Lepsius dismissed his araba at the farther side of the bridge.
He would walk the short way back to the Tokatlyan. After months of heavy
depression, he felt today as marvellously lighthearted as though he had
some great success to look back on. Yet really he had done nothing at
all, only glimpsed a faint chink of light, from behind the iron door. His
mind was so full of projects that he walked on further and further, past
his hotel, along the Grande Rue de Péra. A deliciously cool evening had
descended. A clear green sky shimmered above the tree tops of a park-like
boulevard. This was one of the best parts of the town. Here there were
even street lamps, which now began to light up, one by one. A car, at
a moderate pace, came on towards him. It was lit up within. An officer
and a fat civilian sat talking excitedly. Sudden vague terror parched
Lepsius's throat. He had recognized Enver Pasha -- the glittering youth
with the fresh complexion and long, girlish eyelashes. And his neighbor,
with his fez on one side and his white waistcoat, was no doubt Talaat Bey,
as that minister appeared in many photographs. So now Lepsius was again
facing the great enemy. In his heart, strangely enough, he had always
wanted to. He stood enthralled, looking after the car. It had not gone on
a hundred and fifty yards before two shots rang out, one after another. A
jarring of brakes. Indistinct figures sprang out of the shadows. Sharp
voices began to brawl. Were they calling for help? The pastor shivered
in every limb. An attempt to assassinate! Had fate overtaken Enver and
Talaat? And would he be called as a witness? He was drawn irresistibly
to the scene. He did not want to see, yet could do no other. But he
came reluctantly nearer the shouting group. Someone had lit a garish
acetylene lamp, around which idlers gaped, giving loud advice. The
chauffeur lay, cursing and grunting, under the car. But Enver and Talaat
Bey stood peacefully side by side, puffing cigarette smoke. It was merely
a puncture. The front tires had met some sharp obstacle on the road and
burst; the machine was damaged. But the really ridiculous thing was that
Enver had ceased to be Enver, Talaat, Talaat. The one had become a very
ordinary-looking officer, the other a still more insignificant business
man or civil servant. The white piqué waistcoat was the one reality that
remained. Lepsius cursed his fervid imagination, which could raise such
spooks. "I'm crazy," he grunted to himself.
But when, an hour later, Agha Rifaat Bereket sat in his room, he had quite
forgotten the incident of the car. The Agha, in his turban and long blue
cloak, was most out of place in this European hotel bedroom. Certainly
he had nothing in common with the hard wooden chair on which he sat,
the harsh, cold light of electric globes. Lepsius could see that this
old gentleman, the Syrian caliph of the Sheikh of the Thieves of Hearts,
was making a considerable sacrifice. Lepsius begged him to take five
hundred pounds of his German relief fund, and use them, if he possibly
could, on behalf of the men on Musa Dagh. Yet, in this, the pastor did
not act as rashly as many might suppose. Those little twinkling hands,
he could see for himself, would be a safer deposit for his money, and
probably would put it to better use, than all the powerless consulates
and missions. Perhaps, at last, it could really be spent as they intended.
Rifaat Bereket wrote out a very formal receipt, in elaborate calligraphy.
It covered an entire page. He handed it ceremoniously to the German.
"I will send you a letter with particulars of all my purchases."
"But -- should you not succeed in getting your supplies on to the mountain?"
"I have very good documents. . . . Don't be afraid. Whatever I have left
over I will share out among the concentration camps. And you shall receive
particulars."
Lepsius asked him to address his letter to Nezimi Bey. That would be safer.
He must, by Allah's mercy, be prudent! They could not risk this new way
being blocked.
"So after all, I haven't come back to Istanbul for nothing." Dr. Lepsius,
back in his room, having conducted the Agha to the street, was convinced
of that. His pious visitor had left something of himself behind in the
little bedroom, a deeper peace than heretofore. In the certain knowledge
that today his work had advanced, the pastor got into bed. But now the
men in the tekkeh came to life again, their strength, their eyes and
faces, came crowding in on him. Till now he had not realized so clearly
how much more forceful, larger than life, were these personalities,
which today it had been granted him to meet: Sheikh Achmed, his son,
the Türbedar. His thoughts strayed off into long disputations with them,
which brought him sleep. But sleep did not last. Dull thunder woke him
in the night. His windowpanes were rattling very oddly. This clatter was
a familiar sound. The guns of the French and English fleets knocked for
admission. He sat up in bed. His hand fumbled for the switch. But he could
not find it. It was like a sharp stab in the heart. Had not Nezimi warned
him to scrutinize every little incident? Anything might have its special
significance. That "attempt" on Enver's and Talaat's lives. It had been
a facet of truth, no empty delusion, but in deep organic relationship
with Sheikh Achmed's power. Lepsius longed to close his eyes against
some glimpse of a God-forsaken pit which gaped beneath him. A deep awe
invaded his spirit. Had he been granted a glimpse into the future, or
only surrendered to some obscurely murderous thought in himself? The guns
growled. The panes rattled. Absurd! Absurd! he tried to tell himself. But
his feverish heart already knew that God had re-established His justice,
before the scales had broken under their load.
