The Seamstress of Ourfa

by Victoria Harwood Butler-Sloss

  “She’s sleeping late, pushing her food around the plate and getting up in the middle of the night to sit on the floor of the roof half-naked. She’s going slow like an idiot,” Ferida tapped her forehead, “and spending far too long in the bathroom. If she washes her hair any more she’ll get pneumonia and if we don’t get to the bottom of this she’ll waste away to nothing.” She threw the laundry onto the table and began tugging at the sheets. “Something is not right,” she muttered into the folds. “Trust me, I know.” And so Khatoun did what any mother would do. She kept quiet and watched.

  Ferida was right. There were midnight talks with the moon dressed practically in air, and the mornings were half over before Alice sat down at her machine – although her sewing miraculously improved. Her appetite seemed to have vanished but the angular slant to her cheek seemed to have more to do with an emerging beauty than sickness. Alice was quiet, that much was true. But sullen? No. That was a spinster’s notion. Someone who had never known love.

  When she thought no one was watching, Alice’s face glowed; her eyes lit up with dreams that left her cheeks pink and a furtive smile playing her lips. Her hair smelled of spring rain caught in the barrel outside the door and she paid great attention to darning every small hole that appeared in her sleeve or stockings. And there was more. A name muttered secretly into the corners of rooms that slid along the walls in a long soft sigh and disturbed the moths around the lamplight. At first all Khatoun could make out was a hiss.

  “Saaaassssssisss,” Alice would breathe. Sometimes she would give in to that smile and at others it looked as if her heart were about to crack. Which is, of course, what it was about to do.

  Love. Those early days. Smelling your love on every breeze. Touching where they have touched, grazing your hand over their fingerprints, your body alive with desire. If you could just lean your shoulder close enough or find some way to take their lemonade glass and feel their flesh under yours. A hand or a brushed finger. The sweet agony of not knowing if they want you the way you want them even though their eyes are on you whenever you turn. The heat of not knowing, burning the air between you. Other people everywhere, eyes too many, the sound of the sea in a shell in your ears, darkness and blinding light, warm breath just paces behind you and then a lock of hair lifted from the nape of your neck. It’s enough to drop your knees and make you fall endlessly through deep sky and sea and into their arms. So.

  Khatoun was not so old that she couldn’t remember the first days of love. She’d been the same age as Alice – younger even – and could still recall the heat and terror of fire in the sky and the brush of Iskender’s breath at her neck. She knew without a doubt that her daughter was in love. But with whom? It was obviously someone they knew – this was not a love affair with thin air. But who could it be? Alice rarely left the house and if she did venture beyond the walls, it was always with family. Where could she have met this boy that was so valiantly disturbing her sleep?

  “Saaaassssssisss?” Khatoun tried whispering into the room, but of course there was no reply.

  Spring turned to summer. A dry, dusty summer thick with the kind of heat that leaves you blind in your room by midday. After lunch (meagre as it was) the whole house would sink into a stupor, Alice taking to her bed, her coverlet of pale blue satin kicked to the floor, the jug of water covered with lace to protect it from flies and a delicate flag of palms fashioned into a fan in her hand. There she’d lie, stirring the warm air, the sweat pooling between her breasts until sleep finally took over. At dusk she’d pull on some clothes and head downstairs to join the family, the smile on her lips infuriating Ferida who knew that that was what was turning her vegetables ripe before their time. Khatoun said nothing. She didn’t want to draw attention. The more people watching, the less there’d be to see.

  It came to the hottest day of the year. The roof ablaze with white heat, scalding to the feet, even in slippers. Ferida and Khatoun leapt between the washing lines, exchanging one load of laundry with another. Stiff shirts into baskets, damp bedding over the lines.

  “Alloooo!” a thin voice called up from the street below, faint at first, growing more insistent with each call. “Alloooo?”

  Ferida crept over to the balustrade and peered down. It was so bright up there she couldn’t see anything below. She shut her eyes, screwed up her face for a moment then opened them and sighed. “People,” she frowned.

  “What do you mean people?” Khatoun asked.

  “There’s people at our door,” she scowled. “What do they want? Whatever it is, we’ve got nothing to give them.”

