by Ann Bridge
She laughed. “C’est très bien!”
“Are you not cold?” he asked. “Should you not go below?”
“In a moment. There are things I want to see,” she answered. He nodded. “I understand—I also.”
The light was strengthening all the time, though still grey and colourless; to their right—they were standing well forward—was the dim and rather formless outline of the Chamlidja hills, with the lights of Scutari and Kadikeui below them, wan in the increasing day; to their left familiar things came in sight now, as the ship breasted the current—the huge serrated outline of Rumeli Hissar, the Fortress in Europe, climbing from the sea right up the hill, and not far from its foot the long, delicate, silvergrey shape of the yali, with the dark smear of the koru stretching up the slopes behind. Within those carved baroque walls, Féridé thought, her Father and Niné slept—when would she see them, too, again? She looked resolutely ahead, where the narrow blue waters stretched away, leading to the vast spaces of the Black Sea, to Anatolia, to freedom, and to Orhan! With a last backward glance at the receding bulk of the yali, she turned to go.
Hassan stepped forward.
“My case,” he said—“if I could have it?”
“Oh yes, naturally—do come down.”
“I will fetch yours,” he said. Downstairs, through the cabin door, they exchanged suitcases for the second time; Féridé left her own on the floor, she was too tired and too faint with hunger even to push it in under the bunk. She took off her çarşaf, threw her fur coat over the thin and rather smelly blankets, climbed up and lay down. And slept —for hours and hours.
In fact she did not really get up the whole of that day, nor did Nilüfer. The Black Sea was rough, as it often is in March, and both of them felt sea-sick and utterly wretched. Towards evening, before daylight had finally departed, Féridé crept to the porthole and looked out: their cabin was on the starboard side, but no land was visible, nothing but a grey tossing waste of waters. It seemed to have grown very cold. Shivering, she got some bromide, then climbed back into her bunk, and fell again into a heavy sleep.
When she woke, it was broad daylight—more, the sun was evidently shining, for a narrow gold ray was slanting in through the port-hole. Féridé climbed down, shook her dress—ugh, this sleeping in one’s clothes!—washed her face and hands with Eau de Cologne and a handkerchief, and brushed and did up her hair. The long sleep had done her good; she felt eager, ready for this day on which the sun shone, and curious to know what was happening; she hastened up on deck.
To her dying day Féridé will never forget the sight that met her eyes then, as she stepped out from the dirty passage into the open air. The ship was only a few miles off-shore, and the land -rose in a range of mountains covered with snow, shining white and golden in the morning sun, with blue troughs of shadow where the valleys ran up into them. Féridé had never seen snowcovered mountains before, and she gazed in astonishment and delight as she started to walk forward along the deck to get a better view. But what had happened to her fellow-passengers? Where were all those shabby seedy-looking unshaven men? The whole deck was now brilliant with uniforms—buttons and medals with bright ribbons flashed in the sun, gold braid shone on collars and epaulettes, polished boots gleamed, swords and spurs clanked; it was like a transformation scene on some stage. The girl fairly gaped—the ship seemed to be carrying an army. No, not a whole army; now she saw that the men were nearly all officers—officers or cadets from the Military Colleges. She spied Hassan in the distance, and wished that she could speak with him—she wanted to know where they were, and how soon they would land. It was glorious and inspiring, this scene, both aboard and ashore—but oh, she was so hungry, in the keen morning air!
Her gaze must have somehow penetrated Hassan’s consciousness, as a look often does, for in a moment he turned, saw the black veiled figure, and came towards her.
“Is it Féridé Hanim?” he asked.
“Yes. Good-morning. How splendid all this is!”
“Is it not?” He waved his hand shoreward at the snowy ranges— “Anatolia! Freedom!” he said, then he gestured along the deck ahead of them—“And free men, at last!”
Féridé made an enthusiastic response, then—“Do you know where we are? And how soon we land?” she asked.
He pointed ahead—the ship was drawing near to the coast on a long slant.
“Do you see that town down on the shore, with a valley running up behind? That is Inebolu. We shall be there in about half an hour.”
