The Seamstress of Ourfa Read online

  It’s his fault. He’s been sullen this morning – the way he is with most people. His shoes hurt. He wants to kick them off, walk back to the trees barefoot and finish his book. But more than this, more than anything in the world, he wants to make his mother happy. And the answer, there in the steady pace of her foot, is suddenly, stunningly simple. All he has to do is say yes. Yes to anything she wants. He mouths it silently behind her back. “Yes, Mayrig. Uyo. Yes.” She looks back, eyes narrowed. Turns away again. She didn’t hear him.

  They pass through the grove into the baking sun. The air a mix of sage and goat. Iskender drops his book, trips over it, yelps and picks it up. He tucks it under his arm again, a ghost of dust ruining the side of his jacket. Seyda scowls. In the old days…books…words…words in books…never mind. She’ll try one last time.

  “I’m worried,” she starts.

  “Yes?”

  “Your father. His heart.”

  “Yes, of course.” Iskender pauses for a moment and then, “Why? What’s wrong with his heart?”

  “It’s breaking.”

  “Breaking?”

  “Yes,” Seyda snaps. “He wants to see his grandchildren. It’s breaking his heart. The few he has are scattered here and there, meanwhile he’s getting older and sicker. And so are we all.”

  “Yes, we are,” Iskender smiles. “We are all getting older.”

  “Time passes. You can’t turn back a clock…” Seyda turns back to emphasise her point and breaks off to stare at her son. He has stopped walking and is standing in the bright sun, one hand clasped over his heart the other held out towards her. Smiling.

  Is it for fear to wet a widow’s eye,

  That thou consum’st thy self in single life?

  Ah! If thou issueless shalt hap to die,

  The world will wail thee like a makeless wife[1]

  He bows elaborately then stands, grinning.

  Seyda glares back. She stretches out her hand and slaps her cheek hard. “What did I do? What did I do to deserve you as a son?” she wails. “I despair of you – an old man and still acting like a child!”

  And then, instead of the apology Seyda expects, Iskender bends over and begins to shake. His shoulders shake, his head shakes, the tassles on his fez – everything shakes, but not a sound comes out of his mouth. Finally, with a whoop, he throws his head back for air and his fez topples into the dirt.

  “What?” Seyda yells at him. “What is wrong with you?”

  Iskender crouches down to retrieve his hat and spits into the earth, still laughing. He reaches out, slips his mother’s hip flask from her belt and splashes water all over his face.

  “Mother,” he says, straightening up and kissing her on the forehead, “I shall bend to thy will gladly.”

  “That’s it,” Seyda says crossing herself. “You have finally lost your mind. Inglis? Inglis? Now? You know I don’t understand. This is not a good time to go cuckoo my son.”

  “I know and I apologize,” Iskender says with mock gravity, “but in my madness I have seen the light.” He begins to chuckle. “Why don’t we banish heartbreak and longing and gather all the family home for my wedding?” He removes the spotless handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wipes his face, chortling.

  “Who said anything about your wedding?”

  “The whole neighbourhood knows.”

  “The whole neighbourhood?”

  “As far south as Harran.”

  “Pah!”

  “Well.”

  “Well.”

  Seyda snatches the flask back from her son and takes a sip. Stares at him. “So, the whole neighbourhood is talking, eh? See what you’ve done to me! Now I’m the subject of idle gossip.” She purses her lips but there’s a light in her eyes. She hasn’t seen her son laugh for months. She hangs the flask back on the cord around her waist and sets off again. “Let’s keep moving. We don’t want these people to be waiting for us. Not with the whole neighbourhood gossiping. And, since the whole of the Ourfa district is already discussing your marriage, let me speak my mind.”

  “Please do.”

  “You’re an old man and a stubborn fool. You should be a father by now.”

  Iskender winces, bends down to adjust one of his laces.

  “Don’t stop. Iskender. Son. Look at me,” Seyda softens her voice as he squints up at her, one knee in the dust. “Tie your shoe and keep walking. Good, make it tight. This woman we’re going to see, Mertha Khouri – she has a daughter, Khatoun. She’s pretty, she cooks, she cleans, she’s artistic, her brothers read and…”

  “She’s thirteen years old,” Iskender puts his hand up, stemming the flow of information. “I’ve already heard all about her. She’s a child, Mother. I’m more than twice her age.”

