To be fair, she didn’t exactly show her age. She hardly looked 85.

Everyone said so, especially on days

she had rested and eaten well. This was not one of those days, though. The night before she had tossed
and turned in the double bed where she slept alone since her husband’s death, a clamour of concerns
and fears coursing through her mind. She wanted, no, she needed her birthday dinner to be perfect.
Everything had to come about exquisitely — the food, the drinks, the talks, the atmosphere. Not only for
her sake, but also for her children’s and grandchildren’s. Lately there had been tension among her three
sons, and she was hoping that this family gathering might help to melt the ice. Family gathering, she
thought to herself. What a peculiar concept! When she was growing up, there was no such thing. Why
should there be? You didn’t have to bring together what was never apart. You knew that you were
always with each other, at every meal and every fast, both the spirits of the living and the ghosts of the
past.

This morning, up on her feet at dawn, despite her aching limbs and weary eyes, she had baked a trayful
of her favourite dessert. Sweet and crunchy, a decent portion of khadaif would go a long way, warming
anyone’s heart — even hearts hardened by stupid, stupid politics! Her sons had always held different
political views but lately views had turned into certainties and certainties into head-clashing battles in
which nobody won, everyone bled a little. Even so, tonight they would all tuck into the mouth-watering
khadaif, her three sons and their loved ones, and that should amount to something, of this she had no
doubt. For Mrs Chorbadjian was one of those women restlessly bent on feeding the people around
them, strangers and relatives alike, urged on by some unshakeable belief that if only everyone had a
fuller belly, the world would be, if not a better place, at least a calmer one.

Sitting now in a moss-green velvet armchair by the window, Mrs Chorbadjian tried to concentrate on the
crossword puzzle by her side, to no avail. She sighed. Maybe her late husband was right, after all. Maybe
she had a tendency to worry too much — “tendency” being one of those words he used habitually. Then
again, Mrs Chorbadjian believed, only two kinds of people in this world succeeded in not worrying: the
fools and the optimists, which as far as she was concerned were often the same individuals. The rest of
humanity binged on anxiety.

Out of the corner of her eye, she checked to see how Felicita was doing. The young Filipina help was
straightening out the damask tablecloth, smoothing down creases, busy as a bumblebee. In a matter of
hours, she would vacuum the rugs, polish the silver, shine the crystal, mop the floors, clean out the
guest bathroom, and just as the sun went down, set up the large, mahogany dining table. She would also
find time to walk the dog, a brown hound, a Hungarian Vizsla, named Danube. Thankfully, the food was
going to be catered, but still, it was a lot of work. Mrs Chorbadjian had several times offered to bring in
help, but Felicita insisted she could do it all by herself, now that the bruises on her arms had mostly
healed and the nasty swelling around her left eye had begun to subside. This morning she was even
humming as she dusted the mantle above the fireplace. It was a light and breezy melody — not the kind
of tune you would expect from a woman who had been to hell and somehow managed to come back.
Had her husband been alive, Mrs Chorbadjian knew, he would have objected to her hiring Felicita. He
would be worried that after what she had been through the young woman might not be very stable —
stability being another favourite word of his. Now, let’s not make a rash decision. You wouldn’t want a
less-than-stable person in the house, darling, would you?

Mrs Chorbadjian had always been amazed by her husband’s confidence in the rightness of his opinions,
and especially, his conviction that a good education (he himself had attended a top school that need not
be named), good money (he had inherited quite a bit and invested it wisely) and good family (caring,
well-educated parents, etc) would make one stable, and those who were deprived of similar beginnings
in life, through no fault of their own, were prone to instability and therefore could not be relied upon.
You should be kind to such people, kind and polite, but not mingle with them, and certainly not employ
them in the workplace — let alone bring them into the privacy of your house.

Not always an easy man, bless his soul. Yet Mrs Chorbadjian had loved her husband, and still did, as love
didn’t perish with a partner’s death. Overall theirs had been a happy marriage, but she knew from the
beginning that he just didn’t grasp certain things. For him, human misery was like smoking. If you didn’t
get anywhere near the bad habit, you wouldn’t have to worry about suffering its consequences. For her,
human misery was more like smoke itself. Diffuse, invisible and capable of permeating every nook and
cranny, it caught you unawares and even if you did your very best to shield yourself, you never knew
when you might inhale a lungful.

Mrs Chorbadjian was stirred out of her reverie by a clicking sound. When she turned aside, she saw
Felicita, having opened the display cabinet, about to dust an ornamental jug.