She glanced at her watch—it was 9 o’clock. “Then we had better get ready,” she said, and went below to rouse Nilüfer, and pack; she also bethought her that without Osman they could not possibly convey their heavy suitcases up on deck. What should she do? Find a sailor and ask him? She recoiled a little from the idea—what did one say to strange sailors?—she had never spoken to one in her life. While Nilüfer was getting ready she went up on deck again and had recourse to Hassan Bey; he found a sailor, took him below, and between them the two men got the girls’ gear up on deck.
The ship was by this time close in-shore, about half a mile from the land; the small white town with its pinkish-brown tiled roofs was plainly visible, spreading along the beach, climbing a low bluff on one side, and stretching up the valley inland. The snow on the mountains ceased a few hundred feet above sea-level, and the shore and the valley looked green and smiling. But there was no sign of a quay or jetty, just the grey line of the shingle along the shore below the nouses. “Where do we land?” Féridé asked.
“On the beach, from boats.” Indeed a number of roughlooking craft were already leaving the shore and rowing out towards them; and the next moment, with a metallic roar the anchor was let go, and the ship came to a standstill.
“He will come out in the boat, no?” Nilüfer asked of Féridé.
“You are being met, of course?” Hassan asked, hearing her question.
“Yes, we expect either my husband or my brother to come and meet us,” Féridé replied. “Will they come out in one of these boats?”
“I expect so.”
But when the shore boats, scudding like water-beetles, approached the ship, till their occupants were clearly recognisable, there was no sign of either Ahmet or Orhan. The two girls scanned every boat in turn: neither was there.
“He must be waiting for us at the hotel,” said Féridé, with a cheerfulness she was far from feeling; for surely neither Orhan nor Ahmet would have failed to greet them at the first possible moment, nor left them to struggle with the business of getting ashore alone.
And that disembarkation at Inebolu was an awkward business. The moment the rowing-boats reached the ship, everything became wild confusion: from all sides luggage, cases of ammunition, shells and bundles of rifles were slung or flung overboard into them, as they bounced up and down alongside on the unpleasantly large waves; men shouted up from the boats, shouted down from the deck, yelled at one another in the boats—it was pandemonium. Hassan came across to where Nilüfer and Féridé stood, hesitating, beside their little heap of luggage.
“You have not seen them? No? Nor have I. But I will see if something cannot be arranged—you should get to the hotel, and have some food.” He went off and presently returned with two sailors, who took up their luggage and his own, and led them to the ladder down the ship’s side, where a boat waited at the foot, swinging up, swinging down, with the motion of each wave.
“This is for us—let us go,” Hassan said.
The sailors ran nimbly down the ladder, which had an uneasy motion of its own, and flung their luggage into the shifting boat; Féridé and Nilüfer followed Hassan. He stood on the small platform at the foot, and as the boat swung up towards it on a wave, he sprang in; as the boat fell away again he toppled over, and collapsed on the luggage at the bottom—the boatman laughed.
“I cannot do that!” Nilüfer said, in a trembling voice.
“Oh yes, chérie, of course you can. Come on.” Féridé drew
her down onto the small platform, where she clung to the rope handrail, which was horribly unstable itself.
“No, I shall fall in!”
“Come, come! Jump!” the boatmen yelled. As the boat swung up again Féridé grasped the outstretched hand of one of them, and jumped; like Hassan she landed in a heap in the bottom of the boat.
“Now the other!” the men shouted—but Nilüfer, terrified, could not bring herself to jump. A boatman sprang up onto the platform, took her in his arms like a bundle, and on the next rise jumped with her. The passengers were stowed in the stern on a wet, salt-stained, rather dirty seat, and the men rowed towards the shore. The beach as they approached presented an aspect of feverish activity. As the boats, laden deep with ammunition, ran in among the breaking waves men rushed down to meet them, wading breast-high into the foaming water, seized them, and guided them up onto the beach, where stout hawsers were attached to the bows; they were then drawn up onto dry land by very primitive capstans, consisting of four small tree-trunks projecting from a wooden drum—a team of turbaned men, pushing the tree-trunks, wound each boat slowly up over the shingle to the rhythm of a loud monotonous song. The moment a boat was beyond reach of the waves a shout checked the capstan team; other men rushed to pull out the cargo, the hawser was cast off and the boat thrust down to the sea again, where her crew launched her, sprang on board, and made off as fast as they could towards the ship. There were five or six capstans at work, and though the whole business looked very crazy and rough-and-tumble, in fact the arms and ammunition were being got ashore at an astonishing speed—once out of the boats, yet other men carried them up and dumped them in piles on an open space above the beach.