  “Then you’re old enough to be married. You’re more than old enough to be married. And thirteen is no longer a child. In my day we were already promised at nine, ten years old!”

  “I know, Mayrig. But times change. I can’t marry a stranger. I have to know the girl first. And…” he pauses, looking for strength before adding the remark he knows will infuriate his mother the most, “I must be in love.”

  “Love! Pah!” scoffs Seyda. “Don’t start that rubbish about love again! What do you youngsters know about love? It grows like a plant. It’s not something that hits you in the face. Oh yes, here I go, I walk around the corner and there you are and suddenly-suddenly I’m in love? Rubbish! And how long does love last? Eh? Until your first child is born and then you have no time!”

  “Perhaps we should continue this conversation later,” Iskender suggests, nodding ahead of them. Seyda’s last invective has propelled them towards the farm and a dog leaps snapping out of its sleep under the palms and runs off to announce their arrival.

  “Asdvadz,” Seyda sighs, her busy fingers working her headscarf.

  “Forget God. Forget you. How do I look?”

  “Dusty!” Seyda says, slapping at Iskender’s jacket with her hands. “And far too beautiful. Don’t forget, ‘Love enters men through their eyes but women through their ears.’ It doesn’t matter what you look like as long as you talk to her. Try, if possible, to stick to Armenian. And make her laugh.” She reaches up and smoothes his eyebrows with her middle finger, anointing him with motherly spit. She takes a breath, turns and sails across the stone threshold of the courtyard.

  “Parev, Parev!” she cries, arms flung up to the sky, mirroring the bride’s mother, Digin Mertha, who stands with arms similarly outstretched on the opposite side of the yard. Iskender ducks under the door frame and follows his mother into the compound, one hand waving a meek hello at his hip.

  The air is thick with the smell of baked bread, the ground covered in colourful sheets littered with peppers and tomatoes spread out to dry. To the right, the kitchen spills out into the yard in a happy tumble of pots and pans, their polished faces upturned to the sun. Next to this an old woman sits with her back to Iskender. She holds a large silver sieve between her hands and as she shakes, great white clouds emanate, covering her from head to foot.

  As his mother is ushered indoors, Iskender stands back, transfixed. The clouds of flour billow and settle into a perfectly symmetrical cone under the sieve. The nature of light and air, the forces of balance and gravity – the old woman is master of them all. She sifts again and Iskender sees – just for a fleeting moment – two outstretched wings of pale light surrounding her. It must be the heat. A trickle of sweat slips down his shirt and strokes his side. He can’t help noticing how long the woman’s fingers are, how rhythmic her hips. Her hair is thick, luxuriant, plaited in two healthy braids that drop to her waist; the ends curling back like unanswered questions. He is mesmerised. The more she shakes, the more her hair comes to life. He takes a step forward and a sudden cry shatters his dreams.

  “Khatoun!” Digin Khouri calls from the doorway, “Clean up, and bring some refreshments for our guests.”

  The flour sifter stands up and turns to face the visi
tors and Iskender yelps. The long plaits belong to a beautiful girl. Of course! They are white with flour not age. The young woman facing him only reaches his third rib. She has slanted, Assyrian eyes, the softest blush of pink to her cheeks. If she held out her hand she would surely be holding an apple. And that hair…She smiles at him, lowers her eyes in the customary way and disappears into the kitchen.

  A deafening silence envelops him and Iskender turns to face the two women causing it. They stand in the doorway, gleaming with delight. Not a single moment of his rapture has gone unnoticed. Mother and mother-in-law are fluffy and plump, exchanging that nod, that sly, almost imperceptible comma drawn with the point of a chin, one eyebrow raised. He is too shaken to feel embarrassed.

  Love has entered through his eyes.

  [1]Sonnet 9, William Shakespeare.

