Before anyone could comment on that, the door of the bedroom opened with a creak and out stepped Armanoush Tchakhmakhchian, a bit diffident, a bit dizzy. She was wearing faded denim jeans and a navy sweatshirt long and loose enough to hide the features of her body. While packing for her flight to Turkey she had thought hard about what kind of clothing to take with her and had ended up choosing her most modest clothes so as not to look strange in a conservative place. It had therefore come as a shock to be welcomed at the Istanbul airport by Auntie Zeliha wearing an outrageously short skirt and even more outrageously high heels. What was even more startling, however, was to meet Auntie Banu afterward in a head scarf and a long dress, and to learn how pious she was, praying five times a day. That the two women, despite the stark contrast in their appearance and obviously in their personalities, were sisters living under the same roof was a puzzle Armanoush figured she would have to work on for a while.
"Welcome, welcome!" Auntie Banu exclaimed cheerily, but instantly ran out of English words.
As they watched her approach, the four aunts at the table fidgeted awkwardly with the discomfort of unfamiliarity, but still wore ear-to-ear smiles on their faces. Curious as to what the stranger smelled like, Sultan the Fifth immediately sprang to his feet and paced a narrowing circle around Armanoush, sniffing her slippers, until he had decided there was nothing of interest there.
"I am very sorry, I don't know how I slept that long," Armanoush stammered in slow-motion English.
"Of course, your body needed that sleep. It's a long flight," Auntie Zeliha said. Though she had a mellow yet blatant accent and tended to stress the wrong syllables, she also sounded pretty comfortable expressing herself in English. "Aren't you hungry? I hope you will enjoy Turkish food."
Capable of recognizing the word food in every language possible, Auntie Banu bolted to the kitchen to bring the lentil soup. Almost robotically Sultan the Fifth leaped over his cushion to follow her, meowing and pleading along the way.
As she sat in the chair reserved for her, Armanoush inspected the living room for the first time. Quickly, warily, she looked around, pausing at certain spots: the carved rosewood, glass-door cupboard with gilded coffee cups, tea-glass sets, and several antiques inside; the old piano against the wall; the exquisite rug on the floor; the multiple pieces of latticework glowing on top of the coffee tables, velvet armchairs, and even the TV set; the canary in an ornamented cage swinging by the balcony door; the pictures on the walls-a bucolic oil painting of a countryside too picturesque to be real, a calendar with the photograph of a different cultural and natural site in Turkey for each month; an evil-eye amulet; and a portrait of Atatiirk in a tuxedo, waving his fedora toward a crowd not included in the frame. The entire room was pulsating with mementos and vivid hues blues, maroons, sea greens, turquoises-and blazing with such luminosity that it seemed there was an additional light somewhere other than what radiated from the lamps.
Armanoush then looked at the dishes on the table with growing interest. "What a gorgeous table." She beamed. "These are all my favorite foods. I see you have made hummus, baba ghanoush, yalanci sarma… and look at this, you have baked churek!"
"Aaaah, do you speak Turkish?!" Auntie Banu exclaimed, flabbergasted as she walked back in with a steaming pot in her hands and Sultan the Fifth still tailing her.
Armanoush shook her head, half-amused, half-solemn, as if feeling sorry to let down so much anticipation. "No, no. I do not speak the Turkish language, unfortunately, but I guess I speak the Turkish cuisine.
Unable to get this last bit, Auntie Banu turned to Asya in despair, but the latter seemed to have no interest in fulfilling her role as translator, so fully absorbed was she in the task designated by the Turkish Donald Trump. The competitors were now instructed to dive deep into the textile industry to redesign the yellow and azure uniforms of one of the biggest soccer teams competing in the national league. The design rated highest by the soccer players themselves was going to win the competition. Meanwhile, Asya had been contemplating an alternative plan for this specific task as well, but this time she decided to keep it to herself She didn't feel like talking anymore. To tell the truth, the American girl had turned out to be far more beautiful than she had expected; not that she was expecting anything, but deep inside Asya had thought, and perhaps hoped, that it would be some stupid blonde who they would welcome at the airport.
For some reason unknown to her, Asya wanted to confront the guest, but lacked not so much the reason as the energy. At this point, she'd rather remain aloof and reserved to make clear that she shunned this Turkish hospitality.
"So, tell us," Auntie Feride asked after completing the inspection of the American girl's hairstyle and finding it too plain. "How is America?"
The absurdity of the question was enough to make Asya lose her composure, no matter how resolute she might have been in her decision to remain detached. She gave her aunt a pained look. But if Armanoush too had found the question ludicrous, she didn't show it. She was good with aunts. Aunts were her specialty. Her right cheek slightly gorged with the lump of hummus inside, she replied: "Good, good. It's a big country, you know. Depending on where you live, there are different Americas."
"Ask her how is Mustafa." Grandma Gulsum demanded, completely dismissing the last pieces of information, which she hadn't understood.
"He is good, working hard," Armanoush said while she simultaneously listened to Auntie Zeliha's melodious voice translate her words. "They have a lovely house and two dogs. It is gorgeous out there in the desert. And the weather in Arizona is always nice, you know, nice and sunny…."
When the soup was eaten and the starters nibbled, Grandma Gulsum and Auntie Feride made a visit to the kitchen and returned carrying a huge tray each, perfectly synchronized in an Egyptian walk. They put the plates they had shouldered onto the table.
"You have pilaf," Armanoush smiled and leaned forward inspecting the dishes. "There is tursu and…"
"Wow!" the aunts exclaimed in unison, impressed by their guest's command of Turkish cuisine.
Armanoush suddenly spotted the last pot brought to the table. "Oh, I wish my grandma could see this, now this is a treat,
kaburga…."
"Wow!" echoed the chorus. Even Asya perked up with a dash of interest.
"Turkish restaurant many in America?" Auntie Cevriye asked. "Actually, I happen to know this food because it is also part of the Armenian cuisine," Armanoush replied slowly. Being presented to the family as Mustafa's stepdaughter Amy, an American girl from San Francisco, she had initially planned to gradually reveal the secret about the remaining part of her identity, after having built up some degree of mutual trust. But here she was, galloping full speed directly into the nub of the matter.
Now lapsing into a taut yet equally self-confident mood, Armanoush straightened her back and looked from one end of the table to the other to see how everyone was reacting. The blank expressions she encountered on their faces urged her to explain herself better.
"I am Armenian… well, Armenian American."
The words were not translated this time. There was no need to. The four aunts smiled simultaneously, each in her own way: one of them politely, the second worriedly, the third curiously, and the last amiably. But the most visible reaction came from Asya. Having now stopped watching The Apprentice, she eyed their guest with genuine interest for the first time, realizing that, after all, she might not be here to conduct research on "Islam and women."