“Oh, stop! Be careful with that one,” Mrs Chorbadjian exclaimed, more harshly than she had intended.

Felicita flinched, caught by surprise.

“It’s an antique.” Mrs Chorbadjian immediately regretted saying that. Would the young woman even
know what “antique” meant?

As Felicita spoke very little English — and given that Mrs Chorbadjian had no Tagalog — they had been
communicating more through gestures than words ever since the maid had arrived just a week ago. But
this time Mrs Chorbadjian did not want to rely on the force of a frown alone. No, she was not going to
take the risk. Slowly, painstakingly, she rose from her seat and walked towards the cabinet, crammed
near to overflowing with scent bottles, silver spoons, gold-plated inkstands, bronze candlesticks, framed
photos of her sons at different stages of their transition from boyhood to manhood.

“This jug is old, my dear — even older than me. It was a set. A hundred and

forty-four pieces. Made in Vienna. Shipped from Istanbul to Smyrna in wooden crates. They belonged to
my great-grandmother. She was so beautiful! I never met her but I’ve seen her photos. Did you know I’m
named after her? Hermine Chorbadjian. When my husband proposed to me, I said to him, ‘I’ll come with
you to rainy London, I won’t object to you raising our children as British as the BBC, but you promise me
one thing. I’ll keep my family surname. I’m not changing that ever!’ And he agreed.”

Felicita blinked.

“My great-grandmother got married when she was only 16. Oh, I know, it’s terrible. But that’s how
things were done back then, don’t judge them harshly. Her dowry was magnificent — silk rugs, mother-
of-pearl chests, golden bracelets up to her elbows . . . And now there’s only this left.”

Mrs Chorbadjian turned the jug over to show the inscription underneath.

Royal Vienna, 1844.

Felicita’s eyes grew wide, but she still said nothing.

Mrs Chorbadjian pursed her lips, unsure whether she had been understood. She decided to try a
different tack. “This is worth £2,500.”

She was exaggerating — and quite a bit. The antiques dealer who had appraised the piece had said he
could sell it for about £1,000, but then again, could Mrs Chorbadjian trust a man who profited from
trading family heirlooms for a living? What did he know about this jug? How did one even put a price on
a historical object when every such item was a memory exhumed — someone’s unspoken joy,
someone’s inherited pain?

Meanwhile, Felicita was studying the jug, worth more than her monthly allowance. It was painted in a
green so vivid and rich that it brought to mind precious gemstones. In the centre was a dreamy-eyed
woman, combing her long, reddish-brown hair. She held a silver mirror, though she did not seem
interested in her reflection. Instead she was looking up and beyond the borders of her porcelain world,
looking straight at her observer from the future.

The longer she inspected the jug the harder Felicita found it to hide her disappointment. Not that it
wasn’t pretty — it was — but she had seen finer ones in that glitzy shopping mall in Jeddah, before her
previous employer had decided to lock her up in the back room of a large villa, with just one daily meal,
and then, one afternoon, upset at her for staining a designer dress while ironing it, beat her with a
leather belt, the buckle hitting her square in the mouth. A cracking sound inside her ears; a salty,
metallic taste on her tongue, that of her own blood. Yes, Felicita had seen far more precious items in the
princely mansions she had previously worked in — gold plated cutlery that needed to be washed by
hand, never in the dishwasher; fine bone china plates, which if she were to drop, their value would be
deducted from her pay; silk carpets that had to be protected at all costs from toddlers and pets. She had
seen jewellery, too, all kinds — which always made her uneasy, because if a piece went missing she
knew she would be the first to be blamed. She had spent many a sleepless night, listening to the sounds
in the dark, guarding rich people’s homes. No, she was not impressed by the old woman’s cherished jug.
But she didn’t have the heart to tell this to her. Instead she smiled with appreciation, revealing a missing
front tooth.

“Very nice, madam.”

“Thank you, dear.” Mrs Chorbadjian felt embarrassed by her own reaction. She tried to avert her gaze
from the void between Felicita’s front teeth. “I’ll go and grind some walnuts for the khadaif,” she said,
her voice quavering slightly. “Why don’t you give me that jug, I shall put it safely away while you dust
the cabinet.”

“Yes, madam.”

Once in the kitchen, Mrs Chorbadjian carefully placed the jug on the table, muttering all the while to
herself — and to her late husband. She did that sometimes, conversing with ghosts, though they were
not a very talkative bunch in general.

“See, who’s stable and who’s less-than-stable now, hmm? Oh, what was I thinking! Where is my brain?
Why did I even scold the poor woman?”

