Free The Gendarme by Mark T. Mustian Page A

away but is back now, her head twisted as she pretends to read spines of books.
    This article is longer, a small book, almost. The author’s name is Hollingsworth. It states that near the beginning of World War I, small Armenian bands attacked in Urfa, Bitlis, Musa Daği, Karan Hisan. They targeted the war effort—army recruiters, government buildings. The Turkish authorities were concerned about insurrection, one that, given the size of the Armenian population, could spread throughout Anatolia. So the deportations commenced. The official Ottoman order spelled out compassion for the deportees, instructions for selling property, caring for health and sanitation. Still, by some estimates almost one million perished. The Turkish government eventually charged hundreds for crimes committed against Armenians. Talat Paşa, Enver, Cemal—all were found guilty, and sentenced to death.
    “Papa. What is this all about?”
    We are back in the Explorer now, the wind in my face. I stare out the window at a boy on a bicycle.
    “I am trying to understand,” I say slowly. “These dreams have triggered things, things that are not memories, but because I have so few memories of this time, they confuse me.” I pause.
    “And what is it you are looking for?”
    I hesitate. “There was a deportation, of Armenian people from Turkey. During the war. I was not there, but for some reason I keep dreaming of it.”
    “Do you think it’s a past life?”
    “How can it be a past life if it occurs during my own?”
    She ponders this. “I don’t know.”
    Another thought comes to me, one that has lurked, unexamined. A cross-check. The only tangible link to my childhood.
    A man visited me once, while Carol was still alive. In 1974, maybe 1975. His name was Recep Gencay. He claimed to be from my village, in Turkey, to have known me as a child. I do not know how he found me, or why, but he is the only person to claim connection with this life from before.
    Recep knew a number of things, including things about my parents, my brother, even our dog. He remembered children I remembered, the streets, the places we would go. But it was an odd and uncomfortable meeting, for I could recall only a few of the things he did. I had no recollection of him, for example. I tried to explain this, that digging back to before was like trying to go back in the womb, that the bed on which I was birthed was in London, not Anatolia. He did not understand. He seemed agitated and regretful, continually asking my pardon. I thought of him for a time as a spirit. I had no wish to see him again. But now . . . He had mentioned Burak specifically. I dig my nails in my palms.
    I turn to Violet. “Do you remember the man who came to see me once, who claimed to be from my hometown?”
    She shakes her head.
    “I think he lived in Jacksonville.” Yes, that was it. Jacksonville. “Perhaps we should go there.”
    “Go . . . to Jacksonville?”
    “Yes.”
    “When?”
    I scratch my head. “Perhaps tomorrow.”
     
     
     
    Araxie is gone. I am alone, except for my horse. I grab my rifle, feel around in the dark. Gone. I peer into the hallway, listen to the snores and stirrings from the curtained-off areas, sniff of the stale, cool air. I creep down to the bath, thinking she might have decided at last to bathe, but the area is dark and silent. The kitchen, the small, dank area where we take our meals, the small vestibule at the entrance, and the corridor are all empty, devoid of any movement.
    I slip out into the silky dawn, stifling the need to urinate. If she ran, where would she go? I consider the possibility of abduction but quickly dismiss it. I would have heard any scuffle, and the bulk of the other boarders were so dirty and violent-looking I cannot imagine she would go with someone else on her own.
    It seems more likely she has decided to flee, to where, I know not. We have been in Katma for four days, holed up in our room, our oda , waiting for word of our movement. Our