Nightingale by Fiona McIntosh Page A

familiar phrase.
    â€˜
Cenneti-í Alâda
,’ the friends of the fallen informed quietly.
    â€˜Truly? Mohammed is dead?’ he queried Hasan, standing nearby.
    The man shrugged. ‘He is in paradise,’ he said, repeating the familiar phrase.
    Açar nodded sadly, believing too that Mohammed was in a better place, but he would miss the man’s ready laugh and sense of fun. He watched the postman put Mohammed’s letter back to return to his family. Is that how it would be when it was his turn to reach paradise? His father’s letter would simply be returned, or would word be passed from village to village until it finally reached the city and all the way to his family home?
    â€˜Don’t grieve for him, Açar. His family will be proud of him. I hope to make mine as proud.’
    â€˜By dying?’
    â€˜Dying while defending our country from invaders. Look how we have kept them confused, scattered . . .’
    â€˜And still they persist,’ Açar said softly, as Hasan tugged his sleeve and nodded towards the postman.
    â€˜Your name is called. You have a parcel.’ He raised a hand. ‘Over here!’
    It surprised him how thrilling it felt to see the men passing back the small package, his only link with those he loved. He took the parcel silently, his breath held, and moved slowly to a quiet spot where he could unwrap his prize. The British ships’ guns were booming their rage, but he was well out of range and the noise seemed to fade when he ran his fingers across the neat writing on the front. He recognised his father’s hand and tried to reach for a connection through the ink, tracing the letters of his name, imagining his father penning it, dipping his nib into the pot with that economy of movement he possessed. Açar sighed and carefully undid the string and opened the brown wrapping.
    Inside he found a pair of thick socks, a small scarf and some lokum. He smiled, fingering the soft brown wool as the sight of the hard pink gel studded with purple and green pistachios from his favourite sweets shop and the nutty aroma reached him from the small pack of sesame halva. He knew he must resist eating it immediately and save it as a treat for after his meal, which he presumed would be chickpea soup and rice again. His belly growled at the thought of food but mostly because of the temptation of his aunt’s halva. He knew the recipe, could almost taste its texture on his tongue . . . To stave off his hunger he reached into his pocket for the small thread of standard-issue rolled figs. Açar expertly bit one off, chewing slowly to savour the flesh for as long as he could. Then he finally slipped a finger beneath the envelope flap and opened his father’s letter. He was aware of releasing his held breath through his nose as he chewed the final morsel of fig, trying not to notice his eyes misting slightly as the smell of his father’s tobacco lifted from the tissue-thin page. That one sheet felt so precious he barely heard the sounds of his unit beginning to settle around him. The writing was tiny and he had to squint to make it out.
My dear Açar,
    Thank you for your letter, which we were glad to receive and I shared it with the family over the evening meal of your aunt’s chicken and rice. I don’t know when this will find you – your letter took over six weeks to reach us – but I hope you are well and keeping up with your duties. It is hard to get much regular news from the south but we know you are in the midst of the fighting and we all pray that you remain safe.
    Your aunt made the socks and cousin Amina wanted to knit a scarf to keep you warm through these cool spring nights but also for winter. I’m sure you’ll thank them in due course for their endeavours. Your youngest cousin Demet misses you and says she will write as soon as her music exams are finished. We expect her to pass with honours.
    We