The Hakawati (19 page)

“Some of the girls were veiled, most were not. Muslims, Christians, Turks, Arabs, Armenians, Kurds, they came for a glimpse of heaven. But one kept coming back again and again. She knew his schedule. She wasn’t allowed to get close to him, so she began to talk to him from across the pool, across the street, making a fool of herself. She didn’t follow the well-worn laws of discretion. She arrived early and waited anxiously for him, standing as if her knees were unsure they could support her weight. And when Murat appeared, dressed in his glorious dervish outfit, she yelled, ‘Look at me!’ The boy was so devout he didn’t hear or see her. That is the greatest and deepest wound for a girl of fifteen, and that’s how old my half-sister was.

“My father was the shah of his realm, and, like most shahs, he had no inkling that the realm was imploding. Did he notice the simmering stew of war? Did he feel the tension in the world? Did he hear the dying gasps of empire? Did he realize that the city’s Turks had begun
to regard him and his English family suspiciously? Obviously, he was on a mission. God had sent him to minister to the poor Christians in Urfa, and that was what he was doing. Did he notice that the people he was ministering to were getting poorer? The Armenians of the area were not being hired anymore. Did he notice that many more were having ‘accidents’? He was spreading the word of God. He was ministering to a people but didn’t realize how terrified they were growing. Did he feel the tension between the Turks and the Armenians?

“Did he feel the tensions at home? Did he see his daughters growing up? He didn’t realize his elder daughter, Joan, was of marriageable age until she turned sixteen and his wife had to point out that there were no eligible husbands for her daughter in Urfa. He suggested she could wait for another year, and if not, he could send her to his wife’s sister in Sussex. His wife didn’t know what to do. She tried to point out that the world they knew was disappearing, that the Urfa they knew was disappearing, that the daughters they knew were disappearing. But the doctor had a job to do, a job that meant something, a job that defined who he was.

“And he paid no mind to Barbara the troubled. Barbara hated me, just like her sister and her mother did. She was closer to me in age, only five years’ difference, so her insults were more humiliating. What still upsets me to this day is that every now and then a few Muslim boys would call her names—infidel, unbeliever—and she’d get melancholy, weep for days on end, but then she’d turn around and call me an orphan bastard. She wasn’t always melancholy. Often she’d get excited about one thing or another—a game she’d played, a new dress she wanted. She would jump like a bunny while talking. She talked faster than anyone I’ve known.

“Once, I got stuck in the mulberry tree. I was young, maybe five, maybe six. I had climbed the tree for some fruit and ended up on a branch with my rear end higher than my head. My legs dangled from either side of the branch. I got scared and froze in place. I was relieved when Barbara saw me, because I thought she would get help, but instead she got a cane. I don’t know why she did it. She whipped my bare feet and laughed. I couldn’t lift my legs for fear of falling, and she didn’t stop whipping my soles. I cried so hard that Zovik came out running. She tried to take the cane away, and Barbara turned on the maid. She caned Zovik. She hit Zovik over and over until she tired. She threw the cane at Zovik and went into the house.

“Of course, I avoided Barbara after that. I tried to be anywhere she was not. And once I began to work, that became less and less difficult. Before she finally turned to me for help, I probably hadn’t spoken to her in over two years, and that’s while living in the same pious house.

“She was in love, she told me, and I must help her. She said her heart was afire and she needed a go-between, a boy to inform her boy of the possibility of love. This wasn’t some lovely fairy tale. Do you think I’m crazy? In the middle of her confession, I turned around and bolted. But where could I go? She was my half-sister. She came after me the second day. ‘You must help me. I have no one else. I will die, and it will be your fault.’ I scampered away again. I spent one night at the Masal; the next night I slept on Mehmet’s roof. Poor Anahid was worried sick. She screamed at me when she saw me. Then Barbara screamed at me. I ran again and stayed away for about two weeks. But Barbara forgot about me the same way she remembered me. All of a sudden, I was no longer part of her grand scheme. I didn’t try to find out what her new plans were, but by the time I returned to sleeping at home, Poor Anahid and Zovik had heard about Barbara and Murat. Now, you have to remember that Barbara was still only stalking Murat, and the poor boy hadn’t yet acknowledged her existence. He must have known, I think, because the other boys must have told him. Whether it was so or not, he didn’t look at her. And everybody began to talk. One day, a Turkish boy approached Barbara. If she was willing to love Murat, why could she not love him? He might not be as beautiful as Murat, but he could reciprocate, and he certainly could please her. Horrified, she slapped the boy and bolted home. The next day, another boy approached, and another. She stopped running away and ignored her new suitors.