  Khatoun laughed at her sister-in-law. “You like visitors,” she teased. “It gives you something to do. Tell me who it is.” She sniffed at the armpits of her dress and began fixing her headscarf.

  “Relatives. Yours,” Ferida spat after another look. “Now we’ll have to feed them.”

  “Relatives?”

  “Your brother’s wife’s mother, what do they call her, and her nephew and niece. She’s holding an umbrella. Lace!”

  Khatoun laughed. “A parasol. That’s Tatou. We’d better get out the cutlery.”

  “That’s what I mean. Who needs visitors? Locusts. Thieves. Kaknem!” Ferida hung her head over the parapet and called down. “Hey! Up here! Hello! Welcome!” She waved frantically and the thin voice downstairs ‘allooed’ back again. “Wait there – I’ll be straight down!” Ferida yelled. She dragged the basket of sheets over to the staircase pushing Khatoun ahead of her. “You go down and let them in; I’ll finish this and follow you. Go on, go down, you shouldn’t be in this glare anyway with your eyes.”

  When she got downstairs Khatoun found Alice hanging by the stove, the kitchen door open already. Tatou stood in the alleyway, her lace umbrella shading herself but not the two youngsters sweating by her side. She smiled elegantly and tilted her head at an angle forcing Khatoun to reach up to kiss her.

  “How delightful to see you,” Tatou said, planting a kiss in the air.

  Khatoun ducked back into the kitchen and beckoned them in. “Come in, out of the heat.”

  Tatou shook her head and shimmied backwards a step. “Impossible, my dear. I’m far too busy.” She tapped the pretty wristwatch, worn on the same hand that held the parasol aloft. “The children wanted to see you, though, so I said I’d ask. If it’s not convenient they can accompany me, but…”

  “No, no! Of course. Sarkis, Sylvie, come in!” Khatoun ushered the sweaty teenagers past her into the kitchen. “We love young company. Welcome!”

  Tatou smiled and arched her neck dangerously. She looked pleased with herself and, despite the heat, made no move in either direction, in or out. Instead she glanced around theatrically before dropping her voice to a whisper. “Spoken to your brother recently?” she asked, giving her parasol a quick twirl.

  Khatoun shook her head. “Adom? Not for weeks. Why?” She wished Tatou would either come in or leave instead of keeping her hovering on the doorstep like this. “There’s nothing wrong, is there?”

  “Au contraire!” Tatou paused then let out a great sigh. “Agh, I really should wait for your brother to tell you himself but, since I’ve started, I feel obliged to continue. I hope I won’t regret it. Well, I’ll spit it out…my darling Isabelle is expecting. Your brother Adom is going to be father at last!”

  Khatoun let out a gasp, “Oh! How wonderful!” She took Tatou’s face in her hands and gave her a clammy kiss on both cheeks. Her brother and his young wife had been trying desperately for a baby for years. They’d tried everything and, having exhausted every available herb and ointment left in the city, had all but given up. It truly was great news. A new baby in these times.

  “Yes, it is wonderful,” Tatou beamed. “Of course, I shall have to tell them I told you. I hope they’re not angry with me. How oddly impulsive I can be sometimes. And please don’t tell your parents – I think they should hear it from your brother himself, don’t you? Personally I detest gossip. Anyway, I must go, I don’t wa
nt to keep them waiting. I have a man lingering at the end of the street, ready to take me there. Shall I send your love?” She dipped her head into the kitchen and with an, “à bientôt, enfants, try to be good,” turned on her heel and stepped delicately away over the cobbles.

  “Good,” Ferida said, joining Khatoun at the door as Tatou sailed away down the alley, her umbrella held at a fetching angle. “One less for lunch. And what’s so wonderful? Why’re you all grinning like idiots?”

  “My brother’s having a baby,” Khatoun smiled.

  Ferida swatted the air with her dishcloth. “And that makes you happy? Pah!” she huffed. “Half the kids in this country are starving, the other half orphans. What do they want more children for? Who’s going to feed them?”

  Khatoun laughed, opened her mouth as if to reply but simply shut the door instead. She slid the heavy bolt in place, turned, and saw it.

