‘We went for supper with a British friend of mine last night,’ Hüseyin says. ‘I met him in New York. We went to one of the meyhanes in Galata. This city seems to have turned into a madhouse.’
‘A British friend?’ Nur cannot conceal her surprise.
‘Yes. He has always been my friend, he remains so. Your father – as I recall – had many British acquaintances.’
‘None of whom we would speak to or even think of any more. I am sure the feeling is mutual.’
‘You surprise me, Nur. I did not know you thought in such black and white terms.’
‘You were not here,’ she is surprised by the tremble of anger in her voice, ‘when everything became black and white.’
If he feels the slight, he does not show it. ‘And you think it is now?’
‘More so, yes.’
‘I would not be so sure. None of us are innocent in this.’ He covers his mouth with his hand, smoothes the place where his moustaches would have been.
‘Tell me, the thing that you are deciding whether or not to say.’
‘There are stories, of terrible things.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘By our army, Nur. You wouldn’t hear them, here, of course. But in other newspapers – American, French – there are detailed accounts.’
She is not sure that she wants to hear any more, and yet cannot stop herself from asking. ‘Accounts of what?’
‘It is not the sort of knowledge you need to bear.’
‘I cannot judge that for myself?’
‘Goodness,’ he says, almost smiling. ‘You have certainly changed. What happened to my shy little cousin?’
‘A war.’
He stops smiling. ‘All right – I confess, I do not want to speak of it, not in detail.’
‘You cannot allege a thing, like that, without telling me something.’
‘In the East, mainly. Massacres, Nur – not of soldiers, but of civilians. Our own people. Ottoman citizens. The Armenians. They say they marched them into the desert. People saw …’ he leaves a pause, as though for things unsaid, too terrible to be said, ‘evidence.’ The word, in its sterility, is chilling. ‘And those that survived, that managed to escape, are talking of it. Some believe that they are still going on, even now. The atrocities.’
‘That is absurd. I would know of it.’
‘Not necessarily, Nur. Sometimes it is possible to be too close to something: so much so that one is prevented from seeing the whole.’
She thinks of the boy. A shiver of fear. ‘No. I cannot believe it. It is easy for them, the “Allies”, to make up whatever they choose now they have won.’ But she realises dimly that her skin has gone cold, and there is a bubble of nausea in her throat. Because if it is a lie, who would be able to make up such a thing, even in the interests of making the other side look worse? In most rumours, she knows, there are seeds of truth. But what she says is, ‘Why would I have heard nothing of it?’
‘The question is would you have heard anything of it? People hear – and tell – what they want to.’
‘Why are you telling me?’ She forgets briefly that it was she who demanded it. She feels that the thing has entered her like a poison.
‘All I am trying to say is that when one sees them from a distance, these last few years, it seems that none of us are innocent.’
There is a long silence. Nur thinks of many sharp retorts with which to fill it, mainly upon the theme of everything being easy from a distance.
‘Well,’ Hüseyin says, briskly, ‘I hope to see you again soon, little Nur.’
‘And you, cousin.’
But as she walks away she is thinking something quite different. That she would be quite content never to see him again, in all his wholeness and prosperity. And his accusations of atrocities – accusations which somehow seem to include herself, her brother, everyone else who was not lucky enough to escape the war, like him. They cannot be true. Can they?
George
‘I’m not sure I can come today.’ At the weekends George, Bill and a couple of others, Briggs and Howarth, have taken to exploring the city and beyond.
‘Why?’ Bill asks.
‘The child – he’s still running a temperature.’
‘Oh for goodness’ sake, Monroe. The Sisters are more than capable.’ Bill narrows his eyes. ‘You know, I’m not even sure you’d exhibit the same concern for one of our own. What is so special about this boy?’
‘Fine.’ He holds up his hands, in surrender. Bill is an understanding man. But George understands that it is in the best interests of all not to create too much of a commotion around his newest patient.
They take an early ferry from the quay at Galata. At the kiosk, trying to pay for tickets, the man tells them: ‘No, Englishmen. You do not need to pay.’ He is unsmiling as he says it. It is not meant as a gesture of goodwill, George is certain. It is more like an accusation.
On the water the light is blue, the air cool with the new breath of autumn. They are observed with furtive curiosity by the other passengers. A small boy strains away from his mother’s embrace to get a clearer look. She gathers him tight against her, administers a sharp reprimand.
George looks with equal interest at his fellow passengers. His eye is drawn to an elderly couple in one of the corner seats at the back: he in the signature red fez, she in a dark headscarf. There is a quiet tenderness about them, though they barely touch. It is something in the way their bodies incline toward one another,
