She parts and weaves the three ropes of Anush’s hair, over, under, and in between, until a long tight snake winds its way beyond her sister’s shoulders and down to the back of her chair. In the village, where most women cover their heads, Anush’s exaggerated locks are considered indecent or Western, depending on whom you ask. Today, together with the rich green fabric of her dress, Anush’s illustrious mane seems even more out of place, like an unsuppressed laugh during the liturgy.
When the braiding is done, Lucine remains standing behind her sister. The blue haze of the morning has burned off. In this new light, Anush’s rosy complexion stands in stark contrast to Lucine’s own tawny skin. They are an unlikely pair. Anush, the elder, pressed and tamed and trusting, sweet like her name professes. Anush of the many ribbons and even more suitors.
“Now you sit. Let me do your hair,” says Anush.
“What for?” asks Lucine, pulling her unruly locks into a tight bun.
“To look pretty, silly,” she says, rising from the chair.
“I don’t want to look pretty,” Lucine says.
“Why not?”
Because it’s stupid to worry about one’s hair when the world is turning inside out. “I just don’t,” she says.
“You’re fifteen. You need to start taking an interest in your appearance,” Anush says. “Besides, it’s Wednesday.”
Lucine starts at the news. Wednesday already? Has it really been one week since Uncle Nazareth was taken away?
“Wednesday,” Anush repeats by way of explanation. “Our bath day.” She places a hand on Lucine’s shoulder and ushers her into the chair before the mirror.
Lucine’s heart sinks at the thought of the hushed whispers of the community bathhouse, the thought of village women arching their eyebrows as they relay Nazareth’s plight to one another.
“Don’t worry, Mairig says we aren’t going today,” Anush reassures her. “But I thought we should make an effort anyway. Cheer things up a bit.” Then, changing the subject, “You’re really very pretty, you know. I will never forgive you for inheriting Grandmother’s green eyes.”
“Are you sure we are not going to the hamam?” Lucine asks.
“Yes, of course I’m sure. Now sit down. We will just pull the sides back,” Anush continues, pulling Lucine’s unruly curls away from her face and fixing a small pin at the base of her skull. “There, a compromise. This way you look properly reserved from the front and free from the back.”
“How stupid. Who’s going to look at me from the back?”
“Oh, I know someone who is always looking at your back.” Anush smiles at Lucine’s reflection.
“Who?” Lucine can feel her face reddening.
“Oh come now, Lucine. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed Kemal lurking behind you on our walks to school.”
There was a time, long ago when Lucine had not yet given up sucking her thumb, that Kemal, the Turkish boy whose father works for Hairig, was her closest friend. Though he was a few years older, Lucine used to tease him profusely, getting a keen sort of pleasure from beating him in a race and pulling at his ears. But she must have offended him somehow, because he hardly ever spoke to her anymore, preferring the company of her charismatic uncle. Whenever she tried to engage him in conversation, Kemal would either look away or turn bright red.
“We all walk together. If he’s looking at anyone, it’s probably you,” she says.
“Nonsense. Every time you cross the courtyard, he drops the wool or spills the dye.”
“That’s ridiculous. Besides, he doesn’t count,” Lucine says. “He’s like an extension of Uncle Nazareth.” She regrets the words as soon as she speaks them. The mention of their uncle’s name hangs in the now stagnant air like a sorrowful melody. He is gone, and there are no more practical jokes and no more laughter. There is no one to spread the balm of frivolity over their all-too-serious lives.
“He’ll be back before the end of the summer,” Anush says. “You’ll see.”
Lucine fights the urge to take Anush’s braid in her hand and whip her with it.
Instead she says, “Maybe you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right. As Ottoman subjects, our men must serve in the Ottoman army. It’s normal.”
Lucine winces at the word normal. She wonders how her sister has managed to forget the way the gendarmes woke them in the middle of the night, how they dragged Nazareth by the collar of his nightshirt and kicked him out the door. She wants to explain the difference between real soldiers and unarmed labor battalions. Uncle Nazareth says there is nothing normal about a government licking its wounds from the Balkan wars by making a scapegoat of its Christian Armenians. Every defeat the empire suffered meant more nationalism, more ethnic conflict, and more violence. Her people would never be Turkish enough or Muslim enough to be blameless.