“And Lucine,” Hagop continues. “She is upset. She left the house hours ago. I’ve looked everywhere. Go and find her.”
Kemal mounts the rough back of his father’s mule and races to the river, where he knows she likes to take Nazareth’s horse. The landscape, like his grandmother’s shawl, melts into multiple shades of green wool. In his mind’s eye, he can see Nazareth being dragged out of the house. Did they press the tip of a bayonet firmly to his back? Was there time for him to pack a few things: his dagger, his lucky riding coat, the one with the missing button?
His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the Red River, whose chatter grows louder by the minute. Kemal sees Nazareth’s horse and dismounts. He ties his animal to an apricot tree about a hundred yards away from the riverbank and makes his way toward the water. His heart thumps with excitement when he realizes he will finally be alone with Lucine.
She is seated on a sunburned slope of honey-colored grass. Her hair is loose and wild from the morning ride, her swollen eyes fixed upon the river, the stillness of her gaze confronting the river’s restlessness. Kemal doesn’t see the steady stream of tears or her small chest heaving silently until he is standing just above her.
He says nothing and lowers himself onto the grass beside her. She takes a deep breath but does not look at him.
“He’s gone,” she whispers between sobs.
“I know,” Kemal says. They are the first words he’s uttered to her in a long time, ever since the sight and scent of her became too much to manage.
“You mustn’t worry,” he says. “He is brave and clever. He will persevere.” Kemal puts a timid arm around her shoulder. It is the first time he’s touched her in so intimate a manner. When they were little, he would hoist her up by the waist as she climbed a tree, and console her when she inevitably fell, but all that was a very long time ago. Kemal lets his palm cup her shoulder. The gesture releases a flock of tears as Lucine folds into him. He knows he should say something, but the feel of her soft hair brushing against his face, the scent of her, a hint of honey and jasmine, the curve of her neck make him dizzy. She’s just a child, he tells himself. A rich Armenian child.
“If he isn’t safe, then nothing, no one is . . .” she says, removing herself from under his arm and turning her eyes back to the river.
“Shh, that’s enough. How long have you been crying?” he asks, trying to coax her back to the present.
Lucine shakes her head. “You don’t get to tell me what to do,” she says. “You’re not him. Since when did you start talking to me again anyway?”
“Since right now,” says Kemal.
“You don’t just stop talking to people for no good reason and then change your mind. You’re either a friend or you’re not.”
“You’re right, I’m sorry,” he says. “Now no more crying. What’s this business about quarreling with your father and running away?” he says, trying to look stern. This time her head snaps to attention, and she is looking straight at him. He braces himself for the fury she will pour into him. It’s happened before. Twice. Twice he’s been the lucky recipient of that hot fiery liquid of emotion and intellect, only they hadn’t been alone.
“What would you have me do? He won’t go looking for Nazareth. And he forbids me to go to school. If you think I’m going to sit around and wait to be taken like Nazareth or, worse yet, cower in a corner of my room, then you’re as foolish as he is.”
“No one is asking you to cower,” he says.
“No? They’ve taken my uncle, your friend, and no one seems to want to do anything about it.”
“What does that have to do with your schooling?” Kemal says.
“The only chance I have of happiness is hidden somewhere in my books. I’m going to be a teacher, like Miss Graffam, not some woman slaving over a tonir.”
“But you’re only a child,” Kemal says.
“I am not a child! There are fifteen-year-olds all over Sivas getting married, having children, and who knows what else. I am no child, Kemal. Besides, you’re only a few years older.”
Kemal lingers on the sound of his name in her mouth, between her lips.
“Well, if you’re not a child, I suppose you’re a woman then,” Kemal says. There is a pause, and he wonders if he’s gone too far.
“You think you’re so clever don’t you?” she says, straightening her spine.
“What? Something wrong with being a woman?” he asks.
“I know your definition of a woman, and it does not interest me,” she says.
“Really? What is my definition of a woman?” Kemal has never had a conversation so sweet.
“Someone who bows her head and mends your socks and bears a half-dozen children.”
He laughs as she mockingly bows her head and makes to mend an imaginary sock.