Anyush (3 page)

Today was one of the longest, most irritating, back-breaking days I have ever spent in a saddle, and one I hope not to repeat for a long time. But I’m running ahead of myself.

Some months have passed since we came to Constantinople and much has happened in that time. Hetty and I have made good friends; we’ve learned Turkish and a smattering of Armenian and Greek; and we are the proud parents of a baby boy, Thomas George Stewart. Three weeks ago, we said goodbye to Elias Riggs and the Morgenthaus, before setting out for Trebizond. Hetty was sorry to leave, and I suppose it is daunting bringing a small baby into the wilds of eastern Turkey, but, I have to admit, I was impatient to get started. We’ve had to bring almost everything we need with us, and I spent weeks organising the shipment of furniture, medical equipment and supplies, as well as provisions for the journey. It was the usual exhaustive round of permits and bribes, but finally it got done and we were under way.

A small coastal frigate by the name of
Mesudiye
brought us along the Black Sea to Trebizond. The Circassian captain told us that the town derived its name from the Greek word
trapezous
meaning ‘table’, and, as he guided the boat into the bay, we could see the ramparts of the old city, built on the flat hilltop, surrounded by a buttressing medieval wall. It was a surprisingly large town and not the backwater I had been expecting. At the dock, a crowd gathered on the quay, and a line of mules and their handlers stood to one side. Waiting for the boat were pedlars, customs officials, baggage handlers, caravan hamals and hangers-on of every description and persuasion. A full head and shoulders above these was a tall, foreign-looking man, whom I guessed to be our contact, an Englishman Elias had arranged would
meet us. But in pride of place, standing at the foot of the gangway, was a local dignitary. He was dressed in a long khameez, with a green girdle wound around his substantial waist, and traditional Turkish slippers. On his head was a turban like a miniature minaret, and his fingers sparkled with a dazzling display of jewelled rings. Two servants held a striped awning above his head, and a rug had been unrolled beneath his feet. He barely glanced at Hetty, but his black eyes never left my face. I was used to people staring by this time, but under this man’s gaze I felt like the dish he was about to eat for supper.

‘
Selamın Aleyküm
,’ I said.

‘
Aleyküm Selam
,’ he replied.

He said no more, and I was unsure if I should bow to him or pay him
bahşiş
or simply walk past.

‘Let me introduce the Vali, His Excellency, the Governor of Trebizond,’ a voice said. The foreign-looking man removed his hat. ‘Sorry … I should introduce myself. Paul Trowbridge.’

Like Riggs, he was tall and thin, his linen suit looking a little the worse for wear and hanging in creases at his elbows and knees. He towered over Hetty and patted Thomas on the cheek.

‘You’re welcome to Trebizond. The Vali was anxious to meet you.’

The great man said something to Trowbridge in a dialect I didn’t understand, and left. It all seemed a great to-do about nothing, but Paul assured us it was otherwise. ‘It’s a mark of honour. Of respect. The Vali doesn’t usually meet foreigners at the quayside.’

‘Does he always behave oddly?’ I asked. ‘Staring like that?’

‘Only when he likes you.’

Paul laughed at my expression and told me a rumour had spread that I had some skill as a dentist. ‘He wants you to pay him a visit. Our esteemed Vali has very bad teeth.’

It took an age for the luggage to be unloaded and repacked onto the mules, so while we were waiting Paul suggested we eat at the local hotel. It was surprisingly
good, run by two French brothers from Bayonne. Over dinner Paul told us a little about himself. After qualifying as a doctor, he decided to travel through Europe, spending time in most of the major cities, before moving on to Athens and then Constantinople. Elias Riggs was his only contact, so he stayed with him in the city and worked there for a couple of years.

‘Not as a missionary,’ he said. ‘I never believed in all that “my God is better than your God” nonsense.’

He apologised then, and said he hoped we didn’t think his views were offensive, but, in fact, I found myself liking Paul Trowbridge more and more. It was Riggs who offered Paul the position in Trebizond when a friend of his, Dr Fred Sheppard, died of typhus, and the authorities were looking for somebody to replace him.

‘How many years are you here?’ Hetty asked.

‘Too many,’ he said. ‘I’ve stopped counting. My parents are dead, and I have only one brother in England, so I rarely go back. This is home really. I hope you’ll come to feel about it as I do.’

I assured him that we would give it our all, and I meant it. During the long trek across Europe I did have doubts about my decision to come to Turkey. From a career point of view, leaving the medical hierarchy was disastrous. Certain people, Hetty’s mother to name but one, thought that from all points of view it was disastrous, but Paul Trowbridge convinced me otherwise. By the time the food and wine arrived, I was congratulating myself on having made the right move.

Before we had finished the meal, Hetty had told Paul a little about what we’d been doing in New York, and I could see they had hit it off immediately. She was charmed by his old-fashioned manners, and he was clearly taken with her unflappability and good humour. I should have taken against him since he is everything I am not: tall, handsome and charming, but it is impossible to dislike Paul Trowbridge. He is amiable, easy company, and we might have been there yet, had the time had not come to leave for Mushar.

