse themselves from the filth and run towards the commotion.

  “Deserters!” they yelp, looking towards the sky – for who knew what delights could fall from the pockets of a fleeing army boy! In minutes mayhem has erupted across the rooftops as the soldiers leap from window to roof in hot pursuit of three barely dressed youths. The woman continues to screech as her house is ransacked and the shutters slam shut in adjacent homes. Ferida stops where she is.

  “More bastards who couldn’t afford to bribe their way out of the army. We don’t want to see this. Come on.” She turns on her heel and slips down an alley, hurrying Serpuhi ahead of her. “That’s our shopping over for the day. Deserters? My boutz! Hungry men out for blood more like it, chasing kids for cash.” She bustles past a door, narrowly escaping a bucket of soiled water being emptied into the street.

  “Kaknem!” she yells.

  “Serpuhi! Serpuhi!” someone hisses and the two women whirl round.

  “Serpuhi! Here! This way!” A pretty young girl in a flowery apron stands in the doorway clutching the empty bucket. “Serpuhi jan, it’s me, Shakeh!” Her blonde hair bounces in ridiculous ringlets as the girl beckons them over.

  “Shakeh?” Serpuhi gasps, rushing to her friend and throwing her arms around her neck. Above them one of the deserting youths briefly considers suicide before spying a balcony on the other side of the street. He disappears for a second then is suddenly airborne, hurtling through the air as shots are fired after him. Ferida watches him crash through a window before turning to Shakeh.

  “Do you mind if we come in for a moment?” she asks. “There’s going to be soldiers in the street in about five seconds and you never know when they get a bit frisky.”

  “Yes, yes, of course! Come in, quick.” Shakeh stands back and they duck into the courtyard and slam the door shut. “I can’t believe it’s you!” Shakeh yelps, hugging Serpuhi over and over. “This way – keep your voices down.” She leads them across the tiled patio towards the kitchen, glancing above her to the balcony that runs along the inside of the courtyard one storey up. When they are safely seated around the kitchen table, she turns to them smiling.

  “Where have you been hiding?” she asks Serpuhi. “I haven’t seen you since you left Digin Aghavni’s. That must be six years ago.”

  “Me hiding? I’ve been at the Agha Boghos house the whole time. It’s you who disappeared. You never came back to church – nobody knew where you were. We thought you were dead.”

  Shakeh crosses to the interior door and leans against it, listening. The sound of singing carries through the walls from a distant room and she relaxes a little.

  “Well I’m alive as you can see, I just don’t go to certain places anymore,” she whispers. “I’m not allowed. The man who hired me…I started off sewing dresses for his sisters and wives. That was a few months after you left. I was too busy to do anything other than sew at first and then…well…after a while he took me as his third wife.”

  Ferida shakes her head. “Three wives? What does a man do with them all? No, no, no, spare me the details. I can imagine.” She scrapes her chair back, and heads for the stove. “I see water boiling. You two catch up – I’ll make some tea.” She busies herself at the range, searching out cups and spoons with precision.

  Shakeh smiles at Serpuhi. “They’re good to me,” she says quietly, “the other wives. I mean one of them hates me – the Ugly One, but the other wife treats me well. That’s her singing. The Ugly One doesn’t like her either. They used to gang up on me but that stopped when they realised I was happier in the kitchen than…anywhere else.” She accepts a cup of tea from Ferida then crosses over to a stoneware jar and removes the cloth from the top. “Choereg?” she asks.

  “Choereg? Just one,” Ferida says stuffing the whole thing into her mouth. She nods her approval. “Not bad – you make them?”

  Shakeh nods. “It’s what I do. Bake, pickle, sew, clean. The usual. It’s getting harder – food is scarce but he seems to have connections. But that’s enough about me. Tell me what you’ve been doing these last six years.” She passes a pastry to Serpuhi. “Married?”

  Serpuhi gobbles and laughs. “Don’t be silly!” She looks over at Ferida then takes a breath. “There was a boy…” she pauses as Ferida’s back stiffens, then continues. “There was a boy…at church…but he disappeared…” her voice trails off. She picks at the seeds decorating the choereg and slips them into her mouth with her finger.

  “Did he have a name, church boy?” Shakeh asks.

  “Nerses,” Serpuhi nods, “Nerses Terzian.” A tear drops out her nose and Ferida starts.

  “Terzian? The silversmith’s boy? I know his father…knew him…Ephraim. He could dig out a rotten tooth…” She shakes her head. “Bastards. Not them…you know…” />
  Down the corridor the singing gets louder, the mournful ballad trying to escape the thick, stone walls. Shakeh dips her choereg into her tea.

