words A. DAUMIER—JOUETS—COSTUMES—POUPÉES and beneath, in smaller type, an address in Paris.
Around the box, heaped on the lid of a trunk pushed up against the wall, lay an array of children’s toys: a mechanical monkey beating a drum, with the key on the drum; a miniature dressing case; a hoop; a collection of little wooden animals. In spite of himself he reached into the box and picked up the doll. It was stiff, dressed in the French style, with a head and hands made of painted china.
Yashim touched his nose to the light brown hair. It felt real. He did not think he had ever seen such a horrible thing. Its dreadful blue eyes bored into him expressionlessly: Yashim was not overly superstitious, but blue eyes were always a sign of bad luck … the little painted smile, the tiny cold china hands raised in perpetual supplication, the mockery of fashion. Worst of all, perhaps, the hair, grown from a real woman’s scalp. Repelled, he put it gingerly back into the box.
As he did so something inside the doll made a muffled clunk. “Mamaaa …” the doll sighed, as a little bellows inside subsided.
Yashim jumped. “By Allah!”
He picked up the doll again, and tilted it back.
“Mamaaa …” it wheezed.
He put it back with a tremor, and turned, nudging something with his foot. He bent down and picked up a wooden duck. It had a stick coming out of its back, and wheels. As you pushed the duck along its leather webs went flip-flap along the floor. Much better than that horrid doll.
He put it on the chest, then he went into the other room and unrolled the pallet bed.
It had been slept in, often enough: Yashim could see the faint impress of a man’s form where the wadding had settled. He stood staring down at it for some time.
43
“ I suppose you want me to be grateful. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Yashim, the little lala everyone loves. Even Fevzi Ahmet.”
Yashim shakes his head. “I wouldn’t expect it.”
“I know what’s wrong, don’t I?” Fevzi Ahmet inclines his head. “What makes you think too much. What makes you soft.”
He leers. Yashim does not react.
“And you can’t change, can you? I can teach craft, but there are some things that even I can never give.”
And he makes a little bow, of pure contempt.
Yashim thinks: I’m not like you. Out of all this bloody mess, this ruin of hopes, I have this small satisfaction. I know now, and forever, that I could never wish to be like you.
44
D OWNSTAIRS a door opened into a salon paneled in polished walnut, furnished on two sides with a low divan. On one side stood a tall, narrow fireplace with a scalloped lintel of stone; on the other the paneling was fretted and carved into a series of elegant cupboards and shelved alcoves.
Yashim knelt in front of the fireplace. A little white ash, mixed with fragments of charred wood. He stirred it with a poker.
He leaned the poker against the wall and stood up, brushing the ash from his thighs.
Everything seemed laced with expectancy. New toys, still in their boxes of shavings. Bolts of cloth, awaiting a woman’s shears. Towels, slippers, quilts, and divans, unused.
Not a house that had been abandoned by its women and its children.
A house that was waiting for them, instead.
He turned his head suddenly, as if someone had entered the room. There was nobody there.
He crossed the hall. The room beyond was the mirror image of the one he had just left, but it, too, contained no paperwork.
He returned to the hall and followed it to the kitchens at the back, poking his head into the understairs cupboard. He was about to close the door when he noticed something sparkling—a bright copper nail, driven up into one of the treads. He looked more closely. There was a small piece of stained linen fixed to the nail, which was wound with colored threads. He reached out; the nail came away easily in his hand.
In the kitchen a thick mortar, like his own, was mounted in a cradle. Against a wall stood a
Around the box, heaped on the lid of a trunk pushed up against the wall, lay an array of children’s toys: a mechanical monkey beating a drum, with the key on the drum; a miniature dressing case; a hoop; a collection of little wooden animals. In spite of himself he reached into the box and picked up the doll. It was stiff, dressed in the French style, with a head and hands made of painted china.
Yashim touched his nose to the light brown hair. It felt real. He did not think he had ever seen such a horrible thing. Its dreadful blue eyes bored into him expressionlessly: Yashim was not overly superstitious, but blue eyes were always a sign of bad luck … the little painted smile, the tiny cold china hands raised in perpetual supplication, the mockery of fashion. Worst of all, perhaps, the hair, grown from a real woman’s scalp. Repelled, he put it gingerly back into the box.
As he did so something inside the doll made a muffled clunk. “Mamaaa …” the doll sighed, as a little bellows inside subsided.
Yashim jumped. “By Allah!”
He picked up the doll again, and tilted it back.
“Mamaaa …” it wheezed.
He put it back with a tremor, and turned, nudging something with his foot. He bent down and picked up a wooden duck. It had a stick coming out of its back, and wheels. As you pushed the duck along its leather webs went flip-flap along the floor. Much better than that horrid doll.
He put it on the chest, then he went into the other room and unrolled the pallet bed.
It had been slept in, often enough: Yashim could see the faint impress of a man’s form where the wadding had settled. He stood staring down at it for some time.
43
“ I suppose you want me to be grateful. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Yashim, the little lala everyone loves. Even Fevzi Ahmet.”
Yashim shakes his head. “I wouldn’t expect it.”
“I know what’s wrong, don’t I?” Fevzi Ahmet inclines his head. “What makes you think too much. What makes you soft.”
He leers. Yashim does not react.
“And you can’t change, can you? I can teach craft, but there are some things that even I can never give.”
And he makes a little bow, of pure contempt.
Yashim thinks: I’m not like you. Out of all this bloody mess, this ruin of hopes, I have this small satisfaction. I know now, and forever, that I could never wish to be like you.
44
D OWNSTAIRS a door opened into a salon paneled in polished walnut, furnished on two sides with a low divan. On one side stood a tall, narrow fireplace with a scalloped lintel of stone; on the other the paneling was fretted and carved into a series of elegant cupboards and shelved alcoves.
Yashim knelt in front of the fireplace. A little white ash, mixed with fragments of charred wood. He stirred it with a poker.
He leaned the poker against the wall and stood up, brushing the ash from his thighs.
Everything seemed laced with expectancy. New toys, still in their boxes of shavings. Bolts of cloth, awaiting a woman’s shears. Towels, slippers, quilts, and divans, unused.
Not a house that had been abandoned by its women and its children.
A house that was waiting for them, instead.
He turned his head suddenly, as if someone had entered the room. There was nobody there.
He crossed the hall. The room beyond was the mirror image of the one he had just left, but it, too, contained no paperwork.
He returned to the hall and followed it to the kitchens at the back, poking his head into the understairs cupboard. He was about to close the door when he noticed something sparkling—a bright copper nail, driven up into one of the treads. He looked more closely. There was a small piece of stained linen fixed to the nail, which was wound with colored threads. He reached out; the nail came away easily in his hand.
In the kitchen a thick mortar, like his own, was mounted in a cradle. Against a wall stood a
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