Authors: Martine Madden
Anyush (2 page)
‘I’ll show you. I’m going to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget.’
Hobbling over to the barn, he went inside and came out carrying a length of rope.
‘Hold her!’
‘Hanim–’
‘I said hold her.’
He fashioned the rope into a noose and threw the free end over a bough of the oak tree. ‘Bring the boy here.’
‘No … please God, no.’
Anyush’s knees began to buckle, but the soldiers held her upright. Kevork
groaned when he was pulled to his feet and dragged over to the tree.
‘Please …’ Anyush begged. ‘Please, I’m sorry … I beg you.’
By the barn, Havat screamed her brother’s name. ‘Kevo … Kevo!’
The Ferret tied the boy’s hands behind his back and put the noose around his neck, pulling it tight. Pressure from the rope brought the boy to his senses and he swayed on his feet, the breath rasping through his mouth.
‘Are you watching, bitch?’
Holding the other end of the rope, the Ferret pulled harder so that Kevork was balanced on the tops of his shoes. His face turned red and then began to darken. Yanking the rope again, the Ferret watched Anyush’s face as the boy struggled to breathe.
‘Don’t like what you see? Not so brave now, are you?!’
Kevork’s mouth was open and his tongue was pushing past his lips. Anyush sobbed as Havat covered her eyes.
‘This is only the start of it, bitch. Your turn next.’
‘Hanim!’
Two soldiers on horseback rode into the yard. The Ferret dropped the rope and Anyush ran to Kevork who collapsed on the ground.
‘What’s going on?’
‘We were attacked, Captain Orfalea. We only wanted to take the goose, but they turned on us with a pitchfork.’
The captain looked around. He was younger than some of the others and noticeably different. His uniform was neat and well cut, and his boots were polished. He didn’t wear a moustache or beard, and his straight black hair was unusually long.
‘You were attacked,’ he said contemptuously. ‘Five of you. By two girls and a boy.’
The soldiers looked uneasy, but the Ferret stared sullenly. ‘I wasn’t going to hurt him. Just scare him a bit.’
The captain went to where Kevork lay on the ground. The boy’s nose was broken, his face bruised and swollen, and red rope burns ringed his neck.
‘Lieutenant, escort these men back to base.’
‘She attacked me,’ the Ferret said. ‘I’ve a right to defend myself.’
‘And throw Corporal Hanim in detention until I decide to let him out.’
The soldiers left, following the lieutenant down the lane, and the captain walked over to where Anyush was crouched over Kevork.
‘Is he alright?’
Anyush nodded. She helped Kevork to sit and loosened the collar of his shirt. The captain looked around the yard, at the broken glass and the mutilated goose.
‘Keep the boy indoors for a while and maybe stay away from pitchforks next time.’
Anyush got unsteadily to her feet. ‘Next time I’ll put it in his belly.’
Diary of Dr Charles Stewart
Constantinople
April 14th, 1900
We arrived in Constantinople two weeks ago as the rain pelted down and I thought I was back in wintry New York. Hetty and I were both exhausted from travelling but we were relieved to see Elias Riggs waiting for us at the quayside. I’m not sure what I had been expecting of an ageing American missionary, but I really didn’t think he would be so energetic or so tall. He’s been working as a doctor in the Empire for over forty years, and when I told him about my plans for trachoma research, he seemed more interested in telling me about the times of religious services in the area. The man is very devout which makes for a certain awkwardness between us. I did of course take this job as a ‘missionary’ doctor but, as Hetty pointed out when I first proposed coming here, I’m an atheist and she’s Jewish. We do go to services occasionally, some of them at least, but I think Elias already suspects I’m not what he thought I was. For a while, it looked like he was going to send us home, but it turns out he badly needs help at the clinics and he’s already very fond of Hetty.
Our final destination is to be a small village in the Trebizond area on the Black Sea coast. From what I’ve learned, the place is pretty remote but not that far from Trebizond city, a large town and an important sea port. The village is at the centre of one of the most badly infected trachoma districts in the country, so a lot of hard work awaits us.