  “She’s singing to her bird,” she says. “He’s traditional, our husband. Keeps his women inside and covered. Except for me. I can go to the market. And my hair? I have to wear it like this for him, curly curly, no veil.” She crumbles pastry into her mouth and turns back to Serpuhi. “So, if you’re not married what do you do?”

  Serpuhi rolls her eyes. “Sew dresses.”

  “She’s good,” Ferida says. “Got a fine hand. Beautiful embroidery.” She pats Serpuhi on the arm, gets up and wanders over to the range with her tea, poking into the cupboards, surreptitiously checking to see what’s been stored away.

  “Digin Khatoun has a good business,” Serpuhi says. “There are ten of us sewing girls and we keep busy. You’d think people had more serious things on their mind than dresses, but no, they seem to want them even more.”

  “Ten of you!”

  “Yes…but…” Serpuhi falters when she sees Ferida’s expression.

  “Nobody knows who’s in the house and we’d like to keep it that way,” Ferida says. “Understood?”

  Shakeh nods. “House? Girls? I know nothing.”

  “We had a hard time right after the Armenian Quarter burnt down but then the orders came flooding in,” Serpuhi continues. “In fact, we’re busier than ever, but now they bring their own fabrics because we can’t get them.”

  “All the cloth merchants are dead,” Ferida says, “that’s why.”

  “So now they dig up some fancy fabric – curtains, tablecloths, their grandmother’s trousseau – and come running to us, hoping Digin Khatoun will solve their problems with a dress. And she always does.”

  At that moment the haremlik door flies open and the room erupts into chaos as a half-naked little boy runs through the door and disappears under Shakeh’s skirt. He is closely followed by a heavy-set woman in vile green.

  “Barıș! Come here!” The green dress shrieks. “I’m going to skin you alive!” The little boy skitters across the floor and retreats under the table clutching a string of beads behind his back. The woman in the dress stops to catch her breath and takes in Shakeh’s guests. She glares at them, her hands on her hips, her bosom heaving. “And who said you could entertain, Shakeh?” she asks disdainfully. “And handing out food? Don’t you know there’s a famine in the city?” She grabs the choereg jar and peers inside to see what’s left.

  “This is a friend of mine from Digin Aghavni’s sewing school and her sponsor, Digin Ferida,” Shakeh says. “And this,” she gestures towards the woman, “this is my sister.”

  “Sister? Don’t put us in the same category,” the woman sneers. She smoothes the fabric of her vivid housedress over her square hips. “I am Fatima, first and favourite wife of Hakim Kadir.”

  Ferida takes Fatima’s hand and brings it to her lips. “Fatima Bayan, what a pleasure to meet you. We were passing and came in to pay our respects. And may I say, that is a beautiful dress you have on, the colour suits your complexion most amicably.”

  “Thank you,” Fatima smirks. “I was wearing a set of beads that highlighted the outfit perfectly but the brat took them.” She peers under the table. “Go on, swallow them you little half-breed. I hope you choke!” She stamps her foot and Barıș shimmies further back beyond her reach.

  “I’ll get them for you, sister,” Shakeh says. “You go back to your rest.”

  “You’re damn right you’ll get them for me,” Fatima snaps. “And when you do, send the mongrel in to see me so I can beat him senseless.”

  “Yes, sister.”

  “And stop calling me sister you ugly beanpole!” Fatima shouts. “And tie back your hair! It’s…obscene.” She turns back to Ferida. “These young girls – they have no idea of manners these days.” She swivels on her heel and sweeps out the kitchen.

  “The Ugly One?” Ferida whispers as Fatima’s footsteps retreat down the corridor. “Please don’t tell me the other one is even uglier.”

  “The Ugly One,” Shakeh nods. “I like what you said about the dress.”

  “Süslü püslü,” Ferida grins. “We have to go – it’s getting late.” Slowly she bends low enough to stick her head under the table. “Come here little boy – give your auntie those cheap nasty beads before you swallow them. If you do we’ll have to pull them out of your bottom like worms.” She straightens up, grinning broadly. “Handsome little chap,” she says, one eyebrow raised, “Blonde curls.”

  Shakeh nods. “Fatima couldn’t have children so…I…he…belongs to the family.”

  “He’s beautiful,” Serpuhi smiles as the little boy crawls out from under the table and hands Ferida the necklace.

  “Worms?” he asks.

  “Yes, worms,” Shakeh says taking the beads from Ferida. “Let’s go and give them back.” She hoists Barıș onto her hip and they walk through the cool leafy courtyard to the back gate. “I’ll come and visit,” she smiles. “The Agha Boghos house in the Assyrian Quarter. We’re neighbours. I’ll come soon.”

