Running along both sides of the narrow lane, thick walls of impenetrable stone soar up three storeys to roof terraces where a few wild sheets flap in the breeze. The windows that look out onto this side of the street are mere slits – too small for shutters and dark enough not to require grille work to keep the women inside safe from the wolverine stares of men.
Ferida is standing at one of these windows on the second floor. She’s sliding from side to side in the darkness, trying to make out who it is banging at the door below without them seeing her. Squinting up at her from the alley, one hand on her hip, the other shading her eyes from the sun, is her sister Loucia.
“I can see you,” Loucia laughs, catching sight of Ferida in the gloom. “Any chance you could stop hiding and let an old auntie in off the street?”
“Sht!” Ferida hisses, gesticulating wildly before she disappears from view. Moments later the kitchen door screeches open and a bony hand reaches out, plucks Loucia by the elbow and drags her in.
“Wait! I’m not alone,” Loucia says, pushing someone inside ahead of her. A boy, leather violin case in one hand, a bulging sack in the other. Ferida ignores him, slams the door shut behind them and slides the bolts back into place.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, spinning round, wiping her hands on her apron. “And where in hell have you come from?”
“Yes, and hello to you too, sister. We’ve come for a visit. From Aleppo via Baghshish and yes, it was hell. I wouldn’t recommend it. Now where’s my kiss?” Loucia hugs Ferida and steps back to get a good look. “Oh my. Going a little grey aren’t we?” She nods at the salty locks that part severely down the middle of Ferida’s face.
“Happens to all of us,” Ferida snaps back. “Just some of us paint it over.”
Loucia roars with laughter and heads towards the table. “Youseff, son, say hello to your Auntie Ferida.”
“Hello, Umme Ferida.” Youseff towers over everything, limbs long and stick-like in dark clothing. He wears a fez which adds another six inches to his height, but his pimply chin, shadowed by the slightest of beards, shows him still to be a boy.
“Youseff?” Ferida stares at him blankly.
“That’s what I baptised him,” Loucia says, easing herself into a seat and unbuttoning her boots with an “Ouf!”
“Youseff? Your son? But he was a baby!”
“I’m eighteen now, auntie,” Youseff shuffles backwards but Ferida is quick. She gets his cheek, tweaks it between finger and thumb and slaps him.
“Unbelievable; you look just like Iskender, doesn’t he, Loucia?”
“Yes. Both dreamers. Though this one writes music, not poems.” Loucia rubs her temples. “Can’t we have some tea? I’ve got such a headache.” She looks around the kitchen. “And where is everybody? What’s happened in here? It looks like a morgue.”
“Everyone’s sleeping.”
“Sleeping? It’s lunch time – I thought I’d timed it just right!”
“Lunch time? Pah! It’s one meal a day, these days,” Ferida says. “We get up, work, sleep and then eat. After that, work some more, talk, bed. Somewhere in the middle, I suppose we pray.”
“I see,” Loucia muses. “One meal a day. No lunch. That’s a bit upside down. You can’t work on an empty stomach. Youseff – the bag.” She snaps her fingers.
Youseff slips the sack off his shoulder and unleashes a cornucopia of vegetables onto the table. Onions, red peppers, tomatoes, beans, potatoes – a feast of fresh produce.
“From Sophia and Anni in Baghshish. I’ve got letters too. Why don’t you wake everyone up so we can have a proper lunch – get the sewing girls to join us as well? We’ll make it a celebration.” Loucia stretches her feet out in front of her and looks up at her sister. “I’ll have that tea now, Ferida jan, and I’d love to soak these old dogs in cold water.”
“You’re the old dog,” Ferida laughs, her hands already muddy with potatoes. “How do you do it – appear at my kitchen as if I saw you just yesterday? With all of this too! And I can’t believe you’re stupid enough to risk bringing him out,” she jerks her head in Youseff’s direction. “Mincemeat they’ll make of him if they get him.”
“He’s my bodyguard,” Loucia grins. “A rich little ‘Turkish’ boy with a violin. Nobody questions him.”
“And you?”
