The Seamstress of Ourfa E-Book

Victoria Harwood Butler-Sloss

• Herausgeber: Armida Publications
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 533

Beschreibung

It is 1895, Ourfa, a thriving, cosmopolitan city in the Ottoman Empire. Khatoun Khouri, a girl of thirteen, meets her future husband, Iskender Agha Boghos. Twice her age, a poet, philosopher and dreamer, he adores her but cannot express it in words. Around them, the Ottoman Empire is crumbling, the world heading towards war and the Armenian minority subjected to increasing repression, culminating in the genocide of 1915.
As Iskender retreats into his books and alcohol, losing land, money and business, Khatoun holds their family together by sewing for the wives of the men who persecute them; her creations inciting love, lust and fertility. The family joins the resistance and evades the death marches to the Syrian Desert only to lose everything when exiled by Mustafa Kemal and the birth of the Turkish Republic in 1923. 
What follows is a tale of love, loss and redemption in the diaspora told by four generations of women, each becoming the guardian angel of the next.

Advanced praise for the book

'An intimate and richly lyrical epic of Armenian life and tragedy.' - Colin Thubron

Vividly imagined and realised down to the last stitch of a coat hem in the most gorgeous prose, The Seamstress of Ourfa is a story of a love upon which generations would one day be built. The voices, gentle laughter and sighs of Khatoun and Iskender echoed long after I finished reading their story. This is a work borne of a passion that resonates on every page, it is the passion of Khatoun which lives now in her great grand-daughter. - Aminatta Forna

'The Seamstress of Ourfa is like a magical portal transporting readers to all corners of the globe, including Cyprus, England and the Ottoman Empire. But the real undertaking of this tender novel is a journey across the hills and valleys of the human heart. Butler Sloss delivers her readers into the careful, nurturing hands of her female characters who sew, cook, and nurse the broken hearts and minds inhabiting this moving novel.' -Aline Ohanesian

 'You cannot help but fall under the spell this novel weaves. You forget that it is writing - it is that good - you are simply transported, via all the senses, to the rooms and courtyards, the mountain roads and town streets, and from these into the hopes and fears, and complex nature, of the people depicted.' -Mark Mayes

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Copyright Page

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Maps

Who I Am

Khatoun Khouri

Khatoun and Iskender Agha Boghos

Sisters-in-Law

The Singer

Leaving Home

Work Horse

Aleppo

October Skies

Small Stitches Will Keep Us Together

Aram Bohjalian

Am I Still a Woman?

Allegedly

Like a Plum

Walk

A Flock of Birds

Mgrdich Yotneghparian

Our Neighbours

Keep Quiet and Sew

Words

The French

A Mouse Nest

Index of foreign words

About the Author

The Seamstress of Ourfa

by

Victoria Harwood Butler-Sloss

Copyright Page

Copyright © 2018 by Victoria Harwood Butler-SlossAll rights reserved. Published by Armida Publications Ltd.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,

photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without permission of the publisher.

For information regarding permission, write to

Armida Publications Ltd, P.O.Box 27717, 2432 Engomi, Nicosia, Cyprus

or email: [email protected]

Armida Publications is a member of the Independent Publishers Guild (UK),

and a member of the Independent Book Publishers Association (USA)

www.armidabooks.com | Great Literature. One Book At A Time.

Summary:

The Seamstress of Ourfa richly recreates the culture of the Armenian community in Ourfa at the tail end of the Ottoman Empire. The eponymous seamstress, Khatoun, creates beautiful dresses that leave her customers’ husbands dizzy with desire, while her sister in law Ferida cooks sumptuous feasts to sustain a growing and lovingly described group of relatives and the waifs and strays they adopt. The author creates a finely textured sense of family, only slowly making the reader aware that the date is creeping nearer to 1915 and the genocide of the Armenian people in Turkey. When the horrendous events of those years start to unfold, the traditions and lives of the Armenian people are slowly yet inexorably torn apart. The Seamstress of Ourfa does not shy away from the painful realities of those years, but manages to maintain a sense of cultural continuity into the 1960’s, where the author’s surviving family reunite in Nicosia, Cyprus.

[ 1. FICTION / Cultural Heritage. 2. FICTION / Family Saga. 3. FICTION / Literary. 4. FICTION / Women . 5. FICTION / Historical / General. 6. FICTION / Family Life / General. 7. FICTION / Biographical. ]

Cover design by: Annie Damianou

anniedmn.com

[email protected]

Motifs by: Victoria Harwood Butler-SlossMap detail from: The Treatment of Armenians in the Ottoman Empire 1915-16 by Viscount Bryce, G.P. Putnam & Sons, 1916.

