EARLY THE NEXT morning, Lucine lies on her back, watching clusters of stars disappear, much like her world, a little at a time. Anush rises with the sun and offers apples for breakfast. When Bedros refuses them, their big sister cocks her head to one side, saying, “You know, Bedros, if you don’t stop scowling, we will never find you a handsome husband.” She laughs at the joke, leaving Lucine to marvel at her sister’s frivolity.
Anush’s laughter irks Mairig. She spills some of their remaining water onto the dry dirt and starts rubbing the thick mud paste into Lucine’s cheeks.
“Come here. You too,” she says to Anush, but her older daughter shrinks away from her.
“Come here now,” Mairig commands, tousling up Anush’s hair and pulling out her modest ribbons before smearing her face with mud.
“What are you doing?” Anush says.
“They take the pretty ones,” Mairig says.
CHAPTER 19
The Road to Kangal
WHEN THE GENDARMES give the marching orders on the third morning of the journey, it is with a great deal of cursing and yelling. Perhaps they too wish to be anywhere but here. As for the deportees, they look more and more like sheep, walking one after the other, their arms hanging like wet wool at their sides. Aram lies listless on the wagon bed. Lucine and Anush sit near him, their thrice-shielded faces covered by soil, bonnets, and the shelter of the oxcart.
Bedros sits tall in Firat’s old seat, the oxcart’s reins held in each hand. Mairig slouches next to him, and his left shoulder is a shelf for her head. The scorching sun beats down, amplifying the deep creases in her brow and cheeks. Hers is a face made for the indoors, for piano recitals and books of poetry. What would Hairig do if he saw her like this, looking more and more like a sheepherder’s wife, her Parisian face cream abandoned in one corner of the house? She looks like all the rest. All the things that made her float above everyone else in Sivas have disappeared, eroded by the instinct of survival. Lucine looks away, choosing instead to count the sacks of bulgur in their cart. If they eat only a handful a day, they can survive for a week, maybe more.
The landscape unfolding before them is a glorious reminder of lighter days. The rolling hills are like yards of amber and jade silk draped over a voluptuous body. Patches of purple flowers decorate the tops of rounded peaks, and a carpet of honey-colored grass covers most of the earth, so the marchers are no longer immersed in dust. The farmers among them agree that where there is grass, there is irrigation and possibly a village or town.
“It is the road to Kangal,” says Arsineh, the butcher’s wife, pressing a palm to her swollen belly. She speaks of the large family she has there, of their wealth and generosity. This lifts the spirit of all those within hearing distance and they pass the good news down the long line of marchers. Perhaps water and warm food will be available for them there. Some dream of a khan where beds of straw and hay might be found. Others ready their hidden coins for bribing and a bit of trade at the local bazaar. But instead of following the main route into the town, the gendarmes lead them into the hills outside its periphery. The road to Kangal disappears like a tight seam in the landscape.
The deportees’ spirits sink to a new low. Lucine looks down at her book. She cracks it open and, hoping for comfort, begins deciphering the English words. There are words about spreading God’s word to the four corners of the world, letters and short articles about different schools where his message is taught, alongside algebra and home economics. She hopes the people who wrote the book, the same ones who sent Miss Graffam, will soon send food and water.
Lucine removes Kemal’s drawing from the book and studies it anew. The river and moon are rendered microscopically in the irises of her eyes. She notices a cluster of mulberries tucked behind the waves of her hair. There is so much here she didn’t see before. Lucine folds the paper again and again until it is small enough to tuck near her breastbone, away from the world and all its miseries.
The sun dips down behind the mountains and the road seems more endless than it did before. It slopes upward moderately, but enough for Lucine to see the apothecary’s father fall behind, his wife and daughter-in-law too busy with the infant to notice. He trails farther and farther behind, until there are a good ten meters between him and the last of the deportees from Sivas. The gendarme assigned to the end of the line marches behind him. He is shorter than the rest, with a narrow protruding nose that reminds Lucine of a parrot’s beak. He’s wrapped a big white cloth around his head to shelter himself from the sun. It makes him look less official, more like an Arab than a Turkish soldier. The officer on horseback is farther behind him. He rides a good distance away, his job to protect the flock from raiding Kurds and villagers.