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Narcissus
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Literature Text
October, 1861
“You’re really keen on this whole thing, aren’t you?”
His presence was an unwelcome one here; though this was his house, this was her small set of chambers and he is an intruder. She glanced up at him from beneath her eyelashes with hostility, sitting on a floor cushion with her legs tucked beneath her, a pile of white fabric in her lap and her embroidery needle subconsciously brandished like a sword in miniature.
“I might as well,” she responded coolly, no hospitality present in her tone. “This sort of thing takes time.” Undeterred, he dropped himself onto another floor cushion with a wide grin, that ridiculous mask flashing in the sunlight coming through the window’s wooden paneling.
“And where’s that runty little brother of yours?” Ottoman asked, folding his legs and bracing his elbows against his knees. “He’s not here and he wasn’t in the bower with the other women and I don’t like not knowing where my possessions are.”
Moldavia bit back her tongue to staunch the sharp reply that stuck in her throat. Instead, she jabbed the white fabric fiercely with her needle and pulled the embroidery thread taut.
“I sent him out to the stables,” she answered tonelessly. “There’s not much to interest him here so I thought he might be able to entertain himself with the new calves.”
“You don’t have the right to give him leave to wander off—”
“And you don’t give him leave to do anything but rot here!” Moldavia cried.
The thread broke and Ottoman was silent for a time.
“So,” he said. Moldavia said nothing as she again threaded her needle.
“…so,” he repeated, a bit more forcefully. Moldavia looked up with an exasperated expression, pushing her cinnamon brown waves behind an ear with an impatient sigh.
“So,” Sadık said again, “Cuza.”
“Yes, Cuza,” Miruna said. “Was that all?”
“Mostly. But you really do seem keen on this. Sewing up your wedding dress already. And look at it—”
He lifted a corner of the fabric to peer at half-completed embroidery of bright violets.
“Much too good for a scrawny brat like Wallachia.”
“I’ll thank you to keep your unwarranted opinions to yourself,” she said tartly, snatching the fabric out of his hand. “Especially when your jealousy is so obvious to anyone with eyes.”
“Take the compliment and mind your tongue, you little waif.”
Miruna ducked her head and bent to her sewing again.
“So what’s going into your oya for your precious scrawny little Wallachia?” Sadık teased. “Plum blossoms, bent tulips, and pepper spice?”
“If we wore oya up north, and we don’t, there would be plum blossoms and pink hyacinths and almond blossoms,” she replied archly.
“And red peppers?” Sadık asked slyly.
He laughed long and loud as her face blossomed into a deep red.
She ignored the thread of fondness in his voice, gathering it into her pile of silken strands in jewel tones, embroidering the sentiment into a daffodil and covering it with a latticework of stitches so that it was present but could not touch her.
“So,” she said at last. “Cuza.”
Sadık shifted uncomfortably and patted at his chest, looking in vain for his tobacco pouch. Miruna tsked at him and shook her head reprovingly. The scent of incense and sweet oils burning were already heady in this narrow space and would cling to the linen of her unfinished gown. She would not go to her own wedding smelling like a harem girl.
“Evet,” Sadık answered absently, finally locating his pipe and pouch with a softly hummed “ah” of pleasure, “Cuza. When you go, are you taking the runt with you?”
Miruna blinked and looked up from her embroidery at the unexpected question.
“Basarabia?” she asked. “I hadn’t…really thought about whether I would or not.”
“You mean ‘whether I would ask or not’,” he reminded her smugly. She resisted the urge to spit at him. “But I always wondered,” he continued, his voice taking on a whimsical quality that meant his mind was starting to wander down old paths. “If the two of you were meant to be twins, how is it you’re almost grown but he’s barely out of swaddling cloth?”
She stared at him, stricken.
Sadık took a long draw on the stem of his pipe and breathed out a loose, lazy ring of smoke.
“He’s not going with you,” the empire stated.
Somehow, she could not disagree. Instead, she set her needle aside for a moment and tried to rub the remaining flush out of her cheeks.
