The sewing machines were checked over by Old Bastard Ilhan who gave Khatoun a surly fraction of their price, claiming they were all old and useless. The beds were taken apart, the carved wooden frames sold to a local carpenter and the family slept on the floor once again. Boxes and trunks were filled and emptied and filled again as everyone tried to choose what to take. The pots and pans for Ferida. The little Singer for Khatoun. The best rugs, the colourful bedding. It was all so familiar. Iskender wanted his worn leather chair and his world map, but his books he piled into the kitchen and fed to the fire. Solomon wanted nothing. Alice, her first pieces of handwork, minus those with Sarkis’s name embroidered on them. Those flew into the fire with the books. Afrem packed up his chess set and Voghbed tried desperately to cage the mangy pigeon that sat on his windowsill each morning waiting for corn. Thooma took his cigarettes. And Mertha? Mertha took nothing at all, not even herself.
Grief had drained all the fat from her body, the sense from her brain, and no one blamed her for fading quietly into the walls as they were stripped bare. For taking to her bed one day, easing herself down onto the floor under the flowered quilt, a photo of herself as a young girl surrounded by brothers in her hand, and sleeping on through lunch. They buried her without tears near their old farm in Garmuj, the wild jabbering of geese accompanying her descent.
Just two months after Celine the Arab’s visit, Khatoun was summoned to the municipality with all the other Armenians who still owned property in the city.
“We’ll arrange safe transport and sustenance. There will be no Deir ez-Zor,” the greasy moustache had said. “These are troubled times for Turkey – it’s best that you leave. You sign the deeds over to us, we give you a chit and reimburse you when we have sold it for you.” He spent the few moments Khatoun was in the room trimming the hairs in his nose without looking at her. “Make an appointment with my clerk, Gagosian, and come back next week with the deeds.” He sneezed into the mirror, wiped it clean with his sleeve and inspected his nostrils. And so, rumour had become fact.
A week later, Gagosian’s chit tucked safely in Khatoun’s dress, the family walked to the edge of town with their scattering of bags and met the wagon Celine the Arab’s husband had promised. Two handsome gendarmes smiled as they helped them up under the canopy. One of them sat up front and guided the mule, the other led a spare horse.
It was strange to be travelling this road, knowing it was for the last time. A route they knew well, winding across the rich fertile plains towards Harran and on to Baghshish. They’d be bypassing both on this journey. No point going there now. The whole region was empty of people and horses; the Glore Boghos farm at Baghshish burnt to the ground. Instead they would turn off the main road and strike out across unknown territory towards the ever-shifting border and its endless checkpoints.
Ferida took the bunch of keys from her waist and hung them on the metal bar that kept the canopy up, listening to their jangle as tears slipped down her nose and into her lap. The sun rose, the churning wheels rocked them into a stupor and the trapped heat made them all sick and drowsy.
As she slipped into sleep, familiar voices slid in and out of Khatoun’s dreams. Chattering tongues that swept along the path and sank into the red earth with a sigh. She heard the wind from high mountains singing of winter snow and the babbling brooks of spring. The murmur of old stories accompanied by years of laughter. The spit of bread baking on a flat oven. The crackle of fire snuffing life in the eaves. The screech of a hawk. The stifled cries of women who left their children by the well, the echo of love lost under their skirts. The wagon wheels rumbled over buried lockets and dropped dreams, past scraps of prayer etched into stone. And then, the fresh wash of thunderous water, which made Alice cry out as they crossed the Euphrates and left their homeland behind.
They spent the night by the river sleeping under a blanket of stars. It was shortly after they set off the next day, the clean air of the riverbank behind them, that they were stopped.
“We have the right to check for valuables. They may be stealing from the Empire.” The irregular’s uniform had seen better days and so had his teeth – simple black stumps that stank when he smiled. Above him, on the hilltop, a straggle of miscreants stood leaning on their rifles, grinning as their commander spoke.