“I’m just an old auntie with dyed hair. Who’s interested in me?” Loucia flexes her feet. “Water? Maybe a handful of mint. There’s some in the bottom of the bag.” She pulls her skirt up, exposing her mottled calves and pudgy knees just as the door leading to the workroom opens.
Yawning and shuffling, hair in a mess, one of the sewing girls walks into the room, an empty glass in hand. She startles at the sight of the visitors, tilting her head back and glaring at them as if they are trespassing.
“Ah. And you must be Zagiri. How are you?” Loucia asks.
Zagiri stares at Loucia with her one good eye and then, puzzled, turns to Ferida.
“Where are your manners, girl?” Ferida snaps. “This is my sister, Loucia. Say something. And, since you’re awake, make yourself useful – boil up the mint for tea and add some to cold water for Loucia’s feet. Can’t you see she’s suffering?”
“I don’t know her,” Zagiri says, suspicion curling her lip.
Loucia laughs. “You do now! Come and say hello. Come on.” She stretches her arms out and pats her bosom, releasing a cloud of white powder. Zagiri inches forward and Loucia takes the girl in, all angles and sharp bones, for a stiff hug.
“I’m going to get everyone up,” Ferida says heading for the door. “I’ll send Moug in to cook. And Zagiri, for God’s sake, wake up, light the stove and stop gawping.”
Zagiri boils the water and fills the teapot, her eye on Loucia the whole time. She pulls apart a bundle of mint, throws a handful into the footbath, tucks a sprig behind her ear and places a posy on top of Youseff’s violin case before sitting down next to it. The house stirs to life as people shuffle out of bed. Thud, creak, the floorboards above them clatter. Alice and Afrem reach them first, skidding into the kitchen in stockinged feet. They stop inches in front of Youseff, the cousin they’ve never met before with his city clothes and smart boots. His hooded eyes and pale skin give him the melancholy air of a night person who finds sunlight harsh and he greets his cousins with a vague nod, stepping away from them and into the shadows.
“Is it true you have a violin?” Alice asks. “Where is it?”
Youseff juts his chin towards the table where his instrument lies in its box. Zagiri has one hand draped over the case, her fingers flicking the clasp open and shut, open and shut.
“I’m going to dance,” she announces. “He’s going to play and I’m going to dance.”
The door swings open again and Khatoun enters beaming, her face swamped by a heavy pair of glasses that sit awkwardly on her tiny face. “Loucia! Youseff! I was just dreaming about you…there was a camel…and roses…and here you are. How are you?”
“Khatoun! Hello, hello. I am fantastic but the camel would have been handy. My feet are killing me. Excuse me if I don’t get up. I’ll be better in a minute.”
“Sit. Relax.”
“I will. Thank you.”
“I’m going to dance,” Zagiri says again. “After lunch. Youseff is going to play and I’m going to dance.”
“And I’m going to make beans,” Moug says, bursting into the kitchen. She jumps at the sight of Youseff by the wall then stands twisting her skirt and giggling until Ferida reappears, flapping an apron in her face.
“Put this on. Onions – chopped. Potatoes – peeled. Now.” She pushes Moug over to the table and begins sorting vegetables into piles, handing some over to be washed. She takes a handful of little tomatoes, still clinging to the vine and smells them. She plucks one, strokes it against her cheek and chucks it to Khatoun, “Smell that. Ripe, rich earth.”
Khatoun wipes the tomato on her blouse and bites into it. “Mmmm!” she nods her appro
val. “Heavenly.”
“Yes, they kept well. Underground. So are we going to sit here all day being poetic about vegetables or are we going to cook the damn things?” Loucia chuckles, splashing her feet in the tin bowl. Moug is twirling her knife in her hand, trying not to stare at Youseff.
“Chop,” Ferida yells, pointing to the mound of onions in their papery skins, “or I’ll make you cry!” She takes a sharp knife and begins to slice the tomatoes, pushing the beans towards Khatoun to de-string. “And you,” she turns on Zagiri, “stop click-clicking that violin case, and go and get everyone else up…and stop staring with your one bug eye; you’re making me nervous!”
Zagiri lets the clasp go, pats the black leather case and walks out the room throwing the sprig of mint at Youseff as she passes.
