The pomegranate tree is painful to look at: the waste of it, the ripe fruits left unpicked. Holes in the skins gape through the bright centres where the birds have clearly taken their fill of the seeds within. If she were braver, she would ask him for a couple to take home, or she would simply smuggle them out. She knows that she will not: she is too hamstrung by her own sense of propriety.
A creak, and she turns to see the doors opening; the nurse emerges, carrying a tray. The doctor follows behind. Nur does not think she mistakes the reprimand in the woman’s look; it is not wholly unlike her grandmother’s. If she were in any doubt as to whether she has done the right thing in accepting his invitation, now she has her answer.
‘She doesn’t let me carry the tray,’ the doctor tells her, sitting, once the nurse has gone. He is a tall man, and upon the small seat his knee comes too close to her own. She swings hers away. ‘She tells me I’ll drop it. Thank goodness she at least lets me perform the operations.’
The loukoum have been placed upon a small plate: the one she ate from as a child, she sees with a small shock, with its border of red running chickens. In the middle the sweets look almost obscenely pink and succulent. He pours out the coffee in a steady stream. She can smell the quality of it; the best kind. She has not had coffee like this in years.
Suddenly there is a loud commotion beside them, and his hand wavers, spilling coffee into the saucer.
‘Damn.’ And then, quickly, repentant, ‘Sorry. I have grown so used to the company of soldiers.’
She is hardly listening; she is distracted by the same disturbance that caused his slip. Several sheets of furled white paper have just appeared to blow into the garden. She blinks, and sees them for what they really are.
‘They must have been pets,’ the doctor says, cleaning a cup with a napkin, passing it to her. She waits until he has placed it on the table before her, his hands back at work pouring the next cup, before she reaches for it. ‘But they’re half-wild now—’And then he stops and seems to remember.
‘They were,’ she says. ‘They were my mother’s doves.’
He seems to be deciding whether to speak, to allude again to her loss. She is relieved when he seems to think better of it. Instead they watch the birds together in silence.
They are certainly not the same fat, snowy creatures they once were. Their plumage is marred by stains, their forms leaner. They watch the table, with its bounty of loukoum, with a sharp interest that reminds her of the seagulls that fly in from the Sea of Marmara, pestering the mackerel sellers on the quays. Once, they would have flown to her mother’s hands. Now they keep a wary distance, probing the wet ground for grubs a few metres away. And then she watches as they discover the pomegranate tree; begin tearing at the red globes with their beaks. She tries not to resent them their feast.
She sips her coffee – because the quicker she drinks it the faster this awkward encounter will be done with – and burns her tongue. At the same time she is surprised: he has managed to make it almost perfectly, though it is a little too sugared for her taste.
‘Please,’ he says, ‘do not be too kind with me. What do you make of it?’
‘It is well made. Perhaps a little too weak, a little too sweet.’
He nods, absorbing this.
‘I am sorry, that was impolite.’
‘No, no … otherwise how do I improve?’ He smiles.
It is the smile that returns her to herself. For a few minutes she had forgotten precisely whom she is sitting with.
It is such a delicate balance. She must be cordial enough with this man that he continues to treat the boy. She does not think he is the sort of man to behave heartlessly. And she finds it difficult to associate the figure before her with the blood-soaked enemy of her imagination. But she must never forget her hatred; it is the last powerful thing left to the conquered.
She stands, makes her excuses. When he has gone inside she turns and leaves through the garden. Here, in full view of the windows should anyone choose to look out, she pulls six pomegranates from the tree, almost more than she can hold. The feral doves squawk in indignation. The fruits are so ripe that the juice seeps from them, staining the palms of her hands like blood. They are hers. She smiles. They will taste even better for the circumstances of their procurement.
No, she has not forgotten.
The day the English planes came to Mahmut Paşa, she had been on her way to try and find bread. The place she normally went to had not had any for days. The city’s biggest marketplace seemed as good a hope as any. Inconveniently in these last weeks she had seemed hungrier than ever, her body turned traitor on her.
Three shapes, travelling at incredible speed, like shards of thrown metal. The noise had come a breath later, and it was this noise that made sense of the shapes, gave them scope and dimension. She was riveted where she stood. They grew from the sky, they seemed to be trying to land. She was not yet afraid; she gaped at the spectacle like a child at Ramazan fireworks.
When someone shouted, ‘English planes!’
