If you say this, what will be the Turks' response? Nothing! There is only one single way of becoming friends with the Turks: to be just as uninformed and forgetful.
Since they won't join us in our recognition of the past, we are expected to join them in their ignorance of the past.
All of a sudden there was a light knock on the door, and then there were too many knocks. Armanoush slumped in her chair, her heart leaped into her throat. She impulsively turned off the computer screen. "Yes," she whispered.
The door opened gently and Auntie Banu's head popped in. She had a rosy, loosely tied scarf on her head now and a long, pasty nightgown. Awake at this hour for prayer, she had noticed the light coming from the girls' room.
With the discomfort of all the words she lacked in English etched on her face, Auntie Banu made a series of gestures, as if she too were playing charades. She shook her head, furrowed her brows, and then smilingly wagged a finger-all of which Armanoush interpreted as: "You study a lot. Don't tire yourself too much."
After that Auntie Banu shoved forward the plate in her hand and mimicked an eating effect, both too obvious to need any interpretation. She smiled, patted Armanoush's shoulder, put the plate next to the laptop, and then left, closing the door softly behind her. On the plate were two oranges, peeled and sliced.
Turning on the screen again, Armanoush bit into a slice of orange, as she contemplated what to write back to Baron Baghdassarian.
TEN
Almonds
By the fifth day of her stay, Armanoush had discovered the morning routine of the Kazanci konak. Every weekday the breakfast was laid out as early as six and stayed on the table until nine thirty. During that time, the samovar continuously boiled and a new pot of tea was made every hour. Instead of everyone sitting at the table at once, different members of the family came at different intervals, depending on their work or mood or schedule. Thus, unlike dinner, which was an entirely synchronized event, breakfast on weekdays resembled a morning train that stopped at sundry stations, each time with new passengers getting on and others getting off.
Almost always it was Auntie Banu who set the table, the first to wake up, ready for the dawn prayer. She slipped out of her bed, muttering, "Indeed, it is," while the muezzin from the nearest mosque blared for the second time: "Prayer is better than sleep." Auntie Banu then went to the bathroom to prepare herself for prayer, washing her face, washing her arms to the elbows and feetto the ankles. The water would be chilly sometimes, but she didn't mind. The soul needs to shiver to wake up, she said to herself. The soul needs to shiver. Neither did she mind the rest of her family being fast asleep. She prayed twice as hard so that they too would be pardoned.Thus, this morning when the muezzin echoed, "Allah is most great, Allah is most great," Auntie Banu, in bed, had already opened her eyes and was reaching out for her nightgown and head scarf. But unlike any other day, her body felt heavy, very heavy. The muezzin called: "I bear witness that there is no god but Allah." Still Auntie Banu couldn't stand up. Even when she heard, "Come to prayer," and then, "Come to the good," she could not pull half of her body out of bed. It felt as if the blood had been drained out of that part of her body, leaving behind a weighty, sluggish sack.
Prayer is better than sleep. Prayer is better than sleep. _
"What is wrong with you guys, why don't you let me move?" Auntie Banu asked in a tone tinged with frustration.
The two djinn sitting one on each shoulder glanced at each other. "Don't ask me, ask him. He is the one who is causing mischief," said Mrs. Sweet from her right shoulder.
As the name suggests, Mrs. Sweet was a good djinni-one of the righteous ones. She had a kind, gleaming face, a corona around her head in the hues of plum, pink, and purple, a thin, elegant neck, and nothing other than a wisp of smoke where her neck ended and, technically, her torso had to start. Having no body, she looked like a head on a pedestal, which was perfectly all right with her. Unlike female human beings, the djinn women were not expected to have proportionate features.
Auntie Banu trusted Mrs. Sweet enormously, for she was not one of those renegades but a kindhearted, devout djinni who had converted to Islam from atheism-a malady which ran rampant among many a djinni. Mrs. Sweet visited mosques and shrines frequently, and was highly knowledgeable in the Holy Qur'an. Over the years she and Auntie Banu had grown very close. That, however, was not the case at all with Mr. Bitter, who was created from an entirely different mold and had come from places where the wind never stopped howling. Mr. Bitter was very old, even in terms of djinn years. Consequently, he was far more powerful than he often made it sound, for as everybody knows too well, the older they are the more potent the djinn become.
The only reason Mr. Bitter was staying at the Kazanci domicile was because Auntie Banu had bound him years ago, on the last morning of her forty days of penitence. Ever since then she had had him under her control, having never taken off the talisman that held him captive. To tie up a djinni was no easy thing. It first and foremost required knowing his name, guessing it right-a lethal game indeed, given that if the djinni figured out your name before you discovered his, he would become the master and you the slave. Even when you guessed the name right and had the djinni under your control, you couldn't take your authority for granted, since that would be a most foolish delusion. Throughout human history, only the great Solomon had been able to surely defeat the djinn, armies of them, but even he had needed an extra hand from a magic iron ring. Since no one else could match the great Solomon, only a narcissistic fool could take pride in capturing a djinni, and Auntie Banu was anything but. Though Mr. Bitter had been serving her for more than six years now, she regarded their rapport as a temporary contract that had to be renewed every so often. Never had she treated him callously or condescendingly, for she knew that djinn, unlike human beings, had everlasting memories of wrong done to them. They would never forget any injustice. Like a dedicated clerk jotting down every incident to the most infinitesimal aspect, the memories of the djinn recorded everything, only to be evoked someday. Accordingly, Auntie Banu had always respected her captive's rights and never exploited her power.
Still, she could have used her authority in an entirely different way, asking for material gains, such as money, jewels, or fame. She hadn't. All these, she knew, were nothing but illusions, and the djinn happened to be particularly good in creating illusions. Besides, every sudden wealth one acquired was necessarily a wealth stolen from someone else, since there is no such thing in nature as a pure vacuum and the fates of human beings are interrelated like stitches in a latticework. Hence, all these years Auntie Banu had prudently refrained from asking for any material gains. Instead there was only one thing she had demanded from Mr. Bitter: knowledge.
Knowledge about forgotten events, unidentified individuals, property disputes, family conflicts, unburied secrets, unsolved mysteries-the basics she needed to be able to help her many clients. If a certain family had a valuable document long lost, they would come to Auntie Banu to learn its whereabouts. Or a woman who suspected being put under a vicious spell would come to her to inquire about the perpetrator of the wrongdoing. Once they had brought in a pregnant woman who had suddenly fallen ill and was getting frighteningly worse by the day. After consulting with her djinn, Auntie Banu told the pregnant woman to go to the fruitless lemon tree in her own garden, where she would find, in a black velvet purse, a bar of olive soap with her own fingernails jabbed into it-a spell cast by a jealous neighbor. Auntie Banu did not tell her the name of that neighbor, though, so that there would be no further grudge. In a few days news arrived that the pregnant woman had quickly recovered and was doing well. Subsequently, it was along these lines that Auntie Banu used Mr. Bitter's service to this day. Except on one occasion. Only once had she asked him a personal favor, just for herself, a most confidential question: Who was Asya's father?