“Oh aren’t we busy!” Loucia grins, stepping her feet out of the bowl and onto a ragged towel with a groan of delight. “This is much more like it. So, apart from sleeping, how’s work?”
“Quiet…busy. I’m sewing officers’ uniforms now.” Khatoun shrugs.
“So I hear,” Loucia says.
“And blankets,” Alice says.
“Even I’m helping,” Afrem adds. “I find the stuffing for quilts.”
“Blankets?” Loucia asks.
“For the orphans.”
“Fifteen hundred – and more arriving at the American Mission each day,” Ferida explains.
“We’ve made two hundred blankets and quilts so far,” Alice beams.
“Excellent.” Loucia steps her puffy feet onto a towel, rolls them around one way then the other. “Frankly, the orphans are a nightmare, if you ask me. I’m trying to do some rehabilitation. Get them back to family who’ve survived. Problem is, some of them are so young they don’t remember anything – only the Turkish families they’ve been with since the war. Treated appallingly in some places but it’s all they know. I have one who keeps running back to the folks that took him in. Not at all interested in joining his sister at the orphanage. ‘My name is Osman, now,’ he says, ‘and I like their food better than yours.’ Can’t say I blame him. Orphanage food. Pah!” She winks at Alice, takes a pair of slippers out of her bag, throws them onto the floor and slides her feet into them. “How’s lunch doing?”
“Cooking.”
“You read don’t you, Afrem?” Loucia pulls a sheaf of papers from a fold in her dress and scatters them across the table. “Letters from Anni and Sophia.”
Khatoun gathers the pale yellow pages up and tucks them behind a pot on the dresser. “Iskender can read them to us after lunch,” she says.
Loucia nods. “Iskender should see them, I suppose. That is if he ever graces us with his presence. Where is he, anyway?” She flaps the heel of her slipper on her foot impatiently. “Where are all the men?”
“Sleeping.”
“Getting their strength up, I suppose. For…what exactly?”
“I’ll go…”
“No, Khatoun. Stay. It’s you I came to talk to anyway.”
“Here we go,” Ferida says, clearing the table and attacking a pile of greens with a knife. “Never comes just for a visit – there’s always more.”
“Well, someone has to keep you up to date, tucked away in this house like wraiths.”
“Tell us,” Khatoun says. “What’s the news?”
“In a nutshell; it’s time to go.”
“Go?” Ferida stops chopping.
“Yes. It’s time to leave Ourfa. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon enough. Up until now you’ve had it good. You’ve been safe. Enough people in enough places love you and want to protect you. That’s good – but it’s coming to an end. For a start, the girls here are at risk and they make your lives more complicated.”
Khatoun stares back, the thick lenses of her glasses fracturing her face.
“The girls never leave the house. Hardly anyone knows they’re here.”
“I know. But everything is changing and they pose a risk. Believe me.”
Alice looks at her mother, confused. “I thought it was safe now and everyone would be coming home,” she whines. “Why do the girls have to leave? Who’ll do the sewing?”
Khatoun hands her a colander of beans to give to Moug.
“Does this have anything to do with the French Allies?” she asks Loucia.
“So you heard.”
“Some.”
“Heard what?” Ferida asks. “Is anybody going to fill me in? I thought the French were leaving Ourfa. Just like the British.”
“They were,” Loucia says. “Now they’re dead.”
“Dead?”
“Almost every one. They were massacred in the Shebekeh Ravine two days ago.”
“Two days ago? How come you know all this and we don’t?” Ferida asks.
“Because you never go out. And you’re prudent. Female abductions are high right now. Everyone wants a home for their seed, doesn’t matter your age.”
“Moug! Alice! Cover your ears!”
“I got the news first hand at Baghshish when I was collecting supplies. Some of Sophia’s family had jobs at the French Army camp. Basil, George, Mariam. Since Sammi and Abdanour were killed they’ve been doing whatever they can to keep the farm going. Exercised officers’ horses mostly. Did the shoes. A lot of Armenians worked at the camp. Cooks, cleaners, whatever. Personally, I never liked the idea. Ever since the French took over from the British there’s been nothing but trouble.”
