Orhan's Inheritance

by Aline Ohanesian

  Lucine throws umbilical cord as far into the current as she can. “Where is my umbilical cord?” she asks.

  “Under the mulberry tree, right next to Anush’s and Bedros’s cords,” Mairig says.

  Hairig’s mulberry tree is the most glorious thing Lucine has ever seen. It emerges from the earth like the hand of God, fingers spread wide and reaching eagerly for every bit of sun, wind and sky. Its branches beckon the children’s eager limbs and its fruit moistens their parched tongues.

  “Why there?” asks Lucine.

  “Because your grandmother thought it would tie you all forever to the family and its land.”

  “And what about Aram?” she asks.

  “What about him?” says Mairig.

  “What did we do with his umbilical cord?”

  “Nothing,” says Mairig. “We lost it.”

  “What?”

  “One minute it was there, and the next it wasn’t. That whole cord business was your grandmother’s obsession. Not mine. And by the time Aram was born, she had already passed. I kept thinking we might find his cord under a cushion someday, but it never turned up.”

  “That’s awful.” Lucine imagines her own göbek bağı, buried deep in the hardened soil of the courtyard, and immediately feels safe again. So much better than an umbilical cord traveling down a winding river or one that’s lost altogether.

  When they arrive at the baths, the attendant, an unusually large woman with yellow teeth, looks unsettled by the sight of Mairig and her daughters. She sits with a burlap bag of sunflower seeds in her lap, their discarded husks at her feet. She loads one seed after another between wedged teeth, expertly cracking, stopping only long enough to say, “The hamam is full.”

  “We can wait,” Mairig says.

  Several minutes go by, filled with the attendant’s steady cracking and spitting. As the mountain of husks, jagged and slimy with saliva, grows, two women exit the bathhouse.

  “Surely there is room now,” says Mairig.

  “They were two and you are three,” says the attendant.

  She opens the inner door anyway and leads them into a small changing room, where all three undress. Anush and Lucine slip on their wooden bath slippers and wrap themselves in the thin cotton sheets used for bathing.

  In the vast marble hall milky clouds of steam carry gossip from one group of reclining nudes to the next. Bodies, pink from rigorous scrubbing, lie languid at the foot of the massive fountain in the center of the room. Children shriek in protest under the heavy scrubbing of their mothers’ arms. Lucine looks around the room for a familiar face, but there are none. They are the only Armenians foolish enough to brave a bath on this day.

  Mairig leads her daughters past the others and stops in front of the private room they always use. But the measured kindness of the attendant has run out. She stands stoically in a cloud of steam and motions toward the communal room.

  “Are the private rooms all occupied?” asks Mairig.

  “The private rooms are for Ottomans,” the attendant says.

  The Melkonian women take their place on one of the divan cushions pressed against the outer wall. A Kurdish woman, seated to the right of Mairig, eyes the girls’ hips with the discerning eye of a connoisseur. Anush and Lucine disrobe quickly, but the Kurd moves even quicker.

  “Fine legs,” she says, patting Anush’s thigh appreciatively. “You’ll need an Osman as strong as a lion.”

  Lucine and Anush ignore the muffled laughter of nearby patrons and begin unpacking. The pressed linens, bars of soap, keses for exfoliating, along with the glass bottle of eau-de-cologne and the silver cup for rinsing are all dutifully laid out, but the room is suddenly unnaturally quiet. Hard stares replace the familiar chiding and clicking of tongues from village women.

  Lucine slips the wooden sandals off her feet. She shuts her eyes and lets the steam provide what little insulation and privacy she can get. Anush drags the kese down her mother’s spine, letting gray curdles of dead skin drop down to the floor. It is not uncommon for women with eligible sons to ask prospective brides to scrub their backs. Lucine doesn’t dare look up.

