“Sister Saniye!”
They were in Kurudere.
Kurudere looked more like a rugged, undulating piece of land than a village. Smoke rose up from the windowed humps and stained the white sky. There were no streets or addresses in Kurudere. There were only man-made humps huddling close together for protection from the cold. And people lived inside, although just barely. Forty-three households, all right under each other’s noses. The Kender branch of the Aleyzam tribe. The broken one. The good-for-nothing one. A place good for the carcasses of dead ants and nothing else. Where Sheik Gazi didn’t even bother to stop by. A very dry stream. So dry that it wasn’t really there. Maybe it never had been. Or maybe, seeing the village, it had changed course.
People don’t speak in Kurudere. They grumble when they’re angry and they mutter when they pray; between there is silence. And ravens. And the loudspeaker of the mosque: “People of Kurudere, His Highness Sheik Gazi Hoca Efendi is going to visit Girinti village. We will go welcome him. The minibuses will leave at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.” Then crackling from the speaker and perhaps a cough or two from the imam. Then silence again. As if nothing existed. As if everyone were holding their breath. Forty-three households. Forty-three homes, each like a cracked jar full of mystery.
“Sister, it’s us.”
Mübarek looked at Saniye and Derdâ looked at Mübarek. Mübarek was so fat you couldn’t see the door behind her, though the doors in Kurudere were so small you had to bend over to go inside. A head poked out from behind Mübarek. A girl about Derdâ’s age who came up to the fat woman’s chest came out.
“What’s going on, Saniye?” said Mübarek, or rather, grumbled.
“Aren’t you going to invite us in? Let us in so we can sit down for a while.”
Mübarek moved out of the way like a door opening, and the four of them went into one of the humps. It was like being buried alive.
“She’s grown so much!” said Saniye as she stroked Fehime’s head. She was Mübarek’s youngest daughter.
“She’s eleven,” said Mübarek.
“Derdâ’s eleven, too.”
Mübarek got right to the point.
“What are you here for, Saniye?”
Saniye was ready. She had thought about what she was going to say on the minibus.
“They kicked us out of the teachers’ residence. And the girl’s sick. I have no one else to turn to, where could I go? I don’t have anyone but you.”
Mübarek’s response was ready, too, but was threadbare from being used for so many years.
“You should have thought about that before you married that guy from Yatırca. What happened to that dog—any news?”
“No, sister. No news, nothing. I hope he’s dead.”
“İnşallah!”
They fell silent. They looked at each other. Mostly Fehime. She looked at Saniye. She looked at Derdâ. They examined each other like animals until the tea was ready.
As Fehime poured the tea, Mübarek switched legs; the one she’d been sitting on had gone numb. She said, “Let’s wait until Ebcet comes home. Maybe he knows someone at the teachers’ residence.”
Saniye looked at Fehime as she warmed her hands around her tea glass.
“Fehime, show Derdâ around the village.”
Fehime saw her mother nod approval and she walked toward the door. Derdâ followed her. When the door closed behind them Saniye began to speak.
“I want her to get married. Do you know anyone? That’s why I brought her here.”
Mübarek’s mouth gaped open in laughter; she looked like a hippopotamus. Then she closed her mouth and spoke: “So? First you send the girl to school, and now you want a husband for her! Who would want a girl who’s been to school? Poor girl, she’s no good anymore!”
Saniye had already considered this, but what could she have done? They had nothing; she had to send her away to state school. To boarding school. Would she give her up to the state if she could have looked after her herself?
“What could I have done, sister? I had no choice but to send her away. But it’s over now. I got her back. She’s not going back to school. What’s the situation here? Is there anyone suitable, someone with means?”
Mübarek leaned back against the wall covered in carpets. She thought as she stared at the ceiling: What if Ebcet wanted Saniye? What if Saniye stayed here for good? What if Saniye doesn’t have enough money to go anywhere else? If Derdâ marries someone decent, Saniye will get the bride’s price and she’ll leave. Then she spoke and told Saniye one by one what the ceiling had told her.
Fehime saw the hem of Derdâ’s school uniform hanging down from under her coat. She knew the color well. It was the color of school.
“Do you know how to read?”
Derdâ took some snow in her hands, pressed it into a ball, and threw it between two humps.
“Of course I know how to read. I’m in fifth year. Don’t you go to school?”
Fehime was trying to scrape off the snow stuck under her rubber boots with a broken branch.
“No.”
They fell silent. There was nothing else to say.
“Do you think it would work?”
Saniye was excited. She could practically see a few animals and a house already.
“Of course it would. It’ll be spring in a few weeks. They’ll all come. They’ll come to kiss Sheik Gazi’s hand.”
Saniye was even more excited.
“So they really come from so far away?”
“Of course they do. Just be patient. I’ll talk to Ebcet, too. He’ll find a way.”
Saniye’s heart was pounding.
“You swear it’s true?”
“I swear, they come every year. They get girls from the village and leave. And they pay lots of money. But tell me something. Let’s say you get the money—what will you do?”
“Forgive me, sister, but I wouldn’t stay here.”
Mübarek felt happy for the first time since her sister arrived. She was so happy that she stood