Mrs Chorbadjian had first heard Felicita’s story — for everything was either a story or a case nowadays
— from the hairdresser who visited her every few weeks to trim her hair and dye her roots. On one of
those visits, the hairdresser had explained that her niece was trapped in a villa in the Middle East where
she worked as a domestic help, half starved and tied to the window bars. None of this would be known
had Felicita not managed to record her plight on her phone and send it out to the world, asking for help.
Human rights activists and civil society organisations had raised the issue. By now it was all over the
papers. Even the famous designer of the dress had posted a photo on her Instagram account, holding up
a sign that said #FreeFelicita.

Either the campaigns had worked or it was sheer luck, but the employer had agreed to release Felicita if
he got back the money he claimed she owed him. The sum was found in a matter of days through
crowdsourcing and Felicita was brought to the UK, where she had worked before and had several
relatives. Mrs Chorbadjian, who had been following the case with a heavy heart, had instantly offered
her a job as well as a place to stay. And before she knew, the young woman was in the house, a duster in
her hand, working and humming. Felicita was strong — a strength one wouldn’t have expected from her
small frame and sunken cheeks. But then again, resilience never ceased to surprise Mrs Chorbadjian. If
there was one single thing to admire about the human race, she always thought, it must be that. In the
end, when all was said and done, wasn’t bouncebackability our most admirable quality?

© David McConochie

At seven o’clock sharp the doorbell rang.

“It must be David!” Mrs Chorbadjian’s face lit up. “Always on time.”

The old woman had changed into a blue silk dress with an opal stone flower brooch. Heavy block-heeled
shoes with orthotic insoles for her varicose veins. Sitting in front of the vanity mirror, for the first time in
a long while, she had even applied some make-up. A swish of mascara, a smudge of kohl, a touch of
rouge on her soft, flaccid cheeks.

When Felicita opened the door, she saw a tall, broad-shouldered man with protruding blue eyes behind
black-framed glasses, close-cut silver hair.

“Oh, hello there! You must be the new girl. I’m David.”

He beamed as he handed his coat to Felicita, flashing a set of immaculately white teeth. Conscious of
the state of her own teeth, Felicita nodded, keeping her lips tightly closed.
David walked in, carrying a gift box wrapped in silver paper.

“Hello, darling.” Mrs Chorbadjian gave her son a kiss. She couldn’t help noticing he had gained weight.

“No one’s arrived yet?”

“They are on their way,” said Mrs Chorbadjian. “I heard the traffic is horrible.”

“Well, I just drove through the same traffic and I’m here on time.”

Mrs Chorbadjian glanced at the door. “Your daughters?”

“They’re with their mother, enjoying the sunshine. 24C at this time of the year. Lucky them!”

A shadow crossed Mrs Chorbadjian’s face. Ever since David’s divorce, it had been nearly impossible to
see her grandchildren — twin girls, aged 17. They had moved to Málaga, their mother’s hometown. But
the old woman had secretly assumed they would be here this weekend for her birthday.

Mrs Chorbadjian still found it difficult to accept that her daughter-in-law, the woman she had known for
more than two decades, had suddenly packed up and left. Gabriela called her every now and then, and
sent cheerful postcards with inviting pictures of cobblestoned streets and grilled sardines, but it was
clear she was not coming back. “Better this way for everyone. The girls will be with me, they can visit
you anytime,” Gabriela had said on the phone, and added with a nervous laugh. “Time for us to leave
Brexit-Britain anyhow.” Was it a joke, was it real? Mrs Chorbadjian had not dared to ask.

“Here, Mum. Happy birthday!” David smiled, proffering his gift.

Inside the box, there was a pink-purple silk scarf and a bottle of perfume. The label read: Good Girl Gone
Bad. Mrs Chorbadjian’s eyes narrowed to mere slits. Good Girl Gone Bad! Was this what her son had
chosen for her? And if it had not been him, who had picked it out? Probably his new girlfriend. She had
long suspected that there was something unsavoury behind her son’s unexpected and messy divorce. It
must be another woman. What else could it be? A part of her wanted to meet this mysterious person.
Another part refused to do so, loyal to the bone to her ex-daughter-in-law. How strange it was for
parents to get so attached to their children’s partners — when they broke up, they also broke your
heart.

“Everything good at work?” asked Mrs Chorbadjian.

“Everything’s great, Mum.”