Map of Ourfa, hand drawn by Victoria Harwood Butler-SlossFirst edition: June 2018

ISBN-13 (paperback): 978-9963-255-59-7ISBN-13 (kindle): 978-9963-255-60-3

ISBN-13 (epub): 978-9963-255-61-0

Dedication

I’m thirty-four and I meet a man with very blue eyes who looks inside me. He tells me he can see me at sixteen, at eight, as a child when he makes love to me. His eyes open and close very slowly next to my face. Sometimes they half close and look down and they are grey-green, cool, and then they slide up and pierce me with open sky. Sometimes he lies close and breathes into my mouth and the breath is sweet, whatever we’ve done. I clutch momentarily at the edges

of this deep drop into his love, then free-fall, my chest open to the heart,

and drift in on his sweet air.For William with love.

Sept 21st 1967- March 13th 2018

Acknowledgments

None of this would be possible if not for my family. Iskender Agha Boghos, Khatoun Khouri, Umme Ferida, Alice Avakian, Haygaz Avakian, Takouhi and Verginia Avakian, John Harwood, Jack Patey, Billy and Ann Patey, Robert Gombie Harwood, Arum and Roibhilin. You continue to give my life stories. Thank you.

Also, John Tracy Clinic where I sat and wrote in between classes; they know how much I love them.

Brenda Richie for employing me and providing a quiet office with a fountain where I finished the first draft in between ordering flowers, checking mail and feeding the baby.

Colin Thubron for telling me to do it.

Marianne Jean Baptiste, Akure Wall, Marilyn Acons and Cynthia Bond for reading early pages and heaping encouragement.

Aminatta Forna for many many things, including the number of times she pushed me, introduced me and shared a glass of wine over gossip.

Elise Dillsworth for totally believing in me and making me laugh through every rejection.

Aline Ohanesian for continual support and for spending that hilarious afternoon with me checking the veracity of expletives in other languages.

Kumru Bilici and Leyla Servet Konuralp for always answering questions so snappily on Facebook.

The Book Club girls for nagging me non-stop to give them a book to read.

Krista Gelev, for research and help with indexes.

Edith Weil, Julian Beeston, Virginia Mileva, Kyla Gelev, JC Barros, Ayala Elnekave and the esteemed Mary Woronov for allowing me to exploit their patience and artistry.

Annie Damianou for the beautiful cover, Kate Ivanova for feeling my pain when I cut two chapters, James Mackay for his eagle eye and Elena Lipsos for her fine-toothed comb. You all helped over the finish line.

And of course, Haris and Katerina at Armida for kittens and tashinopita while editing and the birth of this book. Thank you.

Everything’s a story.

Maps

Who I Am

Nicosia, Cyprus, July1968

Vicky

She’s heading towards me at speed, her black plastic slippers slapping the tiled floor as she comes. I think she’s an adult but I’m not sure. Her face is wrinkly but she’s only a finger taller than I am and I’m seven. She must be Nene Khatoun, my great-grandma who is very, very old. As ancient as the hills, Mummy says, and everyone knows ancient things shrink. Here she comes, making a beeline for my corner. Luckily there are lots of people between us and she can’t get round them easily. She has to keep stopping to get her balance. Eyes quick, I search for someone to help me but everyone’s busy.

The room is full of people. My family I’m meeting for the first time. They live here in Cyprus and Mum, Rob and I came on an aeroplane across the sea from England to see them. Now we are drowning in them. In the middle of the room is an old man in a dressing gown and a blue crocheted hat and he’s crying. He’s got Robert stuffed under one arm and Billy under the other.

“Tvins! Tvins!” he’s screaming, even though they’re not. Robert is my brother and Billy is my cousin even though they do look alike.

Jumping up and down next to the old man is a lady with red hair and a film star dress. She’s kissing both boys and messing up Rob’s parting and singing a song, “Achoognered bidi oudem, kitignered bidi oudem.”

I know what she’s saying, even though it’s Armenian. I understand that much. She wants to eat Robert’s eyes and nose! Before I can warn him, before I can move, I am finally attacked. The midget great-granny has me locked in her arms. She smells of mothballs and onions and her lips turn in over her pink gums which hold no teeth. There’s a cave in her mouth that wants to suck me in. I don’t know if I want to cry, or faint, or have a comforting wee in my pants but as I look into her eyes, only inches above mine, she says my name and the whole world stops.

“Vicky.”