“The city of Urfa had nothing but Barbara to talk about. Mehmet asked me if I had slept with the crazy English maiden. Hagop wondered if it was true that she walked around naked in the house. The boys wanted to know if her father had his way with her every Wednesday. The English, her mother and father, were of course the last to know.

“Barbara finally did the unthinkable. She waited until Murat finished his duties, and, in full view of all the other boys, she walked up to him and declared her eternal love. And he listened. Now, Barbara was not the most attractive of girls, but she wasn’t ugly, either. It wasn’t about beauty for the boy. I assume he was flattered: not many boys are
chosen. Being the honorable person he was, he informed her that there was no hope for love. He was a Muslim and she a foreigner. She said he didn’t have to do anything other than allow her to gaze at him. Even if she could not possess him, even if she only walked beside his shadow, she would die fulfilled.

“The following day, Barbara resumed her passion and her position. And now he paid attention. Soon they were seen walking together. Soon they were walking unseeing. They paid naught but each other any mind. Soon the tongues of Urfa walked as well, and the scandal of all scandals erupted. And so did our house. Her perplexed father tried to talk to her. When her mother found out, she caned Barbara and locked her in her room. Her mother left the rattan leaning outside the door to remind the household that Barbara was in for another round. But Barbara, crazy Barbara, wouldn’t bend. She yelled and wept in her room. Apparently, that was nothing compared with what happened to Murat. He began to turn up at watch with black eyes and was unable to stand erect for the duration of the sacred guard shift. He neglected his studies of the Koran. He no longer had time for friends. He stopped twirling.

“What is it about unfulfilled love that turns its flames to infernos? No lock, no house, no rain, no sandstorm, no parent, and certainly no religion could keep the boy from being seen on certain nights atop the stone wall only paces away from her window, declaiming his obsessive love for Barbara in verse. She was seen in the streets not too far from her house, her mother dragging her back by any means at her disposal. ‘Why?’ Barbara was heard to wail. ‘Why am I forbidden one glimpse of my beloved?’

“This went on for months and months. Barbara and Murat were seen holding hands in the ruins of the Crusader castle. They stared forlornly into each other’s eyes behind the great mosque. I admit that I once carried a letter from Murat to Barbara. As I was leaving home to wash after feeding pigeons all day, he approached me and pleaded. I couldn’t refuse. Barbara forgave me all my past sins.

“ ‘I can’t keep her in chains,’ her mother said. ‘Begin packing,’ her father replied. ‘We’ll leave by the end of the year.’

“The leaves of my familiar life had begun to yellow.

“That year—I was eleven—it became obvious early on that it was to be the year of the great pigeoneer Eshkhan again. He was dominating the
war. His peşenk seemed invincible. Short orange feathers rose in odd angles on the top of his head—hence his name, Bsag, which means ‘crown.’ He led attacks into other flocks that caused chaos worthy of Judgment Day. Veterans of the wars lost more birds that year than in all ten previous seasons combined. Eshkhan’s flock would ascend into the skies, and descend with twice their number. In one memorable battle, three pigeoneers lost their peşenks, which was a first as far as anyone could recall. Envy reared her poisonous head. How was he doing it? What was his secret? At the Çardak Café, the pigeoneers moaned and groaned. It wasn’t fair. Half of them could no longer compete, and the other half had no chance of winning. And the great Eshkhan laughed at all of them.

“By the time March came along, Mehmet had lost almost half his team. He pretended that he wasn’t upset, but he beat the assistants at the merest provocation. If one of his pigeons fell out of the sky, he beat me because I didn’t feed it well. If the coop wasn’t spotless every second of the day, he beat the shit-cleaner. One afternoon, Eshkhan’s peşenk attacked Mehmet’s team, and Mehmet flew into a rage. He began to scream across the roofs, ‘How could you? I have nothing to fight you with. It’s over. What’s the point if not to humiliate me?’ And, of course, that was the point—that was the point of any war.