  Saw Alice rooted to her spot by the stove and Sarkis standing opposite, the air between them trembling so much it sucked the life out of the flame Ferida kept trying to light on the stove. So, here it was. How obvious. Her brother’s wife’s mother’s brother’s son. Close family. Sweet, dark-eyed Sarkis with the poetic hair, ridiculous eyelashes and girlish lips. He stood as far away from Alice as the kitchen would allow, one foot twitching in the corridor, ready to flee.

  “Alice?” Khatoun called out. No answer. “Sarkis?” She dragged the name out like a whisper and the flame flickered, burst to life on the range and immediately went out again.

  “Kaknem,” Ferida muttered, licking her fingertips.

  “Tea, Sarkis?” Khatoun asked.

  “Hm?”

  “Tea?”

  “Yes, Digin Agha Boghos,” the boy replied, his eyes never leaving his boots.

  “It’s fine, Sarkis, you and Sylvie can call me Auntie,” Khatoun said.

  “Yes, Digin Auntie.”

  Khatoun suppressed a smile. “Would you like some tea?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Yes please, Auntie,” Sylvie rolled her eyes at her brother, walked over to the stove and bent over Ferida’s sputtering flame. “Let me help.” She blew onto the grate as Ferida struck another match and the flame took.

  And that’s how they discovered that love had blossomed in their own kitchen.

  Sarkis had had free access to their home ever since he and his sister moved in with Tatou, their closest living relative. They were orphans – the only two left out of a family of twenty from Trebizond on the Black Sea. They missed the comfort and mayhem of family life and had become regular visitors to the Agha Boghos household, the youngsters huddling together upstairs for hours telling stories and making up games until Tatou sent a man to accompany them home.

  As time passed, Sarkis had slung his gaze towards Alice. And, despite never having spoken a word to him (preferring to disappear behind the boisterous banter of her brothers) Alice had noticed. What girl wouldn’t? He truly was a beautiful boy. Tall, with broad shoulders and slim hips, he had long, unruly hair, a chiselled face and delicate fingers – perfect for goldsmithing, the craft he was learning. Sylvie was older than him by two years and had assumed the role of mother. She wore her hair scraped into a bun instead of braids and preferred plain colours to checks or stripes. It was Sylvie who spoke for her brother that day, when he and Alice had peeled out of the room separately and the plates were being cleared.

  “He wants to marry her.”

  Ferida choked on her pickle. “Alice? Don’t talk kak. She’s still a baby.” A door slammed down the hall and frantic footsteps dashed towards the roof followed by the muffled sounds of Iskender yelling from his office.

  “Ferida!” Khatoun raised her eyebrows. “The walls. They hear everything.”

  Ferida spat the pickle into her hand. “Why? What have I said? All I know is that that daughter of yours has turned into a moody dog of late. Who could possibly want to marry her? Why? What’s going on? What have I missed?”

  Khatoun stood looking at her with doleful eyes, shaking her head.

  “I think I can speak for my brother and possibly Alice as well,” Sylvie explained. “I believe they are in love. They seem to have discovered each other while none of us was looking.”

  “Asdvadz! How long has this been going on?” Ferida sputtered. She turned on Khatoun. “Did you know? Is this what all this strange behaviour is about?”

  “I don’t know how long and no, I didn’t know and yes, this strange behaviour is called love,” Khatoun smiled.

  “Love? Pah!”

  “Sarkis is besotted,” Sylvie said, quietly. “He can’t sleep. He doesn’t eat. He says he’s happy to wait until Alice is older but he doesn’t want to lose her.”

  “So why hasn’t your Auntie Tatou requested her hand?” Khatoun asked. “She is your guardian.”

  “Yes, what does Auntie Tatou have to say about all of this? I’ll wager she’s as much in the dark as we are!” Ferida snapped. “This is not the proper way to conduct this. I mean, what are you? His go-between? You’re his sister. What right do you have to come here and ask for an apple? Just because everything is upside down because of the war, doesn’t mean you can take your lives into your own hands. There’s the proper way to do things. If we drop our ways we lose everything. And there I was thinking you were sensible.”