She winks at me, undoes the top button of her spotty dress and I climb in, crack open her ribcage and nestle into her heart. In here I feel the safest I have ever felt in my life. It’s my blue eiderdown and lentil soup and Fleur in ‘The Forsyte Saga’ after a hot bath in winter. It’s new, like a pomegranate split open, ready to eat. It’s the taste of milk and honey. The smell of lily-of-the-valley in our front garden in Bromley, especially after the rain. She is the rain. The rain that runs down the windowpane that I follow with my finger on long car journeys. She is with me now and for always, the angels sing. All ways.

“Always dreaming!” Mummy says, yanking at my arm. I’m in shock – being dragged back to earth so rudely. That’s parents for you – they teach you manners and then they don’t use them. Mummy wants to introduce me to all the people in the room. I look over at Nene Khatoun and she nods. Suddenly I can hear her voice even though it’s Mummy’s lips that are moving. Nene Khatoun can speak to me without opening her mouth just like they do on the telly, on magic shows. Telepathy, it’s called. Or ventrilolilolism, that thing with a creepy doll. I listen to Nene Khatoun’s voice inside my head, watching Mummy’s Coral Frost lipstick move, woowah woowah. Nene Khatoun is telling me important stuff.

“It won’t make any sense now but will in the future,” she says. “It’s about who you are.”

I listen hard. I know I may have to depend on these words one day. Mum pushes me in front of the red-haired lady in the lovely dress, wipes my eyebrows and tugs at my hem. The lady has stopped singing that song and is smiling at me. Colgate, three ways clean.

“This is Auntie Verginia, Mummy’s sister,” Nene Khatoun’s voice says. “She’ll show you her dzidzigs when she gets undressed. Look at them. Her body is not as loud as her laugh.”

Auntie Verginia does laugh a lot. She sticks her fist in her mouth and bites it and does a little dance. I wonder what her dzidzigs look like under her clothes. She smells like a film star. As soon as I have pecked her on the forehead someone else grabs my face and smooshes it together. I look like my favourite dolly after Robert squashed it with his chair leg.

“This is my little girl, my daughter, Alice. Your Grandmum. Same person, just different names. Listen to her when you can’t hear me. She saw things at your age that a child cannot unsee.” Nene Khatoun’s voice is like a whisper in my ear.

Grandmum Alice has so many lines on her face, I can’t imagine her ever having been a little girl or a daughter, but I know she must have been, once. That’s the way of the world. We’re born wrinkly and then we go smooth for a while and then we go wrinkly again and our heart – which is really a clock – stops and we’re dead.

After some cheek pinching Grandmum Alice lets go of my face, pokes around in her pocket and hands me some toffees. She leans down to kiss me and when she pulls away we’re attached by a curtain of hair – mine – caught in the row of needles pinned under her collar. She gently unpicks me then pushes me back so she can see the travelling outfit Mummy made me for this trip.

This is the grooviest thing my mother ever sewed. A lime-green mini with stars and moons and planets on it. I’m still wearing the matching coat on top even though I’m boiling. The coat is not fastened with buttons, nor with hooks, but by a chunky zip with a huge Go-Go-girl ring on the end.

I strike a pose then do my special ‘Top of The Pops’ dance for them. They clap as I dance, Grandmum Alice and Auntie Verginia, who is now doing the squashy face thing to me and singing her “I’m going to eat your eyes and nose!” song again. When I finish, they drag me towards the sofa. Towards the old man in the crocheted hat. I stare at his feet in blue flip-flops. His toenails are yellow and the big toes are hairy.

“This is your Grandad Haygaz.” Nene Khatoun’s voice, Mummy’s lips. “An orphan with no ties to bind him. We became his family and he carried us here.” When I look up at his hands I see that he could easily carry me in just one of them. Mum tells me to do the dance again.

When you’re alone and life is making you lonely,

You can always go – downtown!

I sing as I shimmy and twist.

Forget all your troubles! Forget all your cares! And go

Downtown! Lala lala lala, Downtown! Lala lala lala laaaaaaah![1]

I sing as loud as I can, hoping that Grandad Haygaz will stop crying. Instead, he lunges at me and buries me in his arms. Old Spice. I know that smell.

“Downtown, downtown,” he croaks, “Downtown!”

Mummy sits next to him on the sofa and perches me on his knee. He inhales my hair and we sit facing the door opposite as he sobs down my back. I’ve never seen a grown man cry so much – usually they shout.

“He’s happy,” Mummy whispers. “He’s crying because he’s happy.” I’m not sure I believe her. Parents lie sometimes, and I already know he’s an orphan and they’re always sad, even if they get given another spoonful of gruel. Anyway, I move away as soon as I can, thankful that it’s Robert’s turn to display his travel outfit now. Maybe he can use the hanky he wasn’t allowed to blow his nose on to dry Grandad’s tears.

