“She’ll get used to it.”
“She’s so thin, she’ll die. She won’t eat.”
“She’ll eat, she’ll have to. There’s not much time left anyway. They’ll be here next week. And then you’ll find peace …” She stopped herself before she said, “and so will I.”
The next morning Derdâ woke up and figured it must be the day she was returning to school; she woke up early, got her things together, then waited an hour for her mother to open her eyes. In that hour, she thought about the girl from Yatırca, about her teacher Yeşim, and only when she thought of how Nazenin had waved to her as she left could she drive away the knot in her throat. But her reverie abruptly came to an end when Saniye woke up and saw her.
“Where do you think you’re going?” she snapped.
“Aren’t we going back to school?”
She felt like she’d died and come back to life when Saniye said, “You won’t be going to school anymore.”
Saniye stood up. “Let me have a look at you.” She went into Derdâ’s room and saw that the soup bowl was empty. She was pleased. The little girl wasn’t going to starve herself to death. But then she noticed a stain on the wall. A dripping stain. She’d thrown her soup at the wall. She slapped Derdâ with the back of her hand.
From then on, the girl was kept prisoner. She lived deep in the corner of the room. An iron ring circled her ankle and was attached to an iron chain. The chain was fastened to a ring nailed into the wall. Four times Derdâ had tried to escape. But they’d always found her. Everyone was tired of her causing trouble so they chained her to the wall. She’d heard she was going to be married off. So there was something else for Fehime to be jealous about. Fehime bit her lips even more when she learned where Derdâ would be going after she got married. Not that she knew where such a place even was. She only knew it was somewhere far from here.
Saniye felt remorseful for striking her. She knew she only had a week to train Derdâ, and they’d send her back if she was violent toward her husband. She knelt down beside the little girl and hugged her.
“Don’t be scared, my child. I’m only thinking of you. I’m doing all of this for your own well-being. Look at the state we are in. How can I look after you? I also married when I was your age.”
But she was lying—she got married at thirteen.
“Mother,” Derdâ said. “I’ll never see you again.”
“That’s not true. I’ll come visit you. You’ll go first and then I’ll come to see you later.”
She was telling the truth. At least she believed she was, because she had the shortest lasting but most infectious human malady: hope.
They cried together and this helped. Derdâ didn’t throw her second bowl of soup against the wall. She even ate some bread. Mübarek was right. The girl was adjusting. Like everyone else in the world who kept on living even though they knew all too well that one day they would die.
The following day Derdâ’s chain was removed and the mark around her ankle rubbed with balm. Two days later Mübarek took her measurements and sewed a dress from some dark red fabric that Ebcet had brought. Fehime went quiet and never spoke again. Three days later Derdâ’s braid was undone and her hair was washed and combed. Four days later Derdâ burned her notebooks and books in the stove. Five days later Ebcet was arrested by the gendarme for selling contraband cigarettes. Six days later he was set free. Seven days later, late in the afternoon, there was a knock on the door.
A young man and an old man in religious robes entered the house. The old man’s beard reached down to his chest, but the young man’s beard was only a little below his chin. Ebcet kissed the old man’s hand and the two men exchanged greetings. The young man remained silent. “He doesn’t speak,” said the old man. They sat around the low wooden table. Mübarek and Saniye served soup. They waited for the women to leave the room before they began to speak.
The old man’s name was Ubeydullah and the young man’s name was Bezir and he was his son. Ubeydullah spoke and Ebcet and Bezir listened.
“We cannot stay long, Ebcet. With God’s permission, we will take the girl and go to Istanbul. The marriage will take place there. We’ll return after we handle some business there. No one takes proper care of our shops while we’re away. We need to get there as soon as possible.”
Was it time to call Derdâ in and show her to them? How much would they pay? Ebcet nodded his head as he calculated possible figures. But first he had to exchange social graces.
“How is the High Sheik? Did you have a chance to see him? Is he in good health?”
“He is in fine health. You do have an ID card for the girl, correct?”
The very words were a comfort to Ebcet. Ubeydullah was obviously as eager to finish the job as he was.
“Yes. Everything is in order as agreed. Shall I call her in?”
“No,” Ubeydullah said. He took an envelope from beneath his robe and handed it to Ebcet. “First, take this.”
Ebcet took the envelope. What was he supposed to do? Should he count the money then and there? It was his first time selling a girl. His own two daughters had committed suicide seven years ago. On the same day. The very same morning. Side by side. With the very same rifle. First one, then the other. And Fehime’s turn had not yet come. Seeing him hesitate, Ubeydullah laughed.
“Come on, open it. Open it and see.”
How easy it was to do
