Bosphorus Rose
Chapter 5
Iskender wasn't used to being ignored. Back at the parties he attended in Parisian mansions and at the gentlemen's clubs in Constantinople, he was always the centre of attention. But now the three people physically closest to him treated him like he wasn't there.
But then he supposed, he was also used to it. It was also just like how his family barely acknowledged him. Muhsine and him used to be close, and he wondered what happened between them that she now, too, chose to distance herself from him.
He never thought that his teasing could've had such an effect on Murad. He had found the flustering bridegroom amusing, but he never really meant any harm. But of course, he had messed up, yet again. Like he always does.
He cursed himself for never stopping to think before doing anything.
Murad on the other hand, spent his time looking out of the window as usual. He could see the faded turquoise domes of the Mihrimah Sultan Mosque as they passed the elegant complex. The mosque complex that Ismail Celebi built was in a far poorer part of the district, and built to serve a function. The women in the palace could afford to build monuments to leave a legacy. In his hands he fidgeted with his handkerchief.
He would be lying if he didn't admit he almost wanted to take Iskender's hand when he had extended it earlier. But then he remembered how he said those horrible things to Azemet. He was conflicted but just decided to just ignore the man. To be honest, he really wanted to just try to smooth things out with him, but when Azemet was concerned, he always put his brother first.
Iskender's presence in the carriage disturbed him, but it was a strange feeling. Murad felt that maybe it was because Iskender was a strange man. His cheeks turned warm as his heart raced. He supposed he was just nervous, but no one ever made him feel that way before. Situations made him nervous, but never certain individuals. He had even accompanied Ismail Celebi to the palace and had met with grand officials, and not even once did he feel the way like he did with Iskender. It was one of the reasons Murad wanted to avoid him.
Murad had heard of Iskender before, but he had never put a face to the name, until now.
Sure, his behaviour had been infruriating, but Murad was ready to forgive him. Sure, he had shamed him in front of everyone, but the boy was quick to forget anyone's misdeeds. Everyone made mistakes, he thought to himself. It was easier to just let go of things than to fret over them.
But there were just some things Murad could never let go.
He wished his parents were still here. If it wasn't for the war, they would be the ones to be marrying him off. He would be receiving his father's blessing and kissing his mother's hand. Instead, that night he would be with his uncle and aunt. He felt the sadness creep into his heart, but he immediately tried to shake the thoughts off.
He should be grateful he was still alive. In a sense, he delved himself in charity to make the most of the life that was given to him. There were others out there that were suffering far more than him. He had so much to live for. He still had so much to contribute.
Azemet knew deep inside Murad was still hurting. Murad rarely talked about his family, and when he did, he was quick to change the topic. The loss of his mother was especially devastating.
Azemet only knew Emine for the brief duration of their journey together to Constantinople, but the impact that she had on him was everlasting. It was from her that Azemet could see where Murad got his heart of gold from.
When the chaos had subsided, the refugees, escorted by Russian soldiers returned to the scene of the carnage to pick up the pieces. The Russian commanding officers had ordered the soldiers to take ameliorating measures, after seeing the carnage and destruction wreaked on the fleeing refugees. They had allowed them to return to fetch their belongings and retrieve the dead. The three of them stuck together, as Azemet looked for his family.
He found their bodies all arranged by the side of the snowy road. His mother, father and two brothers. Azemet fell to his knees.
He had seen them cut down, he heard their screams, but somehow deep in his heart as he ran away buried the little hope he had that they were alright. That they were somehow still alive, even though his mind had already told him that they were dead. His mind helped him escape, and his heart pulled him back to return.
Azemet just stared at the bodies. He couldn't even let out a single tear. Not even a muffled scream. But then he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up and saw Emine's kind eyes looking down at him.
"I'm really sorry son," she said, helping him up.
Before he could say anything, little Murad hugged him, wrapping his arms around Azemet. It helped. It really did.
On their way to the town of Harmanli, where most of the refugees assembled before continuing on their journey, Emine pulled Azemet to the side, while Murad trod on.
"Don't tell him," she said. "Not yet."
He could see the sadness in her hazel eyes. She couldn't bear to let him know that his brother was dead. His father was probably dead as well.
"I understand," Azemet replied.
They watched as Murad, the little boy in the red fez, picked up a stick and traced shapes in the snow. But seeing the boy so blissful in his ignorance was what drove Azemet over the edge. The sadness that he had held back hit him like the waves against a rocky shore.
The tears began to fall from his cheeks.
"Why?" he said, his voice cracking. "Why is this happening to us?"
Emine smiled sadly at him, her white shawl fluttering in the wind.
"It's God's will, son," she said, turning to look at Murad in the distance. "If it's already written for us, then it is what it is."
"They cut them down like dogs," he sobbed. "Like they were nothing."
His tears were falling onto the frozen ground, the mucus starting to run from his nose.
"We haven't done anything wrong," he cried. "We haven't hurt anyone."
Emine held him as he clung on to her tightly, sobbing onto her shoulder.
"You haven't, son," she said, as the tears welled in her own eyes. "You haven't."