  Khatoun and Iskender Agha Boghos

  Ourfa, The Ottoman Empire, Spring 1897

  Ferida, Iskender’s sister

  She’s sitting there, this little bird, so small you could slip her into your pocket or wear her like a jewel on a chain. A single pearl suspended from your ear. She’s so delicate you could snap her with words or bruise her with a sneeze. And she’s pretty, oh yes; your girl shines beneath that wedding veil. Glows like a shepherd’s lamp up in the caves. You want to reach out and touch her. To stop her trembling at the altar, but it’s too late, Digin Mertha. You gave her away; the bride belongs to her man now. Only your memories are yours to keep.

  Remember the day she was born? A screaming white angel, her wings folded in as she slipped your waters and landed on earth. The whole town heard the story. Even I. How the crops yielded double that year and people came to touch the hem of your child. You fed her on apricots and pomegranate seed and she never grew bigger than a wingspan could carry. You were right to keep her sheltered at home. Out of the wind. Out of the sun. The sun would have burnt her, the wind carried her away. And her heart? Her heart would have been stolen, fried with wild sage and eaten by now.

  You secured her to earth with thick apron strings but a bird flew by and with its purple beak severed that rope. Took your girl with him. And now she sits there, your pearl. Trembling, trembling home from the baths despite burning arak poured down her throat and the heady song of the zurna and the beat of a tambourine. We stripped her naked of hair with sugar wax, painted his name into her hands and her feet, and still she shook until we paid the dancer more money and finally, when the dance got so wild even I was afraid, finally, her face split open and smiled.

  And look at him, standing next to her, his skinny leg bent. My brother, Iskender. Doesn’t he look the happy one? He’s always dreamt of angels and now look at him; caught one of his own. Look. Look at the space between them – just a finger apart – burning. Look at her with mother’s eyes one last time, Digin Mertha. As soon as the prayers are over and the blessings are done, she’ll part the douvagh and show him her face and the child Khatoun will be gone. We, her new family, we stole your cup and spoon. She’ll follow his footsteps now. Sleep in his bed. And how will your mornings be?

  You’ll be picking stones from the lentils alone. The lamb and the goose bleating her name as you feed them.

  And in my kitchen the water will boil too many times.

  A bride. Somebody’s loss, somebody’s gain.

  So come now, mother Mertha, throw open the doors and let the steam curl our hair. Let’s drink rivers of arak and fill our bellies like drums. Take out our kerchiefs and kick off our shoes as we eye up the men. And we’ll know we’ve had a good party when glass shatters on wall. And tomorrow I’ll bring you white muslin stained red with blood and you’ll know. She’s no longer a girl but a woman, her wings folded away. Now she is ours to keep. So feast your eyes on her Digin Mertha, while you still can. Your jewel is soon married and hung with our gold.

  Sisters-in-Law

  Baghshish, Between Ourfa and Aleppo, September 1898

  Khatoun

  If only he could bend down and whisper a word in her ear.

  But what to say?

  “Look at the distant hills scattered like discarded linen across the horizon.” If he mouthed that to her what would she say back?

  His wife.

  Iskender pulls the horse to a stop. It’s almost dusk and they’ve been on the road since dawn, travelling through endless plains bleached flat and colourless by the relentless sun. Finally the heat has broken and the parched landscape has given way to ripe wheat fields lit with gold. In the distance a boy pushes his fat-tailed sheep across the pasture so slowly it’s only possible to tell he’s moving by the clunk-tink of bells in the air. Further to the south, low hills do punctuate the horizon like discarded linen. Majestic purple shadows against a light-streaked sky.

  Iskender takes a breath. Poetry leaves him, practicality lands. “Baghshish,” he says, jabbing his chin towards a group of buildings under the trees ahead of them, “Everything you see belongs to my sister, Sophia, and her family. The farm, the fields, those sheep. There’s a village further on – around that bend – Baghshish proper – that belongs to them too.” He fiddles with the reins, waiting for her to reply but Khatoun’s eyes remain closed, her hands clasped around the bundle in her lap. “Anyway, they’re expecting us, so…” Iskender flicks his wrist and the horse sets off in the direction of the ranch, the dust powdering the vines at the side of the road a pale yellow.

  His wife.

