Now the vendors who usually shout above one another slouch behind their sparse stalls. There’s only a handful of haggling women, and the vendors seem nostalgic for more formidable opponents. An old widow in a black head scarf answers their prayers by complaining about the price of garlic. Since the war began, food is scarce and whatever is left is triple in price. But the Melkonian women do not want for money, nor are they here to purchase food. They need only to pass this place safely.
A lemon vendor near the entrance sits in front of the bright yellow pyramid of fruit. He squeezes one golden lemon in his left hand, turning it around and around in his palm, his eyes never leaving the three women making their way toward him. Mairig looks directly in front of her, leading her daughters past him when the lemon comes flying from behind her, hitting her squarely on the back of the head. Lucine rushes to her mother’s side, but Mairig only stumbles for a moment. She presses a palm to the back of her head. Saying nothing, she turns her back on the jeering of the vendors and resumes her straight-backed walk through the market. Lucine stands frozen, her closed fists pulsing with rage. She makes a sharp turn to face the vendor, when Anush steps before her. “Don’t,” she whispers, resting her hand on Lucine’s chest.
They see Iola’s son, Demi the half-wit, first. He stands at the front door of the apothecary’s house, something he does whenever he accompanies his mother to work. Lucine blushes, remembering an old joke of Uncle Nazareth’s. He liked to say that Demi had seen more bare-breasted women than any eunuch in the sultan’s palace.
Gevork the apothecary is with all the other men of the village, but a few feet away his elderly father, one of the few Armenian men not called in for the “meeting,” paces back and forth. Normally there would be a half-dozen women bustling about, carrying news of the birth out of the house, to the expectant father and his male relations. But today, the old man waits alone. In his arms, he holds the apothecary’s precious white coat, the Western symbol to announce his status to the world.
The apothecary’s father lifts the coat up like a sacred shroud. “He left his coat. Pray for a son so I may pass it down.”
Mairig seems confused by his words. “He will be back shortly. You can give him his coat then,” she answers him. Then, “We’ve come to see Iola.”
“Yes, yes. She’s been in there all morning. My wife is inside helping. Any minute now they will come out with the child.”
A guttural scream comes from inside the apothecary’s house.
“We better go in and see if she needs any help,” says Mairig.
Inside the dark inner room, Iola squats before the wailing woman. Gevork’s mother scatters bread crumbs and sprinkles water around the room, warding off the evil eye. Iola’s seven birthing brooms hang from the walls, along with ropes of garlic. At the foot of the bed lies the Koran and the Bible, over which is the largest string of blue beads in Sivas. No one, Christian or Muslim, dares protest over one item or another.
A moaning from the mother escalates until an infant’s wail cuts through the air. Iola pulls the baby out and places it right on its mother’s chest. Pausing briefly in front of Gevork’s father, Iola makes the sign of the cross. “A son,” she says simply. “May God bless him.”
The old man hurries back into the house, and Iola turns her attention to Mairig.
“Wise at birth,” she says in Turkish. “Didn’t want to enter this black little world. Had to pry him out. His first memories will be on that dusty road, poor thing.”
“Yes, we are to leave tomorrow,” Mairig says. “I have a favor to ask,” she adds, pulling a scroll of paper from her bosom. Lucine reads the words New York Life Insurance Company typed in block English letters.
“Will you keep this safe?”
Iola looks at the scroll with great suspicion. Everyone knows that few things mystify the midwife like the written word. “I don’t bear other people’s talismans,” she says finally.
“It’s not a talisman,” says Mairig, though from what Lucine understands, that’s exactly what life insurance is. If anything happens to Hairig, this piece of paper from America ensures that the family will not be destitute. At least that is how Hairig described it.
“It is a paper from a sultan in America,” explains Mairig. “It says that Hagop’s life is valuable. You can give it to the American missionary. She will keep it safe.”
Iola considers this for a minute. “We who know him shall determine his life’s value, not some sultan in another sea,” she says.
“Hagop would be grateful to you, Iola,” says Mairig. “He would want you to do this.”
“Your husband has been very good to my Demi. Give it here,” Iola says, taking the scroll. “We’ll give it to the American. Won’t we, Demi? Now you can do a favor for me. Take this,” Iola says, extending a hand out to Lucine. “Throw it in the river.”
Lucine takes the dirty rag from the midwife’s outstretched hand immediately and follows Mairig and Anush back toward the road.
“What is this?” she asks when they have crossed the central square. She can feel something soft and lumpy under the dirty rag.
“G?bek ba??, an umbilical cord,” says Mairig.
“From the apothecary’s son?” Anush asks.
Mairig nods.