David worked in the City. That’s what Mrs Chorbadjian said whenever someone asked. My son works in
the City, she said, emphasising the last two words, as though referring to a different country, an exotic
land with its own legal system and language. She neither understood what exactly he did there nor did
she wish to inquire, lest he thought her intrusive or ignorant. David loved numbers but among them he
seemed always stressed, as though he had been secretly hoping that numbers would love him back, and
failing to achieve that, he felt apprehensive, even insecure. His unease was particularly surprising, given
that of the three siblings it was he who earned the most money, he who lived in the biggest house, and
until recently, he who had seemed to have the most successful marriage.

She had long suspected that there was something unsavoury behind her son’s unexpected divorce. It
must be another woman. What else could it be?

The sound of a child wailing pierced the air just then, followed by the doorbell — assertive, impatient.
When the door was opened Robert marched in carrying a howling toddler in one arm, a bouquet of red
roses in the other, his face flushed the same shade. Four children hot on his heels, and behind them
came Sarah, his wife, carrying a large bag, looking tired.

“Oh, dear, what happened?” Mrs Chorbadjian rushed towards them.

Robert glared at the crying girl. “First she bites her brother — when we tell her to stop, she throws a
tantrum.”

Mrs Chorbadjian hugged the children, patted the toddler on the head and kissed her daughter-in-law,
who she had always liked slightly less than her other daughter-in-law, about which she secretly felt
guilty. She noticed that Sarah’s blouse was crinkled and her collar was stained with what looked like
chocolate pudding. She must have dressed in a hurry.
Robert taught modern German history at a city university and wrote articles with drawn-out titles: “The
Politics of Culture and the Culture of Politics in the Weimar Republic”; “When the Old World Vanishes,
but the New World is Yet to Emerge”; “The Building/Erasing of Memory and German National Identity”.

Sarah, though once an academic herself, was now a full-time mother. They lived in a listed house in
north London with a large garden dotted with children’s toys, climbing frames and trampolines, and in
one corner, a shed built for Robert to work. There he read, researched and typed furiously, warning the
world of the parallels between yesterday and today, while his wife took care of pretty much everything
else. Mrs Chorbadjian respected her son’s profession but could not understand why he didn’t get more
involved in housework while he philosophised on the state of the world. She also worried that lately, he
had been drinking more than usual.

“Sorry we are late,” said Sarah.

She had a tendency to apologise too much. But Mrs Chorbadjian knew if she ever told her this, she
would apologise for that as well.

“That’s all right. We have a table set next room for the kids.”

“Oh, good, I’ll take them there and settle them in front of the TV. Sorry, bad parenting, but tonight I
don’t mind that they watch rubbish for a while,” Sarah said and disappeared, dragging the children
along.

As soon as Mrs Chorbadjian was alone with her two sons, an awkward silence descended on the room.

“We brought you flowers,” said Robert, gesturing towards the bouquet.

“They are pretty.” Even as she said this, Mrs Chorbadjian was thinking that her middle son had probably
forgotten to get her a present. They must have stopped by a florist on the way here.

“So how is the new maid?” Robert said, crossing his legs.

“Oh, she’s wonderful.” Mrs Chorbadjian smiled.

“You know, Dad wouldn’t have approved,” said David, as he took an almond from a bowl and popped it
into his mouth.

“Your father is no longer with us.”

“Just saying, Mum . . . just saying.”

Mrs Chorbadjian glanced at the clock on the wall, wondering where her youngest son was.

Arman, the most daring one. When he was a student he had taken a gap year to go to Brazil. Wearing
khakis and trainers, changing his hair style and colour every few weeks as if he desperately needed to
find himself. Or possibly to erase himself altogether. On graduating he had joined a group of dropouts —
for that’s what they looked like — set on travelling the Silk Road by motorbike. He had cut the journey
short, never explaining why. Then he was gone again, this time to France to do base jumping. Arman had
then taken up white-water rafting, but on his second try, broken a wrist, which had put an end to his
adventures for the time being.

For all this and more, Mrs Chorbadjian blamed herself. Maybe it was because Arman was born
premature, kept at the hospital in an incubator for nine weeks. Maybe it was because at his most
vulnerable he had stayed in a cold, isolated space, a plastic tag around his wrist (the one he broke while
rafting). Recklessness was his way of connecting with the world, as though he was still trying to break
free from that lonely incubator, still longed to escape the invisible walls around.

Last year, Arman had announced that he was going to be a writer.

“I have a novel in me, Mum.”

Mrs Chorbadjian was happy to hear that. Surely literature could not be as dangerous as parachute
jumping from cliffs. She had also secretly hoped he would write about their family, for that was a story
that needed to be told. But it soon had become clear that Arman had other plans.

