CHAPTER VI

A VISITOR

Perched along the steep shore of the Golden Horn, nearly opposite the ancient land walls of Constantinople, rises the village of Hasskeui. When seen from the water, the rickety wooden houses appear to be piled one upon another in the wildest confusion. The winding streets, paved with rough, uneven stone, are so narrow that you can reach across them, and so steep that no beast of burden can climb them. Hasskeui is the home of the descendants of those Jews who were expelled from Spain in the year 1492. It is now a veritable ghetto. The streets and courts abound in filth swept from the houses, and with children whose pale, pinched faces tell tales of hunger and poisonous air. In the market, along the water’s edge, the venders expose for sale heaps of decaying vegetables, lemons and oranges white with mold, and meat discarded by the Moslem merchants of the city.

On the hill back of the village is the Ok Meidan, or archery field, dotted here and there with tall marble shafts to mark the places where the arrows of former sultans fell. The pure cold air from the Black Sea sweeps over the hill, and the Jewish families, wrapped in fur-lined coats, spend the sunset hours walking back and forth breathing the pure fresh air.

For one reason or another, prosperous Armenians occupied the upper rows of houses near the summit of the hill; but occasionally poverty drove some of them down among the Jews. When Herant, the silk merchant of Ak Hissar, moved his family to Constantinople, his friends persuaded him to purchase one of the higher houses; and there, among his own people, he made his home.

One afternoon, ten days before Takvor’s departure for England, when he was sitting alone in his room, with his thoughts turned to Ak Hissar and Armenouhi, to the old white castle, and the hillside spring, which he had left three years before, he was startled by hearing a familiar voice inquiring for his mother. He rushed down stairs, and seized Armenouhi by the hands, for it was she and her aunt Vartouhi.

“Why, how tall you have grown!” he cried; “and prettier than ever! Oh, how good of you to come and bring her. And mother will be so glad to see you. You must remain till I go away,” and he turned to his mother, who just entered the hall. “Mother, you will have her stay, won’t you?” he pleaded.

Yester was scarcely less delighted to see Armenouhi, for she loved her as her own child, and at once asked that she be allowed to remain with them.

“We will let Armenouhi decide that,” finally said the aunt.

“Will you stay?” he eagerly asked.

“Yes.”

Armenouhi had never been in the city before, and now she should see whatever she cared to, and he would be her guide. That very afternoon he took them to the Sweet Waters of Europe. He procured a boat, and as they made their way among the long shapely kajiks which nearly covered the Golden Horn, he told her stories of the passing people. Near the Sultan’s country villa they laughed at the little group of Turkish women squatting on the grassy shore. They landed at the bridge and walked about, gazing at the carriages of the white-veiled ladies from the Sultan’s harem, and at their tall black guards, awkwardly mounted on Arabian horses. He brought them ices and pistachio nuts, and they sat down on the grass to rest among the Turkish women.

At the base of the opposite hill, some festive Greeks were holding hands, and executing in a circle the steps of their national dance to the music of a hurdy-gurdy. In an approaching kaiyik laden with Turks, a young man, standing with hands to his mouth, was straining out long wavy sounds in a minor key, improvising a monotonous Oriental chant, while his companions were clapping their hands in unison, to mark the time. From the opposite shore came the weird strains of a Turkish lute, accompanied by the rhythmic beat of the pompoms; and a passing juggler, shaking his tambourine, added to the musical medley a song announcing that he had tricks to perform. A strolling dark-skinned gypsy girl, clad in a long, bright-yellow gown, was passing from group to group selling lavender blossoms, or telling fortunes.

Takvor nodded to her.

The gypsy squatted on the ground before them and poured from a small black bag a collection of beans, beads, buttons, horse-chestnuts, stones, and lobster-claws, with which she told the past and revealed the future.

Armenouhi selected a lobster-claw. The gypsy put it among the other objects belonging to her craft, and began to talk in a jargon of Greek and Turkish.

“You have many friends,” and she spread out her long henna-colored fingers over the white beans and stones about the claw. “That is a very wicked man,” she continued, placing her finger on a large black button that was resting against the edge of the claw. “He wishes to marry you, but you do not care for him, and now he is trying to injure you. Beware of him. And that is your lover,” touching a round white stone near the larger end of the lobster-claw. “He is going on a journey, and it will be a long time before he returns.”

“When will he return?” put in Takvor, who was listening to every word of the gypsy’s lingo.

“It will be a long time; perhaps years,” and she counted the beads about the stone.

“What is his name, and what is he like, and where is he going?” asked Armenouhi, pretending ignorance.

“He is a fine, honest boy, but I cannot tell you his name; he is going far away in a ship across the water.”

“Trouble is coming,” continued the gypsy, spreading her fingers over the big horse-chestnuts, which nearly surrounded the beans. She paused, and her black eyes were fixed on the little objects on the ground.

“Go on,” said Takvor, who had been watching her fingers so intently that he had not observed the change in her manner.

Again she placed her finger on the white stone.

“All your friends will--will be--,” and she gathered up the scattered objects, and returned them to the small black bag.

“Will be what?” asked Takvor.

“Tammam! it is finished,” she replied, and sprang to her feet; and refusing the silver piaster which he offered her, she hurried away.

“How strangely she acts!” said Yester, somewhat troubled by the gypsy’s story.

“The police there have probably frightened her away, mother. Shall we be going?”