Like Water on Stone Read online

growing up, Sosi jan,

  though Shahen

  seems a little stuck.

  I know.

  I will tell you.

  It came by surprise.

  He was always there

  every time Papa

  had a night of music.

  He was like a brother

  or a cousin

  to Misak and Kevorg,

  as much as to me.

  I was always busy

  helping Mama

  serve the food.

  But one night,

  baba Kaban played

  a duduk melody;

  you know how it gets

  under your skin

  and everything

  inside you shimmers?

  I looked up and

  Asan’s eyes met mine.

  It was like the duduk,

  but even stronger.

  Just a look?

  Whatever the eye sees,

  the heart won’t forget.

  Ardziv

  Water and wheel

  glistened like gems.

  The mill sang its own song,

  the low, slow wail

  of the wheel as it turned,

  the steady pulse

  of water on wood,

  the rising pitch

  as grain became flour,

  the rough rock rumble

  of the first coarse grind.

  It was high summer.

  Mounds of apricots

  turned one roof golden,

  like sun-drenched feather tips.

  Shahen and Sosi carried basket

  after basket of apricots

  from the trees

  that lined the river,

  Mariam trailing behind them.

  I lingered by the river

  to study the fruit’s

  perfect oval shape,

  like the velvet pads

  on a rabbit’s foot.

  The seam running up its side

  like a cleft between

  a lapin nose and mouth,

  the indentation

  from where stem meets fruit

  so like a hollow place

  in the soft belly

  of a mammal new born.

  Once the roof was filled,

  Shahen lay back

  and stared up

  to where I circled

  above treetops,

  his gaze fixed

  on the blue sky.

  Shahen

  Sosi

  In America, Keri says,

  I will go to a school

  with hundreds

  of students

  How could you know

  all their names?

  I can learn names

  by the thousands.

  Papa never said

  you’re going.

  And why do you

  want to, anyway?

  Hundreds of boys,

  all the same,

  like the apricots

  in this heap.

  And I’ve got to pit

  every one

  while you dream.

  Not boys, Sosi.

  Young men.

  You wait.

  I’ll climb

  to the crown

  of Lady Liberty,

  the giant statue.

  I’ll shout

  their names

  over New York

  Harbor.

  This one is Adam.

  His pit

  comes right out.

  This one is Eve.

  Her pit

  comes out, too.

  Noah’s a bit soft,

  overripe.

  His pit will stick.

  I’ll take care

  of Noah for you.

  Good catch.

  Keri says that

  from her torch

  I will see houses

  side by side

  spread across

  the land

  like vines

  in an orchard.

  Just houses?

  No earth?

  How will you eat?

  Keri says food

  comes to the city

  by boat and train.

  Pah! With food

  brought out

  from storage

  it will be winter

  every day.

  No, Sosi.

  Summer.

  Apricot summer,

  every day.

  Winter

  without

  you.

  Mariam

  Bird, trchoon.

  Stick and wings.

  Stick, swan, wave.

  Stick, stick, smile.

  Stick, snake.

  Stick, stick.

  Small smile, swan down, smile.

  Big smile.

  I am a writing bird.

  Shahen

  Papa

  Keri was just my age

  when he went

  to America.

  There were pogroms.

  It made sense, then,

  for him to go,

  though it broke

  your mother’s heart.

  Papa, pogroms

  will come again.

  Where is there a tree

  not shaken

  by the wind?

  It makes sense

  for me to go.

  Keri says

  there are free schools

  for all the youth

  of the city.

  If I wait

  I’ll be too old.

  Leave this land

  where music flows?

  And break again

  your mother’s heart?

  No, Shahen.

  And anyway,

  you study here

  with the priest

  already.

  Pah!

  With Father Manoog,

  it’s always the same.

  Two full years

  and I’ve learned

  nothing new.

  Shahen,

  open your eyes.

  Father Manoog

  prepares you

  for college

  in Kharpert.

  You’re looking

  for a donkey

  while sitting

  on its back.

  A donkey!

  Exactly, Papa.

  Give a donkey

  flowers to smell,

  and he eats them.

  A donkey can swim

  seven different strokes,

  but the moment

  he sees the water,

  he forgets them all.

  I want more

  than donkeys.

  You want.

  You want.

  Always you want.