Hassan was greatly impressed by this primitive but effectual organisation, but the young women were really only concerned with two things—whether the motley crowd concealed one or other of their husbands, and how they themselves were to get ashore through the tumbling surf. There were a number of uniforms to be seen, but they were mostly new arrivals from the ship; of Ahmet or Orhan they could see no sign. Meanwhile their boat ran in among the breaking crests, and several of those soaking figures plunged into the water and dragged the heavy craft to land; as the keel grated on the shingle and began to move up it two stalwart fellows, wading alongside, plucked Nilüfer and Féridé off their seat like bundles, threw them over their shoulders, and carried them unceremoniously up the beach, where they set them down. Féridé, startled and breathless, burst out laughing as she found her feet. “Well, that is one way of landing!” she said to Nilüfer, shaking herself like a cat, and pulling down her skirts. “And now, where are they, do you suppose?—or him, whichever it is?”
He, or they, did not appear to be anywhere. Hassan, who had also been carried ashore, paid the boatman and went off to make enquiries of a very tall man with a big, flattish, rather square face, pale blue eyes, and a short blunt nose, who seemed to be directing operations.
“They have not announced themselves down here,” he said when he returned. “Let us go up to the hotel and eat, at least. We may get news there.”
This was a blow. They set off, with two porters for the luggage, in a gloomy little procession—along the sandy space past piles of rifles, shells, and ammunition, up some steps, and along cobbled streets to Inebolu’s one and only hotel.
In the year 1920 this hotel was not good. In the hall—which smelt strongly of sanitation, and was both cold and dirty—Hassan first of all booked a room for the two young women, ordered lunch to be served there as soon as possible, and then sought out the proprietor and asked if Ahmet Bey or Orhan Bey was staying there? No, they were not—and had not been.
“Oh, what do we do now?” Nilüfer whispered to Féridé.
“Wait!” Féridé said, taking her hand—“Listen!”
Hassan was pursuing his enquiries. Was there any letter, or message, for Féridé Hanim or Nilüfer Hanim?
The landlord thought not—and his attention was deflected at that moment by the arrival of a whole swarm of cadets and officers off the ship, who came surging into the hotel, clamouring for food.
“Come up to your room,” Hassan said urgently to the two girls—he realised that unless they acted promptly rooms, food and all would soon be taken by others. He got the key, and they went upstairs, found the room. “I will see about the luggage,” said Hassan, and limped away.
When he had gone Féridi wént to the window and flung open the shutters, letting in a flood of light. Neither she nor Nilüfer had ever stayed in a Turkish provincial hotel before, and that bedroom looked almost as peculiar to them as it would have done to a European. Fringed embroidered draperies swathed the windows; below them, and round most of the walls ran very hard divans, covered with a thick woollen material; on the walls hung two or three rugs. There were three beds, with brass bedsteads and cheap quilts, a cheap modern dressing-table with a huge mirror, on which stood a china jug and basin; and between two of the beds a common wooden chair with an empty candlestick —and that was absolutely all. The room was very stuffy, with a mouldy unused smell, and dankly cold.
In their weary and half-starved state this was a moment, above all others, when a really comfortable room and a cheerful welcome would have meant a great deal—what they found was very discouraging. Féridé burst out laughing.
“What is funny?” Nilüfer asked, with quivering lips.
“This! All of it! It is so horrible that it is really funny.” She paused, and looked round the room. “We must get warmth, somehow,” she said; “I wonder where the bell is.”
