Kemal gives him a blank stare.
“We are at war and these infidel dogs have been rebelling for years,” his father continues. “Always complaining about their rights. And when they’re not rebelling they are pulling the rug from under our feet.”
“What rug?” asks Kemal.
“By Allah, you’re incredibly stupid for such a smart boy,” his father says, exasperated. “What good is all your learning if you don’t know what is happening under your nose?
“Look at the Armenian moneylenders, for example. They buy all the gold in the district and pocket the difference between the actual exchange and what we think is the current value. Sometimes they even loan it to us for higher rates.”
“What does this have to do with the Melkonians?” Kemal asks.
“Nothing. Everything. The important thing is that we are Osmanli, Ottomans. When the Melkonians are gone, it will be our duty to continue where they left off. Who better to take over the kilim business than us? Just answer me this: do you want to be glued to that wooden loom for the rest of your life, reaping thirty, forty paras for a shawl or kilim?”
“No,” Kemal answers him honestly.
“The Melkonians and their like will be gone soon. Driven out or worse. And there is nothing you or I can do about it. Except maybe to step into their shoes, continue the family business, so to speak.”
At the word worse, a sulfurous pit forms at the bottom of Kemal’s stomach and he closes his mouth to keep the eggplants from making a second, unwanted appearance.
“But where will they go?” he manages to ask, thinking of Nazareth.
“Who knows? Somewhere in the interior, where they won’t be as much trouble. Now, do you want her as a bride or not?” His father swipes the common bowl, now empty of all its contents, with the last of his bread. Soaking up the sauces, he adds, “That sister of hers is a fine catch too, with all her bows and ribbons. Who knows, maybe we can have a double wedding, eh? With the expansion of the business, I could afford a second wife!”
From her corner of the room, Emineh lets out a small shriek and storms out.
“I don’t need your help. I will talk to her myself,” Kemal manages to say.
His father looks up at him with suspicion. “That’s not how it’s done, you know that,” he says. Kemal can see the plotting in his father’s face as it breaks into a smile. “Suit yourself,” he says, “but remember you need me. Young men are being conscripted into the army every day. You’ll need someone to protect her when you’re gone.”
“I’m not joining any army,” says Kemal.
“It isn’t a choice, boy. The sultan has declared this a holy war, a jihad.” His father places a palm on each knee and puffs his chest out in triumph. “You’ll go when they say you’ll go,” he says.
CHAPTER 12
Kismet
IT IS SEVERAL hours before the rooster’s crow, and one hour since Mairig’s moans were silenced by exhaustion. Anush hoists the sleeping Aram onto her hip and lifts a white brick of cheese out of brine water. Lucine notices how thin Aram’s once-chubby thighs look and hopes it is a sign of growth and not neglect.
“What do you suppose the governor meant when he said he would take us?” Anush asks.
Lucine rises from her seat and scoops the baby out of Anush’s arms. Aram digs his knees into Lucine’s chest and nestles his head into her neck without waking.
“You know what he meant,” Lucine says.
“Yes, but then why the both of us? Would you be his wife too or just a servant?”
“I don’t know.” Trying to hide her agitation, Lucine bends over and with her free hand prepares the tonir for their daily bread.
“I can’t imagine being married to him. Rotting teeth, old as a goat, and a Muslim to boot. I’d rather die,” Anush says.
“Well, you might have to,” Lucine says.
Anush looks down at the brine water but stops fussing with it. She bows her head, seasoning the cheese with her tears. “I’m sorry,” Lucine whispers. “I didn’t mean that. Everything will be all right, you’ll see.” She is stroking Anush’s back when Bedros enters the room, his ill-fitting dress dyed crimson.
“What in God’s name have you been doing?” asks Lucine.
“Nothing. Just trying to help,” Bedros answers.
“Help with what?”
“The dyeing.”
Lucine takes in his thin frame, burdened by all the loss and sorrow of the last few weeks, and she is too sad to be cross with him.
“Come here,” she says. “What happened to your face?” A tear-shaped piece of singed skin glows red and purple, just under his existing scar.
“The ladle was hot,” Bedros says.
“Does it hurt?”
Bedros shrugs.
“How many times do we have to tell you to stay away from the dyeing tools?” Lucine asks, dabbing his skin with her handkerchief. “It was good of you to try and help with the dyeing, but that is a man’s job.”