  There is a melting point at which everything in this world eventually succumbs. Skin, salt, fat, tears, and laughter all meld into one. In the hamam, Lucine is forever suspended at this melting point. She reclines, pressing her back, buttocks, and palms into the hot stone floor. The hissing steam penetrates and escapes from every surface, seducing her skin, her muscles, and the stone into submission. Then come the organs, and despite the women ogling the productive capacity of her hips, the roundness of her breasts or the strength of her thighs, despite all this, her mind goes blank. There is always a brief period of clarity when she can hear her whispering heart.

  Today she listens to the slapping noises of the fountain water, hoping it will drown out the sound of her longing and her worry. The effort is futile. The heat knocks incessantly at the door of her heart. When it finally answers, in come a bevy of images of Kemal. He smiles at her from across the courtyard. He stares with compassion at her tear-stained face and laughs uncontrollably at her anger. She doesn’t know why or how, but she is sure he understands her, knows her. And this is everything.

  It might be a sin against God, but God doesn’t seem to be terribly concerned with her at the moment. Where was he when they took Nazareth? When they flogged the priest and robbed him of his sanity? When they took Hairig?

  Hairig. The tears are just one more form of water excreted by her body.

  Not here, whispers her heart. Not here.

  CHAPTER 10

  Bedros and the Dress

  MUAMMER BEY’S VISIT comes on an especially hot day, one made for swimming and sitting under the shade of a tree. But the children are stuck inside. Anush hides in the back of the house where the governor cannot see her. Lucine and Bedros are relegated to the front parlor and instructed to be quiet. Bedros fashions a sword from a long branch and slashes the drawn curtains like a caged animal. He makes loud swishing noises, wielding the sword with one hand and holding his pants up with the other. Each time a limb from his branch nicks the lavender-colored silk, he turns his head, as if waiting for a reproach. A palm to the back of the head, a harsh word, or worse yet, that look of disappointment Mairig used to give them when they’d done something wrong.

  “Stop that. You’ll ruin the curtains,” Lucine says, taking care to keep her voice low. “Aren’t you a little too old for swordplay?” She takes the branch from him.

  “Everybody wants me to be a baby again,” he says.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Since Hairig left, everyone wants me to be a baby again. Mairig says to try not to look so grown up.”

  “That’s because the soldiers only take grown boys and men,” she says, but Bedros doesn’t seem consoled.

  “Don’t worry. You’re way too young to be noticed,” she says, putting her hands around his dwindling waist. “You’re practically shrinking.”

  Outside, the town crier, whose voice Lucine has come to detest, repeats his now-familiar chant, “All Armenian families are to be deported into the outskirts. These measures are for your own safety. Each family will be given one oxcart for their possessions. Take only what you need. Everything will be given back to you upon your return.”

  “That man’s a liar,” says Bedros.

  “He’s Armenian,” says Lucine.

  “He’s still a liar,” says Bedros.

  Bedros has a point. This is the same man who called Hairig to the supposed meeting.

  “He tricked us,” Bedros says. “Uncle Nazareth says you should confront those who taunt or trick you, but Hairig didn’t confront anyone.”

  “He will. In his own way,” says Lucine, remembering Hairig’s speech about enduring.

  Bedros presses his nose onto the sliver of glass where the drapes almost meet. Lucine rests her chin on the top of his head, hoping a bit of sunlight will find its way to her face. In the courtyard, bushels of wool
and copper pots sit idly in the courtyard. Beyond the family’s own gated property lies the sea of flat-roofed, white-washed houses of the Armenian Quarter of Sivas. Like the Melkonian house, they have been emptied of their men. Lucine stares at the women who scurry from home to home, like chickens before the slaughter. Perhaps bed rest is a much more dignified response than running about town wringing one’s hands.

  “I wish I could go outside,” Bedros says.

  Her little brother hasn’t been outside since the day Hairig left. He hasn’t taken a bath, since there are no men left to take him to the hamam. He hasn’t seen a slip of sky unless it was through a glass window.

  “We’ll be going away soon and then you can be outside all you want,” she says, ruffling his hair.

