Orhan's Inheritance (17 page)

The governor has allowed a few men to accompany their families as a gesture intended for the benefit of Miss Graffam and the foreign missionaries who, everyone knows, correspond with the West. Miss Graffam stunned Muammer Bey when she announced she would be “braving the journey with these good Christians.” Every so often, Lucine turns her head toward the tail end of the caravan, where Miss Graffam follows them in her smart hat and sturdy gait. Her presence is a kind of declaration, that their lives matter, that Hairig’s life mattered.

Lucine’s own men are lost somewhere where she can never reach them. Hairig in a shallow mass grave she hasn’t told anyone about, Uncle Nazareth in a labor camp or worse, and Kemal in a cloud of rage and rejection. When Lucine thinks about how she hurt him, it’s not so much pity that she feels, but shame. Kemal is not like other men. He is soft and gentle, fragile even. She knows she’s crushed him, but there was no other way to say no to him. When a gentle never-ending stream flows down toward you, slow and persistent, there is only one way to stop it, with a strong, resolute barrier like a dam, something that does not permeate or negotiate. She built a dam right there in the courtyard.

The sun ducks behind the distant hills and the sky darkens. The marching slows to a halt, and though they are too far to be heard, Lucine assumes the gendarmes have ordered them to stop. There are six soldiers in all, meant to escort and perhaps even protect the two thousand deportees. The two who ride horseback have colorful patches sewn onto their coats and must be officers. They wear proper uniforms made of khaki cloth, caps made of closely curled gray fur and sturdy boots that ride all the way up to their calves. They hold themselves erect in their saddles, punctuating both ends of the long line of marchers.

The other four have no horse or proper uniform to speak of. Their dusty coats hang loose about the shoulders and their trousers sag heavily in the middle. They curse as they hold their weapons at the ready, fingering them with self-importance. Rumor is that these four are not gendarmes at all, but a ragtag bunch of criminals newly released.

Clusters of families squat down to rest in the human chain that stretches across the plain. The Melkonians are near the end of this long line of displaced families, flanked on both sides by familiar faces from their village. Where once they shared a pot of tea or a choice piece of gossip, now their only commonality is the concern for survival. The gendarmes on horseback dismount and tie their animals to a pair of thin pomegranate trees that would serve better as whips than posts. If they were so inclined, the horses could easily walk away with the saplings in tow. Lucine wonders if it is fear and obedience that makes them stay, or exhaustion? She wonders the same thing about the deportees, who are busy building makeshift camps with the last rays of the setting sun.

Shrouds of dignity muffle complaints about hunger, but thirst is another matter. The missionary passes her goatskin to any who ask. Mairig’s god would like that. And though he has been anything but kind, Lucine thinks it smart to appease him just now. She has no goatskin, only a clay jug more fit for a formal meal. She pours water into cupped palms, and her heart grows heavier with each pouring.

While the two ranking officers rest, the other four gendarmes march off to the east of the encampment, goatskins in hand. On their way back, they use both hands to carry their vessels, now heavy with water. Lucine carries her own empty jug to Firat, knowing the officers wouldn’t deny a Muslim man some water. Firat is resting behind the oxcart, far enough from the family to allow for privacy but close enough to offer protection. He has taken off his vest and shoes and is prostrating himself in the direction of Mecca. When his incantations cease, Lucine clears her throat. She extends the empty jugs toward him.

“At your service,
hanim,
” he says, taking the jug and bowing his head.

“There seems to be a spring or fountain to the east of that little hill. It isn’t far,” she adds, by way of apology for disrupting him.

“Of course. Should I take Bedros along?” he asks.

“No.” Mairig’s voice comes from behind Lucine. How long has she been standing there?

Mother and daughter watch as Firat marches up the little hill. “Let’s hope he returns,” Mairig says.

“He will,” Lucine says.

“He’ll have to answer to your father if he doesn’t.” There is power in Mairig’s voice, a certainty that comes from knowing Hairig would do anything to protect them. Lucine considers telling Mairig the awful news. That Hairig is dead, buried somewhere with other men of the village, that he isn’t coming and won’t be reprimanding or protecting anyone. But the words will not form themselves in her mouth.

