Anyush

by Martine Madden

  ‘Don’t squeeze so hard and maybe I can tell you. How are you, Azize? Cross as ever I hope.’

  His old nanny smiled and patted him on the arm.

  ‘Jahan … this is a surprise!’ In a rustle of silk his mother advanced on them with a wide smile. Madame Orfalea was a head shorter than her son and, although she bore herself with style and grace, she inspired awe rather than familiarity. Jahan kissed her on both cheeks while Tansu nuzzled in against him.

  ‘Tansu, arrête-toi. Run and tell your sisters your brother is home. Va-t’en.’

  ‘Maman has a surprise for you,’ Tansu said, dropping to the floor. ‘We’ve been having a visitor while you were away. A very special visitor.’

  ‘Bring her upstairs, Azize.’

  ‘She’s a teacher, a teacher, a teacher,’ his sister sang, skipping around his legs.

  Azize took her arm but Tansu slipped out of her grasp.

  ‘And she’s very pretty. And très gentille.’

  ‘Tansu!’

  She ran up the stairs two at a time and disappeared into the nursery while Azize climbed slowly after her.

  ‘A surprise?’ Jahan asked, but his mother was already walking into the salon.

  For the next hour or so he was taken up with his sisters and everything that had happened in his absence. Dilar, six years younger than himself, had become engaged to Armand, the son of the French Ambassador. Armand was a childhood friend of Jahan’s and also a captain in the French army. The wedding was to take place in a year, or whenever the end of the war allowed.

  ‘Marie-Françoise was to be my bridesmaid but she became engaged herself last month and will be in Paris by then.’

  The corners of Dilar’s pretty mouth drooped.

  ‘Maman says I’ll have to content myself with Tansu and Melike, but nobody is really married with only two bridesmaids.’

  ‘Especially when they’re your sisters!’ Jahan said, winking at the others. ‘And what about you, Melike? What have you been doing while I was gone?’

  His second sister smiled shyly. Too old to pull onto his lap like Tansu and too young for the society of Dilar, Melike was awkward and reserved and spent her time with books and painting. She wasn’t pretty or charming like the other girls but claimed a special place in his heart for all that.

  ‘Thank you for all the letters, Melike,’ he said. ‘I only received a few of them but it was a great comfort to know you were writing to me.’

  As a boy Jahan’s favourite place was on the roof. In the dark evenings he would signal with a lamp to his friends in the houses across the street with a system of flashes they had worked out between them. No one else knew the code or how to decipher it, except for Melike. She used to spy on him from the top of the stairs, where she had eventually been discovered. Jahan let her stay on the condition that she didn’t talk too much and kept the secret to herself. As they grew older they often went to the roof together, sitting by the wind tower as Jahan blew smoke rings with the cigarettes he had stolen from his father.

  ‘For you,’ Jahan said, handing her a small volume from his valise.

  She took the book, turning the pages slowly. Inside were coloured drawings of plants and flowers in beautiful delicate detail.

  ‘They’re by an English artist called Mrs Delaney. They remind me a little of your paintings.’

  ‘They’re beautiful,’ Melike said, kissing him on both cheeks.

  ‘What did you bring me?’ Tansu asked, nudging her sister out of the way.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Really? You didn’t bring me anything?’

  ‘Not a thing.’

  But she had already spotted the bulge in his breast pocket.

  ‘Oh that’s for another little girl.’

  ‘Show me, show me, show me!’

  ‘You have to say “s’il te plait”.’

  ‘Please, please, please, Jahan.’

  ‘Was she a good girl, Maman, while I was away?’

  Madame Orfalea raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I will take that as a yes,’ he said, and took the gift from his pocket.

  It was a tiny filigree silver box with a little gold monkey crouched on the lid and a key underneath, that Jahan had bought from a silversmith in Trebizond. Tansu wound the key and the monkey turned in time to a tinkling tune. She squealed with delight and ran off to play with it in the nursery.

