The Seamstress of Ourfa

by Victoria Harwood Butler-Sloss

  “He even likes her face,” Ferida says, shuddering.

  “I like her face, too,” Moug giggles. “It’s funny.”

  “Who gave you birdseed this morning, girl!” Ferida snaps, swiping at the back of Moug’s head with her hand. “Just shut up and cook!”

  “This is precisely one of the things I came to talk about,” Loucia continues. “The girls. They have to leave as soon as possible. They’re at the greatest risk.” She winks at Moug who is rubbing the back of her head. “Don’t worry. I’ll help.”

  “Where would we go?” Moug asks throwing a handful of salt into the bubbling pot. “I don’t want to go anywhere.”

  “That’s it Moug! You’ve said enough,” Ferida explodes. “And that wasn’t a pinch. Get out! Go and tell the girls to get ready for lunch. Half an hour. And don’t fill their heads with nonsense.”

  “Yes, Umme Ferida.” Moug unties her apron and hangs it up on a nail by the door.

  Ferida watches her go and covers the stew with a lid, leaving a small gap for steam to escape. “That girl,” she tuts. “Simple in the head.”

  “So, how many girls still with you?” Loucia asks Khatoun.

  “Eleven,” Khatoun answers.

  “Well, there you go. Must be a strain on you, feeding all those extra mouths.”

  “Feeding which mouths?” Iskender asks from the door, his eyes puffy with sleep.

  “Iskender!” Loucia says, clapping her hands. “Ready for some lunch, brother?”

  “Lunch? Yes, yes, lunch is good. Lunch is excellent. Are you really here?” Iskender kisses his sister and sits at the table next to Alice, ruffling her hair. “When did we last have lunch? Must have been nineteen-sixteen. Yes, rotten pigeon. Made us all throw up.”

  Zagiri trails in next with Voghbed and Solomon – the two youngsters perplexed by the sudden change in their daily routine. They’ve been scrubbed and changed although Voghbed’s hair still sticks up like a bird’s nest in the back. Khatoun spits on her hand and tries to plaster it down as he slides in next to her. Thooma comes through the door next, Mertha fluttering beside him. She looks confused at the number of people in the room.

  “Who are they?” she asks, hand at her throat. “Do we know them?”

  “Yes, Mum,” Khatoun shouts. “It’s Loucia and her son Youseff from Aleppo.”

  “How lovely to meet you,” Mertha says, waving at Loucia. “I thought you were dead.”

  Loucia laughs. “Not yet, Digin Mertha, although my feet will kill me soon enough!”

  “I’m so sorry,” Mertha settles down at the far end of the table. “That’s such awful news to carry around.”

  Finally, the sewing girls troop in to say hello. Lolig with her rosy cheeks, Serpuhi and Margarit, Gadarine and Bzdig Shoushun; all smiling and touching their foreheads and eyeing up Youseff. Hasmig and Manoush enter next, holding hands, then Amina and Elise, the two sprung from the Millet Khan who shared Iskender’s love of books, pocketing thin volumes as they come. The door opens one last time and it is Moug with fresh ribbons in her hair and a sprig of mint tucked into the bow. She slides into the kitchen behind Ferida’s hot gaze and stops opposite Youseff. The girls bob and smile their hellos then set about laying the table; plates, knives, forks, pilaff, yoghurt and bread. One by one they take a bowl into the courtyard where they sit, ears pressed back like cats to catch the stray gossip.

  Ferida sets the simmering pot in the middle of the table. It’s been a long time since there was a feast like this in the kitchen and there is a satisfied silence as everyone digs into their food. The furniture creaks, the cutlery tinkles and everyone’s bellies stretch, ooh, ah, slurp. After a while Iskender puts down his spoon, takes a healthy sip of raki and smiles.

  “So what brings you here, sister?” he asks.

  “Bad news I’m afraid, brother. I’ve already told the others.” Loucia mops up the juice from her plate with a hunk of bread. “The time has come to leave Ourfa.” She pops the bread into her mouth.

  Iskender nods. “So, our time is up.” He laughs, a short belch of air. “I’ve been expecting it.” He pours another raki and waits for the water to cloud milky before continuing. “We think one awful chapter is over, but in fact the next is just beginning. I suppose this has something to do with the French leaving.”

  “What do you know?” Loucia asks, dipping more bread into the sauce.