Alice shrank back, behind Afrem, and Ferida reached over to squeeze her foot, a finger to her lips. The younger of the two gendarmes, the one with slate coloured eyes, dismounted. He sauntered over to the chette and spoke in a lowered voice. Moments later he lifted a corner of the awning, flooding the interior of the wagon with light. He searched out Khatoun and threw his hands up apologetically as she crawled over everyone’s legs towards him.
“I can’t stop the search, even with a bribe,” he said. “Get your family round you and do exactly as I say. And excuse my language, Bayan. It’s in your best interest.”
Khatoun nodded and motioned for everyone to get down from the wagon.
“Women this side, men over there,” the gendarme barked. “And no smoking.” He snatched Iskender’s cigarettes, lit two, gave one to the other gendarme and tossed the rest to the toothless irregular who stuffed the packet in his belt. Within minutes the small band of chettes had scrambled down the hill and were rummaging through the bundles in the cart.
The gendarmes stood smoking as the wagon was ransacked, their faces blank, their conversation trite. Iskender crumpled to his haunches at the side of the road, clutching his stomach, cursing the dozen gold coins he’d swallowed, begging them to stay put despite the roaring pain in his gut. Thooma turned his back – unable to watch the pale photographs of his beloved Mertha fluttering to the ground like dead moths. Ferida stood behind Alice, her feet digging into the earth, her toes gripping the coins in the soles of her shoes. She relinquished her bag with a sneer and watched the thieves toss it aside without noticing the carefully waxed seams of the hollowed out handles.
The brigands were becoming increasingly irritated as they tore through the family’s luggage. There really was nothing of any value to be found. They had just begun to cast an evil eye over the women when one of them discovered Begum Șenay’s bundle inside Mertha’s embroidered quilt. As the bag ripped open, a tumble of jewels fell to the ground and the men fell on them, bickering. Ferida turned to Khatoun, her eyes wide with shock.
“You see,” the toothless commander said, waving an admonishing finger at the two gendarmes. “They say they have nothing – that they are destitute – but when you scratch beneath the surface you find what these giavour are worth!” He pocketed a length of glittering beads and told his men to gather up the rest to share out later. “You can go now,” he grinned at the gendarme. “Pity you didn’t think to look through their stuff yourself. But then again, they must have paid you handsomely. Why else would you be doing this?” He herded his gleeful band of chettes together, threw his rifle over his shoulder and waved goodbye to Khatoun as if she were an old friend.
The family got back into the wagon and sat in silence as the gendarmes gathered up their belongings and passed them in to them. When they finally began to pull away everyone sighed with relief. And then Khatoun began to laugh. At first it was just a slight shake of the shoulders but soon she was weeping uncontrollably into her palms.
“What’s so funny?” Ferida snapped.
Khatoun wiped her eyes and kissed Alice on the cheek. “Begum Șenay,” she chuckled. “It’s her joke. The jewels. They’re fake. It’s costume jewellery she wore in her days as a dancer. She’s had it for years. Once she asked me to decorate a dress with it around the bodice. A few days later she told me her husband hated it. He said she looked cheap, but she continued to wear the dress until he came home one evening with a beautiful emerald necklace from India. Then she brought the dress back and asked me to remove the fake stuff. I replaced it with feathers. Much better. She kept the fake jewels – said they might come in handy again one day.” Khatoun dabbed at her cheeks. “Every piece those thieves took is pa
ste – cheap glass and gilt chains.”
“Orospou!” Ferida spat. “The cheap slut! Orospou Șenay Hanum – I love you!” She slapped her thigh and roared with laughter as the cart swayed across the desert scree.
The gendarmes were careful to avoid roads after that. For the most part they followed the railway line towards Aleppo but shortly before dusk they turned off the track into the low hills and followed a dry riverbed. An hour later they came to a halt and the gendarme with grey eyes pulled up to the wagon.
“Digin Agha Boghos,” he called. “This is it. The border. This is as far as we go.”
Khatoun lifted the tarpaulin up. The driver’s seat was empty. The two boys sat on their horses, silhouetted against the evening sky. She beckoned them closer.
“What are your names?” she asked.
“Abdallah.”