  Some time later when all the presents had been given out and his sisters had gone to their rooms, Jahan took the opportunity to talk to his mother alone.

  ‘How is Papa? He’s at the factory?’

  She shook her head. ‘He’s not well. He insists on going to the Ministry in the mornings and the factory after déjeuner, but it exhausts him. The factories could run themselves.’

  ‘What do the doctors say? Is he having treatment?’

  ‘Non.’ She attempted a smile. ‘There’s nothing they can do for him. You’ll notice quite a change. He can hardly walk without becoming breathless and of course he’s still smoking.’

  ‘He’ll never give it up, Maman. Even if he wanted to. By the way … what was Tansu talking about earlier? The visitor she mentioned?’

  His mother took a moment to rearrange herself on the fauteuil.

  ‘I was going to bring it up later, but … well, as you know, Dilar will be married shortly to Armand. And, as you are a good deal older and should be married by now, your father and I have been making introductions on your behalf.’

  ‘Introductions?’

  ‘We were making enquiries. Suitable girls don’t just happen, and of course we wouldn’t make any decisions without your approval.’

  ‘You mean … a wife?’

  ‘A prospective wife, yes.’

  Jahan hadn’t meant to broach the subject of Anyush so soon, but it seemed his hand was being forced. But before he could say anything further, the front door opened and he heard footsteps walking across the marble hall. Slower footsteps than a year previously.

  ‘Jahan …’

  His father stood in the doorway, bundled into his outdoor coat.

  ‘Melike told me you had returned and here I find you with your mother as usual.’

  ‘Papa.’

  Rising to shake his hand, Jahan tried to hide his shock. This was not the father he remembered. He was leaning on the doorknob like a man twice his age and had lost both height and weight. Everything hung loosely about him, his coat, his skin, his wispy hair. His eyes were sunken in a face deeply scored with lines and tinged an unhealthy yellow colour.

  ‘Viens, come sit with me while your mother dresses for dinner.’

  Jahan followed his father onto the balcony off his parents’ suite of rooms, catching a hint of the smell he had always associated with him. A mixture of lime, woad and urine used to cure the skins in large open vats at the tannery. It was the biggest tanning enterprise in Constantinople, the main factory taking up three hectares in Beykoz on the Anatolian side of the city, and a leather goods factory on the Stamboul side of the Bosphorus. The business had been founded by Jahan’s great-grandfather, an illiterate from Adabazar who started out as a skinner and dung gatherer. He built Orfalea Tanneries into the leading manufacturer of gloves, saddles, footwear, bandoliers and cartridge belts, and sold across the Empire and to Greece, America, Persia and Egypt. It thrived for two generations and there were great expectations of the third, but his father chose a very different career. Olcay Orfalea joined the army and rose through the ranks with impressive speed. He seemed destined for great things, but ill-health was to be his undoing. Chronic congestion of the lungs left him breathless and invalided, and his career slowly ground to a halt. Little by little, he found himself sidelined or assigned to lesser duties in the domestic sphere. Madame Orfalea consoled her husband that he had the tannery to fall back on and could safeguard the family interests, but although Jahan’s father was an able businessman, his heart was never in it.

  ‘You look different,’ his father said, once they were seated.r />
  He opened the cigar box on the table beside his chair and lit one of the thin cheroots to which he was partial. ‘Older. I’m sure your mother remarked on it.’

  ‘She thinks I’m thinner.’

  ‘If that’s possible. I at least have an excuse.’

  His father coughed, his shoulders jerking violently and smoke spilling from his nose and mouth. The spasm passed and he left the cheroot burning between his fingers.

  ‘I’ve been hearing about you. Some trouble you got yourself involved in.’

  In the building across the street a woman with dark hair pushed back the window shutters to let cool air into the rooms beyond.

  ‘Désolé, Papa … you said something?’

  ‘I said you’ve not endeared yourself to your superiors.’

  ‘They didn’t particularly impress me either.’

  ‘Don’t play games, Jahan. This is a serious matter.’

