The Orhan fellow has a good walk. He is tall and lean like Kemal, but he walks differently in the world. His footsteps are more sure and his shoulders more hunched. Perhaps he gets that from his father. She wouldn’t know. She left when the boy was only a small child, a halfling perpetually clinging to the hem of her skirt.
On that last morning with Mustafa, Seda woke him with her usual tenderness. His name was chosen because it meant one who has ancestral blood, an accurate description and one that would counter another word they feared would one day describe him: bastard. The boy reached for Seda, his plump fingers deftly searching for morning milk. She pulled away from him and produced a small tin cup filled with goat’s milk.
“Anne,” the child begged. “Mamma.”
“No, my lion, Anne’s milk is all gone,” she told him, holding the tin cup to his lips. “This is Zazu’s milk.” Zazu was the boy’s favorite goat. Seda had milked her early that morning and added a drop of honey to the cup. “It’s warm and sweet,” she reassured him.
She watched as the boy eyed the cup with suspicion before placing his lips on the vessel’s edge and extended his sparrow’s tongue toward the warm milk. She took a deep breath then, knowing the boy would eat and grow, even after she had gone. He and Fatma didn’t need her anymore.
THE SOUND OF SHOES squeaking announces Betty’s presence at her door. “Still crabby?” she asks.
“Always,” says Seda. “I thought I told you to stay out of it.”
“I did,” says Betty.
“Then why is Ani asking about my visitor?”
“There’s a log out front. You know that. She asked me if I’d seen him, is all. You all right?” Betty asks.
“When are you going to stop asking me that?” asks Seda.
“When you’re dead,” Betty says, smiling.
“More incentive to stop breathing,” says Seda.
“Hush now. You got handsome young men whispering sweet nothings in your ear. If that’s not a reason to live, I don’t know what is. What does he want from you anyway?”
“Answers, I guess,” says Seda.
“You got plenty of those,” Betty says, laughing. “You gonna give him some answers Miss Seda?”
“Not if I can help it,” Seda says.
“Well, either way, do me a favor. Think long and hard before signing any papers.”
CHAPTER 16
Memory’s Garden
ON THE DRIVE to the Ararat Home, the sun seems artificial, big and bright but without the kind of heat one would expect. Like everything else here, it surprises Orhan with its banality. This isn’t what he expected from Hollywood, or the land of the heathen, as his father calls it. Only the palm trees zipping past his window smack of blasphemy. They don’t bow their heads humbly to the sky the way most trees do. They protrude straight up, as if the landscape itself were giving Allah the finger.
Orhan puts the cigarette to his lips and fills his lungs up completely. Seda’s reluctance to speak haunted Orhan throughout the night. It’s clear she wants to be rid of him as quickly as possible. Getting her to reveal her connection to Dede will be tricky.
Sitting on the leather seat next to him is his satchel with the Leica, his old portfolio, and Dede’s sketchbook inside it. The images of Turkey may loosen the old woman’s tongue, and the camera would help him blend in with all the other visiting loved ones.
The Ararat Home entrance hall is just as it was the day before, except the receptionist doesn’t look up to greet him. She pushes a clipboard for him to sign before letting him pass. Orhan walks down the hall, taking in the craft projects that litter the walls. Construction paper, glitter, and glue all competing to create the illusion of still-active lives. Resident stragglers roam around aimlessly. Mrs. Vartanian appears in the hallway. She’s wearing the same dull brown house dress as yesterday, but the doll is swaddled in a pretty pink blanket. Though she can’t cover much distance with her slippered feet, she shows off her impressive spitting range by launching some at Orhan’s shoes. She says some words in Armenian before turning her back to him. He stands there feeling like a little boy who knows he’s in trouble but isn’t sure why. An old man balancing on a silver-tipped cane stands witness to his humiliation. He glares at Orhan as if pondering some accusation.
The orderly from the day before walks by, pushing a tray of breakfast foods down the hall. Orhan speeds up so he can walk with her.
“Hallo,” he says.
“You’re back,” she says, not stopping for him.
“Yes,” says Orhan, hurrying to fall in step with her. “Is Mrs. Melkonian always so quiet?” he asks.
“Quiet? Ms. Seda? No sir, but she’s definitely been more cranky since she got that letter.” She cocks one eyebrow at him.
Orhan’s letter was as polite as could be, under the circumstances. “You have any advice for me?” he asks, ignoring her accusatory glance.
“Not really. She’ll talk to you when she’s ready, I guess. She does like being in the garden, though. She plants flowers when she feels like it. But stay away from the fountain. She hates that thing. Can’t stand running water.”
“No running water,” he says. “I will remember that.”
“You going over there now?”