“And Mehmet remembered that war is never meant to be fought fairly. The next day, he searched and searched and bought the comeliest hen in the land. It was an old trick, a very old trick, and Eshkhan’s peşenk fell for it. When Eshkhan’s team flew above Mehmet’s roof, Hagop, grasping the hen by its tiny legs, raised his hands in the air. The pigeon fluttered its wings. Bsag saw the bait. He broke out of formation, circled above the roof, and landed on the ledge to investigate: Is this a beauty I see before me? Now, having a pigeon land on your roof and capturing it are two different things, especially a cock as wily as a peşenk. You can’t allow him to see the net that will capture him, and since Bsag landed on the ledge, we couldn’t approach him from behind. Still, the first assistant tried. He jumped clumsily and fell on his face, and the peşenk flew back up to the clouds. Of course, the boy received a beating.

“But—before Bsag escaped, I saw his secret. I discovered the source of his power. On the pigeon’s white-feathered chest hung the most beautiful ornament I had ever seen: a tiny turquoise Fatima’s hand that warded off any evil.

“There was a big fight at the café. Eshkhan called Mehmet a lowlife, among other things. Mehmet returned the insult. Eshkhan punched Mehmet and bloodied his nose. Mehmet was unable to return the blow, because he was held back. Eshkhan yelled, ‘Let’s see you try that again. Do you think my cock will fall for that old trick a second time?’

“He did. Bsag landed on the ledge, and the same thing happened. When the first assistant tried to capture it, the bird flew away. There was another brawl at the café. On the third night, three veterans with their own nets joined our group. Everybody wanted Eshkhan to lose. They waited for the peşenk to land. He did, on the ledge again. No one moved, for fear of frightening him. The veterans stalked. I whistled. I whistled exactly the way Eshkhan whistled, exactly the way he directed his peşenk. I didn’t know what the signals were, but my whistling was enough to confuse the poor bird. Bsag looked at me, uncomprehending, and a net descended upon him. The veteran who captured him unleashed a victory cry up to the skies.

“Mehmet took Bsag out of the net, cut off his head with a serrated knife, and threw the still-shuddering body onto the street.

“Barbara had begun to calm down. She was sixteen now, and I figured she was becoming more mature. She asked me to bring home some matches from the Masal Café, saying she needed more than were available in the house. I couldn’t refuse such a simple request. After all, there were enough matches in the house to burn it down, so I assumed she wanted them for something inconsequential.

“The evening Eshkhan lost the pigeon war and his peşenk was killed, I stole one hundred matches from the Masal and gave them to Barbara. She kissed me. That was the first time anybody other than Poor Anahid or Zovik had kissed me. I watched her break the phosphorus tip of each match and swallow it. After the fourth or fifth, I asked her what she was doing. She waved me away with a dismissive flick of the wrist. She swallowed the tips one by one.

“The house woke up to the sound of her crying and retching. Poor Anahid, Zovik, and I huddled in the doorway and watched as her father tried to examine her, as her sister tried to comfort her, as her mother tried to talk to her. Barbara had the yellowest skin I had ever seen.

“And Zovik whispered, ‘You don’t trample upon fate. Evil will close its circle.’

“Barbara vomited and vomited. Her sister was holding her. Her mother began to cry. She called out, ‘Barbara, Barbara, talk to me. What’s going on?’ But she wouldn’t touch her daughter. When the doctor noticed the broken matches on the ground and under the bed, he moaned, ‘Oh, no.’ Her mother saw, and the first word out of her mouth was a strident ‘Whore.’

“Barbara vomited some more. Her father whimpered, ‘You didn’t have to take so many.’ He looked vanquished. His eyes seemed to be melting. Her mother’s eyes were afire. ‘How could you do this? How could you be so disloyal? How could you betray your faith?’ she hollered.

“ ‘If you had only told me,’ the doctor said. ‘You are my child. For you, I would have done it. For you, I would have gotten rid of the baby.’

“Barbara had trouble breathing. Her life evaporated before our eyes. She clutched her father’s wrist. She said, ‘I did not pleasure him enough,’ and gasped her last breath.

“Of course, I didn’t go to work that day. The doctor’s wife went crazy. She went to her room and began to pack. ‘I am leaving hell,’ she said. Thank God, no one asked where Barbara had gotten the matches. But then the doctor’s wife came up to me and yelled, ‘You live while your better died. I want you out of this house.’ She moved toward me, but Poor Anahid quickly shoved me behind her. The doctor’s wife slapped Poor Anahid and retreated to her room.