“It’s been murder,” Ferida snorts. “The worst winter since Year of the Snow, no food anywhere and the Turks and the French trying to kill each other with us stuck in the middle. So, what happened?” She reaches into her pocket for a half smoked cigarette and lights it.
“Just like you said. The French were leaving. They had twenty-four hours so they took down the flag and started packing. Everyone working for them panicked; couldn’t decide whether to go home – impossible for some – or take their chances and move on with the army. Our lot went back to Baghshish. Luckily.”
“Park Asdoudzo.”
“The camp was on a hilltop and they still have snow and nobody wanted to be out in the cold so they managed to make it home in one piece. They’d given a map to a few friends – telling them to follow. The next morning the French began their departure – along with the poor souls who’d decided to go with them. They’d been warned, of course, but instead of taking the safe route across the plains to Harran, they followed the Turkish army into Shebekeh Ravine and were ambushed. Like all Europeans, they believed in the ‘parole d’honneur’ of the Turk. It was a blood bath. One of Basil’s friends escaped – another smithy – and found his way to the farm at Baghshish. I came across him in the yard, covered in blood, kak and tshish. Pardon my language. He told me everything and we put him straight to bed. I’m surprised you didn’t hear more. Once the massacre was over, the Turks came back here to celebrate. If you had gone out you’d have seen some grisly sights. You know…” she points to her head, “…on sticks. When I heard, I thought I’d better come and see you.”
“Straight into the mouth of the dragon,” Ferida snorts.
“Pah! The dragon has no teeth. Yet. But yes, your time is up. Until now you’ve had it good. But it can’t last. The dragon will bite.”
“What about all the talk of repatriation?” Khatoun asks. “The city is filled with refugees. Missionaries, orphans, people coming back from all over, hoping to rebuild. What’s going to happen to them?”
“Yes, we’ve all seen the women running back since the Armistice,” Loucia sighs. “They survive the walk to the desert, people dying like flies all around them and run back ‘home’ expecting to move into their old house again. And what do they find? Nothing but rubble. The ruins of their past lives, rattling around with a bunch of ghosts and no wood to hold the lock for the key in their hand. Frankly, I don’t know what they expect. You’d think they’d know what to anticipate after all they’ve been through, but no. Always optimistic. Or is it stupid? Anyway, I’m ramblin
g. What was I talking about?”
“The women,” Moug says from the stove.
“Yes, the women. And where are those optimistic women now? All over the place, living off thin air. You have one of them here. Zagiri Hovanessian.”
Moug whirls round from the stove, her spoon slashing sauce over her apron. “You know Zagiri?”
“I do know Zagiri – she just doesn’t know me yet,” Loucia says, crushing a mint leaf and pressing it into her temple.
“Do you know her auntie too? They came together but she went to St. Sarkis and since then we haven’t heard anything.”
“Never heard of the auntie.”
“Aunties of the road,” Ferida explains. “Vartanoush went on, Zagiri stayed because we thought she had a bastard in the belly.”
“It turned out to be an infection. After that we couldn’t turn her away.” Khatoun adds. “She’s here now and that’s it.”
“Like a piece of furniture,” Ferida says, rolling her eyes.
“She’s not taking up space. No one else will sleep in the back room,” Moug mumbles.
“Why not?” Loucia asks.
“It swallows people,” Moug says with a shrug. “Like Zagiri’s baby that wasn’t and Hripsime and Aram Bohjalian…”
“Who asked you to speak?” Ferida shouts, grabbing the spoon from Moug and stabbing deep into the stew. “You’re talking rubbish. Rooms don’t swallow people.” She takes a sip of the sauce.
“Zagiri likes the back room,” Khatoun says. “It’s so small she fills it completely. There’s no room for shadows, no space for dreams.”
“She’s good at finding food, and that’s worth something these days, I suppose. A pinch of salt,” Ferida says, handing the spoon back to Moug. “One pinch – not more.”
“And she’s good with children,” Khatoun adds. “Voghbed loves her.”
The Seamstress of Ourfa Page 29
