by Lena Manta
“What will I do? What will I do?” the girl asked and asked again when Kerem told her about the ultimatum.
“Do you love me?” he asked in agony. “Do you love me as I love you?”
“You know I do! But just think what you’re asking me. I must deny my mother, my father, my family, and my faith. It will be like killing my parents! They’ll be outcasts if I follow you.”
“Then let me go to them and ask for your hand.”
“You mustn’t. My father will kill you if you dare to cross his threshold. No! There’s no life for us in Constantinople, Kerem.”
“So come with me! I’ll take you to my house in Ankara. You’ll live in a palace; you’ll be my sultana. And as soon as you change your faith, I’ll marry you!”
“When you say that, I start to tremble, Kerem!”
“No, my darling, it’s nothing. God is Allah, and God is everywhere and always the same, whatever you call him. Think of how beautifully we’ll live, my dearest. You won’t want for anything, most of all my love! I’ll cover you in gold and precious stones. You’ll eat off gold plates, and servants will wait on you. Our children will study and inherit a kingdom. I love you, my pretty, and I’ll die if I don’t have you. Don’t you pity me when you know I’m pining for you?”
Each time they met, his pleas were stronger. He held her hands and left little kisses on her cheek, her lips, her eyes. And with each kiss, her defenses fell; in her mind, her mother, father, and sisters faded. Constantinople and her house dimmed into dull, sad colors, while Ankara shone with promises of light.
Makrina decided to leave home at night. She waited till everyone was asleep, her heart beating like a drum from fear and anticipation. She took only a few things in a cloth bag, Kerem having assured her she would be well taken care of. Silk and embroidered clothes were waiting for her, real gemstones and pure gold bracelets. He didn’t say a word about the fact that she would have to wear a headscarf.
When she heard her father snoring in his bedroom, she waited a little longer for her mother to fall asleep too. She tiptoed to their room and, by the light of the candle Kleoniki lit every night, saw the couple sleeping. She blew them a kiss, afraid of getting close, and then it was her sisters’ turn. She dared to stroke Smaragda’s hair and straighten Dorothea’s blanket. She left the letter she had prepared, and with her eyes full of tears, she went downstairs and raised the big bolt of the front door. Kerem was waiting for her in his car. Weeping, she got in beside him, and within moments, the night had swallowed them up.
The following day, deep mourning fell on Anargyros’s house. It was Dorothea who found the letter. She got up early as usual to rake out the oven and throw more wood on the fire so it would be hot enough for her to make her father’s coffee. Then she went to light the stove in the sitting room because the cold was biting. She heard her mother getting up and then, immediately after, her father. The day threatened rain; she could see heavy clouds ready to burst into a storm. Now it was time to wake her sisters. Today was the start of a big housecleaning, and all the women’s hands were needed. As soon as she touched Smaragda’s shoulder, the girl opened her eyes and got out of bed. Dorothea prepared to do battle, as she did every day, with Makrina’s laziness, but as soon as she approached the bed, she realized that what she had taken for her sister’s body was nothing but a pillow. Frightened, she brought her hand to her mouth, then spotted the letter. Smaragda, who’d been getting dressed, heard a thud. She turned to see her sister had fainted on the floor. Tears and cries followed. Soon, Anargyros, red in the face, was reading a letter that thrust a knife in his heart, and beside him, Kleoniki cursed herself for not having learned to read.
“Will someone please tell me what happened?” she wailed. “What does this letter say, and where’s Makrina? Tell me! I’ll scream!”
She didn’t manage to. Anargyros let the letter fall from his hands and lurched forward like a tree felled by an ax. Whiter now than the paper that had slid to the floor, he brought his hand to his heart and grimaced with pain.
Kleoniki called out: “Anargyros! What’s happening to you, husband? Anargyros!”
She helped him into a chair, and Smaragda ran to fetch cologne. Dorothea struggled to put a glass of water to his lips. Kleoniki opened his jacket, loosened his belt, and rubbed his hands with the cologne. Her husband was panting, trying to breathe.
