A servant announced the vintner’s arrival. Dressed in black, the man was short and plump, much like a barrel of his own wines, with red-rimmed eyes that looked as though he had been weeping. His short-cropped hair was blond mixed with white and circled his head like a halo. He stopped awkwardly just inside the door and looked down at his stockinged feet, clearly confused at being received not by the pasha but by his wife.
“My husband is traveling,” Feride explained. A thin silk veil swept across the bottom of her face but did little to hide the grim set of her mouth. “I’d like to ask you about something.”
The vintner looked surprised. “Madame, I sent this month’s supply of our best wines. If there was something wrong with it, I humbly beg your forgiveness. I will immediately replace it.”
“That’s not it.” Feride faltered. “The quality is fine.” She didn’t know how to proceed. It wouldn’t do to ask the man outright if her husband was having an affair. “I have heard of Rhea,” she said noncommittally, allowing the statement to refer to a woman or a type of grape.
“Vah,” the vintner exclaimed, falling to his knees. “You are so kind to remember my daughter.” He buried his face in his hands. “It’s been a terrible shock to our family. Our beautiful daughter.” He looked up at Feride, his anguished face streaming with tears. “So beautiful. A kind and dutiful girl. She was going to be married.”
“Married?”
“Huseyin Pasha arranged it. He has known her since she was a child when he used to visit the vineyards. He always had a space for her in his heart.” He stood and wiped his face with the back of his hand. “You are both very kind,” he mumbled.
Feride was stunned. It was worse than she had feared. Huseyin had planned to take a second wife. He must have been meeting Rhea the night he disappeared. They would have been in the restaurant together. Had she died in the fire? Seeing the grieving father, Feride didn’t feel triumphant. She grieved with him for everything she had lost, her husband, her marriage. This would be true whether Huseyin was alive or dead.
“I should tell the pasha myself about the tragedy that has befallen us,” the vintner said softly, “When will he return?”
“Not for some time. I’ll let him know. What is it you wish me to tell him?”
“That if Rhea were alive, she would thank him a thousand times for his kindness and efforts on her behalf. That I and my family are eternally in your debt.”
“What efforts?”
The vintner’s eyes appraised the servants arrayed around the room. “May I approach, chere hanoum?”
Feride wondered if he thought she would be shamed by speaking of this second marriage. She signaled her maids to withdraw to a distance, leaving them both alone at one end of the room.
The vintner knelt before her, his eyes on the carpet. “Our daughter was engaged to a friend’s son, a clever lad who would have taken over our business. More important, my daughter wanted him as her husband. But marriage was impossible as long as Rhea received unwanted attentions from a powerful man who also wished to marry her. I wouldn’t have allowed it. He appears cruel, and I feared he would use her badly. He had begun to demand her presence in compromising circumstances, and I was afraid for her, so I approached Huseyin Pasha for advice. I didn’t know where else to turn. Huseyin Pasha kindly offered to intercede so that our daughter could get married.”
At this, Feride’s breath caught, and she felt the heat rise to her face. She had been such a fool, she thought, with no concern for anything but her own pride.
“I’m sorry,” she said. It came out in a hoarse whisper.
“She was to have met the pasha at my cousin’s taverna that night to plan what to do. It was where she died, along with my cousin and his wife.” He was unable to go on. His mouth hung slightly open and his eyes stared blindly at the wall behind Feride as if at a great distance he could see his daughter there. His eyes widened. “Is the pasha also…? I thought he had been delayed.”
“He was badly injured but is recovering.”
“Praise be to God, who rewards the just and leads the innocent to paradise.”
Feride rose and softly uttered words of condolence. “May you be well. Our family is united with yours in sorrow. I’ll let the pasha know of your visit.”
82
The night Kamil arrived, another group of women and children poured in through the monastery gate. These had come farther than the first group, through the forest, without coats and shoes. They were cut and bruised, freezing and in shock. Their men had been killed or escaped into the hills.
Everyone in the commune was mobilized to cook and pass out water, to tend to the wounded and comfort those who could be comforted. Some of the children sat listlessly, thumbs in their mouths or twisting their hair, while others swarmed together and squealed and bickered, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
The refugees came all through the following morning. By noon there were at least a hundred people taking shelter at New Concord commune. The stench of excrement, mixed with blood and fear, spread a pall over the grounds.
Kamil climbed halfway up the stairs that led to the top of the wall that circled the property. He looked over the crowded yard, worried about what to do with all these people. The new refugees were a complication in his effort to disband the commune. They couldn’t just abandon them, and he doubted they’d be able to make it through the mountains to Trabzon on foot.
Omar climbed up beside him and said, “From the women’s description, I’d say the attackers are Kurdish irregulars.
“What we expected.”
“They’ll come here next. It’s almost as if they were waiting for you. The refugees are their calling card.”
“We have to protect these people.”
Omar nodded and climbed back down. Kamil saw him speaking to Apollo, who then called for attention. In a voice that carried across the yard, Apollo made a statement in Armenian, which Kamil didn’t understand. Omar told the villagers in Turkish that they should organize the cooking, cleaning, and managing the outhouses. Seated on an overturned trough, Siranoush Ana rapped her cane against the wall and, when she had everyone’s attention, began to issue assignments. The women looked relieved to have something to do, to have been called out of themselves and the unbearable memories of their own arrival a week earlier. Yedo and his cousins began to dig latrines.
Meanwhile able-bodied members of the commune took rifles from the storage room and placed stockpiles of ammunition at strategic points. The monastery had been built for defense. One of its two towers remained, along with a sturdy crenellated wall that ringed the property.
Kamil called his thirty soldiers to order. “You are Ottoman soldiers,” he reminded them. “You are representatives of the most civilized empire in the world, serving a sultan who cares for every peasant in his land as much as for every pasha. It is your duty to obey the orders given by your superiors, but it is also your duty to fight for civilization. The refugees that have arrived appear to have been driven here by the sultan’s irregular troops. These troops were given orders to keep the peace, and some have exceeded those orders by terrorizing the population. But I don’t want to hide from you that these troops were sent by our great padishah, just as you were. I see our mission as protecting the people in this compound. If these troops attack us, then our missions will conflict, and you must decide for yourself whether you are willing to remain here under my command. If we end up fighting them, that might be considered treason. As your commanding officer, I assure you that you are free to leave my command, and I will note it down as a transfer, not a desertion. You are free to go.” Kamil pointed to the gate. Not a man moved. The soldiers remained at attention. “Have you understood me?” Kamil asked. “If we fight, we may be fighting the sultan’s army.”