The Winter Thief

72

Gabriel laid their gifts of three dressed fox pelts, a rifle, and a box of ammunition that he had brought from Trabzon on the carpet before the landowner’s feet. Levon, the richest and most powerful man in the area, sat cross-legged on a fine Persian carpet draped over a raised platform in the center of the room. His deeply seamed face was framed by a russet beard. He stared down at Gabriel and Victor.

They were in the receiving room of the landowner’s house, where men met to discuss the valley’s affairs. A dozen men from the area, wrapped in furs and leaning on cushions, arrayed themselves beside and behind Levon. Other men sat on a divan against the wall. Their expressions were not welcoming.

“We’re here to farm,” Gabriel was saying. “You’ll find us good neighbors if you’ll give us a chance to prove it.” He and Victor had come to ask for Levon’s patronage, which would protect the commune from the other villagers in the valley.

The men began to argue. Gabriel had spoken in Armenian, but the dialect of the mountains was so thick he had trouble understanding the discussion. He thought he heard one man insist that since many of the newcomers were Armenians, the local community was required by the rules of hospitality to help them through the winter.

When an elder began to speak, the others fell silent. “It doesn’t matter,” he said in a quavering voice. “We are in a vise with the Russians to our left and the Ottoman army to our right. By spring we could all be dead, trampled in the mud between giants. No tree will bear fruit once its roots are cut. It would make better sense to welcome the strangers than to drive them out or let them starve. Why waste our bullets on each other?” There was a murmur of agreement.

Women in brightly colored flowing dresses and white kerchiefs carried in platters of rice and grilled lamb. The men sat cross-legged in a circle around the food. The landlord asked Gabriel to sit to his right. Victor was given a place alongside the older man, who introduced himself as Levon’s father.

Pointing out a choice morsel of meat to Gabriel, Levon asked, “How many guns do you have?”

“Not enough,” Gabriel answered bitterly. He thought angrily about the thousand rifles in the custody of the Istanbul authorities, thanks to the perfidy of one of his supposed allies. He chewed the meat, tasting nothing.

They rode back to the monastery through deep snow, trailed by two struggling donkeys laden with Levon’s gifts-sacks of cracked wheat, dried chickpeas, apples, and an entire roasted lamb.

No new cases of illness had appeared among the comrades of New Concord commune. That night their bellies were full of Levon’s lamb and their spirits high. Someone had unearthed a fiddle and accompanied Alicia as she sang an Irish love song. She had an expressive voice that reminded Gabriel of his sister singing hymns beside him in church. After their parents died in a fire that destroyed their house, Gabriel had brought his thirteen-year-old sister to a hut in the forest that he had built as a secret refuge and furnished with scavenged objects. There he had tried to keep her from harm. It was the memory he most cherished. In the chill autumn nights they had huddled together. Every morning his sister had swept out the hut with a pine branch, sending out billows of fragrance. He had been a boy still, only fifteen, with a belief in miracles and magic circles that kept children safe. But then, while he was hauling barrels on the docks to earn a few kopeks, his sister had slipped into town to visit a friend. Some men had followed her back into the woods. Alicia’s love song burnished Gabriel’s memories so that, for a while, they outshone his shame at failing to protect first his sister and now his wife.

The comrades sat around the fire, huddled in their quilts and furs, eyes shining. There was the yeast of fellowship in the room tonight. If he could keep it alive, it would grow and nourish the commune. A young woman had baked a hazelnut cake with flour from the new supplies. She brought it out, a misshapen thing on a platter, but laced with honey and as sweet as the spirit in the room.

He allowed himself to think about Vera. She had longed to take part in his work, but he had kept her away-for her safety, he had told himself. He wondered at his motives now. Had he wanted to keep her innocent? Or had he simply not respected her because she came from a wealthy family?

As the fire died down and the hall was released to shadows, Gabriel saw Victor and Alicia disappear hand in hand into the darkness. A soft rustling like the brush of angels’ wings rose in the room as its occupants settled into their straw nests. Gabriel continued to sit by the fire until late into the night, looking for Vera’s eyes in the flames.

A loud pounding roused him, and he hastened out into a courtyard illuminated by starlight. Two comrades had also heard the noise and gathered by the gate. “Identify yourself,” Gabriel called out.

“I come from Trabzon,” the voice replied, “with a message from Apollo Grigorian.”