“Smaragda,” Kleoniki ordered, “run and fetch the doctor! Hurry, dear, your father isn’t well.”
The girl went to obey, but Anargyros stopped her. “I’m fine!” he thundered. “I’ve recovered. There’s no need to broadcast our shame.”
“But what happened? Why won’t you tell me?” Kleoniki complained.
“Your daughter ran away!” her husband announced.
“Makrina? What? How could such a thing happen?” Now it was she who was beginning to turn red.
“You’re asking me? You’re the one who was with her all the time. And it’s not just that she was stolen, it’s by whom! The slut dishonored us! Your daughter was taken by a Turk, woman, and right under our noses!”
Kleoniki received the news like a thunderbolt. Her eyes widened, and her hands rose to her cheeks, scratching them with her nails and making her pain visible in small red furrows. A black cloud darkened her eyes, and at that very moment, there was a clap of thunder nearby, making the earth tremble. Kleoniki fell to the floor, having fainted, and the girls hurried to bring her around, again using the cologne as their remedy. They both understood the urgency of the situation. With a great effort, they brought their mother to her senses, only to see her dissolve in wails reminiscent of a funeral lament. Smaragda positioned herself beside her mother, while Dorothea sat beside her father. He asked her to pour him a brandy, and she obeyed, then made coffee for them both. The sisters hadn’t spoken a word, communicating with just their eyes.
“And now?” murmured Kleoniki after an hour of stunned silence. “What shall we do now, Anargyros?”
“What do you want from me? When I said that reading and writing spoil a woman, nobody listened to me, and look where we ended up! What do you expect from a teacher like the one you brought here?”
“Eh, my pasha, can you hear what you’re saying? What does Olympia have to do with our daughter?”
“Everything! Didn’t she run away with a Turk too?”
Dorothea and Smaragda exchanged a shocked look. So that was the big secret about their former teacher.
“What are you trying to say?” Kleoniki countered. “That Olympia taught them about such things? Besides, the children never even knew what their teacher did. Now they’ve found out from you. But you still haven’t told me what the letter says.”
“You don’t need to know!” Anargyros roared, grabbed the letter, and tore it up furiously. “From today, we’re in mourning in this house. Close the windows and put on black. We’ve lost one of our daughters!”
“My husband, have you gone crazy? Are we going to cast out our child like that?”
“What do you want, wife? For me to run behind her and give her my blessings? She says she’s leaving with the man she loves because, for her, it doesn’t matter if he’s Turkish and believes in another god, because God is one, whatever his name is.”
“Shame on her!” Kleoniki lamented. “Didn’t she think of us?”
“Of course! That’s why she left, she says. She knew we wouldn’t give our blessing to the marriage. She says they’ll live in Ankara.”
“Did she say anything else?”
“What else did you want her to say? That she’ll abandon her faith and become a Turk? How else would he accept her?”
“Yes, but who is he? Where did she meet him?”
“Do you really need to ask, Mother?” Dorothea spoke up at last. “It must be Flora’s fault. She and her family have dealings with the Turks.”
“Why haven’t I heard about this?” Anargyros roared again, hitting the table with all his strength. “You allowed her to be friends with s
omeone like that? You let her go to their house?”
“Wait, my bey, it’s not like that!” Kleoniki cried. “I didn’t let her go to their house once I learned about their business. I kept her home; Flora would either come here, or they’d go for walks together.”
“Walks? Woman, are you trying to make me crazy? What business did our girl have going for walks?”
“But my husband, all the girls go for walks with their friends. Sometimes to church, sometimes to pick flowers. It’s not a crime.”
“Enough! So, that’s how the thing was done. With visits and walks. While I was sleeping the sleep of the just and had faith in you to protect our girls!”
“But Father, it’s not right to put all the blame on Mother!”
They all turned to Smaragda in shock. In the first years of her life, Anargyros, who’d never heard the child’s voice, asked his wife if their youngest was mute, and she had crossed herself, laughing. Even when Smaragda grew up, she almost never addressed her father, and whenever he asked her something, she’d always answer in a whisper. Now, her voice rang out loud and clear.