“What interests me the most is climatopia. Pretty exciting stuff. Dark, depressing.”
Seeing her draw a blank, he had added, “I want to write about the future of our planet.”

“That’s great,” Mrs Chorbadjian had said with an encouraging smile. “Write about the future, but first,
about the past.”

“Yeah, well, I can do that anytime.”

“Sure, love.”

What Mrs Chorbadjian had really meant was, “learn about our family, our history, all that we have lost
along the way. Do that, before I, too, die and there is no one left to tell.”

© David McConochie

It was past eight o’clock by the time Arman arrived. A different Arman — hair shaved on the sides and
nape, dyed blond on top. Mrs Chorbadjian was so surprised to see her son’s new hairstyle that she did
not notice that he had brought a guest with him.

“Mum, meet Nassim.”

Only then did she see the young man standing by the door. Large brown eyes, angular features,
strikingly handsome.

“Oh, I didn’t know you were bringing a friend.’’ Realising that hadn’t come out right, she added,
“Welcome, welcome!”

Nassim shook the hand the old woman offered him — a gentle but firm handshake. “Thank you, I’ve
heard so much about you.”

“You did?”
“Arman always talks about you.”

Always. Did that mean this stranger and her son were old friends — or maybe more than that? Mrs
Chorbadjian was suddenly grateful that her husband was not here tonight. She took a deep breath,
releasing it slowly. Her youngest son had dated women, too many for her taste, but never anyone of his
own sex, as far as she knew. Was it possible that all this time he had also had boyfriends — who were
kept hidden from her?

“We brought you a book,” Arman said, handing her a loosely wrapped package. The Broken Wings by
Kahlil Gibran.

“Nassim adores this, Mum. It’s his present to you.”

“Well, that’s very kind, thank you.”

She had just received a gift from a stranger, which was lovely. But where was her own son’s gift, she
wondered. Not even flowers?

Sarah walked back into the room in a flurry and grabbed the canvas bag she had dropped earlier — full
of diapers, milk bottles, hand sanitisers and a whole box of Cheerios. “Sorry everyone, don’t mind me.
I’ve got to put the little one to sleep, she’s a bit grizzly. Please don’t wait for me, start eating. I’ll join you
as soon as I can.”

“But . . . do you need help?” asked Mrs Chorbadjian.

“I’m good,” Sarah replied as she shot a glance at her husband. Busy filling himself a glass of whisky,
Robert did not seem to notice.

“So, shall we sit down?” David piped up. “I’m starving!”

© David McConochie

The large, mahogany table was exquisitely set. Glistening china, glowing candles. A heavy silver ladle in
her hand, Felicita served the first course: carrot ginger soup with crispy leeks.

“Tell us Nassim, what do you do?” Mrs Chorbadjian asked with a smile as she held out the bread basket
for him.

It was Arman who rushed to answer. “Nassim is a human-rights activist, Mum. He works with refugee
survivors of torture and trauma.”

“Oh!” Mrs Chorbadjian, though still smiling, seemed lost for words. She realised, with some
apprehension, that she couldn’t make small talk with someone who devoted his life to healing other
people’s wounds.

Nassim took a slice of sourdough and passed the bread basket to Robert, sitting next to him. “I was
based in Cairo for the last three years but we pretty much cover the entire region. Now we are moving
our headquarters to London so that we can co-ordinate across the whole Middle East more effectively.
There’s so much work to do, we can’t keep up.”

“Well, I’m not surprised,” said David. “It’s a huge mess, the Middle East. Beyond repair, if you ask my
honest opinion. But you can’t say that aloud these days, it’s not politically correct. I hope you don’t mind
me being blunt.”

Nassim was silent — if only for a few seconds. “It’s a mess perhaps, but not without a reason.”

“Lots of reasons.” David dipped a chunk of bread in his soup. “Religion to begin with — culture,
traditions. Even the weather. None of that helps.”

“Colonialism to begin with,” said Nassim. “Decades of economic exploitation, political corruption — not
to mention all those dictators and their western backers.”

Uncomfortable with where the conversation was heading, Mrs Chorbadjian turned to Nassim, “And do
you have a big family, dear?”
“Yes, I do. Many in the US. Cousins and uncles in Dearborn, an aunt in Ohio. Others in Tunisia, Jordan,
Syria . . . We have been scattered across the world.”

Mrs Chorbadjian nodded. Now that, she could relate to. “Not easy. You know what they say: The stones
of my native country are warmer than the ovens of Babylon.”

“Maybe that’s a bad thing,” said Arman. “I mean, warmer than the ovens of Babylon. It doesn’t sound
that appealing to me. Maybe it means you need to escape your native land — fast!”