She stands near Mairig, watching Firat walking against the pale orange color of dusk. He moves briskly past the gendarme’s camp, but one of the soldiers stands up and follows him. It is one of the lower-ranking, bootless men. Lucine recognizes him: a young thick-lipped gendarme, prone to screaming obscenities at lagging elderly marchers. He says something to Firat they can’t quite make out, something about “helping those dogs.” Whatever it is, it makes the others erupt in laughter. Two more soldiers head toward Firat and soon all three are slapping and kicking him. The water jug crashes to the ground and a soldier crushes it with his foot. The gendarmes step away from Firat’s crouched body. One gives him a final kick in the groin. In the next instant, Firat is hobbling away, holding his abdomen with both arms. He doesn’t look back at his assailants, the crushed water jug, or the two women he swore to protect. He simply disappears.

Mairig tries to usher Lucine back to camp, but she stands perfectly still, watching the spot where Firat once was. She should never have asked him to get the water.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “He’ll be fine. And your father should be coming along soon with more provisions.”

The neat French twist of hair at the back of Mairig’s neck has come undone, wisps of stray hair float about her temples. She smells of day old milk and dry earth.

“He isn’t coming,” Lucine says.

“Of course he is coming. As soon as they release him.”

Lucine shakes her head no.

“He’s not like the others, Lucine. He’s got connections. He will bribe the governor . . .” Mairig’s mouth is active, but her eyes go blank. They sink deeper into their sockets, retracting from the world.

“Kemal saw it.” It is all Lucine can manage, but it is enough.

Mairig does not wail or moan. She does not scream or ask questions. She simply stares, slack-jawed, into Lucine’s face. Three sharp exhales escape her parted lips, as if an invisible djinn is pumping the very life out of her body. And just like that, Mairig’s spirit is back in her bed, refusing to get up.

THAT NIGHT, MAIRIG
sits motionless at their makeshift camp, holding the now useless silver cup. Anush spreads a
yorgan
on the floor and gives each of them a generous portion of dried figs and cheese. Lucine is trying in vain to swaddle Aram when she spies the silver vessel in Mairig’s hand. It is a ridiculous bit of finery for those who sleep in the dirt and don’t even own a water jug.

Bedros pulls at the fabric of his already-loose dress and wedges a piece of cheese into his mouth. The rest of the men in her life have disappeared overnight and now, little by little, Bedros is disappearing as well, by a few kilos a week. Seeing the morsel slide down her younger brother’s throat gives Lucine some comfort.

“Where are we going?” Bedros, scowling, directs his question to Mairig.

“I don’t know,” she answers, her eyes looking past him.

“Will we have proper quarters soon?” Anush asks.

“I don’t know.”

“Why do I have to be in a dress?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know!” Mairig’s voice pierces the night air and attracts the attention of the thick-lipped gendarme who takes large, authoritative steps toward them. Soon he is standing above the family with his bayonet pointing down. His lower lip hangs fat and low, like a hound’s. Mairig tucks her chin into her chest and goes quiet.

“Shut her face or I’ll shut it for you,” the hound says to no one in particular. His glance is met by the only pair of eyes willing to look up. The gendarme, whose hair is still wet from his visit to the spring, uses the tip of his weapon to raise Lucine’s chin up.

“Well, well, what is this?” he says, panting.

There is a long and uncomfortable silence, when no one is willing or able to answer him. Finally, Berberian the butcher, the lover of feet, wedges himself between the sisters and addresses the soldier.

“So sorry, effendi. She is just tired,” he says, crouching between Anush and Lucine.

The hound uses his bayonet to peel wisps of Lucine’s hair away from her face.

“You think you are better than us,
g
â
vur
? With your tasseled oxcart and your servants?”

“No, no, effendi,” answers Mr. Berberian, placing a protective arm around each girl. “I will see to it that things stay quiet,” he adds, looking up at the uniformed young man whose mouth is ajar and whose eyes remain on Lucine’s face.

“Next time you need water, you get it yourself and only with my permission,” he says, lowering his bayonet and walking away.

“Thank you,” Lucine whispers. Mr. Berberian nods at her before returning to his wife. They stay quiet after that. Cloaked in stillness brought on by fear, even the ox yields to the night.