The last part of the journey proved to be the most difficult. Paul had warned us
about the army of flies in the mountain pass into the village, but nothing prepared us for them. We had brought wide-brimmed hats with netting and a floppy bonnet for the baby, but they were useless against the onslaught that descended as we rode in single file through the pass. As soon as we hit the treeline, they appeared, and no amount of swatting or netting kept them away. I spent the journey batting at the cloud above my head, and noticed that few of the little bastards appeared to be troubling Paul. After the caravan of horses and mules jangled up the mountain and down the other side, the village of Mushar finally came into view. What a contrast to the glory of Constantinople and the elegant harbour at Trebizond! Dusty, foul-smelling streets, full of yelping dogs and ragged children, buzzed with flies and mosquitoes.

‘
Şapka giyen insanlara gel!
’ the children chanted, which Paul translated as ‘Come see the people wearing hats!’

Black-eyed, brightly dressed children crowded around us, while their mothers drew their scarves over all but one eye and ambled through chickens, lambs and dogs to see for themselves. Many of the children had swollen eyes covered with clusters of black flies and I asked Paul why they didn’t shoo them away.

‘Because they believe that to do so would bring on the eye-sickness. Trachoma. It’s rampant in these parts.’

Trachoma, caused by flies, leads to chronic infection and, if left untreated, would cause blindness in at least half of these children. I watched them run after our horses, clouds of black flies following them. The adults were no better off, and they didn’t try to brush away the flies either. Instead, they made us gifts of fruit, goat’s milk and grapes, huge bunches of them that they pressed into our dusty hands. A woman carrying a baby pressed a bit of blue cloth, with the shape of an eye embroidered on it, into Hetty’s hand, nodding to where Thomas dozed on her back.

‘It’s called the
atchka ooloonk
,’ Paul explained. ‘People carry them to ward off the evil eye.’

The children were wearing blue beads, shells or triangular bundles of cloth,
which had the same symbol and verses from the Koran sewn inside. Hetty leaned down to touch a dark-eyed baby wearing one around her neck, but the woman pulled away, covering the child with her veil.

‘Don’t take it personally,’ Paul said. ‘You must never praise a child because it draws the evil eye to him, and if you forget you must say
Maşallah
, “God has willed it”.’

Mushar, it turns out, is bigger than I first thought, running east to west along the Black Sea coast. Heavily wooded hills reach down almost to the shoreline where pristine, undisturbed white sand gleams in the midday sunlight. The centre of the village is more developed than the outskirts with wooden two- and three-storeyed houses looking onto a reasonably sized square. A Christian church and a mosque dominate either end, and the only other building of note is what looks like a store, with a haphazard jumble of items spilling from an open doorway. Paul led us down a small street, behind the Armenian church, and we turned onto an overgrown, cobbled pathway. At the end of this narrow lane we saw a neat, biscuit-coloured stone house, which looked as though it had been transported fully formed from the English countryside. It was a house such as a child might draw, with a central wooden door surmounted by a small, arched fanlight and two mullioned sash windows on either side. This arrangement is repeated on the second floor, with the addition of an extra window in the middle. The remnants of a garden were visible in the overgrown borders both sides of the door, and old fruit trees blossomed in a little orchard to one side.

‘It’s just wonderful,’ Hetty said.

‘Who on earth would build such a house here?’ I asked.

Paul looked at it as he got down from his horse. ‘It’s called
usuts’ch’I tuny
, “the teacher’s house”. Jane Kent had it built when she taught at the school here.’

‘It reminds me of a house from an English novel,’ Hetty said.

‘That was the idea. It’s supposed to be a model of Jane’s home in Surrey.’

I asked Paul why the teacher had left, but he was preoccupied with unloading the mules and didn’t seem to hear. Inside we walked from room to room.

A small parlour and drawing room look out either side of the front door, while the dining room has a view of the orchard to the rear. A tiny maid’s room leads off one side of the kitchen, and a scullery, pantry and cool room off the other. Upstairs are four modestly sized bedrooms, a dressing room, a bathroom and an airing closet. The privy is in the yard. As you might expect of a building that hasn’t been lived in for some time, it is full of dust, damp and musty odours, but it has a definite charm and could be transformed with a good clean and the appropriate furniture into a comfortable home.

Sometime later, when everyone had gone and we were finally alone, Hetty and I sat exhausted in our two chairs.

‘It’s odd, don’t you think?’Hetty asked.

‘I thought you’d like it.’

‘I meant that Jane Kent should have left. I had the impression that Paul didn’t want to talk about it.’

‘Oh?’

‘Did you notice that he used her first name?’

‘Are you saying there was something between them?’

‘I’m saying that he knows the house better than one might expect.’

‘Perhaps he stayed here?’ I suggested. ‘Or looks after the place?’

‘Perhaps,’ Hetty said. ‘Even though he works in Trebizond, a three-hour journey away.’

I laughed, wondering what Paul would think of our speculations.

It is now well past midnight, and Hetty is urging me to blow out the candle and put my pen away, but I know I won’t sleep. My mind is turning over, making plans. There is so much to learn about this place and so much to do. The small maid’s room off the kitchen would be the perfect spot for my laboratory, and tomorrow I’ll move my equipment in there. It is at least a start.