  Stop wanting,

  my son,

  and then your eyes

  will open.

  Sosi

  Apricots with pierced skin or bruised flesh

  boil on a low flame, to make a sweet auburn paste.

  Mama stirs them as they thicken.

  Juices float from the black pot and perfume the air.

  Mama tells me again of the feast

  before her brother left for America.

  This lets her think of Shahen.

  Should he go or should he stay?

  The feast is always bittersweet.

  Three lambs slaughtered and roasted in a pit,

  pilaf rich with pine nuts and dried cherries.

  She says she couldn’t eat a bite. If it were me, I could,

  though Shahen should not go.

  If he does, I will write him letters

  that make his belly yearn

  for the feasts of home.

  Mama was already the mother of three

  when Keri left. Misak toddling,

  Kevorg just brand-new. Anahid five,

  like Mariam now. She is scratching again

  in the earth with her stick

  while Mama tends the black pot’s bubbling mixture,<
br />
  her eye ready for the moment just before it hardens,

  so our bastegh will stay solid-soft,

  like leather,

  when spread in thin sheets to dry.

  Dusted with ground sugar

  and rolled compact,

  one December bite

  will fill me with summer.

  Apricots spread thin on the tray,

  an auburn sunset sea.

  I pull a strip from the nearest edge,

  so thin no one can tell,

  and squeeze it

  in my palm

  into a small, warm ball

  that hides inside my cheek

  till it melts.

  Golden sweetness fills all of me,

  like just one glance

  from Vahan.

  Ardziv

  Green mountain fields turned into gold

  as wheatgrass curled and ripened.

  Harvest songs rose from the fields

  as sickles slashed the stalks.

  The Kurdish beys took in their tithe.

  The peasants kept the rest.

  Turks and Kurds hauled in their crops

  and left the mill with haste.

  They would not chat

  with those whom they called gavours.

  Armenian farmers lingered.

  Hot summer nights, the roof became

  the summer dining room.

  Mountain winds swept away

  the heat of the day

  and music filled the air.

  Papa hobbled up the stairs,

  his left leg dragged behind.

  But both his hands,

  they worked just right,

  pressing the neck,

  plucking the strings,

  the quill tip tucked

  between thumb and first finger,

  the plume end flowing

  out from under

  his curved palm.

  One August dusk, as the sun hung low

  and colors filled the sky,

  Mama and Sosi spread a rich red cloth

  across the roof floor,

  with platters of food upon the cloth:

  rice wrapped tight with leaves from grapevines,

  cheese fibers pulled so thin they might line a nest,

  flat baked bread from fresh-ground wheat,

  the black pot filled with green-pepper dolma,

  apricots, olives, and skewers of lamb,

  juice of the meat still running red.

  Misak and Kevorg

  splashed in the stream

  to clear their hair of wheat dust.

  Shahen carried Mariam

  on his shoulders,

  holding her round knees

  as he darted down the path

  to greet the guests.

  Mariam flapped her arms

  above him

  like a baby bird,

  unbending her knees

  and rising

  at the sight of Anahid,

  who quickened her step

  when she saw them.

  I flew in quite close,

  not believing my eyes

  at the sight of her husband

  and his parents, behind her.

  They wore head scarves

  and prayer shawls.

  This was a family of Kurds!

  Kurds who pray with the drum caps,

  bowing south five times each day.

  Young Asan, the husband of Anahid,

  his parents, Kaban and Palewan.

  In his arms Kaban carried

  two pipe instruments:

  a long, straight duduk

  and a zurna

  with a bell at its base,

  both made from the wood

  of an apricot tree,

  hollowed and holed,

  blown through double reeds.

  I’ve heard them both before.

  The zurna’s reed

  is a thin wheat leaf

  rolled tight.

  Its sound pierces the air.

  But the duduk,

  with its flat, loose reed,

  makes a sad, sweet sound,

  like a call to a loved one

  about to take flight

  to a distant land.

  Shahen set Mariam down on the ground.

  He kissed each guest

  in turn on both cheeks.

  Palewan placed a fine plate of sweets

  in his hands, twenty tiny nests,

  four by five, in neat rows,

  made of fine-cut dough

  filled with ground green nuts

  swimming in sticky syrup.

  “Digin Palewan,” Shahen said.