“I don’t think that’s what your mother meant,” said Nassim, as he placed a gentle hand on Arman’s
shoulder and squeezed. Something passed between them, a silent, loving exchange.

Mrs Chorbadjian realised, with some apprehension, that she couldn’t make small talk with someone
who devoted his life to healing other people’s wounds

Robert took a swig of whisky and chuckled to himself.

“What’s so funny?” Arman asked.

“Nothing to do with you two, silly,” Robert said. “I heard something this afternoon. Something we all
should have been informed about but we weren’t, apparently, and now the whole world knows, and it’s
not even funny.”

Mrs Chorbadjian dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “Why are you talking in riddles?”

“Well . . . Why don’t you ask David what he’s busy doing these days?”

David winced, as though someone had kicked him under the table. “Oh I see, that’s what this is about.
So you’ve heard the news, congratulations. I was planning to announce it tonight. It was going to be a
surprise but of course, you couldn’t wait. You had to spoil it.”
“What’s going on?” Mrs Chorbadjian rasped.

Robert downed his glass, signalling at Felicita to renew it. “‘Spoil’, he says, ‘surprise’, he says. You can’t
spoil what’s already rotten.”

“Boys!”

David bit into the last of his bread and swallowed it without chewing. “Fine. Everyone, I’ve news to
share. I wanted to tell this earlier in the week but it wasn’t possible. I’m going into politics.”

“You what?” Mrs Chorbadjian crossed her arms, as though suddenly cold.

“Mum, I know this is sort of unexpected but the world is changing. People like me, people like us, in my
opinion, cannot stay in our comfort zones. I feel a sense of responsibility. I believe I can make a
difference. We need a healthy reset — and for that, we need to shake things up.”

“So which party is it?” asked Mrs Chorbadjian.

David straightened his shoulders. “POGOM.”

“POGOM?!” It was Nassim who exclaimed.

“What . . . is that?” said Mrs Chorbadjian, the lines in her forehead deepening further.

It sounded frighteningly strange to her ears, this acronym that had just been dropped into their lives.
Her husband had been an ardent Tory whereas she had always supported Labour, if more quietly. Back
then things were more simple, easier to grasp. Nowadays she couldn’t tell any more who was who.
Finally this year she had stopped following the news altogether. What was the point when all it did was
to add to her confusion?

“It’s a new political party, Mum,” David explained.

“Party of the Glorious Old Motherland,” said Arman, drumming his fingers on the table. “It was founded
two months ago. Ambitious, aggressive, angry.”

“And unashamedly far-right,” said Robert into his whisky glass.

David shook his head. “Nonsense. That’s what you’d think if you only follow certain media.”

Felicita walked in, carrying the main course on a huge silver platter. She was so impressed by the sight of
the dish that she couldn’t help announcing in a loud and sunny voice, “Lamb! Potatoes! Rice!”

A delicious, spicy aroma wafted through the room and, like a mischievous fairy with a feather, tickled
their noses one by one.

“The system is broken,” said David. “I think we’d all agree on that. People are sick of vague promises
that get them nowhere. They are tired of politics as usual — the establishment. They want something
new, exciting. Not next year, or in three years’ time, but right now. Travel the country . . . ”

“What do you know about the rest of this country?” Robert interjected. “I saw the Christmas hampers
you received from your clients — foie gras, truffles, champagne, Armagnac, Beluga caviar . . . Since when
did you become a man of the people?”

Arching her thin eyebrows, Mrs Chorbadjian leaned forward. “Robert dear, where is your wife? Maybe
you should go and check on her.”

“In a minute,” Robert said, without tearing his gaze from his older brother.

“At least I care,” said David. “This year I’ve been racking my brain, asking myself what can I do to help
the country I love.”

Mrs Chorbadjian asked quietly, “And what does your wife think about you going into politics?”
“Ex-wife,” corrected David. “Gabriela doesn’t like it, if you must know — which doesn’t change anything
as we have already gone our separate ways.”

Mrs Chorbadjian grew pensive. It dawned on her that her son’s divorce might not have been because of
another woman, a salacious love triangle. This was a political divorce, if there ever was such a thing. Her
son and her daughter-in-law had split up over politics! And the perfume that she received had probably
been chosen by a campaign assistant, maybe a grad student working for this new party.

By now Felicita, having served the rest of the table the main course, had appeared next to Arman.

“Only rice and potatoes,” Arman said. “I don’t eat meat.”

Mrs Chorbadjian stared at her youngest son.