  Sylvie stood her ground and scraped the dishes into a bowl. “Our ways are changing, out of necessity. Auntie Tatou may be our guardian, but she has different views on life. My brother is eighteen. A man already. I simply did as he asked. The question is, do you accept the proposal? If not, we’ll never mention this again. If you do, I brought this.” She wiped her hands clean on the borrowed apron, reached inside her skirt and handed Khatoun a small bag. “Our mother’s. There’s a ring as well but Alice will get that later…when the priest blesses their engagement.” She stepped back and stared at the two older women.

  Khatoun undid the drawstring, opened the pouch and pulled out two gold bangles. She gave one to Ferida who bit into it, nodded her approval and handed it back. The bracelets sat together beautifully, two snakes twisting around each other, their ruby eyes bright.

  “This is very generous, Sylvie,” Khatoun said. “I’m sure they mean a lot to you.” She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “Give me two days. I’ll ask Alice how she feels. From what I’ve seen, I’m sure she’ll accept, but I have to talk to her father. It’s only right. Two days. I’ll send someone to your Aunt’s house with our answer. Probably Afrem.” She put the bangles back into the bag and slipped them into her bodice, patting to show they were safe.

  The moon hung pale and fat. It was one of those evenings the sun could be seen slipping away on one side of town as the moon rose directly opposite. Alice wore a simple cream dress with a high neck and lace-edged sleeves that set off the gold around her wrist. Sarkis had grown two inches since the proposal. And a moustache. Almost. The lovers stood side by side on the rooftop and practically ignited when the priest blessed their engagement, allowing them to touch for the first time. Iskender had commissioned a ring, a simple gold band which Alice slipped onto Sarkis’s finger. In return he slid a brilliant cabochon emerald on hers, his hand sticking to hers as the dancing began.

  Ferida sat in the corner with Sylvie, turning peppers and onions over a small charcoal fire. “In the old days we’d have had a whole lamb for an occasion like this,” she muttered.

  “Yes, stuffed with apricots and pine nuts from Lebanon,” Sylvie sighed. “And meat balls with yoghurt soup and barley.”

  “I suppose you think you can cook,” Ferida teased. “We’ll see, soon enough.” She had a soft spot for the girl. Sylvie had no plans for marriage but had chosen life at her brother’s side instead. Once he and Alice were married they would all come and live in the Pink House with the Agha Boghos family rather than take Alice off to Tatou’s place, which was much too small. The thought of fresh input excited Ferida. It was a rare woman who could enjoy her place in life as sec
ondary to others, especially these days. She might even enjoy the company in the kitchen. If the girl behaved.

  “Turn them over. Don’t let them burn,” she said with a smile, “I’m going downstairs for a minute.”

  The whole family had gathered on the roof for the party. Even though the war was over people rarely got together outside church and when they did, food was scarce and something to raise in a toast almost unheard of. Luckily, Iskender had friends. Ferida was sick of the sharp burn of raki in her throat and wanted some of the smooth gold of imported whisky hidden in his office – the ‘emergency supply’ that never seemed to completely disappear. She creaked down the stairs, cursing her knees. Everyone was smiling. The lovers were engaged, the music was playing, they’d even found small birds to roast on the mangal and as the moon rose higher, not one person remarked on the absence of Aunt Tatou.

  The winds came early that year, shaking the leaves from the trees in the Dergah Gardens. The shutters were bolted but a fine dust entered through the cracks anyway, stinging the eyes. The weather was changing and the winds brought sickness and insanity with them from the desert. They brought rumours too, and several ugly stories began to circulate and slip in under the door with the dust.

  “Something’s not right,” Ferida hissed while they sat at the back of the church. “Look around. No one is speaking to us. I don’t know what it is but I can smell it and I don’t like it.” Khatoun had noticed too but everyone else in the family seemed oblivious; the men as per usual and Alice, well, her head was up in the clouds with love.

  Khatoun leaned into Ferida. “The absence of something is always more difficult to see than the presence of something,” she whispered.

  “Stop the riddles,” Ferida hissed back. “Talk to me in a language I can understand.”

  “It’s the difference between a boil and the cancer. You see a boil on your face; you know how to treat it. With cancer you could be half dead before you know it has eaten your lungs. Something is going on. I can sense it through what people aren’t saying and I don’t like it either.” She fiddled with the buckle on her belt and smiled at her waxy neighbour who steadfastly kept her eyes on her prayer book.