  He’d planned a honeymoon by the sea. Beirut. He wanted to hold her like a shell to his ear, to smell the salt in her hair. To take morsels straight from her mouth and put them in his. He’d bought a new suitcase – tan leather with a scarlet interior – but the very day Kashioglu The Leatherman came to deliver it, Iskender’s father, who’d jumped out of bed and asked for his paper in his office with coffee, had died on page four. The suitcase sat by the door all through the period of mourning, Iskender suddenly too busy to notice.

  He was conscious of the child bride that sat next to his mother at meals. Who hid behind his sister’s skirts, skewering meat and wiping homesick like rain from her cheeks. But the ledgers and books narrowed his attention to a small pool of lamplight in front of him, and at night he found himself removing his shoes and entering a room already thick with her dreams.

  And now?

  Now it was too late for honeymoons. More than nine months had passed and the women were whispering and giving those sidelong glances. Those looks with the eyebrow involved. And out of the blue a letter had arrived from his oldest sister, Sophia, inviting them to harvest at her farm, and Ferida had had the suitcase packed and on the wagon before anyone could open their mouth to object.

  “Take Khatoun to Sophia’s farm and give her a holiday, Asdvadz! Pale, skinny creature. And whatever you do, keep her warm. Don’t let her get cold. And when the harvest moon is full, sleep with your window open and let the moon see you. Then do what a good husband does.” She’d spat into the air three times, stuffed a warm bundle of eggs and freshly baked simit into Khatoun’s lap and disappeared indoors.

  Iskender’s mouth begins to water. They are so close, he can smell the farm ahead. Slow-cooked lamb, stored apples, horse dung and smoke. A large, two-storey building sits in the middle of a compound encircled by a stone wall. A gravel driveway leads up to the porch where the front door, painted the same deep blue as the Euphrates in summer, has almost disappeared with the fading light. A handful of outbuildings scatter amongst the trees to the right. A line of washing hurriedly being pulled down under the sycamores. As soon as their wagon hits gravel, a dog begins to bark and the deep blue door bursts open scattering children and pets out like pebbles.

  “UncleAuntieUncleAuntieHellohellohello!” they screech, crushing each other in a scramble of paws and tails until the tallest of them – a girl in boy’s britches – climbs up onto the wagon and screams, “Enough!” Even then, the dogs keep yowling. As soon as there is a semblance of quiet the girl in britches turns to Khatoun and salutes.

  “Hello
Uncle, sorry Auntie – only three of us were supposed to come and greet you,” she gestures towards the two lanky boys nuzzling the horse, “but the little ones do what they like – they don’t listen – just like the dogs.”

  Iskender can count at least ten tousled heads and almost as many dogs circling the wagon and spooking the horse. All of the dogs are wearing iron wolf-collars which clang and batter like bells as they circumnavigate the crowd.

  “I’m Mariam,” the girl smiles, “that’s George, that’s Basil and the little ones are The Pests.” She grabs a few bags from the cart and starts tossing them down to the other children who deftly avoid them. The tidy parcels thud to the ground and Iskender scrambles for his good suitcase as Mariam turns her attention to Khatoun’s bundle. “Sorry about the noise, Auntie. Give me that. What, fragile? Yes, you keep it then. Come, I’ll show you inside.” She leaps down, helps Khatoun disembark and leads her by the arm, herding the gaggle of children in front of her.

  “Basil! George! Wake up! Leave the horse alone and take Uncle Iskender to the stables!” she waves her arms at her brothers and they stare back at her goggle-eyed. “Boys,” she says with a shrug. She pushes the little ones towards the front door, all of them pulling and plucking at Khatoun’s fine travel dress.

  “What is it?”

  “Silk.”

  “Your mother made it for you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And now you’re married you’ll be making little dresses too?”

  Mariam yanks the chatty girl’s plait. “Who said you could ask questions Rachel? Go on, take this box inside and keep quiet.”

  She is just a finger younger than Khatoun and rolls her eyes at talk of babies. Life to her is tearing across the plains on her horse. She knows she thinks differently; she’s had enough lectures on ladylike behaviour and what is expected of her; but a woman stuck with a baby on her breast can’t run, can’t fight, can’t survive. One day, she knows, that will be the difference between those that live and those that don’t. Defiantly, she grabs Iskender’s valise and hoists it up onto her shoulder, startling Khatoun. She points to the door with her free hand, “And that’s my mother.”