Murad watched from afar as the strange older boy hugged his mother. He was crying.
It was the only time Murad ever saw Azemet cry.
They had searched far and wide all over Harmanli, amongst the throngs of refugees for Azemet's little sister but to no avail. They stayed there for nearly a week, huddled at night with the other refugees in the courtyard of the mosque, while in the daytime they looked for her in the streets and public spaces. They decided to try their luck in Adrianople, arriving there on foot.
This woman and her son, who had no relation to him were willing to help him look for his sister, despite them too being hungry, tired and cold. Azemet felt guilty. They could've reached Constantinople by now. But instead, they had stayed behind.
"Constantinople isn't going anywhere, my son," she had said.
Azemet couldn't help but smile. She always called him her son. It still warmed his heart to this day.
The deteriorating conditions were a hotbed for disease amongst the wretched souls. He remembered waking up to the sound of violent coughing in the middle of the night, back in the courtyard of the grand mosque in Adrianople.
"Don't worry about me," she said, between coughs. "I'm alright."
How long has she been sick? Azemet felt horrible for not noticing. They were only here because he was looking for his little sister. The weather wasn't getting any warmer, and Emine wasn't getting any stronger. With every passing day she was losing her strength.
He rushed up to her, patting her on the back. The woman he now called mother. It was this that finally made him accept that his sister was probably dead. A five year old couldn't possibly survive alone in the forest, especially not in the middle of winter. She had probably breathed her last breath somewhere, buried in the snow. In the spring, the snow would all melt away and the roots and shoots would cover her body, swallowing her into the forest, becoming one with it. She was gone forever, and there was nothing Azemet could do. Absolutely nothing at all.
But Murad and his mother were still alive. Azemet had to do whatever he could to get them to Constantinople safely. It was the least he could do for troubling them so much.
"Maybe she's safe somewhere," Azemet said. "Maybe someone's found her."
"You think so?" Emine replied.
"Yes," he answered. "I'm sure she's alright."
He said it even though he believed her to be dead. He just didn't want his mother to worry. He didn't want her to see him sad. It was the hardest decision Azemet had ever made. He had to choose between his two families, the old and the new. He chose the latter.
His old family was dead, the least he could do was keep his new one alive.
"We should head for Constantinople," Azemet said. "There's nothing left for us here."
Emine agreed, nodding her head.
She took out a white handkerchief and brought it to her mouth as she entered into another violent fit of coughs. As she took the handkerchief away, Azemet noticed it – the blood.
Some splotches were bright red, others a faded pink.
They almost seemed like roses against a backdrop of pure white snow.
Murad kept holding onto the handkerchief throughout the journey, his fingers occasionally tracing the embroidered roses. He could see the poor of Uskudar beginning to gather as they noticed the carriage and the carts following it. People began to stop in the street, some dressed in rags, while others had clothes made of rough cloth. They looked at the caravan with curiosity. Some of them knew it was the carriage of Ismail Celebi, which was a rather common sight in the area, but it was the carts full of food that they were curious about. They couldn't think why there would be so much food, it wasn't a holiday. As they approached the mosque complex, children began to play alongside the carriage. Some of the more curious ones trying to look through the latticed windows.
Murad flashed them a smile.
Iskender had noticed the boy beaming as he looked at the children with his brown eyes.
It was the most beautiful smile he had ever seen. It was a genuine smile, radiating with kindness and affection. But above all, it was sincere.
Iskender couldn't help but felt the corners of his lips curl up as well. Murad's smile was infectious.
Murad saw Iskender smiling at him, and he immediately turned to look at him. The older man quickly turned to look outside.
Murad was confused. He was certain that he saw Iskender flashing a smile at him. He couldn't help but feel his cheeks get warm.
There he goes again, Iskender thought to himself as he caught sight of the boy's rosy cheeks in the corner of his eye. The pink tint on his pale cheeks only served to make him even more beautiful. He certainly was beautiful inside out. Iskender felt really bad for how he treated him earlier. He shouldn't have done that. Him trying to shake his hand to make up for it was not enough.
For the first time in a long while, Iskender felt like he had to apologise. He himself seemed to be surprised when the thought crossed his mind.
Iskender never apologised. He feels bad, he tries to make up for things when things go wrong, but to explicitly put himself in a position where he admits his wrongdoing out loud was just beyond him. It just wasn't the way he did things. He was much too prideful and self-important. He could never be wrong. But Murad made him feel like he needed to do it, for some reason.
He couldn't explain it. He just couldn't.
The other passengers seemed oblivious to his peril, as they prepared to alight. Just thinking about apologising was already causing him to sweat. He put on a smirk to hide how nervous he was.
But of course he couldn't do it now, especially not in front of Fatima and the Circassian. He didn't want them to laugh at him. He also didn't want Murad to think that he was only apologising to make himself look good in front of others.
His apology was reserved for Murad, and Murad only. Nobody else needed to hear it. Nobody else mattered. All he wanted was for Murad to know how deeply sorry he was.
For what was probably the third or fourth time in his entire thirty years of existence, Iskender felt sincere.