  Iskender takes a sip. “I heard they were leaving, and it was tense. That’s all.”

  “Tense?” Loucia says. “Now they’re all dead.”

  “I knew someone was dead!” Mertha beams across the table.

  “Say that again?” Thooma leans forward.

  “I knew someone was dead.”

  “What happened to the French?”

  “L’épouse du boulanger baise le boucher,” Mertha remarks brightly.

  Afrem’s eyes dart nervously towards his grandmother. “Allez-vous bien, Mamig?” he asks.

  “Mais oui. J’écris avec une plume d’oie,” Mertha giggles, scratching across the table with her finger.

  Afrem smiles anxiously and his two younger brothers titter into their hands until Zagiri emerges from the shadows. “Come on, Tantig,” she says, prising Mertha out of her chair, “let’s go upstairs and play chess with the boys.” She takes Mertha by the hand and holds the door open for Voghbed and Solomon, giving them a quick flick across the head as they pass. Alice nudges Afrem but he ignores her. Their parents seem to have forgotten them so she takes her brother’s cue and shrinks back against the wall, out of the light.

  Loucia dabs at her mouth with a handkerchief and waits for the door to click shut. “What happened to the French? What can I tell you that you don’t already know? They were herded into Shebekeh Ravine and slaughtered. Officially, of course, they’ve just ‘vanished.’ Later on someone will blame the chettes, the outlaws, whatever. But no one will ever get punished and soon it will be forgotten.”

  “I knew this would happen,” Iskender sighs. “Ever since the Allies first came – starting with the British last year with their grand protestations about protecting us.”

  “Full of hot air,” Ferida says. “Hot air out a donkey’s ass. Eshek siksin.”

  “At least the British were honest,” Thooma says. “They knew their limitations. None of us were in any doubt that our situation would get worse once they left – and we all knew they wouldn’t be here long.”

  “And the French? Did they promise anything more? Anything less?” Ferida asks.

  “The Turks have always hated the French,” Iskender says. “Never mind Paris fashion and finishing schools for the rich, deep down the Turk is not a Francophile. We’ve been on curfew since the day they arrived. Holed up here like phantoms, for months now.”

  “I know, brother,” Loucia says. “And it will only get worse. Mustafa Kemal Pasha is gaining power and he’s got Namuk Pasha, chief of Ourfa gendarmes, in his pocket. And that man hates everything foreign. French and Armenian.”

  “It’s no surprise they came to a sticky end,” Thooma says, offering Iskender a smoke. “The French. They poked fun at the Moslem way of life – were rude to the women, danced in the grounds of the mosque. They showed no respect at all.”

  “That could have been exaggerated,” Khatoun says.

  Thooma shrugs, “It’s what I heard.” He flicks ash into a plate and takes a drink.

  “This is our problem,” Iskender sighs. “Our lives are never our own – we always end up as pawns in someone else’s chess game.”

  “I’m teaching my brothers to play,” Afrem tells Loucia. “Solomon is really good – even Zagiri’s learning.”

  “I don’t know the rules,” Loucia says. “But I do know that whatever game you play, the pieces are returned to the same box when you’ve finished; winner and loser. And now there are no more Allies left playing in Ourfa, which means one of two things. Either the Turks will be nervous about what they’ve done and treat us decently in case anyone’s watching, or, t
hey’ll think they got away with it again and take it as carte blanche to start massacring us once more.”

  “Massacre,” Iskender nods. “Historically speaking.”

  “On top of this, Mustafa Kemal Pasha is not happy with the way the Allies have been carving up his homeland. He’s minutes away from taking over and he’s a nationalist, so unless you plan on becoming a Turk I’d get packing.”

  “Mustafa Kemal Pasha,” Iskender holds his glass up in a toast. “I salute you.”

  “Yes, Mustafa Kemal – a brilliant man, but not the best news for Armenians. He wants a Republic. A Democracy. For the Turk. Not for us. Minorities have no protection here now. Look at how fast the British Allies left once he dangled the Mosul oilfields in front of them. And now look at the French.”

  “Politics,” Iskender muses. “They call themselves allies but the British and the French had their own fights between them. The spoils of war – who got what, where, when. No wonder we dropped through the cracks. Every single promise made to the Armenians by the Allied powers during the war has been forgotten. Once again we’ve been sacrificed for political and economic gain.”