  “Even so, we’ve got no horse,” he says. “Just a big dumb ox that clip clops like the heavy-footed farmer’s wife with one thick-soled shoe.” Bedros imitates the poor woman’s bowlegged gait, making Lucine laugh. “What are they doing in there anyway?” he asks, gesturing toward the next room where Mairig and the governor sit.

  “Mairig is going to ask Muammer Bey for help.”

  “I want to listen,” he says. Lucine knows she should object, but the truth is she wants to listen too.

  “All right, but be very quiet. We can stand outside the doorway,” she whispers.

  From the open doorway, Lucine stares at the back of the governor’s fez with a mixture of fear and hate. She can hardly believe that this same man once amused her by making his handkerchief disappear. That was a long time ago. Before the governor started making eyes at Anush. And the last time he made something disappear it was her uncle Nazareth.

  Sitting across from Mairig and Aram, balancing his haunches on the tiny European furniture of which their mother is so proud, Muammer Bey looks uncomfortable. Drops of sweat gather around his fez, trickle down the back of his thick neck and disappear into his collar. He clears his enormous throat. Lucine can hear the clink of his worry beads banging against one another under his massive fingers.

  “I wonder where his magic handkerchief has gone,” whispers Bedros.

  “What are the charges?” Mairig asks the governor as she wrestles with Aram, who is trying to climb onto her head, his little fists pulling at her locks like ropes.

  “There have been several complaints about the location of your house,” the Governor says. “As you know, it should not be on higher grounds than those of your Muslim neighbors.”

  “And what about all the other men? Their houses are located in the valley.”

  “It doesn’t matter. The men are accused of political agitation, but that’s not the point. I warned Hagop this would happen.”

  “What is the point?” asks Mairig. “What is the point of arresting all our men?” She is beginning to sound like the chicken women on the street.

  “Madam, the Ottoman Empire is at war. Try to understand,” the governor says. “The Russians have crossed our borders in the eastern part of Anatolia. In the south, the British have conquered Basra and the Tigris-Euphrates delta. The Russians, French, and British, the bastards—excuse my language—are even now planning to dismember the empire bit by bit. Our courageous leaders, may Allah keep them, have wisely chosen to side with Germany.”

  Lucine cringes at the word bastard, knowing the governor would never use that language in front of her mother if Hairig were present.

  Mairig lifts her palm, interrupting his current events lesson. “I hear the news, Governor, I know what is happening to the empire, but the days of the sultan are far behind us, are they not? We have a parliament and a constitution. These men are innocent.” Mairig’s voice trails off, making her sound as if she’s pleading.

  “Be that as it may, the Christian minority is considered by some to be an internal threat. The government’s plan, and I think it’s a fair one, is to move the Armenians south of Anatolia.”

  “Where are we to go exactly?” Mairig asks, her eyes scanning his face.

  “To the Syrian Desert,” he says.

  “By oxcart?”

  “You can’t stay here, hanim. You must all go.”

  “And what about our men?” Mairig asks. She picks at the cross at her neck, digging one of its points into the hollow of her neck where a scar is beginning to form.

  “They are being held for questioning. That is all. The men will be released later, at which point you will all be reunited.”

  “Like the students at Gemerek were questioned?” Mairig asks the question in English. Her eyes dart to where Lucine and Bedros are standing, then return to the governor. She does this when she thinks the children are listening, but their English has improved. And they know about the dozen students who were killed in the town of Gemerek.

  “You mustn’t believe everything you hear,” the governor responds in Turkish.

  “And what about my brother, Nazareth? Is there any news about where he is stationed?” she asks, fingering the tiny cross at her neck again.

  “No, hanim. I’m afraid there’s very little I can do. These orders are from central government.” He clicks away at the worry beads in his hand. “Unless, of course . . .”

  Mairig waits.

  “Your eldest daughter consented to take an oath to Allah and became my bride, then as my extended family, I could offer all of you some measure of protection.”

  When Mairig does not respond, the governor adds, “Please understand that I may not be in the position to make this offer again.”

  “Yes, yes, I understand. But it’s not possible. She is betrothed to someone else,” she says finally.

  “Oh? To whom?”