I look away and there, in the doorway, is another person I’ve never seen before, her long face watching me. Where do they all come from, this family of mine? Nene Khatoun’s voice follows me.

“That’s Umme Ferida, my sister-in-law. Your great-great-aunt. Eat her food and watch the slippers on her feet. They’ll fly off and bite you if you behave badly.”

Umme Ferida tuts and disappears back into the shadows. I can hear kitchen noises and then someone pokes me in the back with a gun, just where they should be careful because it’s my kidney and that’s a delicate organ.

“Dungulugh!” Auntie Verginia says, slapping Billy across the head in a waft of perfume.

“Your cousin. Billy. Almost your brother. Never fight amongst yourselves. Blood and water, blood and water, remember that.” Nene Khatoun looks at me as if what she’s saying (or really, the voice in my head) makes any sense. Does it? Billy aims at my skull, blows it apart and kicks my brains under the table.

“Oi! Behave!” Uncle Jack yells from the balcony. He’s Billy’s daddy who picked us up at the airport when we arrived. He’s got ginger hair and a moustache and is wearing nothing but shorts.

“Seaside tomorrow?” he asks. I nod eagerly. He blows a smoke ring at me and turns back to watch the telly which is on the other side of the balcony. That’s possible because it never rains in Cyprus – Mummy told me – so no problems like getting electrocuted and dying in the middle of I Love Lucy. Billy whoops like an Indian and runs off. A gentle hand lands on my shoulder.

“And this, of course, is Nene Khatoun,” Mummy says.

“That’s me,” says my great-grandma, smiling her pink smile. “Open your eyes and you’ll always be able to hear me. I have many stories to tell.”

Mummy is looking at me and Nene suspiciously, so I salute like a Brownie and Nene winks again before disappearing slip-slop, slip-slop into another room, her head bobbing like one of those toy dogs in a car.

As she leaves, Umme Ferida comes in with a tray. They almost collide in the doorway and Umme Ferida hisses. She’s got funny legs that poke out the bottom of her skirt, very wide apart. She’s wearing her slippers and I can see they are good for smacking. The back is folded down and the heel is slim enough to fit the palm of her hand. She’s bringing us drinks in bottles. There are pretty glasses on the tray and a plate of powdery biscuits. Umme Ferida puts the tray on a little wooden table that has holes carved in the legs like lace and pearly white flowers set in the wood. She pulls up a string that’s tied around her waist and separates a large key from the bunch. She uses this to open the bottle caps. I’ve never seen this before. She does it like flicking a coin, dropping the caps in the tray afterwards. I pick one up. The edges are pretty zigzags and inside there’s a bit of cork which smells sweet. The top has a dent in it, where the key bent it back. I put it in my pocket. Umme Ferida sees me and raises one eyebrow. I’m sure I see her slipper itching to fly off her foot but instead she hands me the other two caps and tries a smile. She picks up a glass and pours a drink in it. Sideways. ‘Coca-Cola’ the bottle says in loopy writing. We drink lemon squash at home and Lucozade when we’re ill. This is different. This is black velvet lit with sparkler fire. I watch the Coca-Cola fill up behind a hula-hula dancer on a Hawaiian beach. Umme Ferida hands me the glass. I look over at Mummy to see if it’s all right to accept this gift, but she’s too busy with Auntie Verginia, so I take it. I don’t know whether to drink it or save it forever in its lovely glass, so I sip it two bubbles at a time.

I’m getting tired. I don’t want to meet family any more – they are too many, too much. I feel a bit sick. Homesick. Time to become invisible. I slip off my coat and let my hair fall over my face. Now that I can’t be seen, I feel better. I wonder how Daddy is, all alone back in England holding the fork. He’s probably asleep. Is it late there like it is here? I can smell mothballs. Nene Khatoun is back, followed by Billy. She’s holding something behind her dress.

“It’s a bed!” Billy shouts, ignoring the fact that I am invisible. “We made it together!” They place a small wooden doll’s bed in my hands. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

“I banged it in with a hammer. Look.” Billy shows me the nails underneath. The headboard has a pattern drawn in pencil then traced over with something sharp. A milky blue marble is glued on each corner.

“China blues. They’re rare,” Billy says. “I had three and I won the other one yesterday. Piyoong!” He flicks his finger and thumb with one eye shut and runs off to get his collection.

