It will be hours before the voices of the muezzin chant the first of the five calls to prayer. Kemal heads toward the stable, where hidden among the chickens, sheep, and his father’s donkey is an old sack where he keeps his sketchbook. Kemal was only ten when he first saw it in the hands of Gevork, the Armenian apothecary, who scribbled something inside it every time someone made a purchase. Soon Kemal was making daily visits to the shop, leaning over Gevork’s shoulder, until the sly Armenian agreed to trade the half empty tome for two kilims of fine woven wool. It took Kemal a year to weave two kilims without his father’s knowledge. Nazareth had slipped him the extra wool, and his grandmother, ever the one to entertain his whims, helped him weave. At first, he did not know what he would do with the journal, since he had not been taught his letters. He ripped away the pages of indecipherable scrawls by the apothecary and began making his own markings, delighting in the way the graphite sounded against the smooth page.
He holds it now and thumbs through the many drawings that fill its pages. It all started innocently enough, with drawings of bottles, flutes, and flora. Soon he moved onto the goldfinch, the bulbul, and finally to his grandmother’s face, always sitting before the loom. She posed for him unknowingly, like all the other creatures in Sivas.
Drawing, and the way of looking it necessitated, became second nature to him. One day, seated at the foot of the imam, who was pontificating about the many authenticated miracles of the great prophet, Kemal picked up a stick and drew a portrait in the dust. It was a mindless act, like throwing stones into the river, and the likeness was not very good, but it was enough to make the imam stop midsentence. The old man spent a full minute stroking his wiry beard before taking Kemal’s left earlobe into his plierlike knuckles and dragging him all the way home. On the road, the imam made Kemal repeat the following words, pinching harder when the boy was not loud enough:
It is not permitted to draw anything that depicts animate beings, because the Prophet (peace and blessings of Allah be upon him) said, according to the sahih hadith: “Every image maker will be in the Fire.” And he (peace and blessings of Allah be upon him) said: “The most severely punished of people on the Day of Resurrection will be the image makers, those who tried to imitate the creation of Allah.” And he (peace and blessings of Allah be upon him) said: “The makers of these images will be punished on the Day of Resurrection, and they will be told, ‘Give life to that which you have created.’”
When the imam knocked at the door, it was Kemal’s grandmother who answered. She assured the imam that the boy would be properly whipped. But when the bearded cleric left, Kemal’s grandmother simply swatted his head and returned to her loom. Despite her indifference, Kemal thought hard about what the imam had said. Not about the sin and its punishment but about the very last bit. What if he could give life to that which he created?
It wasn’t the last time his sketching would cause him trouble. Just last week, in a fitful rage over the warring women of the house, his father spotted Kemal sketching listlessly by the tonir. Before Kemal realized what was happening, his sketchbook landed in the embers next to the roasted chestnuts. “This is not Constantinople,” his father said. “There is no poetry here. Only survival.” He then made Kemal promise to pay less attention to sketching and more attention to the weaving. It was a difficult promise for the young man, but he intends to keep it, at least between the hours of sunup and sundown. The rest of his time, Kemal reasons, is his own.
He sits on the floor of the stable, drawing by the light of an oil lamp. A magnificent peacock struts across the page, peculiar only in that it has the lovely breasts of a young woman. Before Kemal can ponder why breasts have become so prominent in his recent drawings, he hears the shouting.
“She’s taken it! She’s taken my silver thread off the loom!” his grandmother screams.
“I did no such thing,” Emineh says.
There is a low murmuring from his grandmother, followed by the booming sound of his father’s voice shouting, “Enough! Kemal! Where in Allah’s name is he?”
“I’m here, Baba, preparing the donkey,” Kemal calls out.
“Hurry it up. We are due at Hagop Effendi’s this morning.”
The news immediately brightens Kemal’s mood. The Melkonian family is an enchanted lot. Hagop Melkonian is one of the few men who’s called effendi, a man of authority and education. His great big house stands on top of a hill, overlooking the entire valley. It has two stories, as opposed to one, and no animals are allowed anywhere near it. The whole place is crowded with furniture the likes of which he has never seen before. They eat their meals on a long wooden table, as opposed to a rug. Mrs. Melkonian plays the piano and entertains missionaries, switching from French to Turkish and back again with the same ease as someone who goes from milking a goat to a cow.
And then there are the two girls. They eat with the men and exchange ideas and opinions freely. Now the thought of seeing his friend Nazareth or catching a glimpse of the lovely sisters makes him feel lighter on his feet. Ignoring the morning call to prayer, the father and son make their way out of the valley.
“These women are driving me mad, Kemal,” his father says.
“I know, Baba.”
“Your grandmother doesn’t understand a thing. But you do, don’t you, boy?”
Kemal nods.