“Aref, Digin Khatoun.”
“Here.” Khatoun took Ferida’s bag and snapped off one of the handles. The wax fell from the seam and she dug her finger in, pulled at a thread and offered the purse that slid out to Abdallah.
He shook his head and his horse took two steps back. “We were told strictly no tips, Hanum.”
Ferida stuck her head out of the wagon, her headscarf wound round her neck, her hair a bird’s nest. “Eat shit from a donkey’s arse,” she said, grabbing the purse from Khatoun and throwing it towards the boys. “Keep it, you did a good job.”
Abdallah caught it in an easy swipe.
“No! Keep it. Share it,” Khatoun insisted as he drew his arm back, about to toss it back to her. “It’s not a tip – it’s a gift for your children.”
“Children?” Aref began to laugh. “Abdallah’s not married. If he has children his mother will take a broom to his head!”
Abdallah grinned. He threw the purse back up in the air, caught it and opened his hands wide to show they were empty.
“Magic fingers!” Ferida joked, “That’ll keep the girls happy. You’ll definitely be married with children soon!”
Abdallah pointed to a gap in the hills. “The road is just over there, Hanum,” he said, ignoring Aref who had thrown his head back and was howling like a wolf. “Nuray knows the way. Someone just has to sit up front with her and hold the reins. You’ll see the lights of Aleppo in less than an hour.”
Khatoun made way for Thooma to disembark.
“What a beautiful evening,” he said as he clambered down and stretched out his legs. “Greetings, Syria.”
“Once you join the road, let Nuray guide you,” Abdallah told him. “There’s a crossroads a few miles down and a café where you should stop. The other wagon with your belongings is going to meet you there. If it isn’t there already, wait for it. Don’t worry. We have to go. Hayde Nuray, guide these people well.” He bent to kiss the mule on the nose, brushing past Khatoun as he turned his filly in the opposite direction. “Have a good life, Bayan, and may Allah be with you.”
“Insha’Allah. And with you.”
As he spoke the moon slipped behind a cloud and the sky went dark. When it reappeared, the two boys were already on their way back to the hills, chattering and laughing.
“Asdvadz bahe,” Ferida shouted after their retreating forms. “God keep you!”
Despite the sudden drop in temperature, Ferida and Khatoun couldn’t resist peeling back the cover of the wagon so the sleepy family could get some air. Above them, the stars pricked the cover of nightfall and the moon played games, slipping in and out of the bruised clouds like a child. Nuray the mule meandered through the pass to the road and before long the orange glow of Aleppo’s glorious skyline lit up the distance. The road widened and as they turned a bend, there, in the middle of the desert, a crossroads appeared.
A handful of wagons clustered around a low building next to a makeshift tent. A scattering of travellers sorted through bundles or sat at the rickety tables around an open oven where a family of Kurds turned skewered meat over charcoal. A few stalls had been set up and Afrem went to buy cigarettes for his father and cool tahn for everyone else. As he stood waiting at the counter for the green-eyed girl to fill up the glasses he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around and for the life of him, could not figure out who the man standing in front of him was until he looked down at his feet. Next to the fine city shoes, covered in a fine layer of dust, sat Youseff’s violin case.
“Oh my Lord!” Afrem laughed, looking up again. “You finally grew a beard!”
“Happens to the best of us,” Youseff grinned, stroking his chin proudly. He hugged his cousin and helped him carry the drinks to the others. There was a huge cacophony of hellos and everyone lit up cigarettes – including Afrem who had never smoked before but was not to be outdone by his cousin who stood expertly blowing smoke rings over their heads.
“That’s yours too,” Youseff said pointing to another wagon covered in canvas. “I’ve got a friend looking after it in case of thieves – although I already went through everything and there’s nothing worth stealing.” He laughed and Alice blushed, thinking of her delicate underclothes wrapped in paper for her future trousseau. “Just teasing,” he mouthed.
Ferida grabbed his cheek and gave him a playful slap. “You must be in love. Last time I saw you, your humour was in your boots and you looked like a ghost.”
“How is Moug?” Khatoun asked kindly.