My legs are beginning to feel wobbly. Nene Khatoun sits me on the floor and crouches down next to me so we can explore the bed together. There are little sheets tucked in, the top one embroidered at the edge with blue and yellow flowers. The same embroidery is on the pillowcase and in the middle of the pale blue blanket. The mattress is covered in stripes the same as the pillow. Nene Khatoun says it is stuffed with real hair.

“Our hair,” she says, pointing her finger around the room.

Everyone is still wandering around us, legs and feet, legs and feet. Their voices come and go. The television laughs. At least Grandad has stopped crying. He’s playing with beads now.Clickclickclick. He counts them on their string, sitting on the sofa, looking exhausted. My eyes are itching so I rub at them like I know I shouldn’t.

Nene Khatoun reaches out and strokes my face, “Go to sleep,” she says. “Don’t worry about us. We’ll all be here in the morning.” She puts her arm around my shoulder. “And the next day, and the next, and the next. And always.”

And then she crumples me up, gently, like a tissue until I am small enough to fit in my new bed. She tucks me in, singing a lullaby, and I can smell the fresh cut wood as the sheets cover me in a cobweb of sleep. I am falling. Falling, falling, falling.

The night is black velvet lit with sparkler fire. My family are old – ancient as angels – and they live near the sea and smell of onions and mothballs and cry when they’re happy. They wear keys and loose slippers, smoke cigarettes and drink Coca-Cola and pin us to their hearts with our hair.

My family, my family, my family and me.

[1]Downtown, Petula Clark, 1964.

Khatoun Khouri

Ourfa, The Ottoman Empire, April 1895

Khatoun

Two figures appear at the crest of the hill. Two strokes shimmering against the flat glare of sky. A mother and her son, walking side by side, their feet throwing up dust as they go.

It is a beautiful spring morning, the kind that takes your breath away and makes you love your neighbour. The sky an ever-reaching cerulean heaven. Bright, startling, without cloud. The air is alive with the hum of insects and in the distance a dozen boys whistle and call to each other over a ball. The mother, a graceful woman of fifty, walks tall. Her son, late twenties, follows a pace behind; bent, brooding, melancholy. He’s wearing formal dress in dark colours as if his purpose were serious – marriage perhaps, possibly death.

Whatever it is, Iskender Agha Boghos has his eye fixed on one thing – the tin flask swinging at his mother’s hip. It contains nothing special, just water, but his doleful eyes tell how desperate he is to stop and rest under the eucalyptus – to let his collar go, take off his shoes – go anywhere but forward. If only he dared ask.

She strolls beside him, his mother. Seyda Agha Boghos; wife of Abraham; mother of four. Pale skin, a dusting of freckles, grey eyes narrowed against the sun. Seyda has covered her hair with a scarf as always; nevertheless her fingers constantly seek loose strands, peeling them from her forehead and poking them back under the muslin. She’s ignoring Iskender, pushing forward through the heat, her gaze steady.

She can see it. There she sits at the head of the table, a streak of white sweeping through her glorious red hair. A large, straight-backed chair, fine white linen, crystal glasses, the wine from abroad. And family. A large family with lots of grandchildren. Hacme the fortune-teller had seen it. So had her friends. So why were her children spoiling her plan? Yes, Loucia and Sophia, her other two daughters were already married with children but they lived miles away. Baghshish and Damascus. Hardly ever visited. So what had happened to Ferida and Iskender, the two still at home? Ferida – skinny as a stick with vile language and that horrible habit of squashing down the backs of her shoes. Who would marry her? Or Iskender? Who wanted a husband who read books all day? Dungulugh. Idiot. She shifts her eyes sideways and watches him as he walks.

He has her nose and teeth and her husband’s smile. That’s good. Not much hair up top but a thick moustache to compensate. (If he could just keep his fingers out of it – that nervous tic.) Dark eyes, the colour of olives. Maybe set too close together. Maybe not.

“He’s too handsome,” her friends tut-tutted, “it scares the girls away.”

“Pah!” Seyda snorts. She blames education not beauty for Iskender’s predicament. If Pastor Tovmasian hadn’t persuaded them to send him to college, he wouldn’t have learnt how to think too much. Iskender can cut a mean deal in Farsi, write accounts up in French, read the papers in Turkish and recite sonnets in English. And that’s where it ends. When it comes to holding a simple conversation in his own language with the opposite sex he’s as dumb as a mule. Handsome, poetic, an expert on world politics but no wife and no child and what use was that to anyone?

Seyda tucks back that annoying wire of hair again. Iskender is carrying, of all things, a book under his arm – as if he thinks he’ll have time to read somewhere, somehow on this busy morning. Surely he must know the true purpose of their visit? She looks down at his feet. The right foot pointed inwards, dragging like a child’s.