The family has never slept outdoors before, and Lucine is surprised at how easy it is. Sometimes, on hot summer nights, the children would observe the rest of the villagers sleeping on their flat roofs and beg and plead with Mairig to let them do the same, but she would never allow it, saying, “We are not animals, and besides, our roof is not flat.” Lucine looks at her family now lying on the cold ground, wrapped in shawls and thickly woven
yorgan
s and wonders how many nights they will spend under the stars. Bedros, whose angular bones are visible even under the woolen folds of his blanket, stares back at her, his eyes a pair of burning coals. She silently wills him to fall asleep and he does, the permanent scowl still on his face. In contrast, Aram’s sleeping face cracks open in the kind of smile that Iola says means he’s conversing with angels.

“Tell Hairig to help us,” she whispers in his ear.

EARLY THE NEXT
morning, Lucine lies on her back, watching clusters of stars disappear, much like her world, a little at a time. Anush rises with the sun and offers apples for breakfast. When Bedros refuses them, their big sister cocks her head to one side, saying, “You know, Bedros, if you don’t stop scowling, we will never find you a handsome husband.” She laughs at the joke, leaving Lucine to marvel at her sister’s frivolity.

Anush’s laughter irks Mairig. She spills some of their remaining water onto the dry dirt and starts rubbing the thick mud paste into Lucine’s cheeks.

“Come here. You too,” she says to Anush, but her older daughter shrinks away from her.

“Come here now,” Mairig commands, tousling up Anush’s hair and pulling out her modest ribbons before smearing her face with mud.

“What are you doing?” Anush says.

“They take the pretty ones,” Mairig says.

CHAPTER 19

The Road to Kangal

WHEN THE GENDARMES
give the marching orders on the third morning of the journey, it is with a great deal of cursing and yelling. Perhaps they too wish to be anywhere but here. As for the deportees, they look more and more like sheep, walking one after the other, their arms hanging like wet wool at their sides. Aram lies listless on the wagon bed. Lucine and Anush sit near him, their thrice-shielded faces covered by soil, bonnets, and the shelter of the oxcart.

Bedros sits tall in Firat’s old seat, the oxcart’s reins held in each hand. Mairig slouches next to him, and his left shoulder is a shelf for her head. The scorching sun beats down, amplifying the deep creases in her brow and cheeks. Hers is a face made for the indoors, for piano recitals and books of poetry. What would Hairig do if he saw her like this, looking more and more like a sheepherder’s wife, her Parisian face cream abandoned in one corner of the house?
She looks like all the rest.
All the things that made her float above everyone else in Sivas have disappeared, eroded by the instinct of survival. Lucine looks away, choosing instead to count the sacks of bulgur in their cart. If they eat only a handful a day, they can survive for a week, maybe more.

The landscape unfolding before them is a glorious reminder of lighter days. The rolling hills are like yards of amber and jade silk draped over a voluptuous body. Patches of purple flowers decorate the tops of rounded peaks, and a carpet of honey-colored grass covers most of the earth, so the marchers are no longer immersed in dust. The farmers among them agree that where there is grass, there is irrigation and possibly a village or town.

“It is the road to Kangal,” says Arsineh, the butcher’s wife, pressing a palm to her swollen belly. She speaks of the large family she has there, of their wealth and generosity. This lifts the spirit of all those within hearing distance and they pass the good news down the long line of marchers. Perhaps water and warm food will be available for them there. Some dream of a khan where beds of straw and hay might be found. Others ready their hidden coins for bribing and a bit of trade at the local bazaar. But instead of following the main route into the town, the gendarmes lead them into the hills outside its periphery. The road to Kangal disappears like a tight seam in the landscape.

The deportees’ spirits sink to a new low. Lucine looks down at her book. She cracks it open and, hoping for comfort, begins deciphering the English words. There are words about spreading God’s word to the four corners of the world, letters and short articles about different schools where his message is taught, alongside algebra and home economics. She hopes the people who wrote the book, the same ones who sent Miss Graffam, will soon send food and water.

Lucine removes Kemal’s drawing from the book and studies it anew. The river and moon are rendered microscopically in the irises of her eyes. She notices a cluster of mulberries tucked behind the waves of her hair. There is so much here she didn’t see before. Lucine folds the paper again and again until it is small enough to tuck near her breastbone, away from the world and all its miseries.