“You know,” she continued, “I visit Evanthia’s house, and we go for walks and pick flowers, but we never talk to Turkish boys. Let alone fall in love with them. Mother couldn’t have expected something like this.”
“Well said, little girl!” Anargyros said ironically. “So, tell me, seeing as you know so much, how are we to go out and look people in the eye? And Flora’s son-of-a-bitch father, Yiouroukos—what am I supposed to do with him? Shake his hand after he’s made this shameful match for my daughter?”
Fresh tears came to Kleoniki’s eyes, and Anargyros hurried to roll a cigarette with trembling hands. The days that followed were like a nightmare. Anargyros got even angrier. He forbade them to go out at all, and did indeed force them to wear black, as if there had been a death in the family. Kleoniki cried day and night, and Mrs. Marigo and her daughter tried to comfort her. The news got around that Kostakis Yiouroukos had come to their door, trying to offer the shamed father an explanation. He hadn’t expected to come face-to-face with an enraged bull. Anargyros had grabbed the man by the lapels and almost thrown him down the stairs, raining slaps on his face.
“You’re finished in Constantinople!” Anargyros had threatened. “Everyone will find out about what you did, you and your wife and your daughter! That you came to me today to boast about your achievements!”
Yiouroukos had tried desperately to explain, but Anargyros kept cursing and hitting him.
“The whole neighborhood heard, Mrs. Marigo!” wept Kleoniki afterward. “Good thing your husband and brother-in-law broke it up. The police would have carted my husband off to the station. Where this trouble will end, I don’t know.”
Anargyros kept his word. The whole neighborhood stopped acknowledging the Yiouroukos family, who were regarded as accessories to a crime that had plunged a respectable Tarlabasi family into mourning. Turks and Armenians didn’t stop at their door even to sell them milk. Very soon, they couldn’t stand it and moved away. No one ever saw them or heard from them again, but neither was there any news from Makrina. A long time later, Anargyros and Kleoniki heard that their child was living in Ankara and that her name was now Neilan.
As time passed, Anargyros only grew angrier, and finally he got the idea in his head that in order to regain his honor, he needed to marry off his oldest daughter to the best possible groom. He ignored Kleoniki’s protests, and barely two months after Makrina left, he hired a matchmaker to find a groom for Dorothea. The amount he offered the woman made her open her eyes wide. She lost no time, and within a few weeks, she brought him a young man. He was from Galata, a bank clerk, and the nephew of a bishop. Anargyros was beaming. He accepted her choice and came to an agreement about the dowry, then announced the news first to Kleoniki and then to Dorothea, who accepted the blow without blinking an eye. She knew there was nothing she could say.
The groom arrived with his parents a few days later to meet his bride. Tactfully, they were left alone for a short time, and in a week, the deal was done. Fortunately, Iakovos was pleasant, but that made no difference for Dorothea. She sealed the match with her lips and her soul, and almost immediately after New Year’s of 1926, she was driven to the church by her proud father. She set up house in Galata and seldom visited her parents. It was her small revenge. She had no complaint against Iakovos, but she could never love him.
For the first time in her life, Smaragda was lonely. Without her two sisters, she saw eyes finally falling on her, something she didn’t like at all. The only eyes she welcomed were Simeon Kouyoumdzis’s.
The first time they met was at a party to honor the engagement of Dorothea and Iakovos. Due to the occasion, Anargyros had given the women permission to enlist a dressmaker. Kleoniki remembered the last time all too well, so before choosing patterns, she showed them to Anargyros, who got angry again. Fashions had changed completely once more; corsets had disappeared, hemlines had risen even higher, colors were brighter. Now, in the twenties, women had to be beautiful and provocative. They even denied their long braids, cutting their hair short with bangs.
“Next you’ll tell me you’re taking up smoking, wife!” Anargyros scolded.
“That’s why I’m showing you now, so you won’t get upset later.”
“What can I say, after all that has happened?” said Anargyros. “Whatever we were going to suffer we suffered! Now, with Dorothea’s marriage, everything will change.”
