The Seamstress of Ourfa Read online

Khatoun stares at Sophia blankly.

  “When you’re alone together…you…enjoy each other’s company?” her eyebrow hovers.

  “Of course.”

  “Good,” Sophia smiles.

  “Although…”

  “Yes?”

  “Sometimes he’s too quiet.”

  “Quiet?”

  “He doesn’t say anything.”

  “What do you want him to say?”

  “I don’t know. He could talk to me.”

  “Talk to you?”

  “Yes. To make our time alone more interesting.”

  “Interesting?”

  Somewhere a door slams and a child begins to wail. Sophia shifts in her seat and leans forward.

  “Listen, Khatoun, woman to woman, tell me straight. Is everything the way it should be, sweet-talking in your ear or no talking, you know, at that time, between a man and his wife?”

  Khatoun frowns for a moment and then, hand to her face, “Yes, Asdvadz, yes!”

  “Well, thank the Lord for that!” Sophia plucks at the high collar of her dress. “I’m so sorry. I had to ask. It’s none of my business…but family is family and Iskender can be a little different and everyone thought I should ask because I’m the eldest…”

  “Everyone?”

  “Yes. I mean no! Just family. Not everyone. No one in fact. No one else is gossiping, no one at all. Just…us…” she stops and looks around frantically. “Where is that girl with the coffee?” The two sisters-in-law stare at each other for a minute and then burst into laughter.

  “Family business,” Sophia says, wiping her eyes, “it’s the worst! You’ll be fine. You will have children, Insha’Allah, but it may take time. I hear you were a late bloomer. And don’t blush again, you’re family now. Women talk.”

  Khatoun nods, “I know. I’m learning. They say I started late, that’s why we had such a long engagement. I think your mother wanted to make sure I could have children first. I know they all looked at me differently after I changed into long skirts. And now they look at me in a different way altogether.”

  “And I know that feeling,” Sophia sighs, “eyes always on you. Whisper, whisper behind your back. Don’t be surprised. You thought you were the only one? I’m just the same as you. You see me as this older woman with her life in control – but let me tell you, it wasn’t always that way. I know how you feel. I’ve been through exactly what you’re going through. I was twelve years old when I was promised to Abdanour and sent to live here. They’d only just buried their mother, Nairi. She was my mother’s best friend and she died suddenly with no warning, poof, just like that. Abdanour was at school in Aintab so he was away for long periods of time and I was left alone in this house with his little brother Sammi and Old Glore who terrified me. All I could think about was my life back in Ourfa, my friends, my sisters. I’d hated them at home – always squabbling about ribbons and hair. Ferida and her moods. I even missed Iskender and his stupid jokes. There were no jokes in this house. The whole place was covered in sheets, the mirrors turned to the wall. I kept thinking, ‘Why me?’ Abdanour’s mother could read and write. She spoke French, English, Arabic – who was I to step into her shoes? I cried myself to sleep every night and when I walked into the kitchens in the morning the cooks would be ruining the food with their wailing. That empty chair at the table? It’s Nairi’s. Empty, except to Old Glore. Some days I could smell her. Once, her footsteps followed me through the house and she sat at the edge of my bed and watched me sleep. But I was never scared. Lonely, yes, but never scared. You see, this house loves women. These stones were laid thousands of years ago for families to be born into, to have a heartbeat that would nourish the fields. When there’s harmony in the kitchens, the crops do well. When there’s love at night, the horses breed. My mother knew this and as soon as Nairi died she brought me here, promised to Abdanour, the eldest son.”

  Sophia pauses, accepting the tray of thimble sized coffee cups and water from the maid. She takes a sip and nods at Khatoun to do the same.

  “Drink it down. Don’t let it get cold. See, Old Glore didn’t want a new mother for his sons, but a new daughter – that was something else. I lived here as brother-sister with Abdanour for four years until I was ready for marriage. I was lucky. I had all that time to get to know my husband and family before we married.” She takes another sip of coffee and giggles. “As a matter of fact, I liked Abdanour from the beginning, I just never showed it. We’d started talking and I began to miss him whenever he went back to college. I was happy to marry him and I still am. Finished your coffee? Good. Turn the cup upside down. I’ll read it in a minute.”