  Yes, to whom? wonders Lucine.

  “Armen Haritunian, from Kharpert,” Mairig answers, pressing the cross further into her skin.

  Armen was a young suitor whose nose was so far up in the air that Uncle Nazareth took it upon himself to put laxatives in his lokma. The sounds that came out of his rear as he scurried out the door were enough to dissuade Anush from the match. The name of Armen Haritunian is always followed by peals of laughter in the family.

  “I see. Well, I may be able to hide Anush and Lucine. Temporarily, of course, until things settle down.”

  His words sting Lucine to the core. She tightens her grip on Bedros’s branch, wishing it were made of steel. Mairig must be shocked at the offer too, because she drops the tray of pastries she is about to serve. Bits of flakey dough and sugared walnuts scatter across the rug. Aram squeals with delight on her hip.

  Mairig’s eyes trace the path where her pastries have fallen. After a long silence, she shakes her head. “I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s a generous offer. I know aiding an Armenian is punishable by death and I thank you, but I don’t think I can bear to leave anyone behind.”

  The governor nods, tucks his worry beads into his sleeve, and rises.

  “I will look after your property until you return. Until then, may Allah be with you.”

  FOR SOMEONE WHO doesn’t want to leave, Mairig moves in a frenzy. She goes from room to room, fussing over their things. She puts things inside the oxcart, then takes them out again. She has Anush and Lucine sew secret pouches into their clothing where they tuck lira, coins, and jewelry. Everything else, they will leave behind. All their treasures—the Oriental rug with red silk, the silver trays that were part of Mairig’s dowry, and the dozens of books that made up the library—will be abandoned. Bedros’s job is to bury some of these in the courtyard.

  Mairig tucks the deed to the house inside one of Hairig’s history books and asks Bedros to bury it separately. Lucine helps Bedros pick a spot in a deep but small hole under the mulberry tree where their father likes to sit. She wonders if Hairig will ever read under that tree again and if anything will ever be as it once was.

  All this preparing feels useful until Lucine remembers what they’re preparing for. She thinks of the chicken women wringing their hands, and the panicked look on the men’s faces when they were called to the so-called meeting
. She is still pondering this point when Mairig calls everyone into the sitting room. She kneels before them, holding on to Bedros’s hand.

  “Listen carefully,” she says. “God willing, we will be back in a few short weeks, but life is unpredictable. We may not return again for a long while. I want each of you to take one thing that will remind you of this place, this house, and our lives here. It should be a small thing. Something you can hide. Something nobody can take away from you.”

  For herself, Mairig takes her New Testament, the one she reads from every morning, the one that can sometimes give her strength and get her out of her dark moods. Anush runs to her dowry chest, where she and Mairig have been collecting rare silks, tablecloths, silver trays, and jewels. She returns holding a small brooch with a large red stone the size of a pea in the center. It isn’t the most valuable one she owns, but it belonged to their grandmother and so it is a good choice.

  Lucine stands before what is left of their library, its shelves stripped of books deemed revolutionary or nationalistic. The gaps between the volumes like missing teeth. Hairig’s collection punched in the mouth. Silenced. Even the poetry books are missing. Somehow Varoujan’s collection with “The Longing Letter” remains exactly where Hairig left it a few days ago. Lucine quickly leafs through the trapped words before slipping Kemal’s drawing between the pages and sliding it under her clothing.

  As for Bedros, he knows exactly what to take. Weeks ago, when the gendarmes barged into the house looking for weapons and other “revolutionary materials,” Mairig was beside herself trying to produce anything that would fit that description. In the end, she gave them Uncle Nazareth’s dagger, all the kitchen knives, and Hairig’s copy of The Broken Lute by Tevfik Fikret. She intended to include Bedros’s slingshot for good measure, but he wailed and screamed until she relented. Victorious, he has been sleeping with the slingshot under his pillow ever since.

  Lucine spots it tucked at the cradle of his back.

  She holds out a pair of pants carefully lined with pockets of gold. “Try these on, will you?”