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.
“Tired?” he asks.
Khatoun nods. The table seems suddenly quiet.
“How long is it taking these days, in a wagon?”
“We set off before dawn,” Khatoun says, looking across at Iskender before adding, “The journey was fine, thank you.”
“And now you’re ready for sleep, I can sense that. Tomorrow night you will join us for conversation and games after supper, but tonight your wings may carry you where they will. To infinite heavens, Insha’Allah.” And with this he nods at Sophia who stands expectantly, ready to show Khatoun to her room.
“I’ll be back with coffee,” Sophia says, pushing Iskender back down into his seat. “Cards. You and me against Abdanour and Sammi. We’d better win or you’ll lose your fez once and for all.” She grabs a lamp from the wall and leads Khatoun out of the room, the row of children calling “good night” as they go.
Down the corridor and into the dark stairwell. Khatoun is exhausted. Her bones are heavy and the wine is making her head loose at the neck. She trips on the hem of her skirt going up the stairs and Sophia giggles, reaching a hand out to steady her.
“Our home-made wine,” she laughs, “it’ll get you every time. We always sleep up in the summer, that way we can have the windows open for air. Downstairs is for the colder nights. Here,” she guides them to the top of the stairs and into the first door on their right, “this room is yours.” She walks over to the dresser and lights a lamp and the warm tones of the kilims scattered across the floor jump to life. “This is where I used to sleep when I came here…oh…forever ago. Come, look at this.” She crosses the room and throws the shutters open onto a wide stone balcony. A cool breeze, sweet as the scent of apples invades the room. A million stars light up the sky, a pale wash of milk against the inky black.
“I used to spend hours out here counting them until I fell asleep,” Sophia says. “I always woke up back in bed with no idea how I got there. In the morning, over t
ea, Old Glore would talk to me about the planets. Which stars were visible at what times. He was the one that taught me to look up when I felt sad. ‘A different perspective always helps,’ he’d say. That and, ‘How many is in infinity? If you can answer that, you’ll rule the world.’ Of course I tried! ‘Infinity is infinite,’ I’d tell him and Old Glore would laugh. ‘And what about infinity plus one?’ Imagine – these stars are millions of years old. We’re just specks of dust compared to them…our lives already over before their light even reaches us.”
Khatoun looks up at the stars wondering who might be mad enough to try counting them. Right now she can hardly focus on anything. She yawns.
“Sleep for you,” Sophia smiles, “I’ll see you in the morning. Someone will come and get you. Good night,” and with a swift kiss she is gone.
The bed smells of lavender and as soon as she slips under the sheets Khatoun is asleep. She’s aware of Iskender joining her later; the sliver of light sliding across her cheek as he throws open the window, the soft pad of his feet across the floor, the scent of brandy as he breathes warmth into her neck and strokes her thigh.
In her dreams, a woman smiles at her with stars in her eyes. She is seated to the right of Glore Boghos in that empty chair, embroidering a piece of linen as she listens to her family. She looks at Khatoun and the light from her smile is a million years old and stretches into infinity. Khatoun is welcome she is told and the stars will be her children. First, though, she must sew them into the world.
“Find your silver thread,” the woman says, “and keep your needles shining. Like the moon.”
The next morning there are even more faces at breakfast, the Pests included. A stream of girls bring in tea and jam, eggs and cheese from the kitchen. The doors are open, the birds pecking at crumbs in the courtyard. Unlike dinner the night before, breakfast is a hasty affair. As soon as they’ve eaten, everyone scatters; the young girls to the kitchen to help with the bread, the boys to their tutor – a skinny woman with acne in an unfortunate lemon-yellow dress. Even Old Glore waves adieu and takes to his horse, the age melting from his limbs as he slips easily into the saddle and heads out to the fields. And before Iskender can hide with a book and another pot of coffee, Abdanour and Sammi have dragged him off, bustling his immaculately dressed torso out into the warm sunshine.
“Don’t worry – he’ll look great in goatskins!” they threaten, flicking each other with whips as they go. “On Jermug – the mare who doesn’t know ‘No’.”
“You wouldn’t do that to him…”
“Why not? She loves strangers…”
“Oh, Lord!”
Sophia laughs and takes Khatoun’s arm, “Ignore them. Your husband will be back in one piece, you’ll see. Come with me. We’ll take tea to Anni, and then you can see the rest of the house.”
“Is Anni all right?” Khatoun asks, “We won’t be disturbing her will we?”
“Oh no! She’s demanded a visit. If she had her way she’d be up and giving the girls hell in the kitchen. It’s doctor’s orders – she has to lie down for the next few weeks and it’s driving her mad. She’ll love the company. Come, you carry this,” she hands Khatoun a steaming tray of glasses that has arrived, “and I’ll bring these.” She plucks a linen covered plate from the table and leans into Khatoun. “And don’t tell her husband – she’s not supposed to be eating sweets.”
Together they creak up the stairs and down the corridor to the end, turning at the window into an annexe where a young girl sits by the door, sewing. She puts down her work and stands up to open it as they approach.
“Zeta stop, have a rest,” Sophia says dismissing the girl, “Go outside and get some air. Sammi,” she tuts, “has someone sit here all day in case Anni needs anything. As if we don’t all have better things to do. Husbands! Too nosy. And he’s getting worse.”
