“Don’t. Please,” she says, shrugging his hands away. Looking down, her eyes rest upon his shoes, Nazareth’s old church shoes, scuffed and torn from overuse. The sight of those shoes on his feet emphasize the impossibility of what he suggests.
“There are places in the north and the west, small villages where no one cares if you are Greek, Muslim, Armenian, or Turk,” Kemal says.
“You don’t even have a last name,” she says, remembering her father’s words.
“What does that have to do with anything?” Kemal asks, withdrawing from her. “You think having a last name makes you better? More European? You are just as Ottoman as I am, Lucine. The only thing that makes us different is a few thousand lira and your mother’s propensity to bow down to the missionaries.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” he asks.
“You want to be a hero,” Lucine says, “but only to me. What about my mother, Anush, and my brothers? I am only one piece of wool. You can’t just pluck me out and dye me whatever color you choose.” The words catapult out of her mouth, partial truths burdened with fear and regret.
“What are you talking about?”
“Go away, Kemal. Leave me alone.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Please, just go,” she repeats.
“No.”
“Leave at once,” she says, angrily.
“I will not leave,” he says.
“Deli misin? Are you stupid?” She raises her voice and sees his eyes lower with the weight of her words.
“This is my property,” she continues, “and in case you have forgotten, you work for us. The world may be turning upside down, but you are still a Turk and I am an Armenian. And if you think I’m going to forsake my family, my religion, and my race for a measly drawing, you are out of your mind!”
Seconds later, she watches his broad back recede across her father’s courtyard. The apron lies at her feet. She stands perfectly still, letting her breath out to meet his absence. A part of her wants to run after him, but the other part, the one permanently linked to those in the house, rushes back inside.
CHAPTER 13
The Whips of Satan
KEMAL HAS NEVER been more grateful for his father’s donkey. Getting away from Lucine on foot, wearing these contemptible shoes, would be unbearable. He knew the moment she looked down at them that she would break him in two, but the knowing did nothing to prepare him. What does she mean by “You don’t even have a last name?” Her words have conjured up a betrayal so dense he swears he can taste bile in his mouth. Her handkerchief, still wedged between his hand and the donkey’s rein, burns the center of his palm. He rides the animal mercilessly, not because he’s angry but because he fears in slowing down he might lose all the shattered pieces of himself. His heart, his limbs, his mind and pride, may peel away and drop to the earth, creating a trail of skin and organs that could be used to find him. And he does not want to be found.
Kemal curses his body for wanting her and his poverty for repulsing her, and rides away from the pain. This morning his heart was filled with pity and fear for her. He expected her to act shy, like a child, but she had not acted like a child at all. The Lucine who climbed trees in his shadow had vanished. In her place stood a condescending young woman whose resolute rejection of him was measured and cruel. There was no tenderness in it and no remorse. When he remembers her words, all the yearning in his heart turns to anger and rage. He suddenly understands why everyone hates the Armenians. What gives them the right to judge us? They are living in our country, living off our land. What made them think they were superior? Their god? Their ability to read? Well, he thinks, we have a god too, and anyone can learn to read.
The roads are narrower now, yet Kemal rides recklessly past the mosque and heads straight toward the town khan, a dilapidated inn populated mostly by traveling merchants and vagabonds. There he intends to get some raki to drown his sorrows.
Inside the khan’s damp walls, the innkeeper is busy serving an older man in uniform. He places a small glass and a few Turkish delights on the table next to the man’s fez. The soldier sits tall with his back straight, reading piles of documents and sipping his drink. At first, Kemal only sees the top half of the man’s face. His eyebrows, like two fat caterpillars crawling toward one another, nearly hide his eyes.
Kemal settles at a table. “One raki,” he yells out.
The soldier puts his documents aside and nods in his direction.
“A little early for raki, isn’t it, son?” he says, furrowing his brow so that the caterpillars meet.
Kemal remains silent, watching the innkeeper pour a bit of raki into a tiny glass. When he adds water, the two clear liquids dance gracefully toward one another, before forming an opaque liquid that looks like a white cloud of smoke. He thinks of himself and Lucine: clear and unscathed until they try to merge.
Kemal shoots an arrow of the milky poison down his throat, letting the taste of aniseed coat his insides and burn the pit of his empty stomach.