“You’re really keen on this whole thing, aren’t you?”
His presence was an unwelcome one here; though this was his house, this was her small set of chambers and he is an intruder. She glanced up at him from beneath her eyelashes with hostility, sitting on a floor cushion with her legs tucked beneath her, a pile of white fabric in her lap and her embroidery needle subconsciously brandished like a sword in miniature.
“I might as well,” she responded coolly, no hospitality present in her tone. “This sort of thing takes time.” Undeterred, he dropped himself onto another floor cushion with a wide grin, that ridiculous mask flashing in the sunlight coming through the window’s wooden paneling.
“And where’s that runty little brother of yours?” Ottoman asked, folding his legs and bracing his elbows against his knees. “He’s not here and he wasn’t in the bower with the other women and I don’t like not knowing where my possessions are.”
Moldavia bit back her tongue to staunch the sharp reply that stuck in her throat. Instead, she jabbed the white fabric fiercely with her needle and pulled the embroidery thread taut.
“I sent him out to the stables,” she answered tonelessly. “There’s not much to interest him here so I thought he might be able to entertain himself with the new calves.”
“You don’t have the right to give him leave to wander off—”
“And you don’t give him leave to do anything but rot here!” Moldavia cried.
The thread broke and Ottoman was silent for a time.
“So,” he said. Moldavia said nothing as she again threaded her needle.
“…so,” he repeated, a bit more forcefully. Moldavia looked up with an exasperated expression, pushing her cinnamon brown waves behind an ear with an impatient sigh.
“So,” Sadık said again, “Cuza.”
“Yes, Cuza,” Miruna said. “Was that all?”
“Mostly. But you really do seem keen on this. Sewing up your wedding dress already. And look at it—”
He lifted a corner of the fabric to peer at half-completed embroidery of bright violets.
“Much too good for a scrawny brat like Wallachia.”
“I’ll thank you to keep your unwarranted opinions to yourself,” she said tartly, snatching the fabric out of his hand. “Especially when your jealousy is so obvious to anyone with eyes.”
“Take the compliment and mind your tongue, you little waif.”
Miruna ducked her head and bent to her sewing again.
“So what’s going into your oya for your precious scrawny little Wallachia?” Sadık teased. “Plum blossoms, bent tulips, and pepper spice?”
“If we wore oya up north, and we don’t, there would be plum blossoms and pink hyacinths and almond blossoms,” she replied archly.
“And red peppers?” Sadık asked slyly.
He laughed long and loud as her face blossomed into a deep red.
She ignored the thread of fondness in his voice, gathering it into her pile of silken strands in jewel tones, embroidering the sentiment into a daffodil and covering it with a latticework of stitches so that it was present but could not touch her.
“So,” she said at last. “Cuza.”
Sadık shifted uncomfortably and patted at his chest, looking in vain for his tobacco pouch. Miruna tsked at him and shook her head reprovingly. The scent of incense and sweet oils burning were already heady in this narrow space and would cling to the linen of her unfinished gown. She would not go to her own wedding smelling like a harem girl.
“Evet,” Sadık answered absently, finally locating his pipe and pouch with a softly hummed “ah” of pleasure, “Cuza. When you go, are you taking the runt with you?”
Miruna blinked and looked up from her embroidery at the unexpected question.
“Basarabia?” she asked. “I hadn’t…really thought about whether I would or not.”
“You mean ‘whether I would ask or not’,” he reminded her smugly. She resisted the urge to spit at him. “But I always wondered,” he continued, his voice taking on a whimsical quality that meant his mind was starting to wander down old paths. “If the two of you were meant to be twins, how is it you’re almost grown but he’s barely out of swaddling cloth?”
She stared at him, stricken.
Sadık took a long draw on the stem of his pipe and breathed out a loose, lazy ring of smoke.
“He’s not going with you,” the empire stated.
Somehow, she could not disagree. Instead, she set her needle aside for a moment and tried to rub the remaining flush out of her cheeks.
