The Seamstress of Ourfa

Khatoun Khouri-2

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.