  “Naturally,” Thooma says. “The stupid Armenians again.”

  “Aulis,” Iskender announces.

  “Aulis?”

  “Yes. Euripides. Iphigenia at Aulis,” Iskender starts. “Or was it Tauris? No, Aulis. That’s where they sacrificed…”

  “Oh, shut up, Iskender!” Ferida snaps. “Places, places. All you ever do is dream of places you’d rather be, not what is right here in front of you!”

  “Just listen to you,” Loucia laughs. “You’re making my point for me! As you see, the minorities are completely unprotected here, at the mercy of anyone’s whim. Mustafa Kemal wants the country for himself. He’s already separated himself from the Ittihadists – thrown the blame on them for the massacres and the marches. Says they’re the ones that dragged the country into the war in the first place and committed all the atrocities. He’s busy in his fight against the Greeks right now but very soon his attention will turn back to us. And at present, despite their failure here, the French are doing a good job at keeping the peace in Aleppo. That’s where you should be – not trying to eke a living out here. It’s the end for all minorities and the sooner you get your heads around that the better.”

  “That’s it?” Ferida asks. “Somebody doesn’t like us so we just pack up and go? This is our home.”

  “It’s just a house,” Iskender sighs. “Walls and plaster.”

  “And if we refuse? What? My head on the end of a stick like some French boy’s?”

  “Ssst!” Iskender hisses, jerking his head in Alice’s direction.

  “Yes. Enough talk,” Khatoun says, standing. “Let’s clear the Ladies’ Room, make coffee and have a song with Youseff on the violin. We can talk about this later.”

  Loucia smiles and stretches like a cat, the fabric straining at the seams across her large breasts. “Yes, Ferida jan, what about coffee?”

  “I’ll make it,” Thooma says jumping up, “Ferida always skimps on the sugar.”

  “Some of us are sweet enough,” Ferida says, gathering up dishes. “And sugar is precious. Can’t grow that in my pockets.”

  “Maybe a drop of whisky since it’s a celebration?” Iskender asks. “If I can find a bottle.” He gets up from the table and takes Alice with him, an arm around her shoulder.

  As the kitchen is cleared the sewing girls come back in from the courtyard with their plates. They jostle each other, competing for sink space.

  “Is it true Zagiri’s going to dance?” Margarit asks.

  “She can’t, I mean…”

  “Her clothes.”

  “She always…”

  “Enough!” Ferida snaps, slamming the pilaff pot down on the counter. “Enough chitter-chatter! Go and air that musty old room out so we don’t choke to death on the dust in there. Move it – my slipper is itching on my foot!”

  The girls scatter, the echo of “slipper, slipper!” trailing them down the corridor.

  “Good to see that you’re loved,” Loucia chuckles.

  Thooma turns to the stove, a cigarette stuck to his bottom lip. He watches the dark coffee bubble and rise in the ibrik over the flame. He raises the little pot, waits for the coffee to settle back down and balances it over the flame again. “So, Loucia, you come here with all this news – what have you got up your sleeve?” Cigarette ash cascades over the front of his shirt.

  “Starting tonight, I take two girls with me when I leave. Over the next few months I take them all.”

  Khatoun pushes her glasses up her nose. “Two of them. Today?”

  “Yes. They walk out of here with me, someone meets us, and we’re gone.” Loucia pads round the table and puts an arm around Khatoun’s shoulder. “I’m taking Zagiri. The other one is up to you. But whoever comes must be ready by dusk.”

  “Zagiri?”

  “Yes. She’s got a sister waiting for her.”

  “Zagiri has a sister?”

  “A twin. A Bedouin took them, as a novelty. You know. Two of everything?” Loucia raises her eyebrow. Thooma coughs over the stove. “Apparently he was kind enough, only there were other wives, lots of children – you know the story. Jealousy, poison, endless fights. The wives used to strip them and make them dance together. Do lewd things to each other. Sisters – can you imagine? Anyway, Zagiri had had enough one day and fought back. She ended up like she is, left for dead in the desert. Zabelle, the twin, went to look for her. She found a bloody pile of clothes with an eyeball on top. Says it was a sign. Proof that Zagiri was alive. Eventually Zabelle came under my wing out of the desert at Ras-Al-Ain. She kept on at me to find her sister. ‘She’s alive, she’s alive, she’s alive.’ You can imagine my surprise when I discovered Zagiri was alive and right here under your roof.”

