“Yes, that is why I am here.”
“Well, you may wanna wait. She’s in there with Ms. Ani right now.” The orderly stops her tray and looks triumphantly at him.
“Ani,” Orhan repeats.
“Her niece. Visits every Wednesday. Good thing too,” says the orderly. “She’ll wanna know about them papers.” She looks as if she’s just cornered him in a chess game.
“Does Ms. Melkonian have any other family?” he asks before he can stop himself.
“No, just Ani. Sometimes her former students will visit.”
“Was she a teacher?”
“Um-hm,” says Betty. “Taught Armenian-language classes at one of them Armenian schools in the valley.”
“No children then,” says Orhan.
“Ms. Seda’s never been married, if that’s what you mean. Ain’t got no children. Don’t matter cause Ani pays close attention,” she says. “And so do I, so you watch yourself, you hear?”
Orhan nods to himself. He’s pretty sure the overweight orderly has just threatened him. He isn’t here to hurt anyone and doesn’t feel the need to defend himself.
“Ani’s been organizing a commemorative event here at the home,” the orderly continues, sounding like she’s describing the advanced weaponry of an opposing army. “They say the governor’s gonna come,” she says.
“A what event?” he asks.
“Commemorative. It means to remember,” explains Betty. “Everybody here has a story about what happened in the old country,” says Betty.
“It doesn’t look like they need any help remembering it,” Orhan says, eyeing the corkboard behind the orderly. It’s cluttered with black-and-white photographs of Anatolian cities and ancient family portraits. A map at the center of all this highlights deportation routes in bright red.
“Most folks here are genocide survivors,” Betty informs him.
“Bad things happen in wartime,” he says. He’s no extremist. In fact, he’s the first to admit the many shortcomings of Turkish democracy, but he still can’t help feeling insulted by these accusations of mass murder.
“From what I gather, these aren’t just war stories,” says Betty.
“That’s not what I’ve heard,” says Orhan, though the truth is he hasn’t really heard much about the Armenians of Turkey. They are a lost footnote in the story of how the republic was established.
“I don’t know about all that,” says Betty. “All I know is Ani’s putting together an art exhibit. Paintings, photographs, that sort of thing. Some of our residents will be presenting. She’s trying to get some political people to hear them stories.”
Orhan nods politely, silently wondering if this niece who collects stories and images would also be interested in collecting houses.
“Well, good luck, Mr. . . . ?”
“Orhan.”
“Orhan,” she repeats after him, only it sounds strange in her mouth, more like “Orren.”
“One question,” says Orhan. “What does Mrs.Vartanian say exactly, when she points to me?”
“Do I look Armenian to you?”
“Right,” he says, feeling stupid. Orhan quickens his pace.
The door to room 1203 is shut. Someone has taped a bright red flyer just under the peephole:
Bearing Witness: An Art Exhibit for National Genocide Remembrance Day
Special Guest: Governor George Deukmejian
Orhan fixates on the word genocide. Massacres abound in his country’s history, as they do in any nation’s history. But genocide is a different accusation altogether. Why do they insist on using this word? No one would argue that a great many Christians were slaughtered in the empire during the First World War, but to claim that the Turkish government was responsible for the extermination of an entire race is something else entirely.
Orhan hears a voice through the closed door, speaking in a language he presumes to be Armenian. He presses himself against the wall, feeling somewhat like a prowler. When the voice stops, he strains himself to hear a response from Seda. Instead he is confronted by a high-pitched laugh.
Moments later, a woman with olive skin and frizzy jet-black hair walks out of Seda Melkonian’s room. Her dark kohl-rimmed eyes are the only strong feature; everything from her forehead to her cheeks and lips appear blurry, and her features remind him of a collection of cushions. The confluence of dark features is exaggerated by her even blacker clothing, such that Orhan is reminded of the professional wailers at Dede’s funeral. It is hard to believe that the sharp laugh he heard earlier came from her.