  “I dream about your kadayif.”

  “There’s no kadayif like this in America,

  I’m sure,” she replied.

  “Then I will have to eat my dreams when I go.”

  Back toward the house, Mariam walked

  and then flew, suspended

  between the hands of Anahid and Palewan.

  Such hugging and laughter

  up on the roof, sharing the meal

  like one family.

  Imagine!

  Kurds and Armenians together,

  as if falcons and eagles

  had just become one.

  Last light faded

  from the sky as they ate,

  but surprises did not end.

  Another lone man

  came up the path,

  with a curious slanted walk.

  He pressed and pushed to arrive,

  leading with his heart,

  a dumbek drum, its sides inlaid

  with mother-of-pearl,

  held tight against his body.

  His arm squeezed the drum’s waist,

  the goatskin taut

  across its top.

  But something pulled him

  from the backs of his legs

  as he moved forward.

  A round drum cap

  on his head said

  no mistaking it:

  this Mustafa

  was a Turk!

  Imagine!

  Like falcons and hawks

  right inside my nest.

  It was one of them,

  a falcon or a hawk,

  it had to have been,

  who came to my nest

  after the drum cap

  shot my mate.

  Tucked into rock

  high on a ledge,

  the nest could be reached

  only by one with wings.

  I had left them alone,

  the young ones.

  I had no choice.

  Their mouths

  were always open,

  open shut,

  open shut,

  their flight feathers

  not yet full.

  I had waited in the nest

  till I spied

  a plump gray rabbit.

  Within minutes

  I was back,

  my beak full

  of flesh

  for them.

  But the nest

  was already

  empty.

  Hidden by night now,

  I dropped down

  to low branches

  as the music began.

  Soothing music,

  music soothing my sore heart.

  My quill plucked

  sweet sounds

  from the strings

  of the oud,

  drawing me in.

  Shahen too.

  Mustafa’s steady hand

  beat his dumbek.

  Kaban’s cheeks

  emptied, then filled,

  the duduk sound unceasing

  with his constant breath.

  Lydian melodies like oil flowed.

  Mother tongues in unison blending

  thick umber of Turkish coffee,

  Armenian apricots, ginger ripe,

  blue Kurdish moonlight above us.

  Mi
sak and Kevorg stood

  arms out, hands on shoulders,

  catching the beat of the song,

  the tamzara, with their step.

  One—two—three,

  stomp, stomp.

  One—two—three,

  stomp, stomp.

  Asan joined the line, now an arc,

  Mama and Palewan, between them.

  One—two—three,

  stomp, stomp.

  Shahen did not dance.

  He had eyes only for my quill.

  His lips turned up

  as Papa pulled

  my quill across the string.

  But as the song ended,

  Shahen jumped up.

  Sosi, too.

  They pulled Anahid

  to her feet

  to make her dance

  with Asan next.

  The young couple

  wound around each other

  like eagles courting,

  though one of them had falcon blood,

  talons locked,

  cartwheeling through the sky,

  the line between their eyes never breaking.

  The melody of the slow, sweet song

  twisted and turned around itself,

  our eyes all on them:

  Mustafa, tender and sweet,

  Kaban and Papa proud,

  Misak and Kevorg dreaming.

  Mothers blushed.

  Children shushed.

  Sounds of the stream

  on the stone

  and the wood

  filled the air,

  till Papa rose to stand,

  his hand across his heart.

  “My wife’s brother is a faraway fool

  to hold back his blessing for Anahid and Asan.

  Here it is clear. You men are my brothers.

  Our holy books differ by one prophet only.

  “The sun does not shine

  on one man and his family

  keeping others in the dark,

  even in New York.”

  When falcons or hawks came to my nest,

  I must confess, I sang a different song.

  Shahen

  Papa always played,

  but I did not hear

  the oud before,

  not like this.

  Long, deep notes

  pull me up to the sky.

  The plucks of the quill

  dance on my spine.

  But best of all,

  if I learn to play,

  Papa will have to

  let me go,

  because then,

  someone

  will play oud

  in America.

  Sosi

  After their dance,

  I had to tell her.

  I whispered it.

  I poured Vahan

  right into

  Anahid’s ear,

  his glances at the market,

  a seat nearby at church,

  while Papa and his friends

  played into the night.