Vera’s shock was apparent on her face, and Marta tightened her grip on the girl’s shoulder.
“There’s more. Father Zadian says the palace sees these as signs of a revolt. The sultan might send troops to wipe out New Concord.”
“That’s terrible. Does Gabriel know this?”
“Probably not. Listen to me. Gabriel wasn’t responsible for the explosion. Abel set it without his knowledge.”
“What?” Vera took a step backward, tripping over a root and almost losing her balance. Sosi’s brother, Abel, she had learned, had been Gabriel’s driver before being murdered by Vahid’s men.
Marta’s voice was taut with urgency. “Some people think that if the sultan cracks down on Armenians, it will get Britain and Russia involved on our side. Your husband’s commune is expendable. They’re outsiders. Whatever happens, the socialists will be blamed for it.”
“What people? What are you saying?” Vera shouted. “How could anyone want that?” A woman passed by in the lane, pulling a child by the hand. She peered at them curiously.
Marta looked after the woman with an anxious face. “I shouldn’t have told you.” She grasped Vera by the shoulders and shook her. “You mustn’t tell anyone that I told you.”
“Who is doing this? Who?”
Marta released Vera and walked away, shaking her head. The porter watched them from the lane.
Vera ran after her. “Is it Father Zadian?”
Marta made sure the boy was out of earshot. “People think we won’t get an Armenian state without outside help,” she answered in a low, hoarse voice. “But they’re terrible, terrible fools.”
“How far away is the Choruh Valley?”
“Several days by ship and then through the mountains. It’s on the Russian border. You’re not thinking of going there, are you?” Marta asked her in a concerned voice.
“Of course I am. Someone has to warn Gabriel.”
Marta’s face sagged. “Yes, you must go to your husband.” There was resignation and a deep sadness in her voice. “Not knowing can destroy a person. I am married still, although I haven’t seen my husband in fifteen years.”
“But…” Vera stopped herself from saying that he must be dead.
“He might have been killed in the war, but he might also be in captivity. I dare not be fully alive until I know he is dead. Can you understand that?”
“You must love him very much.”
Marta cocked her head and smiled quizzically. “That wasn’t our way. I barely knew him until we were wed, and he left for the war ten days later.”
“So, why?”
“Because loyalty is more important than love.”
“Even if he’s alive, your sacrifice is meaningless if he doesn’t know about it.”
“His relatives know. The Lord knows.”
“But you’re unhappy,” Vera pointed out, wiping a tear from Marta’s cheek. “What about Gosdan?” she asked. “He seems like a good man. After fifteen years, no one would blink an eye if you decided your husband wasn’t coming back and wanted to marry again.”
Marta blushed. “You don’t know this community.”
“There are worse things than some neighbors’ unkind words,” Vera told her. “Fifteen years is more than should be asked of anybody.”
Marta looked up at the light filtering through the trees. Their dry leaves rattled in the breeze that had sprung up. “There’s a lodos coming. I can feel it.”
“What’s a lodos?”
“When it gets suddenly hot like this in the winter, it means a wind will blow in from the southwest. It brings wind demons that dance on the water, kicking up their heels. They drill aches into people’s heads and sit on their lungs. They can even make your eyes bleed. That’s the lodos. We’d better get home. We still have to stop at the butcher.”
By the time they got back to the road, the wind had picked up, a strange, airless breeze that felt suffocating. The boy was asleep under the tree, his legs sprawled in the wild sage.
After they had walked along the lane for a while in silence, Marta said, “Your husband is a brave man. I don’t know anything about socialism, but he’s working for our people, and I respect him for that. Armenians have problems here, discrimination, unfair taxes. Sometimes the Muslims turn on us. We hear about it,” she whispered. “Who can know why? Perhaps someone wanted his Armenian neighbor’s land. It won’t happen here. We get on well with our neighbors. But I sense a difference in the air, as if a lodos were coming. Sometimes your breath gets stuck in your throat.” She looked around. The boy, with his heavy load, had fallen behind.
Just then a gust of wind sent the boy and his basket sprawling. Onions, apples, and cabbages rolled in every direction. The women ran over and helped him up. They gathered the produce and mounted the basket again gently on the boy’s back. Vera hadn’t realized how heavy it was until she held it while the boy inserted his arms into the shoulder straps. This too should end, she thought with a pang of pity for the skinny lad. They hurried, one on either side of him, back to the rectory.
53
“Have some more, my dear.” Feride reached across the table and dabbed a spoonful of cream on Elif’s plate.
“Stop fussing over me as if I were an invalid.”
Feride raised herself to her full, not very considerable height and feigned offense. “Well, you were an invalid.” Elif had been in bed since their return from Üsküdar, sleeping or staring silently at the ceiling.
Elif tried to smile but winced instead, and Feride felt sorry for having brought it up. Elif had been away from her body, for lack of any other description, for two days, and then this morning, when Feride came down to breakfast, she had found Elif sitting at the table.
Feride sent a message to Kamil to tell him. The day before she and Kamil had attended Nissim’s funeral at the Ahrida Synagogue. Surprised at the large crowd of mourners, they learned that Nissim had been a famous wrestler and respected for his wisdom. Feride sat with the women in the balcony and watched Nissim’s wife shudder with grief. Her friends held her, while others cared for her children. Nissim’s three girls sat frozen in place, unsure how to cry for something so big.
When Kamil arrived at Feride’s, he found Elif in her suite, staring at a blank sheet of drawing paper. When she saw him, the pencil dropped from her hand. They moved together and stood entwined, Elif almost disappearing within Kamil’s embrace.
“Stay with me,” she said, and slipped her delicate fingers between the buttons of his jacket. She pulled at the woolen cloth, forcing Kamil to bend over, then pressed her lips against his.
Her abrupt embrace startled him. Kamil stepped back so he could look at her face. The strange light burning in her eyes made him uneasy. He caught hold of her hands, which had renewed their onslaught on the buttons of his jacket. “Elif,” he said softly, “come and sit with me.”
“No,” she wailed, pulling her hands free. “No.” She pounded his chest with her fists, her knees buckling.
Kamil caught her up in his arms and carried her to the bed in the adjoining room. She weighed little more than a child, sobbing in his arms. He threw back the covers, laid her gently down, and covered her. He sat holding her hand until she quieted, then walked to the door of her suite and flung it open. As he suspected, a group of servants had gathered there, alerted by Elif’s cries. They stepped back, on their faces curiosity and disapproval mingled with shame at being caught eavesdropping. Kamil didn’t care. “Where’s Feride?” he demanded. “Fetch the doctor.”
54
“Vera,” Marta called as she came into the kitchen, where Vera was chopping cabbage.
“What is it?” Vera asked, suddenly anxious. Was there news about Gabriel or Sosi?
“Do you know someone named Apollo Grigorian? An Armenian Russian who claims to be from Geneva. He’s been walking around the Armenian quarter, asking after Gabriel, so they sent him here to Father Zadian. He claims to know you. Can you vouch for him?”