“Don’t worry,” she says. “He’ll be fine. And your father should be coming along soon with more provisions.”
The neat French twist of hair at the back of Mairig’s neck has come undone, wisps of stray hair float about her temples. She smells of day old milk and dry earth.
“He isn’t coming,” Lucine says.
“Of course he is coming. As soon as they release him.”
Lucine shakes her head no.
“He’s not like the others, Lucine. He’s got connections. He will bribe the governor . . .” Mairig’s mouth is active, but her eyes go blank. They sink deeper into their sockets, retracting from the world.
“Kemal saw it.” It is all Lucine can manage, but it is enough.
Mairig does not wail or moan. She does not scream or ask questions. She simply stares, slack-jawed, into Lucine’s face. Three sharp exhales escape her parted lips, as if an invisible djinn is pumping the very life out of her body. And just like that, Mairig’s spirit is back in her bed, refusing to get up.
THAT NIGHT, MAIRIG sits motionless at their makeshift camp, holding the now useless silver cup. Anush spreads a yorgan on the floor and gives each of them a generous portion of dried figs and cheese. Lucine is trying in vain to swaddle Aram when she spies the silver vessel in Mairig’s hand. It is a ridiculous bit of finery for those who sleep in the dirt and don’t even own a water jug.
Bedros pulls at the fabric of his already-loose dress and wedges a piece of cheese into his mouth. The rest of the men in her life have disappeared overnight and now, little by little, Bedros is disappearing as well, by a few kilos a week. Seeing the morsel slide down her younger brother’s throat gives Lucine some comfort.
“Where are we going?” Bedros, scowling, directs his question to Mairig.
“I don’t know,” she answers, her eyes looking past him.
“Will we have proper quarters soon?” Anush asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Why do I have to be in a dress?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know!” Mairig’s voice pierces the night air and attracts the attention of the thick-lipped gendarme who takes large, authoritative steps toward them. Soon he is standing above the family with his bayonet pointing down. His lower lip hangs fat and low, like a hound’s. Mairig tucks her chin into her chest and goes quiet.
“Shut her face or I’ll shut it for you,” the hound says to no one in particular. His glance is met by the only pair of eyes willing to look up. The gendarme, whose hair is still wet from his visit to the spring, uses the tip of his weapon to raise Lucine’s chin up.
“Well, well, what is this?” he says, panting.
There is a long and uncomfortable silence, when no one is willing or able to answer him. Finally, Berberian the butcher, the lover of feet, wedges himself between the sisters and addresses the soldier.
“So sorry, effendi. She is just tired,” he says, crouching between Anush and Lucine.
The hound uses his bayonet to peel wisps of Lucine’s hair away from her face.
“You think you are better than us, gavur? With your tasseled oxcart and your servants?”
“No, no, effendi,” answers Mr. Berberian, placing a protective arm around each girl. “I will see to it that things stay quiet,” he adds, looking up at the uniformed young man whose mouth is ajar and whose eyes remain on Lucine’s face.
“Next time you need water, you get it yourself and only with my permission,” he says, lowering his bayonet and walking away.
“Thank you,” Lucine whispers. Mr. Berberian nods at her before returning to his wife. They stay quiet after that. Cloaked in stillness brought on by fear, even the ox yields to the night.
The family has never slept outdoors before, and Lucine is surprised at how easy it is. Sometimes, on hot summer nights, the children would observe the rest of the villagers sleeping on their flat roofs and beg and plead with Mairig to let them do the same, but she would never allow it, saying, “We are not animals, and besides, our roof is not flat.” Lucine looks at her family now lying on the cold ground, wrapped in shawls and thickly woven yorgans and wonders how many nights they will spend under the stars. Bedros, whose angular bones are visible even under the woolen folds of his blanket, stares back at her, his eyes a pair of burning coals. She silently wills him to fall asleep and he does, the permanent scowl still on his face. In contrast, Aram’s sleeping face cracks open in the kind of smile that Iola says means he’s conversing with angels.
“Tell Hairig to help us,” she whispers in his ear.