The Winter Thief

80

Feride handed Huseyin the day’s newspaper. He had moved to a sitting position as the scabs that covered his body had begun to give way to scars. His face was marred on one side by a plane of puckered skin that extended from ear to nose. His eyebrows had not grown back. Feride thought he looked like a newborn and her heart ached for him. They spoke little, except what was necessary.

His lungs had healed enough that he could whisper, “Thank you.”

Feride nodded in acknowledgment and leaned over to kiss his good cheek, then turned away before he could say more.

It was an open secret now among the household staff that Huseyin Pasha was back and recuperating from a horrible accident, so they had moved him into a room with a view of the garden. The repairs on the house were finished, and the guards, now dressed in Huseyin’s livery, stood at attention beside windows and doors.

Doctor Moreno came once a week to look in on Huseyin. Afterward he sat with Feride in deep discussion over an accounts book. Feride’s attention was absorbed by a new project she had conceived together with Doctor Moreno and Amadio Levy. She would provide the money to set up a foundation for the Eyüp hospital, including a children’s wing. Feride’s donation would seed the project and attract other donors.

Bored, Huseyin had begun to wander about the house, leaning on a cane and frightening the servants who hadn’t yet seen his ruined face. Two guards always accompanied him on his rambles, increasing his irritation.

“I’m not an infant,” he croaked to Doctor Moreno on his next visit. The doctor reminded him of the attempt on his life and Feride’s. Huseyin quieted and nodded assent. Feride saw him look around for her, but she was standing near the door, where he couldn’t see her. Because of the scar tissue, he could no longer flex his neck.

She felt a deep pity for her husband. She wanted more than anything to soothe the pain from his face, from his soul. She would even be willing to take some of the pain onto herself to spare him the fear she could see in his eyes when he tried to speak and could only whisper. But she found herself shackled by resentment and anger, for which she berated herself endlessly. In penance, she brought him tea, adjusted his cushions, and chatted idly about the daily adventures of their daughters, who, after their initial shock at seeing him disfigured, had immediately forgotten and treated him as they always had, a benign presence to be propitiated and taken advantage of.