“She’s well, she’s well. She’s at my mother’s house. She’s good. Very good.” Youseff took a last deep drag on his cigarette and flicked it away over their heads.
“I’ve got my sewing machine with me,” Khatoun said.
“She was hoping you would have,” Youseff replied.
“And I have cuttings of all my herbs,” Ferida winked. “In case she’s in need.”
Voghbed started to dance, clapping and pulling at Youseff’s coat as he sang,
‘Your breasts are a snow white cathedral, your nipples eternal lamps.
Oh let me become your verger and tend to your vernal lamps!’
‘Be off, you foolish young suitor, my lamps to guard you’re not fit;
You’re fickle and quickly distracted: you’d leave my cathedral unlit.’[1]
Ferida cuffed Voghbed round the ear as he gyrated past her. “Who taught you that filth? Don’t tell me – I can guess. Anyway, that’s enough. We should get in the wagon and carry on. I think my brother needs to get where we’re going. Iskender jan, there are bushes over there. Go. We’ll wait for you.”
“I’m fine,” Iskender insisted, waving irritably as he clutched his belly and smoked.
And so they were out.
It was late evening when they arrived in Aleppo, the sky lit gold by the lights of the city. Youseff drove one of the wagons ahead and they followed him through narrow winding streets still jostling with people. It seemed as if all the races in the world had converged on this place and everyone seemed to be shouting. Women hurried past, some of them with covered faces, others brazen in rouge and glitter that sparkled “follow me!” as they swung by. The wagon narrowly missed a pack of dogs chased by a man in a bloody apron, cleaver in hand. Somewhere above them, a musician sang to his lover and she giggled with delight. The air was thick with the competing aromas of food and incense, rotting garbage and heavenly perfume.
Gradually, the streets began to narrow until the walls almost touched above them and the throngs of people thinned out. Voghbed reached his hands out and ran his fingers along the soft, peeling plaster until Ferida slapped them into his lap with a glare. Eventually, after much twisting and turning, they pulled in through a set of large wooden gates and came to a stop.
“The Neighbourhood,” Youseff called out over his shoulder. “Your new home!”
Alice began to cry. The Neighbourhood was nothing but a simple khan centred around a courtyard. A well and two palm trees sat in the middle. Thin strings of washing radiated out from the trees to the compound walls. There were a dozen rooms downstairs and the same again on an upper level. Here and there, the light from a manga
l shone as people prepared their supper on the landing outside their rooms.
“At last!” a voice called out from under the palm trees by the well. Loucia lit a lamp and held it up, an overexcited Moug barely able to contain herself at her side. “I can’t believe you’re finally here! I was falling asleep.” Loucia handed the lamp to Moug, hugged Khatoun and Ferida and was about to squeeze the life out of Iskender until he whispered in her ear. “Ah. Over there, at the end of the courtyard. Youseff will show you. Youseff!” She called her son over and gave him a spare lamp, lighting it quickly and sending him scurrying after Iskender who was already half way across the yard. The horses were led to a trough and watered and a handful of belongings unloaded. Youseff’s friend waved them away, saying he would guard their valuables for the night and they followed Loucia up a rickety staircase to the room they were to sleep in.
“It’ll only be for a while,” Loucia said bustling around, arranging their bedding on the floor and ignoring their silence. “There are a lot of families arriving these days. We need to see an end to the flow before we can relocate everyone. You’ll see; it’s total madness. We’ve got girls coming in from the desert – half of them covered in tattoos, most of them with no idea of who they are any more. Anyway, it may not look much but I’m sure you’ll be happy here. All the other families are Armenian and everyone has plenty of stories. The well is good for washing but there’s only one toilet. Most people use a bucket in their room and empty it down there. It’s basic but clean – that much I can tell you. Your stuff will be safe downstairs. Youseff and his friend will be sleeping with it for tonight and in the morning we’ll all be back to help you get settled. And there’s good news for the girls – it’s hamam for you tomorrow – the boys will have to wait another day.”
The Seamstress of Ourfa Page 32