She pushes the door open onto a beautiful sun splattered room, a huge bed sailing in the middle, a mess of pillows and blankets. Propped up amongst the cushions is a pregnant woman – her blue silk gown thrown open for air, her hair loose around her shoulders. She’s clutching a book in one hand and kicking a patterned eiderdown onto the floor as they enter.
“Pari louys! You must be Khatoun, come, come!” she says, dropping her book and patting the bed.
Sophia sets the plate of goodies on the nightstand and swoops in for a kiss. “Khatoun, meet Anni – mother of The Pests. Anni, this is Khatoun – the girl who finally captured my brother’s heart.” She snuggles up to her sister-in-law on the bed and reaches back for the plate.
“Khatoooooooun!” a wide smile splits Anni’s face, “I’ve heard so much about you and now I see it’s all true. You are a little dolly!” she starts to giggle and Sophia joins in. They clap their hands with glee as Khatoun stands there with the tea tray, steam rising from the thin patterned glasses.
“Put the tray down,” Sophia laughs, “sit with us.”
“Yes, sit,” Anni says, “but first, promise me something. Don’t ever take anything said in this house seriously.” She kicks a bolster onto the floor and pats the edge of the bed again. “Now sit down.”
Khatoun clears a space on the nightstand with her elbow and gets rid of the tray. She slips off her shoes, smoothes down her skirt and settles next to the women in their sea of pillows. Sophia leans over to the window, grabs an old walking stick that had been resting against it and pushes the shutters open. The view across the plains streams into the room.
“There they are,” she says pointing to three figures on horseback, “our husbands.”
Khatoun sips her tea and watches the riders as her sisters-in-law catch up on yesterday’s gossip. Lessons, food, who ate what. The colour of whose movements. The girls’ monthly swings. In the distance the men shrink to dots and disappear into the haze.
“Mmm, kurabia,” Anni says reaching for another pastry. “I’m supposed to be on a diet. Can you imagine? A pregnant woman on a diet? That doctor of mine is full of modern ideas. I’m not doing this again.”
“Again?” Khatoun asks, setting the women off into laughter again.
“Why? Do you think there’s too many already?”
“I…no…I don’t know…how many…How many are there?”
“Fourteen between us,” Sophia laughs.
“Don’t! It’s still thirteen until…you know…”Anni rubs her belly.
“One a year, every year since I got married,” Sophia says. “First six are mine, the seven little ones are Anni’s. The Pests. And that one on the way. Definitely another pest.”
“The men make horses and we make children,” Anni sighs. “Thank God we have the land to sustain them.”
“Park Asdoudzo.”
Anni turns back to the window with a yawn. “And where are they now?”
“There,” Sophia says pointing her stick lazily towards the horizon. A flicker of dots in a dust cloud.
“Time to shut my eyes I think,” Anni sighs. “No blankets, no more pillows,” she murmurs as Sophia picks up the discarded linen from the floor, “it’s too much. I’m too hot.”
Khatoun finishes her tea and since the lightly powdered biscuits have all been devoured, the shutters are pulled and they leave the ripe Anni to her nap.
They drop off the trays with Zeta, who is back in her corner feverishly attacking her embroidery, and continue down the corridor, the floorboards creaking as they pass. Sophia pauses at the top of the staircase that curves down to the hallway at the back of the house. A framed photograph of her family hangs above a small wooden table on the landing. Her children posing with her in a studio mock-up of a grand sitting room filled with potted plants. Abdanour stands behind her, slightly to the left, one hand resting on her shoulder, his eyes suppressing a grin and Old Glore Boghos sits next to her on the little striped divan, his pale eyes staring straight through the lens of the camera. Behind them, a backdrop of billowing clouds looks odd – as if one whole wall of their house had simply fallen away, leaving them both comfo
rtable but exposed to the elements.
Sophia is quiet. She leans in to the photograph and traces her finger over the faces of her children.
“I notice you’re still slim after a year of marriage,” she says, her voice so low, Khatoun is not sure whether she just imagined it. She’d been thinking the same thing. Anni, she’s calculated, has been continuously pregnant for the last eight years. Almost half of Khatoun’s life. She can’t imagine what it will be like to sit amongst family in some draughty studio and have her photograph taken. Standing at the top of the creaking staircase staring at the strange, distant expressions in the photo, Khatoun feels homesick. Not for a place, but for a time when nothing was asked of her, nothing expected other than that she complete her chores. Childhood. So simple and gone so soon.
“Let’s go and sit for a moment,” Sophia says, leading Khatoun down the stairs. As they enter the courtyard a woman appears noiselessly from the kitchens and asks what they’d like.
“Coffee, some grapes. Not too much, we’ve just had tea, thank you.” Sophia eases herself into a chair under the trees and kicks off her shoes. “So,” she says, smiling.
“So,” Khatoun smiles back.
“How old are you now?”
“Sixteen.”
“That’s young. And in this life, youth is on your side. Your whole life is still ahead of you.”
“Insha’Allah.”
“And you and Iskender…he is…you are…you know…everything is…good between you?”
The Seamstress of Ourfa Page 4