2. STEPHAN SETS OUT AND RETURNS
Haik and the swimmers set forth under the eyes of the whole people,
gathered at twilight round the North Saddle to see them go. It was
the first time Gabriel had been absent from a public occasion of such
magnitude. Yet nobody seemed to miss the leader, the man who had beaten
back the Turks in three great battles, the general whom these folk of
the seven Villages had to thank for the few remaining thousand breaths
they might still be permitted by fate to draw.
But Stephan had lost most prestige. What a day of disasters! First, he had
not been allowed to volunteer. He, the conqueror of the howitzers, had been
considered too inferior to go with Haik! And not even that was enough!
His father had rated him in public, degraded him in front of Iskuhi,
in front of all the other fellows, whom he had scarcely won over to
his side, to the rank of weakling. It was very natural indeed that the
ambitious Stephan, wounded in his honor as he was, should not have
realized the anxiety concealed in a few harsh words, and only felt
contempt and dislike in them.
And yet, even so, it might all have come right again, had Maman, that very
afternoon, not completed his father's cruel work. In spite of the coarse
and hideous words, whose meaning Stephan could only half understand, he had
still no real conception of the incident, so pregnant in consequences.
Or rather, whenever he tried to visualize it, his thoughts became confused,
his grief intolerable, as it struggled nearer and nearer the truth.
Then, like a runner, he clenched both fists in front of his chest, astounded
that a heart should have room in it for so much burning agony. All ambition
and vanity had been silenced. Only this burning grief remained. Stephan
had quarreled with his father. He had lost his mother, in some obscure
fashion more grievous than death. As the hours dragged on, it grew clearer
and clearer to him that he could go back neither to one nor the other.
In a curious way he felt cut off from them. They had become enemies.
For that very reason he must not go back to them, no matter how much all
the child in him might cry out with longing to do so. Even before he took
his great decision, he had made up his mind to avoid Three-Tent Square.
It was out of the question to meet Monsieur Gonzague again and share his
sleeping-quarters, now that in the eyes of all the boys the Greek had
become a mean scoundrel. As evening approached, Stephan had made up his mind.
He cut the knot of all these problems. He had crept into the sheikh-tent
and hastily stuffed all that seemed to be necessary into his Swiss rucksack.
Whatever else might suffer, he would never again eat at Maman's table,
or sleep in his bed. He would live on his own, apart from everyone --
though how, it was still impossible to decide. Then, later, he stood
a few minutes outside the doors of Juliette's tent. It was laced up
tight from inside. Not a word, or sound, from within. Only the faint
light of an oil lamp though the chinks. His hand was already reaching
up for the drumstick of the little gong, which hung over the door. But he
conquered his weakness and went striding off, with his rucksack on his
shoulders, no longer stifling sobs. On the North Saddle he had come
into the midst of the gathered crowds, waiting for the departure of Haik
and the swimmers. No one would speak to him, the fallen hero! They all
stared at him oddly and turned their heads. Often he heard such laughter
behind him as froze his heart. At last Stephan lay down behind one of the
defence works, where he could stay unscathed and watch it all without
being noticed.
First the two swimmers were sent with a blessing on their way. Since they
were Protestants, it was Aram Tomasian who addressed them. But Ter Haigasun
made the sign of the cross over their foreheads. Then pastor and priest
led the young swimmers past the first trenches and over the bend of the
Saddle, to the point where the shrub-grass slope rose northwards. Thin
smoke-streams from the distant forest fire impregnated this air --
it almost imperceptibly veiled the moon, causing its metallic light
to tremble, in vibrant haze. It really looked as though these swimmers
and their escort were setting out into some beyond, steeped in light,
but from which there could be no returning. The crowd would have liked
to come surging after them. But the armed guards had formed a cordon
and would only let relations come past it. Pastor Aram had arranged it
so, in order that these last good-byes might not be encroached upon
by strangers. The first farewells were said by distant relatives and
the boys' godfathers. Each of these had some small gift to bestow --
a few remnants of tobacco, some precious sugar, or even only a holy
picture or a medal. The priests took care that these first proceedings
should not he too long drawn out, and scarcely had the more distant
relatives bestowed their gifts when they departed, with Ter Haigasun and
Tomasian. Only their nearest and dearest were left for a short while with
the swimmers. A short, strangled embrace! The boys kissed their fathers'
hands. The mothers turned away sobbing. They waved disconsolately. Then,
even their parents had left them alone.