For the moment, we’re living on Istiklal Avenue in Pera. It’s not exactly luxurious, but it is clean and serviceable and on the European side of the Bosphorus. Just three rooms which come with a Greek kitchen maid, a Turkish hamal (or jack of all trades) and a Polish cook. Hetty, my khanum or lady as she’s called here, is in her element. She cannot practise as a doctor because women doctors are only allowed work in the harems, but she’s up early most mornings sketching the ruins in old
Constantinople. Her fascination with the city is understandable. The Whore of the Orient certainly lives up to her name and is magnificent and tawdry in equal measure. On any given street there are sights to take your breath away, the grandeur of the Hagia Sophia church or the opulence of the Topkapi Palace, while around the corner vermin-ridden slums spring up in the ruins of buildings levelled by the earthquake of 1894. Paris in miniature extends along the elegant boulevards on the European side of the Bosphorus, while on the eastern side women in full purdah walk three paces behind their husbands and the Prophet reigns supreme. As Elias says, it is a city of contradiction and contrast.
We’ve already made good friends in Henry Morgenthau, the American Ambassador, and his wife, Josephine. They’re Jewish, so Hetty feels right at home, and Henry is a stimulating and interesting character. He entertains royally and has a very fine cellar, so it amuses him that a ‘poor missionary doctor’ should be partial to a good claret. The Morgenthaus know everyone in Constantinople, from the diplomats to young men on the Grand Tour, and they seem intent on introducing us to all of them. We will be seeing more of the Morgenthaus in the immediate future now that Hetty is expecting in the autumn and our travel plans have been put on hold. The delay is unavoidable but frustrating, although it seems we would have had to wait for travel permits anyhow. In this country it is impossible to work, build or do the smallest thing without them. Elias counsels me to be patient. He tells me that when he first came here the old Sultan would not allow foreign reading material or gas lighting for fear of corrupting his subjects. He bids me to remember that I, at least, can read and have lamps to see by. Amen to that!
W
here the trees thin out on the northern promontory the river bends in a wide arc towards the sea, and the flow of water slows to a pool. The surface is broken by jutting grey boulders like bathing giants, and it is here the village women come to do their laundry. Anyush and her mother walked in silence towards the river, each carrying a basket. Voices and the sound of wet clothes slapping against the rocks drifted towards them as they rounded the bend.
‘
Barev
, Anyush.
Barev dzez
, Bayan Charcoudian.’
Parzik Setian was standing in the shallows beside Sosi, her arm waving in salute as she called out to Anyush and her mother. Both girls had their skirts tucked into their waistbands and clothes in the water under their feet. On a rock nearby Havat sat by herself, her legs dangling in the water. Anyush’s mother barely acknowledged them and upended the clothes from her basket onto the bank. She took off her boots and stockings and hitched up her skirts as she waded into the river.
‘What are you gawping at them for?’ she snapped at her daughter. ‘You think those clothes will wash themselves?’
Anyush tipped out the contents of her basket and sat down to take off her stockings and boots. The clothes belonged to their landlord, Kazbek
Tashjian, and his son, Husik. They were filthy and reeked of things Anyush didn’t like to think about. Taking a cake of soap and a shirt, she dipped it in the cool water, scrubbed it, beat it hard, then laid it out on the high rocks to dry. Mother and daughter worked side by side for a time, without speaking, Anyush struggling to match her mother’s pace. Khandut Charcoudian was wiry and strong, with a strength belied by her small size. Since her husband had died, it was she who hammered and sawed and climbed the roof to repair the wood tiles. She took pride in her ability to dig trenches, and hang gates, and take on whatever task needed to be done. Gohar, Anyush’s grandmother, looked after the small vegetable garden, and Anyush took on whatever chores brought in extra money and most of those that didn’t. In her mother’s eyes, it was never enough. If it were not for Khandut Charcoudian, she liked to remind them, they would be walking the roads and they were lucky to have her. What Anyush felt about her mother had little to do with luck. Nothing satisfied the woman or gave her any pleasure. She was vexed by life in general and by her daughter in particular.
‘Pssssst …’
Parzik beckoned. Anyush nodded and looked over to where her mother was wringing soapy water from a pair of trousers.
‘I’m going to wish Parzik luck,’ she said. ‘Her mother’s started on her wedding dress.’
‘Make it quick,’ Khandut replied, without looking at her.
