She is standing at the table, adding onions to the pot, on the day he enters her little room. His smell, a mixture of pistachios and cured meat, fills the air between them. The stuffed cabbage leaves lay steaming on the tray. He looks around at her world before leaning against the table and picking up the tin cup she uses for measuring. He turns it around in his hand, studying it like it’s a rare thing, before putting it down. He picks up one of her rolled cabbage leaves, blows on it at length, before placing it into his mouth. He does this slowly, his eyes pinned to her face.
Seda pours barley into the pot with the onions and, turning her back to him, takes it to the fire. He will think it rude, disrespectful, but she cannot stand him looking at her. She stirs the barley until it turns into mush. Fatma will be unhappy. Seda can hear the rustling of his pants as he shifts his weight. She knows those pants. The dark fabric of an Ottoman soldier’s uniform. Only Nabi Bey’s pants are not torn or crumpled, not stained with sweat or blood. They are always clean, always pressed, a severe line of demarcation running down the front of both his legs. Who put them there so dutifully? Not Fatma, but some other woman. Someone he calls wife. Someone who’s borne him three daughters and no sons.
“Turn around,” he says. And she obeys.
“How long have you lived here?” he asks.
Seda lifts her right hand and shows him three fingers. One for each year.
“You live because I allow it,” he says finally. “Remember that.”
Seda stays right where she is, bracing herself for him to approach, remembering that other time, when Bedros stood above her exposed body, holding a giant rock. But within seconds she hears the door slam shut and he is gone.
Fatma enters soon after that. In her hand, she carries two nails and a metal latch.
“Give me your rolling pin,” she says, and Seda obeys.
Fatma pounds the nails into the door and wall, creating a makeshift lock from the inside.
“Use it every day. In the morning and at night. Whenever possible.”
Seda furrows her brow, demanding further explanation.
“Nabi Bey thinks you should start earning your keep.” Fatma’s eyes glide over Seda’s body.
Seda understands. She places the blade of a knife at her wrist.
“Don’t be dramatic. I didn’t save your life to offer you up like a platter of cheese.”
Why did you save my life? Am I an offering on your altar of contrition?
“I told him you were diseased. God knows you look it. But you’ll have to be more careful. I don’t know how I’m going to protect you.”
It is true that Fatma is protecting her, but it is also true that, in her own way, Fatma loves her bey. Seda has seen the way she sniffs at his collar when serving him his soup. The way she insists the sheets stay unwashed after one of his visits.
“I don’t suppose you have any people left,” Fatma says.
Seda shakes her head no. Everyone is dead and gone. Hairig’s older brother may be somewhere in Constantinople, selling his textiles, cloth that was once meant for Mairig’s trip to Paris. But that was a long time ago, an entire dream ago. Besides, what would she tell him if she found him? Where would she begin accounting for all the dead? No, better to remain here, slowly disappearing.
“I have enough troubles of my own,” Fatma says, handing Seda the rolling pin and collapsing onto the floor cushion. She is always tired lately, and her breasts are more swollen than usual. She has taken to wearing a flowing robe of brown wool that wraps around her thickening middle.
Seda feels a pang of worry. She takes two steps toward Fatma and, kneeling, gently places a hand on her stomach. Fatma looks straight into her eyes and sighs.
“At least there is no danger of you telling anyone,” she says and then, “It is the bey’s doing. I am sure of it.” She brushes the hair away from Seda’s forehead. “He doesn’t know. Thank God. He won’t marry me, of course. Calls me a whore. If it’s a girl, he will discard me. If it is a son, he will surely take him from me. Either way, I will be destroyed. And you along with me. The quality of gold is distinguished by flames and the quality of humans through misfortune. You and I are made of solid gold.
“He will be traveling to Sivas next month for a meeting of some sort. That will give me time to think of a plan.”
Seda gasps at the mention of her birthplace. Her hand flies to her mouth.
“What is it, child? Don’t worry. I will think of something,” she says, caressing Seda’s worried face. “For now, just keep away from him. Use the lock. Understand?”
Seda nods. That is when the thought comes to her, like a fly buzzing in her ear. The bey is going to Sivas. If she went with him, she may find Nazareth or Bedros or Kemal . . . She may yet go back to being Lucine. But the thought instantly vanishes.
“Fatma, bring me some porridge.” The bey’s voice comes booming through the thick walls of the inn. Seda shoos her thoughts away and ladles a healthy portion into a large clay bowl. She holds it before the sitting Fatma, but before handing it to her she bends her head into the steaming porridge and, keeping her eyes fixed on Fatma’s face, spits into it.
Fatma laughs her hearty laugh. And Seda is surprised at her own pleasure in hearing it. It must be hard to please others for a living, she thinks, to be a source of pleasure and hate all at once.
CHAPTER 27
Spilled Porridge