“Turn back! Go home!” his boots cry out step by step. Seyda sighs. Poor Iskender. How much happier he’d have been left at home with his books.

Iskender – and yes, he does know the true purpose of their visit – feels the same way. It’s not that he’s averse to the idea of marriage; in fact, he thinks he might like it. But the thought of sitting in a stranger’s parlour being served lemonade and sweetmeats by a girl he’s supposed to look over and appraise. To him that’s barbaric. Everyone watching, breath sucked in, nudge-nudge. His every tic and awkward manner discussed later over dinner with another dozen people. On top of this, he’d actually have to start a conversation with the girl. Appalling! So much simpler to stay single and have his sister Ferida cook his food until he dies. He looks down at his gleaming boots.

“Turn back! Go home,” they squeal.

“I would,” he mutters into the dust, “I would if I could.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing, Mayrig, nothing.”

“Hmph. Now it’s back to nothing is it?” Seyda rolls her eyes. Her son. Like a lamb to slaughter. And her dragging the poor beast by the neck, skittering over the stones to the public drain. Everything would have been fine; things would have stayed the same if it hadn’t been for The Ourfa Ladies Sewing Union and her meddling friends.

“She’s a little young to rush straight into marriage…” Digin Tamar, head of the Union and self-appointed matchmaker, had pronounced at the ‘emergency meeting’ several months ago.

“But young enough to learn the proper way to love your son!” Beatrice had added, making a lewd gesture with her fingers. Digin Tamar had shot her a dangerous look before continuing.

“The girl’s name is Khatoun Khouri. Father is Palestinian from Jerusalem. Mother an Assyrian from Mosul. They all speak Armenian. Girl is thirteen. Pale skin. Thick hair. Good eyes. All of her teeth. She cooks, helps around the house and is good with animals. Two sisters. Married. Father and two brothers are goldsmiths. Another brother, a student. They have a farm inherited from the mother’s side. Sheep, wheat, olive groves. They’re up to here with stuff.” She sliced her hand across her neck. “It’ll be a good dowry, land in Garmuj, just outside the city. Never mind they’re not Armenian. They’ve assimilated.” She winked at Seyda, put her hand out for more nuts and the room murmured in assent, the fire crackling, the coals shifting in the tonir.

“Good!” Seyda nodded pensively. She understood land. Land meant a future as far as the horizon. She looked up from the fire. “She sounds ideal. But my son – he’s a funny one you know – he likes books. Does she read, this Khatoun?”

“Of course! She’s rewriting the Bible as we speak!” Beatrice quipped.

“Ouf! Shut up!” Digin Tamar spat a husk into her palm. “Give you wine, you turn it into vinegar. Ignore Beatrice, Digin Seyda. And no, Khatoun doesn’t read but one of her sisters does – she’s a teacher in the provincial school. And the other brother is at university in Damascus. I’ve seen him at the train station with his books.”

“Ah, that’s good,” Seyda smiled. “The brother reads.”

“Oh yes, the brother reads. All of them do.”

“That’ll do. That’s good. Brothers that read are good.”

“What more could Iskender ask for?”

“Nothing.”

“No.”

“Perfect.”

“Insha’Allah.”

The women huddled closer, their feet tucked under the blanket around the warm tonir. The dishes of treats were shuffled, emptied, refilled. Beatrice shoved a handful of raisins into her mouth, swallowed and belched.

“Well. I’m ahead in the game. I took the trouble of finding out when she would be at the baths and went to have a look.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

“No!”

“And?”

“Small.” Beatrice giggled. “No hair. Slim in the hips. Not quite a woman yet…”

An impatient flap of skirt stopped her short. The Elder Shoshan, tucked like a crow into the darkness. “You stupid gossip!” the old woman snapped from her bed. “None of this matters. The girl comes from good family. I knew the grandparents – that’s what matters. Her grandfather was a priest, his brother a doctor. That’s all you need to know. The rest is gossip.”

“Well, I thought it was important,” Beatrice said. “I’m not ashamed I went to look her over.” She ignored The Elder Shoshan’s eyes boring into the back of her neck, grabbed another handful of walnuts and proclaimed, “There’s no doubt she’s a virgin. Her boutz was smooth as a peach!”

“Asdvadz! Of course she’s a virgin!” Seyda cried out, outraged. “How could she not be? She’s a child!” Sadly, before she could reach Beatrice with the back of her hand, Digin Tamar had intervened.