“I didn’t get a chance to tell you, Mum. I quit last month, couldn’t agree to butchering animals while
working on a climate book.”

“What else haven’t you told me about yourself,” Mrs Chorbadjian wanted to ask but couldn’t. Instead
she said, “I wish I knew. We could have prepared fish.”

“I don’t eat fish either. Don’t worry about me. Rice and potatoes will be more than enough.”

Sarah returned to the room just then, pulled herself a chair. “So sorry. Did I miss much? What were you
talking about?”

In front of her waiting were her soup, her salad, her main course.

“Nothing much,” said Robert. “I just learned that my younger brother has turned vegan — and my older
brother has turned fascist. This calls for a celebration.”

“Robert, behave!” said Mrs Chorbadjian.

David shrugged. “Let him spew nonsense, Mum. He’s completely cut off from reality. That’s what
happens when you spend entire days in a shed, drinking.”

Robert rolled his eyes, Sarah studied her napkin.

Rhetoric: the art of hitting without touching, saying without meaning, scolding without showing any
signs of negative feelings, let alone anger, hate or hostility. Oh how she had admired that British
calmness once

“This is the problem with you lot,” said David. “You use the word fascist like an Oyster card, hoping it
will get you somewhere. We talk about safety, you call us xenophobe. We talk about crime rates, you
call us racist. We talk about family values, you call us sexist. I couldn’t give a fig about your labels!”

“David, behave!” said Mrs Chorbadjian.

They lapsed into silence, interrupted only by the sound of Sarah’s cutlery, metal clashing with porcelain.

Arman sat back, his leg restlessly bouncing up and down underneath the table. “Maybe I should write a
dystopia instead of a climatopia. A new world: Immigrants have to wear ankle bracelets in Paris,
electronic monitoring devices are planted into dissidents’ skins in Edinburgh and there are surveillance
cameras everywhere in Geneva — ”

“If POGOM wins the next elections, I’m pretty sure we’ll get there fast,” said Robert.

David’s face darkened. “Did you even read our programme? Because if you had you’d know that we are
not anti-immigration. Far from it. We want the best and the brightest.”

“Do you think I’ll make the cut?” Nassim asked.

He had meant it as a joke but no one laughed. Answering that question in the affirmative felt just as
awkward as answering it in the negative, and so the silence stretched while everyone waited for
someone else to say something, find the right words to help the conversation move on.
Suddenly, Sarah, who had been eating too fast either to catch up with everyone else or to forget them
altogether, coughed, struggling for breath. Her face turned an ominous red as she bent over with a
rasping sound.

“Oh dear, she’s choking!” Mrs Chorbadjian yelled in panic.

Robert ran to his wife’s help, and began patting her on the back. David, who had better first aid skills,
jumped to his feet. “Hit between the shoulder blades!”

Since they didn’t — couldn’t — allow the other to be the saviour, they were now both patting on Sarah’s
back, their hands at first clashing, then inevitably working in tandem. Meanwhile, Arman had darted to
the kitchen to bring water, even though there was some on the table.

When she managed to save herself from all the slaps Sarah coughed one last time. “Stop!”

Arman dashed back into the room with a jug full of water. Mrs Chorbadjian’s heart skipped a beat when
she saw her beloved antique in her youngest — and most careless — son’s hands. But this was not the
right moment to talk about a material object and she didn’t.

“You all right?” the old woman asked her daughter-in-law.

“I’m fine. Sorry to scare you, Hermine,” said Sarah, wiping her eyes, which had teared up.

“Grandma, is Mummy OK?’

A child’s voice rose from behind, as free and unconstrained as wind chimes. Everyone turned their heads
and saw the boy standing by the door, one hand on his hip, one hand resting on the dog’s head. How
long had he been there, watching the adults bicker and fight, drink and sulk, panic and pat?

“George, sweetheart,” Mrs Chorbadjian cooed. “Come here, honey.”

The boy dutifully did as told. Danube followed, wagging his tail.
“Grandma . . . why are we not eating with you?”

“Oh, I thought you kids might like to have your own space and watch TV without having to listen to
boring adult talk.”

“But I’m bored. The girls are watching Friends — again. They have seen every episode 20 times already.”

“Have they now?” Mrs Chorbadjian dropped her voice to a conspiratorial tone.

“You need to get another TV.”

“If you say so, dear.”

George settled on his mother’s lap, making it clear that he was not going back to the other room.