  “They call it the Pink House.”

  “The Pink House.”

  “Yes.”

  The women kiss and hug and pinch little Barıș’s cheeks before stepping back into the flat glare of noon outside the gate.

  “We’re late,” Ferida grumbles. “Mertha’s going to be at the window pulling out the last of her hair.”

  “Why don’t we go back the way we came?” ventures Serpuhi, eyeing the narrow street that winds through the overhanging houses in front of them.

  “I don’t know,” Ferida muses, “I think we’d better keep going – it’s longer this way but better to get there in one piece than run into those thugs again. Hayde, let’s go.” She sweeps ahead clutching her birds to her chest.

  Their detour takes them north towards the old Armenian Quarter. A year has passed since fire demolished the whole quarter but an acrid smell pervades. The walls that once stood tall now tilt in blackened ruins.

  “Two thousand years up in smoke in two days,” Ferida mutters as they grow closer. “Locusts. Swarmed through and picked the place to bits. It’s a crime. It’s all a crime.”

  Around the corner and they run into a pair of women sitting in the rubble at the side of the road. The older of the two has her face turned up to the sky, weeping. Her companion, the opposite. Knees to chest, face hidden in a threadbare dress. A comma to her friend’s exclamation mark.

  “What now?” Ferida mutters. She stops, sizes the pair up then walks over to them. “What are you doing here?” she asks. “In the rubble?” The younger woman refuses to look up, the elder shakes her head miserably.

  “It took us months!” she cries. “Months to find our way home. We’ve bribed and hidden and done unmentionable things to get here and this is what greets us!” She waves her hand around her. “From the camps in Rakka to Aleppo to here, searching, searching for Mr. Leslie and look what we find. Ruins! Nothing but dust where our house used to stand!” Her hands flap at her sides like lost birds.

  “Mr. Leslie?” Ferida asks. “The Reverend Francis Leslie, the American missionary?”

  The old lady nods and wipes her chin of tears. “When trouble was brewing we gave all our valuables to Mr. Leslie for safe keeping. Jewellery, the deeds to the house, my husband’s life insurance with the New York Company. Everything. Now he’s disappeared and let us down.”

  Ferida squats down next to the two women. “Who told you to come looking for Mr. Leslie?”

  The woman shrugs. “What else is there to do? Who else is there to look for?”

  “I have some news for you,” Ferida says. “Mr. Leslie didn’t let you down. On the contrary, he would have done anything to help us, poor man.” She pauses for a moment and shrugs. “Mr. Leslie is dead.”

  The younger woman looks up and Serpuhi jumps at the sight of her face. One eye is half-closed, the other missing altogether – a cavernous ho
llow burrowing into her skull where it should be instead.

  “I told you he was dead,” she says, her mouth pulling to the side, displaying a handful of broken teeth. “Only a few of us have a second chance.” She laughs as she stands up, almost cheerful. “So now we know, Tantig; we have nothing. We are nothing.” She starts to sway, moving her feet in some strange dance.

  “Where are you staying?” Ferida asks as Serpuhi backs away from the dancing girl.

  “Staying?” The young woman throws her head back. “Don’t stay anywhere! Blow like the dust. The wandering souls lost between Heaven and Earth, that’s us.” She dances closer to Serpuhi, glaring at her through her one distorted eye.

  “Shut up, Zagiri,” the older woman says turning to Ferida. She taps her temple with a grubby finger. “She’s not well,” she mouths.

  “So where do you go from here?” Ferida asks.

  The older woman shrugs. “We thought we might find something here. We’ve been to the desert and back. We wanted to stay in Aleppo but you need a special permit so we made our way back. I hoped to find more than this.”

  “Hah!” Ferida scoffs. “There is more but you would never have got your home back – even if it were still standing. Anything left habitable is housing the Turks fleeing the Russian front at Van and Tiblis.”

  “Haven’t they taken enough?” the auntie cries. “They took our men, our valuables, the clothes from our backs. Now they take our homes? Eshek siksin! Take them! Rot in them!” She spits between her feet.

  “They are,” Serpuhi says. “Rotting in them. They say ‘ghosts’ are choking them in their sleep.”

  “Peasants,” Ferida clears her throat and spits too. “I have nothing against peasants but this lot are full of straw. Half of them poisoned themselves already using bronze pots to cook in, the rest are so stupid they burn the roof beams for firewood and wonder why the roof falls in on them while they’re asleep. Ghosts? My boutz.”

  Zagiri hops from foot to foot, chuckling. “Dig a hole big enough for someone and you’ll fall in it,” she sings, lifting her skirts to her knees.