  She reaches into her pocketbook and brings out a tatty-edged photograph. Two beautiful girls smile out at the world, their long hair rippling over their shoulders in waves. Identical, apart from the beauty mark above one lip.

  “That one is Zagiri,” Loucia says, pointing to the girl on the left. “Before her face was rearranged. Zabelle says she won’t trust anyone. She needs a gentle touch. And proof. Maybe you should be the one to show her this, Khatoun.” She hands her a drawstring pouch with something small and pea like inside. “Yes. The eyeball.”

  Khatoun takes the pouch and stares at the photograph under the light, “You think you’ve lost everything and then you discover you have everything. I’ll go to her now.” She pockets the photo and gets up to leave.

  “By the way,” Loucia asks. “How’s your friend, Begum Șenay?”

  “Still our best customer,” Khatoun answers from the doorway. “Even though the latest fashions don’t suit her figure at all.”

  “Who do they suit?” Ferida sneers. “No waist, no bodice – just straight up and down – women look like boys these days!”

  “Still dressing like a whore for her husband?” Loucia asks. “Or has she tamed it down?”

  “Still orospou!” Ferida snorts. “Süslü püslü. Tame for her means you can’t hang your coat on her nipples.”

  Thooma bursts into laughter over the ibrik. “Ah, Begum Șenay,” he chuckles, “where would we be without you?”

  “And what about the girls she rescued from the khan?”

  “Well…” Khatoun begins, “they ran away. One by one. They disappeared.”

  “Ran away?” Loucia interrupts Khatoun. “I’ll tell you where they are. The prettiest, Armenouhi, is dead. She drank something that didn’t ‘agree’ with her. Don’t tell Moug. They were good friends. Two of them are in America, married to farmers in Boston. The rest are in Aleppo. I told you they wouldn’t last long in that snake pit. I went to see Begum Șenay shortly after Armenouhi died. It didn’t take much to convince her to help me move all of them.”

  “She never said anything to me.”

  “What’s to say?” Loucia s
hrugs. “Pay the monkey, and he’ll dance to your tune. Talking of which – come on Youseff, time to give these folk some music. Hayde. Coffee in the Ladies’ Room.”

  The girls have already bundled into the room and pushed the armchairs back to create a stage in the middle. Iskender and Thooma hover in the doorway, both of them shy of this room of European excess. The plants that once decorated the stands are gone and several framed photographs have taken their place, the family staring out of the silver frames in various stages, Khatoun’s belly swelling with each new child as the years progress.

  Alice, Afrem and Solomon sit cross-legged on the floor, Voghbed fidgeting in front of them. The tray of coffee cups is set on a low table and the curtains tied back, letting the afternoon sun stream into the room through a halo of dust. Youseff takes up position in the middle of the circle, his pale face solemn as a mask. He removes the violin from its case and places it under his chin as the room hushes. He brings back the bow and, with a flourish and an almost imperceptible wink in Moug’s direction, lets the music fly. He breaks into a smile and his mother starts to clap.

  “Yallah!! Masha’Allah!” Loucia calls out. “Come on, everyone!”

  Iskender and Thooma grin like schoolboys as they slip a little silver flask between them and the girls join in – their clapping banishing the parlour of all shadows. The youngsters on the floor giggle as their hawk-nosed cousin’s face brightens with the music. Mertha is confused by the hubbub – it doesn’t sound like church – but everyone seems happy so she grins and claps along, throwing in a fervent “Amen,” every now and then. Loucia beckons for the silver flask, taking a quick nip ‘for medicinal reasons’, then another ‘for her bones’ and yet another ‘for good luck’. Before long, her eyes have closed and she sinks into the sofa, snoring in perfect time to the music.

  Khatoun looks around her. The music has lifted everyone’s spirits. The room is alive with laughter and the odd line of song as the girls recall ditties from their past. For some reason she keeps thinking about the kitten Alice had when she was a child. A tiny scrap of grey and white they’d called Smokey. Alice had loved that kitten – feeding it milk sweetened with molasses and rubbing its stomach with a damp rag to help it urinate. It can only have been a few weeks old when Grundug brought it home gently clasped in his jaws. Alice had given up her dolls and carried the kitten everywhere, including to bed where she’d suffocated it one night, weeping inconsolably over its limp body the next morning.