Now that a child had joined the conversation the adults around the table rearranged their expressions.
Their shoulders were less stiff, their faces more relaxed. They found other subjects than politics to talk
about. Outside the wind picked up, the windows trembled in their frames. The khadaif, when served
with a dollop of cardamom cream, greatly helped to brighten the mood, just as Mrs Chorbadjian had
thought it would.

Towards midnight they were all up, ready to leave.

“This was my first British dinner,” said Nassim as he once again shook the old woman’s hand. “Thank
you for your hospitality. I’ll never forget this.”

“Oh, don’t be silly. You should come back soon. I’ll make nutmeg cake next time,” said Mrs Chorbadjian.
“We don’t always quarrel like this, really.”

Nassim smiled reassuringly. “This is nothing — although I must say I wasn’t expecting it. But where I
come from, we are so used to locking horns over politics. You should see my family! I’ve an uncle who
thinks every country should have their own ‘benevolent dictator’. Imagine dinners with him! Always
ends with one of us storming out and slamming a door — since I’m younger, that role falls to me,
usually.”

Mrs Chorbadjian wanted to tell Nassim that she always thought her family was different in that respect.
From both their father, and their long years in boarding schools, her sons had learned a certain code of
behaviour that valued reason over emotion, and a cast-iron, wear-resistant calmness over any sort of
passion. Their conversations, therefore, even with regards to politics and such, had been polite, civilised,
and most importantly, composed. This was how things were until recently. True, there had been times
when she wondered if her sons were acting as though they were still in some private school debate club
in which you had to display your intellect without ever claiming to be intellectual and parade your
linguistic skills without making it sound like you were trying too hard. Rhetoric: the art of hitting without
touching, saying without meaning, scolding without showing any signs of negative feelings, let alone
anger, hate or hostility. Oh how she had admired that British calmness once. Where had it gone?

She glanced at her sons, wrapped in their coats and jackets, their faces pale under the hall lamp, so
grown up, yet still juvenile, raised in the same family by the same parents but utterly different in so
many ways. She looked at her grandchildren, immersed in their own debate on the last episode of
Friends, the toddler already asleep in her mother’s arms, and that was when, though still worried,
always worried, the old woman felt a deep gratitude in her heart.

© David McConochie

“Don’t worry about tidying up. We’ll clean up everything in the morning,” Mrs Chorbadjian said to
Felicita after the guests had left. “You must be exhausted.”

“Only a little clean,” said Felicita, carrying the leftovers to the kitchen. The dog followed her, sniffing the
air expectantly. Felicita returned with a tray, which she filled with dirty plates, glasses, a porcelain jug.

Sighing, Mrs Chorbadjian sat in her moss-green velvet chair, and thought to herself, Now that didn’t go
badly, did it? This family gathering. Her head fell to the side, her breath rattled in her chest, her eyes
closed momentarily.

A terrible sound ripped through the flat. A bang and a crash. Then, a muffled scream.
When Mrs Chorbadjian reached the kitchen, she saw Danube with his paws on the table, his nose buried
inside the lamb and rice platter, happily eating. On the floor beside him were the pieces of the antique
he had knocked down.

“Madam, madam . . . ” said Felicita, her eyes fixed on the jug, as though it were the old woman lying
there on the floor, smashed to pieces.

Mrs Chorbadjian didn’t move.

Eyes full of fear, Felicita now turned towards the old woman. “It’s OK. I fix. I promise.”

Recommended

ReviewFiction

10 Minutes 38 Seconds in This Strange World by Elif Shafak — lush, rich, lucid

Thus saying the maid knelt down and began collecting the broken, jagged pieces, first the large ones,
then the smallest. Come tomorrow, she would try to glue them back in place. Lots of things in life could
be patched up and plastered over and put back together, good as new, this she had always wanted to
believe.

Mrs Chorbadjian had still not said a word, her expression unreadable, unreachable. She kept staring at
the jug that had travelled from Vienna to Istanbul to Smyrna to Damascus to Beirut before arriving in
London, and retreating to a glass cabinet; the only remaining piece of her great-grandmother’s dowry;
the last family heirloom saved from genocide, dying on her birthday.

“Madam?”

Only now finding her voice Mrs Chorbadjian said, “It’s all right, dear. Don’t worry. You must be tired. Go
to bed, please.”

Slowly, the old woman turned her back and walked towards the bedroom where she slept alone since
her husband had gone. Every last ounce of energy drained out of her tired bones. Time slowed down. So
did her breathing. But she wouldn’t sleep. She needed to talk to the ghosts first, tell them all the things
she hadn’t been able to say out loud tonight, even though she knew, of course, they were not a very
talkative bunch.