“A miracle of nature,” she says. “The thing just came back to life.”
“It’s beautiful,” says Orhan. It is in this place of reincarnations, under the leaves of the mulberry tree, that Dede’s bones lie. Here with the umbilical cord of the woman he loved, where worms feast and emerge as moths, it’s as if the earth itself is telling a story of its betrayals and resurrections.
“We will win this battle. I will see to it. One way or another,” Fatma says.
“Yes, but what then?” he asks, thinking of Seda’s words about empathy and action.
“That’s for you to decide. I’ll be gone soon enough.”
Orhan closes his eyes against the thought. “We can turn it into a museum,” he says suddenly, partly to chase the thought of her dying away from his mind.
“A museum?” laughs Fatma. “Who would come to a museum in the middle of nowhere? And a museum of what? Sorrows?”
“No, of exiles,” says Orhan.
“Exiles?” asks Fatma.
“Sürgün Gallery,” he says, half jokingly, gesturing in the wind.
Fatma lets out a bellowing laugh.
“A place for the voiceless,” he continues. The idea germinates in the very syllables coming out of his mouth. It comes out fully formed, as bountiful and fertile as the tree he is standing under. Orhan pictures the walls of the house displaying the works of artists whose identities have rendered them voiceless in Turkey. The second floor could house some of the photographs from the exhibit at the Ararat Home, alongside his own.
“The basement could be dedicated entirely to the past owners of the house,” he says out loud, picturing his great-grandmother’s wooden loom displaying the green kilim, rumored to have been woven for the sultan himself. A picture of Dede, clad in a three-piece suit and standing before the first offices of Tarik Inc., would grace the wall, along with a plaque describing his life. A glass case would house all of his sketchbooks and Auntie Fatma’s handcrafted doilies. And of course, the house’s original Armenian owners would be there too. A photographic timeline of the Melkonian family displayed along the length of the back wall. He would use the word genocide. He’d make sure the story was there in all its horrific detail, under the heading DEPORTATIONS AND MASSACRES.
“That’s a ridiculous idea,” says Fatma, interrupting his thoughts. “Anyway, the house isn’t even ours yet. It may never be.”
“Maybe,” says Orhan. “And maybe not. How does that proverb go?”
“You’re quoting proverbs now?” she asks, amused.
“You know, the one that goes ‘Do good and throw it into the sea,’” he says.
“If the fish don’t know it, God will,” she says, finishing for him.
“Iyilik yap denize at, bal?k bilmezse Halik bilir,” he repeats in Turkish.
On a leaf beneath his left elbow, a silkworm, thick as a finger, wraps itself in a blanket of silk. Soon the larva will disappear into the protective confines of its cocoon, where the possibility of transformation awaits.
Acknowledgments THE FIRST-TIME NOVELIST is a dreamer and a fool. I’d like to thank the following people for indulging these two qualities in me. My mom was the first to encourage reckless dreaming. Thanks, Mom, for letting me choose freely. Garin Armenian read every word twice and indulged me when I wanted to have long talks about imaginary people and places. This book wouldn’t be the same without the candid feedback of Holly Gaglio and Marrie Stone. Barbara DeMarco Barrett and the Writer’s Block Party provided a community and encouragement when I needed it most. Deniz and Aytek showed me all the beauty in Turkey. Khatchig Mouradian was an early reader and champion of my work. My editor, Kathy Pories, for her unwavering support and her discerning eye. Eleanor Jackson, for being the best agent/fairy godmother I could wish for.
I am deeply indebted to writers before me who’ve shared the story of this tragedy: Micheline Marcom’s Three Apples Fell from Heaven, Carol Edgarian’s Rise the Euphrates, Nancy Kricorian’s Zabelle, Peter Balakian’s Black Dog of Fate, Margaret Ahnert’s The Knock at the Door, and Mark Mustain’s The Gendarme, to name a few. The historians, scholars, and journalists who champion the truth prove daily that the pen is indeed mightier than the sword. Thanks to Raymond Kevorkian, Ara Sarafian, Roger Smith, Hrant Dink, Ronald Grigor Suny, Fatma Gocek, Taner Akcam, and Richard Hovannisian.
My gratitude and deepest respect to the survivors, including my great-grandmother, Elizabeth Aslanian, who taught me that though we are products of our past, we need not be prisoners of it. My sons, Alec and Vaughn, who will inherit this transgenerational grief, provided the need for such a book. Boys, may your minds stay hungry and your hearts full. Last, but by no means least, I want to thank my husband, Vram, without whom this book would only be a dream. There are not enough words for what you mean to me.
A Note from the Author