“Calm down, Seyda! You know better than to listen to Beatrice. Frivolous girl. Always causing trouble. I have to admit, though, she has a point – tastelessly put, of course. In a situation like marriage, all things must be considered.” She silenced Seyda with a raised hand. “Ah, ah, ah! You wouldn’t buy a bolt of cloth without checking it for imperfections first, would you?”

“Ha!” Beatrice stopped poking at her teeth with a stick. “I remember the day Digin Seyda refused to buy cloth from us because she saw a moth in the shop. Can you imagine? One little moth woken up from its sleep and she got all high and mighty!” She winked and dug the stick back in.

“That isn’t true!” Seyda jumped up. “I didn’t like the weight for a dress. And you, would you buy flour from a shop where you saw mice?”

And then, just as Beatrice stood up, a shriek. “You women are soft!” The Elder Shoshan hit the floor with her stick, overturning the bowl of empty shells with a clatter. “Talk about the girl – not your own vanities!”

The two women sat down again. Silence settled over the room and Beatrice, still unable to control her childish urges, crossed her eyes at Seyda who sat glaring at her across the tonir. The coals fell. Settled.

“Well, there you have it,” Digin Tamar concluded, taking the walnuts from Beatrice and handing them round. “Good background, good family, educated brothers and an excellent dowry. It’s a match. Our only problem is getting that mute son of yours to open his mouth and propose. Remember, love enters women through the ears not the eyes.”

“You do it the right way,” the Elder Shoshan yelled from her corner. “The old way. You take him to the house and she brings him a lemonade. Let him take a look. Then you arrange it – the parents. Never mind that he’s twenty-eight. All men are children. They need help. Digin Tamar will make the introductions. I will give my approval, and that’s it. Enough. And enough of this chitter-chatter. Go away, I need sleep. Beatrice, show the ladies out.” She waved her stick at the door and sat clutching her shawl to her chest, her face lifted at an austere angle for the women to kiss as they filed past.

And so it had been arranged. Digin Tamar had spoken to Khatoun’s mother, Mertha. Genteel nods had been exchanged at the baths, introductions made, coffee drunk, oranges peeled, relatives consulted and, finally, Park Asdoudzo!, the first visit set for this beautiful blue morning, clear as a church bell. Seyda had said nothing about the true nature of their visit, telling Iskender that she had business with the Khouri family that went back years. She had to go and see them and their farm was almost two hours’ walk from home. Of course Iskender would have to accompany her. It was not safe to travel anywhere alone these days.

No one had mentioned the word marriage but as they’d left home this morning, several ladies had stopped their sweeping to wave and nod like conspirators as mother and son passed. Iskender had laughed.

“Moses walking through the Red Sea, the whispering waves closing in behind him,” he’d muttered. He waved at the neighbours, called out “Good morning!” cheerily and irritated Seyda. Oh, he looked like a suitor all right – tall and imperious in his suit jacket and fez – but looks and smiles would not be enough.

Seyda knew Iskender would never be able to break the ice even with a girl less than half his age. He would scare her off with his silence and these days, brides had some say. Seyda had to get Iskender talking before they got to their destination and so far she’d had no luck.

They’d set off early this morning, leaving home via the cool winding streets of the Armenian Quarter, their steady breath the only sound between them. That and the sigh of new shoes. The minutes had passed, Seyda casting her eye around for inspiration. But beyond their neighbourhood with its inquisitive sweepers, the town was still asleep. Eventually, in desperation, she’d flung her hand in the direction of a small courtyard thick with flowers.

“How beautiful,” she’d sighed. “What kind of plant is that?”

“Oleander.”

“Oleander?”

“Oleander. Poisonous.”

“And that – what’s that?”

“Pomegranate.”

“Pomegranate?”

“Yes. Very young.”

“Oh. That’s why I didn’t recognise it,” Seyda had laughed. “No fruit.”

“No. Too young.”

And then Seyda had chattered away about everything. The plants, the trees, the cloudless sky, the early morning vendors and their wares, their strange hair and odd fabrics. She conjured up the lives of the people who lived behind the peeling shutters and cracked doors they passed. What were their names? And who could have lost such a fine shoe in the gutter? She talked as if she had never been down these streets before and needed her son to guide her. She prodded and questioned and he replied monosyllabically until the rising heat got the better of her and she too fell quiet, her mouth full of dust.

The journey had continued in silence. Past the busying market place and on through the leafy neighbourhood of larger houses to the outskirts of town. The sun rose. The air grew stale. They walked past barking dogs and startled children, out into the surrounding farmlands and on until now, when finally exhausted by the heat and silence, Seyda has come to a stop in the shadowy eucalyptus grove at the crest of a hill. She relieves the tin flask from her hip, opens it and takes a slug of water.