This, and what happened after it, filled the lonely Stephan's heart with
a bittersweet grief. The swimmers were still not alone. Suddenly two girls
were standing beside them. They were as like the boys as their two sisters.
The crowd even was put to silence by the sight of these four young people,
who disappeared together up the slope, hand in hand, into the vague,
moonlit smoke-haze. But it was not long till the girls were back again,
slowly coming downhill, each apart from the other.
Meanwhile Ter Haigasun had said a few words of admonishment to the Aleppo
runner, blessed him, and crossed his forehead. This farewell was far
quicker and more casual. The widow Shushik had neither any relatives
in these parts, nor had she managed to make one friend. Strangers are
always suspect. Nor had Widow Shushik herself so far made any attempt to
consort with her neighbors. Her huge peasant hands had always fended for
themselves. Therefore only Aram Tomasian and Ter Haigasun could accompany
her, as now she offered up her sole remaining treasure, her Haik.
Ter Haigasun, replacing his dead father, embraced and kissed the young
Aleppo runner, and held out his hand for the boy to kiss. He and Aram had
a sum of money to give to Haik, so that he might, if need arose, buy his
life with bribes. They left the mother and son alone. But Shushik did
no more than stroke Haik's forehead in quick embarrassment, before she
turned to follow the two priests. Yet Stephan noticed that she did not
go back among the people, already streaming off towards their huts,
but wandered indecisively away, in the direction of the rock barricades.
It was the first time that Gabriel Bagradian had not spent a whole night
in the north trench. For tonight the Council had given the command to
Chaush Nurhan the Lion. Luckily no attack seemed possible. The scouts
announced no threatening movement in the valley, only peaceful troops
going about their normal soldiers' routine along the village roads
between Wakef and Kebussiye.
This sense of security possessed not only the garrison but Nurhan,
who played cards with the elder men. They all were relaxed. The South
Bastion was an almost undisciplined nest of deserters. Sentries kept
leaving their posts to gossip with comrades. The commandant, who as a
rule was not to be joked with, even allowed his men to infringe one of
the strictest prohibitions and light several twig fires.
These freshly kindled bonfires and shouting voices enabled Stephan to
make a quick dash over the crest, on the opposite side, without being
seen or hailed from the camp. He was in a hurry, since Haik must by
now be well ahead. Stephan ran as hard as he could. The rucksack on
his back was by no means heavy: five boxes of sardines, a few bars of
chocolate, a couple of biscuits, a few underclothes. The thermos flask
which his father had forgotten in the tent he had asked Kristaphor to
fill with wine for him. These, and a rug, formed his whole accoutrement,
apart from his kodak. Stephan could not bring himself to part with that
Christmas present, the last in Paris, though he had used up every roll
of film. It was sheer childishness. And, since Haik carried no weapon,
he had also abandoned his intention of stealing a gun from one of the
stands of arms. In a few minutes he had come to the counter-slope. There
a long, wide clearing stretched in front of him, upon which, in ebbing
moonlight, unsullied here by any smoke-swaths, the Caucasian giantess
Shushik sat erect. Her long, rigid legs, under spreading skirts, and the
shadows cast by them, fantastically lengthened by the moon, covered a
whole stretch of Musa Dagh. But Haik her son, bony and tall as he was,
had nestled up to his mother like a suckling. He sat half in her lap,
and kept his head buried in her breasts. It looked, in this marble
light, as though the woman had bared them, to let her almost grown-up
child drink from her blood again. Haik, the dour, tough Armenian boy --
the disdainful Haik -- seemed to long to creep back forever into his
mother. His breath came short, with little sobs. Her own stifled grief
kept forcing its way out of the giantess, as she stroked her sacrificed
child. Stephan stood rigid in his hiding place -- ashamed at having to
look at this, and yet not able to see enough of it. When Haik suddenly
sprang up and helped his mother to her feet, Stephan felt as though his
body were cut in two. The widow's son only said a few curt, admonishing
words, and then at last: "Now you must go."