  Khatoun watches a leaf spiral slowly to her feet. She picks it up and twists it around in her hand, watching the curled edges change colour.

  “My favourite tree,” she says looking up. “I like the smell after it rains.”

  “Sycamore. Yes, sweet like apples. Reminds me of the mountains.”

  “I liked Iskender when I met him, too,” Khatoun says. “He spoke to me. When I brought the lemonade.”

  “He spoke to you? That first day? Iskender? What did he say?”

  “He asked me if I had ever cut my hair.”

  “He asked you what?”

  “He asked me if I’d ever cut my hair.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I shook my head, no. Then he spoke again and your mother gave him a terrible look.”

  “Why? What did he say?” Sophia shoves the platter of grapes towards Khatoun.

  “He said he hoped I wouldn’t cut my hair until the day I died. He said if I let it loose, it would surely carry me to heaven like angel’s wings.”

  Sophia stares at Khatoun, a purple grape just inches from her lips. She pops the grape into her mouth and begins to chuckle. “Oh my! I heard there was a scandal but no one would repeat it. Normally he’s completely tongue-tied but sometimes…there’s definitely a poet in there somewhere. Agh, Iskender! And what did you do after he said that?”

  “My mother sent me to get the preserves we had made the year before. All the way to the cellar. When I got back it was as if nothing had happened. Iskender didn’t speak to me again. He was looking down at his shoes. Moving his feet in them and they were creaking. He was completely lost in his shoes. That’s when I knew I liked him. I dreamt of him that night.”

  “You dreamt of Iskender?” Sophia is astonished. They’d only met formally before – once at Khatoun’s wedding and then at Sophia’s father’s funeral – and on both occasions their only exchanges had been the usual pleasantries made between sisters-in-law. In fact, at her wedding, Khatoun had been so quiet and had trembled so much, Sophia had had to slip her a drink to calm her nerves. And now here she is, sharing her intimate secrets over coffee.

  “Yes. I dreamt of him many times but that night was the first. I dreamt he came to me and undid my hair. It fanned out like wings and carried me up into the sky, just as he’d said it would. The sky was pale blue with clouds edged in gold. I floated up and up and when I looked down there was everything I was leaving, far away on the ground. My family, my house, my pet lamb. I heard a voice nearby which calmed me. It was Iskender – he was singing and I started to sing with him. And time passed while we flew in the sky and the next thing I was singing to him and he was an old man, and then he was dying but it wasn’t sad. On the contrary, he was happy because I’d never cut my hair and I would always be able to find him in the afterlife by undoing it and floating up to heaven.”

  Sophia looks at her sister-in-law and realises two things. First, Khatoun had obviously been starved of conversation for the last year (Idiot Iskender! Useless Ferida!) and secondly, her brother had finally met his soul mate. Here was someone that not only entertained Iskender’s thoughts but took them and embroidered them with her own. She bends to kiss Khatoun’s hand.

  “You two will be fine,” she says. “I can see that without even looking into your coffee cup. Which reminds me, hand it over so that I ca
n see what else is in store.”

  Khatoun pushes the saucer across the table and Sophia picks up the cup and peers into it.

  “Aha, three…no…four children…but not for a while…you have business to take care of first. Look here…see, life sends you back and forth, back and forth, some of it difficult…but…all the pieces of your life come together with stitches. Your life, your children’s and theirs, everything comes through this needle here. Look.”

  Khatoun peers into the cup. “You see all that in there?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the difficult times?” Khatoun twists the cup from side to side trying to make sense out of the swirling brown lines in front of her.

  “Don’t worry,” Sophia is emphatic. “The troubles will slip beneath you like silk on a sewing machine, see,” she points to a splatter near the handle, “and look, you are carried on wings. You will move and move again. All your life. Interesting.” She puts the cup down. “Do you sew?”

  “I used to. My embroidery is good but I’m more in the kitchen.”

