The Seamstress of Ourfa

Sisters-in-Law-1

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.

“Still as small as a dolly!” Abdanour laughs as he sets Khatoun back down and pinches her cheek. He bends his elbow and pretends to lean on her head making his daughters squeal, then stretches up, exposing his tight hairy belly as he smells his armpit. “Oh dear. That’ll have to wait,” he says, “I’m starving. I need food. Or maybe I’ll just eat someone here. Which one of you looks tasty?” he skims the room and the young girls screech and jostle behind each other. “Skin and bones, all of you,” he yells. “Come on, we need real food. It’s eat or be eaten. Follow me!” He marches past Iskender, trailed first by the children then Sammi, who backs out of the room bowing, furry hat in hand.

“My husband, Abdanour, always in high spirits, and his brother, Sammi, not much better,” Sophia laughs. “Come, I’ll show you where you can clean up and then let’s eat or Abdanour will come looking for us. One day he really will pick you up and carry you off under his arm, don’t doubt it!” She pushes them out into the corridor, Iskender muttering into his moustache, a hooked finger snaking towards Khatoun’s shoulder.

“Oops, your fez!” Sophia says, knocking the hat off his head and catching it with her foot before it hits the floor. “Just in case you’re too stiff to get it back.” She plops it on her head and steps past the couple into the hallway. “Come on. It’s eat or be eaten, remember?”

Dinner is set in a cavernous room with thick walls and heavy rafters. A fireplace crackles at one end, at the other, French doors open onto a beautiful tree-filled courtyard. As they file in, the doors to the courtyard are shut and the fireplace leaps to life. The wall lamps are lit, the one from the other. Tall candles illuminate the table which is already set with steaming platters of pilaff and lamb, pots of yoghurt, olives and pickles. The children arrange themselves around the table, boy, girl, boy, girl and at the head – his eyes faded to a milky blue – sits Old Glore Boghos, the head of the household.

His teeth have gone, his features have withered but he still has broad shoulders and a solid chest you could thump. He smiles at Khatoun and beckons her over. He takes her hand in his and holds it to his cheek for a moment and then to his lips. He reaches past her for Iskender and allows the younger man to droop over him as he kisses both eyes and then, with a smile, urges everyone to start.

“Eat, eat,” Old Glore says, releasing his hold. He waves his hand across the table and the chairs fly out, squeezing Khatoun between Abdanour and Sammi who pile food on her plate faster than she can eat it. There is a constant stream of stuff coming from the kitchen. Flat loaves of bread. Vegetables. Jugs of wine. The plates are passed around. The bread stuffed into each other’s mouths dripping with gravy. The searing hot pickles chased down with wine.

And all the while, Khatoun is transfixed by Old Glore. His face is in perpetual motion, nodding constantly as if in private conversation. His eyebrows furrow and his lips tremble – sometimes so much he has to abandon his spoonful and reach for a napkin instead. Every once in a while he barks out a laugh which every one at the table ignores. His eyes have faded to a milky blue but when he turns to face whoever is speaking they light up silver. He listens with a smile, as if he already knows everything and is just humouring a child. On his right there is an empty space – not laid for dinner but vacant, nevertheless, throughout the meal – as if someone were expected. There are at least five conversations going on at once. If she could just clear the space in front of her, Khatoun would lay down her head. Maybe listen with her eyes shut. Perhaps just one of them. She pushes her plate forward an inch and catches Old Glore staring in her direction, his face finally still.