There was no bell visible but a cord with a dusty tassel, hanging down beside the door; when Féridé gave a tug at it it came away in her hand and fell, like a shabby snake, to the floor. Féridé, undaunted, went out in to the passage and called—a chambermaid appeared, dressed entirely in various shades of plummy pink, with a white veil with a border of tiny black flowers swathed all round her head, face, and shoulders. Féridé demanded a brazier; the woman, who was elderly and rather sour, at first said she was not sure if there was one to spare, but Féridés firm insistent tone of command overcame her sulky inertia, and she went off to get it.
“I wish lunch would come,” Féridé said then.
“What are we to eat it on? There is no table,” said Nilüfer gloomily.
“We can eat it off the bed or off the floor, anything, if only it comes!” Féridé exclaimed.
It did not, however, come for some considerable time. When it did, they perched on the divans and took their first proper meal for four days. The food was nasty, ill-cooked and ill-served, but they ate hungrily. As they were finishing the brazier was brought in.
“Well, we are advancing,” said Féridé—“we have at least eaten, and we have some warmth.”
“But where can Ahmet be?” Nilüfer asked. “It is so strange.”
“Hassan Bey will find out, I am sure. Do not fret, my dearest—there must be some confusion,” Féridé said, with a confidence she was far from feeling. “Why do you not rest a little?”
. Nilüfer thought she would, and selected one of the three beds. The sheets were dubious, the single pillow as hard as a bullet, laced elaborately down the back into a pillow-case covered with coloured embroidery, very scratchy to the face; Féridé put a scarf over this, pulled out a soft shawl from one of her cases and arranged it inside those dreadful sheets, and then made her sister-in-law creep into the sort of cocoon thus formed and lie down. When she had settled her in, she herself took out a little writing-case and wrote a brief note to Réfiyé Hanim, saying that they had arrived safely so far; she was careful to put no date, and to say nothing about the total absence of any husband, only stressed the great beauty of the snowy ranges above the sea, and mentioned that Hassan Bey “has helped us greatly on the voyage.” She put the letter in her purse, hoping that Hassan would contrive to send it for her. Oh, how much easier everything was at home, where a maid gave the letters to Osman, and that was that! (Féridé had never bought a st
amp in her life.)
She was just about to lie down and take a rest herself when there came a knock at the door—with a beating heart she ran to open it. It was only Hassan; he had a letter in his hand.
“I am sorry to have been so long,” he said—“May perdition overtake this landlord! I went to the Post Office to enquire for the letter, then to the bureau of the Kaimakam, and there was nothing—when I return here, and ask again, he has it all the time!”
“I am sorry you have had all this trouble!” said Féridé. The letter was in Orhan’s writing, and she longed to open it. “Have you eaten yet?” she asked.
“No, but that is unimportant. I should be glad to know if it contains any news.” (Poor Hassan was beginning to feel the responsibility for his two fellow-travelers rather heavy.)
“Yes, of course. Wait—why not go and eat, quickly, and then return? We shall have read it then.”
Hassan agreed. Féridé went back and opened the letter. There was an enclosure for Nilüfer from Ahmet, but as Nilüfer was now asleep she tossed it onto the divan beside her, and read her own.
Orhan wrote in considerable distress, to explain why neither he nor Ahmet could come and meet them. “Fresh operations are in prospect in the Taurus, and your brother is tremendously occupied, trying to equip and train reinforcements. Ah, if you knew what this shortage of everything means! I hope your boat has brought what it should bring.” As for himself, it was totally impossible that he should leave just now— “There are certain difficulties in many districts with the population, who have been misled, and these get worse and worse; we have to take countermeasures, to make the people understand the truth of the situation, but this needs time and personnel—and we are so few! Ismet Bey has just arrived, and is a great support; but our Chief is working eighteen hours a day, and really I cannot leave him at such a moment! I know you will understand, Light of my Eyes, what it means to me not to meet you, and to leave you to make this journey alone; but there are sure to be many on the road who will assist you. Here is a note for the Kaimakam—if you send it to him, he will see that you get a carriage, with a good driver. I enclose some money. Oh, hasten!—and may God guard you every step of the way.”