“We don’t have a choice, little brother. And we are not letting him rot,” she says, trying to soften her voice, making it sweet like milk and honey in a warm cup of tea, the way Mairig does when she’s persuading Hairig of something.
“Who will bring them their food? Who will visit them and bring them news?” Bedros’s lower lip starts to quiver.
Lucine moves to embrace him, but he shrugs her away, not wanting to be held like a child anymore. She reaches over and squeezes his hand instead.
“Iola and Demi will make sure they are fed. And the American missionaries will bring them news when they can,” she says.
Leaving his father in the hands of the sinister Greek midwife and her half-witted son fails to comfort him, but the idea of the American missionary seems to make him feel better about leaving.
Five days later, they have all run out of things to do. The oxcart in the courtyard sags in the middle where bags of bulgur and dried fruit bear down on its axles. Lucine’s heart sags too, sitting low in her rib cage, as if it has bags piled on top of it. She is playing marbles on the kitchen floor with Bedros, trying to forget the weight on her chest, when Mairig walks in. She holds up some of Lucine’s old play clothes and tells Bedros to strip naked. Knowing her fragile state, Bedros obeys but keeps his eyes on her face, silently demanding an explanation. She says nothing as she tightens a head scarf around his head, disappears. When she’s gone and his transformation is complete, he bursts into tears.
“Hairig said I am the man of the house now,” he cries.
“You are,” Lucine whispers.
“Then why am I in a dress?”
CHAPTER 11
Infidels
THE SUN IS long gone, but the July heat circles the air, drifts through the house, and channels itself somewhere in Kemal’s groin. He shifts his weight on the floor cushion and tries to pull his mind away from Lucine. For days, he can think of nothing else. Last week he sent her a drawing and the thought of her receiving it makes the heat in the room even more unbearable. He is seated near his father, in front of the tonir where they almost always eat their meals. The smell of garlic and fried eggplant fills the room, making his mouth water and teasing the yearning out from his loins. His grandmother is hunched over the sunken oven, pouring imam bay?ld? into a large common bowl. It is Kemal’s favorite dish, more for its colors than its taste. The dark purple eggplants stuffed with parchment-colored onions, garlic, and bloodred tomatoes. His grandmother and Emineh, who were bickering over the recipe, have been relegated to opposite corners of the room where they sit now, sulking.
“You know what imam bay?ld? is named for?” his father asks. He has been in a jovial mood since their visit to the Melkonian house.
“It means ‘the imam fainted,’” Kemal says.
“Yes, yes, but do you know why he fainted?” his father asks, wiping his mustache with the back of his hand. His eyes dance with anticipation.
“No,” says Kemal.
“Let me tell you.” His father leans in as if to reveal a big secret. “Legend tells of a mighty and powerful imam, who swooned with pleasure at the flavor when his wife presented the dish.” He nods his head as if to illustrate the truth of the story. “Although,” he continues, pausing for effect, “others say he fainted at the cost of the ingredients. You see my boy”—he laughs, slapping Kemal’s back—“everything comes back to women and money.”
Kemal hears a low tsk-tsk sound from his grandmother, a rare thing he recognizes as her secret laugh.
“Do you understand what I’m telling you, Kemal?” his father asks.
Kemal nods, wishing the conversation a speedy end, thinking of his sketchbook where he can retreat into a world of his own making and dream all he wants of Lucine.
“You think I’m blind, son?” he asks, shoving a handful of eggplant into his mouth.
“What?” Kemal asks.
“I said, do you think I’m blind? I see the way you look at her. The way you ran after her that morning.”
“Hagop Effendi is my employer. He asked me to fetch her,” Kemal says, his voice raising an octave.
“Don’t be stupid, Kemal,” his father continues. “The time is ripe for the taking of an Armenian bride. You’re lucky I am a modern man, not a religious zealot like our imam, may Allah bless his soul. Her uncle is gone and her father will soon disappear too. You can offer her protection and a good life. We already know almost everything about the business. And what we don’t know, like where they get all that damn wool, and the formulas for the dye, we can learn from her.”
“Wait, what do you mean, ‘her father will soon disappear?’” Kemal asks.
“He’s been arrested. Their days are numbered, boy. They are infidels, Kemal, which means not only are they not Ottoman, they are morally inferior. I shouldn’t have to explain all this to you.”
“I don’t understand,” says Kemal.
“Think of the silkworms. To gather their silk, we must boil the cocoons whole. Before they grow wings and fly off or multiply, you see?”