  ‘I was trying to bring their attention to something I witnessed. Something I felt strongly about.’

  ‘Then keep your feelings to yourself. There’s a war on. One which is going badly for the Empire. The Ministry has more pressing matters to deal with than some Armenian feud.’

  ‘It wasn’t a feud. It was a savage attack on a young girl.’

  ‘You think that’s the worst that could happen in wartime? Thousands of men are dying and you’re worried about some girl?’

  ‘They cut out her tongue!’

  ‘They could carve her into a thousand pieces and it’s not your concern. You’re a soldier Jahan. A captain. Your job is to lead your men and follow orders, not whine like a woman. How you acquit yourself in this war will affect your entire career.’

  ‘I’m not a career soldier, Papa. I never wanted to be.’

  ‘What you want and what you need are two different things.’

  ‘You mean what you want!’

  Olcay Orfalea’s breath wheezed noisily in and out through his mouth as he turned to look at his son. Jahan was repelled by him. The disease which was slowly destroying his lungs had squeezed his humanity dry, toughened him like one of his own hides.

  So Jahan … you would prefer to work at the tannery, then?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I’m sure you would make a fine cobbler.’

  ‘Papa …’

  ‘The army needs boots. What better way to help the war effort?!’

  Same old argument, same old harangue. Across the street the woman had gone, the shutters open and bolted in place. Shadows moved to and fro in the room beyond and he could hear the faint sound of the pianoforte. It was coming from below them, Dilar or Melike practising a tune.

  ‘Armenians are a misfortunate people,’ his father was saying. ‘They deserve our pity and our charity, but they are not a breed to become involved with.’

  ‘Ah, but there lies my problem,’ Jahan said, turning to him with a smile. ‘I am already involved, Papa. In fact, I’m going to be married to an Armenian girl as soon as I can get leave or temporary discharge.’

  ‘What nonsense is this?’

  ‘You are about to have one of the unfortunate breed for a daughter-in-law.’

  ‘Is this your idea of a joke?’

  ‘I’m getting married, Papa. Nothing could be simpler.’

  ‘You are throwing away your career–’

  ‘It has nothing to do with my career.’

  ‘… on an Armenian peasant!’

  ‘It might be kinder, especially in front of Maman, not to speak about my future wife in that way.’ Jahan got to his feet and looked down at his father. His face was suffused unevenly with colour and his lips were pale and tight. ‘I feel sorry for you, Papa. Really I do.’

  ‘Sit down, Jahan!’

  ‘Tell Maman I’m not staying for dinner.’

  ‘Jahan …’

  Captain Orfalea stopped in the doorway and looked back to where his father was sitting.

  ‘You have been very fortunate in life. You have parents who care about you and three sisters who are devoted to you. But should you think of doing anything rash, it would be wise to remember that this city is not kind to orphans.’

  Jahan’s father stood at the balcony and watched his son disappear into the evening crowd. After a while, he became conscious of the wind blowing up from the river and the chill settling across his shoulders. He closed the balcony doors and went inside, taking a seat at the bureau opposite the window. When he had decided what he wanted to say, he took a pen and ink and wrote a letter to Colonel Kamil Abdul-Khan, requesting a transfer for Jahan. Sealing it into an envelope, he put the name and address in Sivas on the front. The second letter was more straightforward and required little or no forethought. It was addressed to the barracks’ postmaster and instructed him that all post sent or received by Captain Jahan Orfalea was to be redirected, unopened, to himself, Colonel Olcay Orfalea, at the above address on Grand Rue de Pera. Before sealing it, he put a substantial bundle of kuruş into the envelope and left both letters on the salver in the hallway for posting in the morning.

