THERE ARE RUMORS that Ahmet is an orphaned boy, another victim of the deportations, hiding behind a new Muslim name. There is a new name for survivors like Seda and Ahmet. They are now known throughout Turkey as “remnants of the sword.” Seda once heard the bey use the term when he was telling Fatma not to take in any more strays. Whatever his story, the stable boy is trapped in his own world. He rarely speaks to Seda and, then, only when it’s absolutely necessary. They have an unspoken pact to manage their miseries separately and with silence.
The boy is sick today. He refuses to fetch water or tend to the animals. He refuses to get up at all. Fatma asks Seda to tend to him, and to everything else. To do so, she will have to leave her modest room. Her hair is longer now and her body more shapely than it has ever been. She must take care to cover herself, especially on a day like today, when she is free to walk through the courtyard. In her hands, she carries a bowl of porridge, lumpy but warm, with which to comfort Ahmet. She aims to nurture the boy and cheer him up. God knows, he can do with some kindness. Seda suspects he is not sick at all, but weary. Of life and of death.
The air is stiff. It bites her exposed ankles. Her bare feet grip the packed earth. Cool and moist, the sensation is foreign to her. It’s as if her feet still remember that other time, of lace-trimmed stockings and suede shoes.
Ahmet is lying on the floor, huddled near the solitary bundle of hay that awaits any visiting horses. Seda would give up a day’s bread ration to see a horse in the stable. Ahmet’s head rests in the crook of his elbow, facing the back wall. His eyes bore into the stonework the way old fortune-tellers stare into coffee grounds. Seda stands above him in her familiar silence. If she had words, she would use them now to console him. Whatever it is, it’s in the past, she would say. Forget it.
She lays the bowl of porridge at his feet, hoping the gods of memory will leave him alone. Ahmet doesn’t look away from the spot on his wall. He stretches a bent knee and gives the bowl a good stiff kick. The porridge spills out of the bowl, splaying across the hay and part of the wall. Annoyed, Seda places her hands on her hips and stomps her foot, only to be ignored by Ahmet. She may be a mute maidservant, but he is only a stable boy. How dare he? She turns quickly to fetch the broom and some water but collides face-first into a body. There is no mistake about it, her nose is pressed up against the ironed uniform on Nabi Bey’s chest. The smell of pistachios and cured meat coats her face like a shroud. Despite the eye-watering odor, Seda stands perfectly still, holding her breath.
The bey grips her arms, pins them to her sides, and throws her down. Seda’s head lands in the warm porridge, somewhere between Ahmet’s curled body and the wall he faces. She looks up at the boy in alarm, but his eyes continue to decipher something in the stone wall. He doesn’t say a thing. Nor does the bey, whose hands move quickly. He lifts her apron, followed by her skirt. He pants a strange pant and through it Seda is transported to that other time. She waits for Bedros and his large rock, for the bey to slump down onto the ground the way the gendarme did, a gaping hole in his skull. But there is no Bedros and no rock, only the strange scent of pistachios and garlic, the sound of panting and the urgency of a pair of probing hands. Seda turns her head and bites her lip. The bey rams himself into her. A scalding steel spoon scraping what little is left inside. He scrapes once, then twice more. And it is over before she can remember to scream.
The bey stands before her, buckling his belt.
Seda presses her thighs together and places a protective hand in between her legs. She is like the porridge on the floor, only dirtier. There is a sensation that the bey has forgotten his spoon inside her. Like maybe it is still lodged there, where it might sit and fester, where Fatma might see it and feel betrayed.
Nabi Bey bends down, offering his hand, and without thinking, Seda takes it. He helps her up. Then, as if in retrospect, he glares at the spilled porridge at his feet. He nudges Ahmet in the calves with the front of his boot. “Clean this up,” he says before leaving.
So, it is simple as that. Spilled porridge, a push, a shove, a steel rod penetrating her middle, and the necessity to clean it all up, to move on. Seda is lowering the back of her bloodstained dress with her trembling hands, while Ahmet fetches the broom and rag in silence. As for the filth and shame left inside Seda, that Ahmet ignores.
CHAPTER 28
Ghosts