Parzik stood in the water, hands on her hips, looking like a half-submerged colossus. She was very tall for a girl, her height accentuated by her thinness and her unusually long neck. Her thick black hair was wound around her head in girlish braids, but her beak-like nose had earned her the nickname ‘
t’Rchun
’, the bird. She was not pretty as Anyush and Sosi were, but she had full breasts and wide hips that had appeared, as if by magic, two years before. Parzik was the only one of Anyush’s friends engaged to
be married, and Vardan Aykanian, a local plasterer and her second cousin, was to be the groom. Spared conscription and the army because of his work on the local barracks, he was one of the few young men left in the village.
‘I heard what happened,’ Parzik said.
‘Shhh! My mother doesn’t know. How’s Kevork?’ Anyush asked, turning to Sosi.
‘All right.’
‘And Havat?’
The three girls looked over to Sosi’s sister staring at her reflection in the water.
‘She cries a lot. I haven’t told her yet that Kevo is gone.’
‘Gone? Where?’
‘My mother is taking him to my uncle in Ordu. They left for Trebizond this morning.’
Anyush looked at the river, the slow-moving water broadening its reach towards the sea.
‘What will you do?’ Sosi asked.
‘Me?’
‘That soldier knows what you look like. It’s not safe for you either.’
‘The captain seemed fair,’ Parzik said. ‘Lucky for Kevork he came when he did.’
‘He’s a Turk,’ Anyush said. ‘They’re all the same.’
‘I’m only saying, if he’s around then you don’t have to worry.’
‘My brother was almost hanged,’ Sosi said. ‘You think we don’t have to worry?’
‘That’s not what I meant. Look … Anyush will be fine and I’m going to be married. We need to celebrate a little.’ She grinned, pointing to herself. ‘Bayan Vardan Aykanian, that’ll be me.’
‘If Vardan will have you,’ Sosi said.
‘He’ll be lucky to have me! A laying hen, unlike certain chickens I know.’
Sosi splashed Parzik and started to laugh. It caught her friend by surprise. Cold water ran down Parzik’s chest and drenched her blouse. Recovering quickly, she skimmed the surface of the river with her large hands, wetting Sosi and Anyush into the bargain. They were laughing now, and Havat got up from her perch on the rocks to join them. River water splashed everywhere and, in the excitement, Anyush forgot about her mother. But Khandut was already drenched, the sleeve and skirt of her dress soaked. With the noise and the laughter, it was a while before Anyush realised someone was calling her. She turned to see her mother whirling a wet shirt above her head which she flicked in her direction. But Parzik had crossed in front of Anyush, and the wet sleeve coiled like a snake around her long neck. Her hands flew to her throat, to try and loosen it, and she lost her footing, falling helplessly into the river. Gasping for breath, Parzik struggled to her feet, thoroughly soaked.
‘
Khoz
!’ she spat at the older woman. ‘Pig!’
Khandut turned her back to them.
‘Madwoman! You’re mad!’
‘Parzik–’
‘Leave me be,’ she said, pulling away from Anyush.
With Havat on one side and Sosi on the other, Parzik waded over to the bank, wiping water from her face. The three girls gathered their things and left. Anyush wanted to weep with shame. Her mother
was
mad. Cruel and twisted and spiteful. She cursed wilful fate that chose her for her mother and deprived her of the father she loved. Leaving the washing on the stones, Anyush ran from the water and headed towards the coast road. Taking the track down to the small bay, she walked across the beach in the direction of the cliff. The wind was in her face as she paddled in the shallows, and her hem quickly became soaked. Beside her,
the sea broke over the rocks, a dull sullen grey. After a time, the tightness in her chest began to ease and her breathing became calm. The wind whistled in her ears and the waves pounded on the sand, drowning out her mother’s carping voice. She wanted to keep walking, to follow the shoreline until there was nowhere left to go. As far as Constantinople maybe, far enough that she would never have to see her mother again.
She didn’t notice him until they were quite close. Her first instinct when she saw a soldier in the uniform of the Turkish army was to turn and run, but there was something familiar about him. His walk. The way he held his head. From a long way off she could feel him watching and her heart quickened. They drew abreast of each other, and, to her surprise, the captain greeted her in Armenian and walked on. They were now moving away from each other, but Anyush soon reached the foot of the cliff and could go no further. With no other option, she turned back, but there was no one behind her – nothing to see only the restless ocean and the empty beach. One set of footprints disturbed the yellow sand – her own.