  “Ha! No wonder my sister has it in for you!” Sophia slaps her thigh and chuckles. “You need to get out of the kitchen, fast. That’s Ferida’s domain. Let me see your hands.” She takes Khatoun’s fingers and holds them up to the sky, “Look! Perfect. Well, that’s you organised. I see gold, fabrics, jewels, pearls, many many servants, a cavernous house – oh yes, and a husband with shirts that are finally loose enough around the collar!”

  Khatoun laughs. “I would love a big house,” she says, eyeing up the stone walls that had seemed so imposing the evening before.

  “And you’ll have one bigger than this, trust me. Come, I’ll show you around.” Sophia pulls her chair back to stand and the same silent maid appears, gathers up their cups and follows them into the kitchens.

  Khatoun has no idea what to expect. In Ourfa the houses have dirt floors covered in rugs that are impossible to sweep. This house has stone everywhere, even in the kitchens. Even across the floors.

  She follows Sophia into the first of several high-ceilinged rooms that interconnect through a series of doorways. The first room is empty. The next, hung solely with saucepans; copper, bronze, tin, arranged neatly by size. The following room is lined with glass cabinets, delicate flowers and vines crawling all over the European porcelain displayed within. Before she got married Khatoun had eaten from a communal plate at home. Sitting on the floor. With fingers. Never from anything painted with flowers.

  And now into the largest room with its high-vaulted ceiling and crescent shaped skylights. Charcoal burners bubble along the length of one wall and a stone slab the size of a door serves as a table in the middle of the room where a team of girls are busy packing stuffed vegetables down into saucepans with stone weights.

  “Digin, Digin, Digin,” they bob as they see Sophia, “dolma tonight.”

  Through the kitchen into a side room, the air powdered white. Ghostly figures moving about in a flurry.

  “Anoush?” Sophia calls.

  “Digin Sophia!” Anoush says, stepping forward and pushing her hair back with her wrist, “I didn’t see you come in!” Behind her, at a low table the Pests are busy at work. One is sifting vast mountains of flour, the other is spreading it across the table thin as a sheet, and the littlest is elbow-deep in dough. Their whole corner is powdered white. As soon as they see them, the girls hurtle over, their clammy hands looking for love. Quicker than them, Sophia does a swift sidestep and with a pirouette, leads them to the sink.

  “Where’s Mariam?” she asks.

  “Finding eyes.”

  “And Bahie?”

  “Teeth.”

  “And Baby Lousaper?”

  “They were all here a minute ago,” Anoush shrugs, “right under my feet. We’re baking harvest dolls.”

  “Of course,” Sophia smiles. She gestures for Khatoun to follow her, crossing the kitchen in a few strides, a cautionary finger at her lips. She chooses a heavy door and leans in, pressing her cheek to the wood and listening. Suddenly, without a sound, she yanks it open. Mariam, the eldest, is balanced precariously on a stool, rummaging amongst the jars normally out of reach on the upper shelves. Below her, Sara, Bahie and Rachel sit around Baby Lousaper feeding her treats like a pet. Baby Lousaper is making her way through fistfuls of rojig and halvah, the front of her starched pinafore slick with spittle and juice. She belches, sicks up brown jelly, pushes more into her mouth and wails. The kitchen falls quiet; Mariam suspended on the stool, the pots bubbling, Sophia’s right eyebrow – the one like a whip – rising. Just before it hits heaven, Sophia turns to Khatoun with a smile.

  “And this is the pantry,” she says, “This is where we keep all our preserves; the cherry and quince jams, the grapes in molasses. Dried meats hang up there. Mariam? Thank you. Bastourma and soujouk. Pickles on the lower shelves and sweets like lokhoum and sugared almonds up on the highest shelves away from mice and vermin. As you can see, it’s a wonderful place. The sort of room I used to hide in when I was little. The smell is quite intoxicating. We keep all our spices in here that we import from India. That’s part of the business. We send them wool and bring in delicious spices to sell in neighbouring towns. Of course, it’s part of the job that we sample everything. That way we know the quality of what we are dealing with.” She gently pushes the pantry door closed on her incredulous daughters, leaving them to scuttle out behind her back moments later with the wailing Baby Lousaper.