She ignored the thread of fondness in his voice, gathering it into her pile of silken strands in jewel tones, embroidering the sentiment into a daffodil and covering it with a latticework of stitches so that it was present but could not touch her.
(*FLINGS EURASIANS AT YOU ALL!*)
Notes:
Wedding dress: The wedding dress referred to here is an allusion to the union between Wallachia and Moldavia in 1862. On February 5th (January 24th Julian calendar), the two principalities were united to form Romania.
Cuza: Alexandru Ioan Cuza gained ascendancy as a prince of both Wallachia and Moldavia in 1859. Under an Ottoman suzerainty, he united an identifiably Romanian nation under a single ruler.
Oya: Oya edging, which appears all over Turkey in various forms and motifs, has different names depending on the means employed: needle, crochet hook, shuttle, hairpin, bead, tassel to name just a few. Young maidens, new brides, and young women traditionally conveyed their loves—whether hopeful or hopeless, their expectations, their good tidings, their happiness and unhappiness, their resentment and their incompatibility with their husbands to those around them through the oya they wore.
A woman adorned her head with oya embodying flowers, nature’s loveliest gift to man, the species of the flowers differing depending on her age. Aged grannies used tiny wild flowers, which symbolize the return of dust to dust. Virgins, brides and young women employed roses, arbor roses, carnations, jasmine, hyacinths, violets, daffodils, chrysanthemums and fuchsia in their oya. And all of them carry messages which are conveyed through their shapes and colors. Women reaching forty used a bent tulip.
Girls engaged to marry the man they love wore oya of pink hyacinths and almond blossoms, while a girl in love wore purple hyacinths. Plum blossom oya was worn by brides. A new bride who has a disagreeable relationship with her husband chose ‘pepper spice’ oya for her head, as if to say ‘my marriage was unhappy from the start’. But if she bound red pepper oya around her head, this was a sign that her relationship with her husband was as spicy as red hot pepper.
Twins: Moldavia was a vassal principality of the Ottoman Empire, though it was split into two very distinct regions. Moldavia (to the west) was eventually absorbed into Romania; Basarabia (to the east) would eventually become what is now known as the Republic of Moldova.
(*FLINGS EURASIANS AT YOU ALL!*)
Notes:
Wedding dress: The wedding dress referred to here is an allusion to the union between Wallachia and Moldavia in 1862. On February 5th (January 24th Julian calendar), the two principalities were united to form Romania.
Cuza: Alexandru Ioan Cuza gained ascendancy as a prince of both Wallachia and Moldavia in 1859. Under an Ottoman suzerainty, he united an identifiably Romanian nation under a single ruler.
Oya: Oya edging, which appears all over Turkey in various forms and motifs, has different names depending on the means employed: needle, crochet hook, shuttle, hairpin, bead, tassel to name just a few. Young maidens, new brides, and young women traditionally conveyed their loves—whether hopeful or hopeless, their expectations, their good tidings, their happiness and unhappiness, their resentment and their incompatibility with their husbands to those around them through the oya they wore.
A woman adorned her head with oya embodying flowers, nature’s loveliest gift to man, the species of the flowers differing depending on her age. Aged grannies used tiny wild flowers, which symbolize the return of dust to dust. Virgins, brides and young women employed roses, arbor roses, carnations, jasmine, hyacinths, violets, daffodils, chrysanthemums and fuchsia in their oya. And all of them carry messages which are conveyed through their shapes and colors. Women reaching forty used a bent tulip.
Girls engaged to marry the man they love wore oya of pink hyacinths and almond blossoms, while a girl in love wore purple hyacinths. Plum blossom oya was worn by brides. A new bride who has a disagreeable relationship with her husband chose ‘pepper spice’ oya for her head, as if to say ‘my marriage was unhappy from the start’. But if she bound red pepper oya around her head, this was a sign that her relationship with her husband was as spicy as red hot pepper.
Twins: Moldavia was a vassal principality of the Ottoman Empire, though it was split into two very distinct regions. Moldavia (to the west) was eventually absorbed into Romania; Basarabia (to the east) would eventually become what is now known as the Republic of Moldova.
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