“Whatever you do, my husband, the thorn won’t ever leave our hearts,” Kleoniki said sadly. “And if I pretend I’m not in pain, it’s for the sake of our other daughters. I pray to the Virgin every night that you’ve made the right decision for our Dorothea—because you were in a hurry, my husband, a big hurry.”
“What was I to do, wife? Should we have moved away too, like the teacher’s parents? Iakovos isn’t just a good, well-mannered boy; he’s also the nephew of a bishop.”
“So what, he’s the nephew of a bishop? What’s that got to do with our Makrina? You only think about shame, Anargyros. But I suffer because I don’t have my child, my dear one. I miss her laughter, her songs. Just because you forced me to wear black doesn’t mean that my child is dead for me. And now you’ve added more worry to my mind with this rushed marriage. I’m afraid our Dorothea will be unhappy.”
It wasn’t the first time she’d said that, but it would be the last. The dress was approved, the engagement took place, and the parents of the groom presented the bride, who managed to smile, with gold jewelry.
After the party, Smaragda couldn’t get to sleep. Simeon’s family had been at the party too. His smiling eyes never left her mind. He was tall, muscular, and well dressed. All evening she’d stolen glances at him, and her heart fluttered every time their gaze met. Afraid, she looked around to see if anyone had noticed. Her father was chatting with the groom’s father and seemed absorbed in the conversation, and her mother was busy with the groom’s mother and another woman who was probably his grandmother.
The second time they met was again at the invitation of Iakovos’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Prousalis, and this time her heart beat so hard it sent a rush of blood to her cheeks. Unfortunately, there was some disagreement between her father and Simeon’s, some political discussion about the fallout from the Asia Minor Catastrophe. The girl didn’t understand much, but she saw Mrs. Prousalis signaling to her husband to intervene before it developed into a quarrel.
The only one Smaragda confided in was, of course, her bosom friend Evanthia, whose eyes widened as soon as she heard.
“What are you saying? Do you mean he likes you? If he asks for you, will you accept him?” she asked.
“What do you mean, ‘asks for me’? Who do you think we are? Cinderella and the prince? He’s from a very rich family—goldsmiths, like their name says, every generation. I heard my mother say to Mrs. Marigo that Simeon’s grandfather was goldsmith to the sultana. Imagine what sort of high-class wi
fe they want for their son! What could they see in me?”
The family certainly didn’t consider Smaragda. Neither her name nor her dowry impressed them. But Simeon was impressed. By her lovely eyes, her slim but strong body, her lips that smiled shyly and lit up her whole face. He began to lose sleep and his appetite. He sought desperate means to see her, though he knew the match was impossible. He went all the way to her house, hoping that he might spot her at some window looking at the sky, and his lovesick heart wanted to hope that, as she looked at the white clouds, she might be thinking of him.
Dorothea and Iakovos’s wedding made his hopes soar into the happy heavens. At the party, Smaragda dared to look at him, and her feelings were written on her face. There was no mistaking them. Those honey-colored eyes sent the message his heart was yearning for: she felt as he did.
Three days later, Evanthia arrived at the Kantardzis house, panting and red in the face. To cover her emotions in front of Kleoniki, she started an irrelevant conversation about a hundred and one meaningless things. Smaragda eyed her suspiciously. Something had happened, and she needed to find out fast. She took Evanthia by the arm, and they shut themselves in the room that was now exclusively hers. She didn’t even let her friend take off her pinafore off before asking, “What’s going on? You don’t usually chatter like that!”
“Give me a minute to recover! You’ve got me on tenterhooks, I’ll tell you that!”
Evanthia pulled an envelope out of her pocket and gave it to her friend. Smaragda looked at her in wonder.
“What’s this, friend? Did you bring me a letter?”
“Bravo, detective! But who do you think this letter is from? Your heartthrob!”
“Simeon?”
“Do you have another? Yes, him! My mother sent me to buy some fennel from Anezo’s shop, and Simeon stopped me on the doorstep, the naughty fellow. What nerve! It took my breath away. If anyone had seen us and told my father, he’d have hanged me with a leash!”