  “I think the girls have had enough of cooking for one day,” Sophia tells Anoush. “Please make sure they’re all clean before lunch.” She steps out into the hall, dragging Khatoun behind her and only stops when she is sure no one can see them. She leans back against the wall, laughing. “God’s gift and a mother’s nightmare! And you say you want children? Let’s go, there’s more.”

  As they head down the corridor Khatoun can hear voices. The singing gets louder until they reach their last stop – the laundry – set in a wide alcove running along the back wall of the kitchens. The far corner is dominated by a huge copper boiler where the household water is heated to scalding every morning. The room is filled with steam and four rosy-cheeked girls are busy over their stone tubs, scrubbing away at sheets and clothing. The room smells of pine and their singing reaches up to the domed ceiling, turning the room into a mini cathedral.

  “Washing day,” explains Sophia, “we do it once a week – and the girls practice their church songs in here. The moisture is good for the throat. Beautiful isn’t it?”

  “It’s so peaceful,” Khatoun agrees, “I feel I want to stay and join them.”

  “You can join them in Church on Sunday,” Sophia laughs. “What would my brother say if he came back and saw you up to your elbows in our washing? He’d never forgive me. Anyway,” she glances at the gold watch hanging around her neck, “it’s time we took a break and got ready for lunch. Why don’t you go up to your room and relax for a while? The men will be back soon with their tales of gore from the outside world. We’ll need to be rested just to get through their stories.”

  Khatoun finds her way back to her room. The bed has been made and the shutters closed but instead of lying down on the fragrant bed she walks over to the French windows and steps out onto the balcony. White heat. The scalding silence of noon. Something about the heat calms her. The house with its many rooms and beautiful things has made her feel small. How can she satisfy her husband when the rest of his family are so worldly and outgoing? Some evenings pass when hardly a word is said between them. She always thought this was normal for new husbands and wives but now she’s no longer sure.

  She squints into the distance. That is how far away she is from being where she should be. Out there in that shimmering horizon, that is where she is, and this is where she needs to get to. She wants noise. Sticky fingers and tears. Floury footprints and spittle to clean. Not dust to sweep from one room to the next. A trickle of sweat runs down her forehead into her eye and she reaches up with the hem of her
skirt to wipe it away. When she looks out again she can distinguish three small figures making their way home. Soon they are close enough to make out the one from the other, but there is something different about them. Something odd.

  It’s only when the men turn to ride alongside the low wall circling the house that Khatoun figures out what it is. Sammi is now wearing Iskender’s fez pushed high on his forehead like a unicorn’s horn and Iskender is wearing Sammi’s wide-brimmed fur hat – like a farmhand. And he’s laughing. Khatoun has seen him smile before but never laugh and right now he’s laughing so much he’s in danger of falling off his horse.

  At this moment Sammi spies her on the balcony and pulls his horse up into a majestic rear. “Oh beauteous one!” he calls out before she can turn and hide. “Which one of us poor suitors will you choose?”

  “Me! Take me,” Abdanour yells, “I’m the best horseman!”

  “Liar! I’m best and I can prove it.”

  “In your dreams!” Abdanour yelps, taking off at a full gallop, a whooping Sammi leaping the wall after him.

  The dust settles around Iskender who sits on his horse facing his wife, a wide grin still on his face. “So,” he asks, “which one of us do you choose, oh Beauteous One?”

  A blush rises to her cheeks burning deeper than the sun. A voice sings lullabies in her ears and her wings spread out, spread out around her. The house creaks with delight and she takes flight, drifting high, high, higher into the pale blue sky, her silver needle in hand.

  “You. I choose you,” she sings in harmony as she embroiders the edges of clouds a rich gold. “You are the one.”

  The Singer

  Ourfa, Summer 1900

  Khatoun

  Early morning. The heat is quietly seeping into the dusty streets that wind through the Armenian Quarter as Khatoun and Ferida quickstep towards Digin Aghavni’s house. They’re late for their lesson – something the pinch-faced Aghavni has already warned she will not tolerate! It’s not their fault – they were already at the door ready to leave when Grundug had turned up, limping and bloody-pawed. A quick examination had revealed a long sliver of metal embedded in the soft pad of his forepaw.