“Here,” she says, handing Iskender the flask and watching him guzzle. “Let’s catch our breath.” She lowers herself down and leans back against a tree trunk, shedding its bark in elegant papery strips. Iskender sighs. He finds a stone big enough to sit on, rolls it next to his mother and perches over it like a bird. He digs his finger into his collar, pulls it away from his neck and lets the heat escape. Seyda wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and points to a distant palm grove in the valley below. A handful of buildings with whitewashed walls glare back in the sun.

“That’s it. The Khouris’,” Seyda says. She stretches her feet out in front of her and rolls them around. “Won’t take much longer.”

“Hm,” Iskender replies, already lost in the pages of his book.

They’d whispered for a while that he was deaf. Or stupid. Tore their hair out at nights, not daring to voice their fears lest they come true. When he finally began to speak, Iskender’s voice had slipped through cracked lips like thin parchment. He was four years old. His dreams populated with heavenly creatures, his speech sparse and often unintelligible. Not for him the cacophonous games of children and the tralala of song. Iskender preferred silence and the musty pages of his father’s books.

Seyda looks up at the majestic trees, wondering how she will bring him back to earth. He’s closed his eyes and is breathing evenly, one finger suspended in the pages of his book, the other hooked in his collar. His lips are moving, his face changing with his thoughts.

“Gabon,” he says in that startling way of his.

“Gabon?”

“Oh. It’s a place. Just thinking,” Iskender smiles at his mother.

“Well stop it!” she snaps back at him. “Stop thinking!”

The trees droop. Seyda closes her eyes. Her armpits are soggy, her crisp cotton dress wilted. She can hear them already – ‘That mute crane? What was she thinking? He should join a cloister. More luck there.’ She craves the cool of her room, the smell of Ferida’s cooking. This ridiculous failed mission behind her, not still ahead. She struggles to her feet with a groan, slapping Iskender’s outstretched hand away.

“Hayde. Come on,” she snaps. “Let’s go.”

They set off down the hill, happy to be in shade for a while. Iskender hangs back, watching his mother. When they’d set off this morning she was indomitable. Strong and beautiful with only her son’s interests at heart. Now she looks older, her shoulders soft, her footsteps less sure. Her headscarf has slipped and there’s a smudge across her temple where she keeps worrying her hair. Iskender would gladly give her his handkerchief but knows she’ll wave it away, annoyed.

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 visitors 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.”

Sophia waits for them on the porch, her eyes lively, one eyebrow – the right one – raised in a permanent question mark. She has inherited Seyda’s pale milky skin and sprinkling of freckles and she smiles easily, finding life itself amusing in her European dress, buttoned high at the neck. She buries Khatoun in her ample bosom and with a quick flick of fingers, scatters the children away.

“The men will be in shortly,” she says, leading Khatoun down the hall into a large sitting room. “Abdanour is in the stables showing off the horses to Iskender,” she rolls her eyes. “Horses come first in this family. I’ve warned him not to take too long. Here, sit opposite me so I can see your lovely face. So, how was the journey? How are the family? Are you hungry?”

Before Khatoun can answer even one of the questions the door opens and four of the children file in again, this time with slick hair and scrubbed skin.

“Mariam.”

“Sara.”

“Bahie.”

“Rachel.”

They bob politely as they call out their names. Mariam is now in a dress matching her sisters but her shoes are scuffed and the ends of her braids loose, not beribboned like the others. Khatoun wishes she knew where her bags went. In one of them lay several stuffed dollies, a carved mirror and an olivewood comb she’d brought as gifts. She glances anxiously towards the door and Sophia laughs.

“Don’t worry. There’s no more. The Pests are being put to bed already – it’s long past their bedtime. We told them they could say a quick hello if you arrived before dark. They’re Anni’s.”

“Anni?”

“Yes. My other sister-in-law, Sammi’s wife. Anni and Sammi. Yes, I know, it rhymes. They are a poem. She wanted to say hello but she has to stay in bed – doctor’s orders. She’s got another one on the way. You can meet her tomorrow.” She’s about to say more when the door flies open. Two men, dressed entirely in animal skins, slide across the flagstones, skid to a halt in the middle of the room and burst into song.

“Tomorrow! You can meet her tomorrow!” they harmonise. The shorter of the two, the one with black hair, bows effusively and the other, taller, more handsome, sweeps round the room scattering children and cushions perilously close to the fire. When he gets to Khatoun he hoists her into the air, arms pinned to her sides and kisses her numerous times on each cheek, stamping his foot and whooping after each kiss. Iskender watches from the doorway, his fingers busy in his moustache.