  The boy was stripped to the waist and sweating profusely as he dug. His hands were blistered from the quicklime as well as the spade, and it would be a few days before he would grip a gunstock without wincing. Unblocking the barracks latrines was a job for the hamals, but the back-breaking, foul-smelling work was also useful as a punishment detail. Jahan watched him dig for a time, before turning away from the nauseating stench and the swarm of black flies hovering over the pit. He was sorry he had lost his temper with the boy. Jahan was usually not so concerned with minor breaches in regulation, but the punishment had more to do with his irritable humour and the argument with his father. His bravado of the previous day had deserted him, as Olcay Orfalea knew it would. They understood each other too well. Jahan was fully aware of the lengths to which his father would go, because the colonel did not make threats lightly. It would be unthinkable to be turned away from his home, from the company of his mother and sisters, but what was the alternative? Never to see Anyush again? Losing his family would cause him infinite sadness, but if he had to chose, there was only one decision he could make.

  ‘Captain Orfalea. Sir …’ His aide beckoned from a safe distance.

  ‘You have a visitor, Captain.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A lady.’

  Madame Orfalea was sitting drinking tea in the barracks parlour.

  ‘You need to bathe,’ she said, drawing away as he kissed her. ‘As a matter of urgency.’

  ‘Give me a few minutes,’ Jahan said, and went to his quarters to wash.

  When he returned, it was to see the aide peering through the open door at his mother.

  ‘Thank you Refik. That will be all. What are you doing here, Maman?’

  ‘I was out for a stroll and was hoping you might escort me home.’

  They left the barracks and walked arm in arm through Üsküdar and into the residential district of Stamboul, past Seraglio Point, which marked the border of the Muslim Quarter with the City of the Infidel, and into Galata beyond. The two German warships, the Goeben and the Breslau were berthed on the southern side of the bridge, dwarfing the shipping agencies and banks that bordered that part of the Golden Horn. Fleeing from a British naval vessel, the ships had been given safe harbour by the Empire and were responsible for closing the Dardanelles and bringing Turkey into the war. Jahan counted many Germans amongst his friends, and his father had been instrumental in setting up the German Military Mission, but he deeply resented the Empire’s participation in a war not of its own making. As well as the termination of training projects and the channelling of all resources away from new developments, he had seen a return to the pre-Balkan arbitrary promotion of untrained officers and the drafting in of young inexperienced German officers on fat salaries, while Ottoman foot soldiers subsisted on low wages paid once every five or six months.

  ‘It’s so easy to forget we are at war,’ his mother said as they crossed into Gal
ata. ‘I’ve heard rumours that there are British submarines in the waters off the Dardanelles, waiting to pick off our ships.’

  ‘The war will be decided in the Dardanelles. Every able-bodied soldier will be drafted there in the next few weeks.’

  Madame Orfalea shivered and hugged her son’s arm tightly. They continued on through the familiar streets of Galata, past the theatres, patisseries, bars and the opera house. But as they approached the Grand Rue Madame Orfalea insisted they keep walking, climbing up through the narrow streets of Pera onto Taksim Square towards Galata Tower. At the very top they stopped to look at the view below.

  ‘The sun is hot. Let’s sit in the shade for a moment.’

  They took a seat in a small café where they could watch the city and the ships plying their trade along the Bosphorus.

  ‘Your sister was in something of a state this morning.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Dilar of course. She’s worried that France is about to declare against Turkey.’

  ‘Armand?’

  ‘Yes, poor Armand. It is one thing to fight for your country but quite another to fight against the homeland of your future wife.’

  ‘Does she want to postpone the wedding?’

  ‘On the contrary, she wants to bring it forward. They plan to move to Paris as soon as they get their travel permits.’

  A waiter came and placed two tiny cups of coffee and a stand of pastries on the table before them.

  ‘Your father is upset. It bothers him that he cannot fight.’

  Jahan sipped his coffee, aware of his mother’s eyes on him.

  ‘He told me of your conversation.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘He mentioned your … friend.’

  A strong breeze blew up from the harbour, lifting the corners of the cloth covering the small table and knocking the sugar basin. They waited while the waiter rushed over with clips for the cloth and a fresh basin of sugar.

  ‘This girl,’ his mother began, ‘your father said she is …?’

  ‘Armenian.’

  ‘And you’ve brought her here? To Constantinople?’