Authors: Martine Madden
Anyush (18 page)
Mushar
Trebizond
July 15th, 1915
Dear Jahan,
If you receive this and if it is within your power to do so, I beg you to write to me. Rumours about the war are on everyone’s lips, and there is talk of terrible losses suffered by our troops. I have been dreaming the same dream of you lying injured on the battlefield. In my dream I can see you from the top of a hill but I cannot get to you. The nightmare is no worse than my waking one. I am utterly lost. There is so much I need to tell you. Your silence frightens me.
Anyush
Diary of Dr Charles Stewart
Mushar
Trebizond
July 16th, 1915
Today I came as close as I’ve ever been to dismissing Manon. What stopped me is the knowledge that I cannot run the hospital without her, and the fact that she is only partly responsible for what happened.
I arrived at the hospital late, having done an early morning call to Father Gregory who looks to be in the early stages of TB. By the time I got to the hospital I was already concerned that we were running behind with the surgical list and was further disconcerted to discover that the operating theatre was empty. No nurses, no prepared trolleys, no patients. I went to look for Manon, who was in the treatment room removing a cast from an old man’s arm. Outside on the corridor, I asked her where everybody was, specifically the two student nurses, Mari and Patil, whose job it is to prepare the operating theatre. All Manon would say was that the list had been rescheduled for Friday.
‘What do you mean Friday?’ I asked. ‘Why can’t it be done today?’
‘It is better Friday when Anyush is here.’
I reminded her that Anyush was not a nurse, and that I was depending on Mari and Patil, but she would only repeat that they were away. I couldn’t get her to reveal where they were, or why they had gone, until I told her I was going to write to the director of nursing services at the Municipal Hospital to complain.
‘Please, you must not do that.’
‘You leave me very little choice.’
With a look of weary resignation, she informed me that both girls had left the night before for Batum.
‘Batum? In Georgia?’
‘Please do not shout, Dr Stewart. Yes, Georgia.’
I asked her why, and, taking me by the arm, she marched me through a rear door
out to the back of the clinic. Once we were out of earshot, she told me that the girls had been smuggled in a fishing boat across the border to Georgia. The skipper was a friend of Paul’s and he had hidden them in the hold with a consignment of fish.
‘Stop right there,’ I said, a knot of anger unravelling in my stomach. ‘What has this got to do with Paul Trowbridge?’
‘I must ask you again to be quiet, please, Dr Stewart.’
In no uncertain terms, I told her that this hospital was not run by Paul Trowbridge and that I wouldn’t have his paranoia coming between me and my work.
‘He is not paranoid.’
‘What exactly would you call stealing my nurses away in the middle of the night?’
‘I have told you,’ Manon said, regarding me coldly, ‘but you will not listen. Ozhan came to the clinic last week.’
At the back of my mind I vaguely remembered her saying something about Ozhan appearing on some pretext or other, but the details eluded me. Manon said he had talked to the staff, asked them many questions and written down their details. What their name was. Where they were from. Who was Turkish and who was not. She said he spoke to the Armenians most of all, especially Mari and Patil.’
‘Manon,’ I said, trying to control my temper, ‘Ozhan likes to know about everyone. It is typical of the man but no reason to send the staff away.’
‘He does not proposition everyone.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He told Patil she must come to the barracks. If she does not come, she will have the same fate as Havat Talanian.’
I assured Manon that although Ozhan was a bully and liked to intimidate people, there was an understanding between us and he wouldn’t dare harm any of my staff. I knew the man and understood how he operated, but my reasoning appeared not to have the slightest effect on her.
‘There was no need for this,’ I said. ‘How am I to run a hospital without nurses? Why didn’t you come to me first?’
‘I did not consult you, Dr Stewart, because I already knew what you would say.’
Constantinople, 26 July 1915
J
ahan was escorted to Trebizond by Ozhan’s soldiers and put on a naval frigate returning to Constantinople. On board ship he spent restless days cursing his own stupidity and worrying about Anyush. He couldn’t bear to think of what Ozhan might do, and felt utterly helpless to protect her. Dr Stewart afforded her some measure of safety, but it was not nearly enough. A man like Ozhan would not let a foreign giaour come between him and his depraved distractions. Jahan had to get back to the village or find a way to bring Anyush to Constantinople. Every fibre of his being itched to be with her, but as Trebizond receded into the distance, his thoughts began to turn towards home.
Late one sunny afternoon, the ship docked in Constantinople and Jahan felt a rush of joy at returning to the city of his birth. Stepping onto the quayside and seeing Galata Tower looming over Beyoğlu on the far side of the Golden Horn, his spirits rose. But at Army Headquarters nobody seemed to have the first idea what to do with him. He spent an hour waiting to see Enver Pasha, only to be told the War Minister wasn’t in the building. His secretary then directed Jahan up three flights of stairs to where a sullen German colonel presented him with a new command. The men awaited him at Scutari barracks in Üsküdar, a motley corps
of injured veterans who looked as though they would put a knife in his belly sooner than return to the front. Most of them were twice his age, or appeared to be, hardened men whose only certainty was that they would not survive another campaign. Disillusioned and distracted by events in Trebizond, Jahan made his way to his parents’ home in Galata.
The house on the Grande Rue de Pera was surrounded by embassies, schools and churches of Constantinople’s non-Muslim population. In this part of the city, and for the more progressive Turks, French was the common language. Jahan’s family spoke it fluently along with Turkish, English, German and Greek. A facility with languages was a mark of breeding and education, and in Constantinople it was a necessary skill. There was nothing unusual in the fact that every sign and every official document was printed in four languages and sometimes in as many as six. During his stay in Paris, Jahan had been surprised at the uniformity of the city, the genteel absence of mélange. It was this, Constantinople’s teeming variance, that he loved the most.
Jahan paid the toll to cross Galata bridge and strolled into the Grande Rue past the Bon Marché store. Ladies in elaborate hats were gossiping in the shade of the arches and Jahan tipped his cap at them. On this street the Turkish men were distinguishable from the Europeans only by the wearing of the fez, still more popular than the bowler.
Seven-year-old Tansu, the youngest of Jahan’s sisters, came running into his arms when Azize opened the door.
‘You’re home! He’s home! Jahan’s home!’ she said, squeezing him hard around the neck. ‘Are you back for good? Did you bring me something?’
‘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.
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 …’