The Doves of Ohanavank

by Vahan Zanoyan

  And yet I cannot accept their kindness. I often find it crueler than outright rejection. It gives me no room for retaliation, for escape. It gives no justification for my being in Yerevan, rather than at home. No one asked me to leave; they all asked me to stay.

  It has always been easier for me to deal with those who have wronged me than with those who have been kind. It is not easy to reject kindness.

  My father used to say that there is a pathway between hearts. “Wisdom is taught by love,” he’d say, “that’s why it cannot be taught in schools. Wisdom gets transferred through that pathway.” I was young then, maybe twelve or thirteen, and he would look at my baffled face, kiss my forehead, and add: “Lara, the pathway between hearts is real; it can be very busy with traffic. One day you’ll understand. When you do, do not turn a deaf ear to it. Right now, don’t you feel a pathway from my heart to yours?” I would throw my arms around his neck and hold on to him. He was so real, so solid, and so eternal…my father would never have told me to go back to an abusive husband.

  I worry about Avo the most. I know he is struggling with the ‘family honor’ thing, even though he won’t say a word about it to me. Deep inside he knows where I’ve been and what I’ve done; of course, not any of the details—that would certainly drive him off the edge. But he knows the basics. He knows, and yet he still calls me “Kurig,” sister. He hugs me and acts in deference whenever I’m around; and all that anger in him, which sometimes explodes and is enough to blow up our entire village, is never directed at me, even though I know it is about me, it is because of me.

  I used to see Avo in my dreams when I was in Dubai. He would appear angry and old, and he would always seem rushed and distracted. We would be somewhere in the fields of Saralandj. He would come and say, “Kurig jan, Mama is very ill,” and then he would disappear. These were scary dreams; I would wake up in a cold sweat, trembling. What is amazing to me is that now, in real life, he looks like he did in my dreams. This is even scarier than the dreams.

  I look at my older sister Martha and see how happy she is. She still has the old happiness that I had before my abduction. Her husband Ruben is kind and decent. Their baby daughter is a delight. They live a hard and difficult life, in primitive conditions. The work that Martha does in a day is more than women in much of the world do in a week. But she is happy. She loves life, and that love radiates from her face, through her smile, even from her tired eyes at the end of a long day. My other sisters have the same joy of life, in spite of their miserable living conditions. Only Arpi remains withdrawn and quiet, burying herself every night in books that she brings home from the Aparan Public Library. But melancholy is her nature; it is not unhappiness.

  My sisters’ happiness is what I tried to come back to. I remember in Moscow when Anastasia was trying to explain to me that what we did was not so bad, that I could be big in that business, and how jovial and happy she looked all the time. I remember fighting her, resisting even my own inner curiosity to understand her joy, I remember thinking, “I want the happiness I left behind, not yours.”

  The question that I don’t want to face now is whether I cannot have that happiness back, or I no longer want it back. It is much easier to believe that I cannot have it back; that takes the moral burden away from me and puts it on something else. That would be very convenient, if it were true. But the demon that haunts me every day is this question: What if I no longer want it back? What if I have outgrown all this?

  Anna and I have become friends. Some evenings, after she leaves work, we go out and walk for hours in Yerevan, in and around Republic Square, up Abovian Street and Mashtots Street, by the Monument, and once in a while on Northern Avenue, which neither of us likes. It is a short stretch of pedestrian promenade between the Opera and the National Art Gallery, and it is the most artificial and superficial part of Yerevan. It is a new development, boasting the most expensive real estate, and showing off stores of the biggest names in fashion in the world. It is not part of Armenia. But Anna and I walk there sometimes anyway, just to see, to compare, to listen to the street musicians performing, and, once in a while, to indulge and have a cup of coffee in one of the coffee shops for a price that would exceed Diqin Alice’s monthly grocery bill. It does not matter where we go. I like her, even though I have not yet told her my story.

  One night I invite her to my room and read her Daniel Varujan’s poems. She is amazed at the language, the thought, the strength of emotion. She asks me to read over and over the first verse of the poem, “To The Dead Gods.”

  Under a cross glorified by blood,

  Whose arms drip sorrow over humanity at large

  I, defeated, mourn your death through the bitter heart of my Art,

  Oh Pagan Gods…

  Thought is dead, and Nature bleeds

  Only boredom survives, ornate with its crown of thorns…

  Man has fallen under the giant heel

  Of a Hebrew God, deaf and still…

  I am surprised that Anna is so taken by that verse. Christianity is not as big in Armenia today as it was historically. Religion was banned during the Soviet rule. But Armenia was the first country in the world to adopt Christianity as the state religion, back in 301 A.D. Edik says for several centuries Armenians took the Christian teachings literally, especially teachings like turn the other cheek and love your enemy. So they lost everything to invading armies. He says that is the context in which Varujan’s Pagan Songs should be understood.

  Anna knows nothing about all that, and yet she memorized that verse. Varujan is intense. I guess it is that intensity that is so appealing to Anna. I make a note to introduce her to Khev Gago one day. He is intensity personified, even though often detached. His intensity is his own, unto his own. Edik, on the other hand, is intensity personified and connected. His intensity is for all. I’ll introduce her to both, because I’ve made up my mind to befriend Anna fully. I probably can help her; I have a feeling that one day she will need my help. And I think it is possible to build a pathway from my heart to hers.

  Chapter Six

  Yuri is frustrated as he drives back to Yerevan. He has spent the entire day in unproductive meetings with a couple of Ayvazian’s henchmen in Aparan, who he suspects are now on the payroll of another oligarch and feel no need to cooperate with him. He gets the feeling that they are taking the time to talk to him in order to record his questions, and that those questions will one day come back to haunt him. Ayvazian’s influence in this region is lost, and it is not clear to whom.

  He passes through Ashtarak, the capital of the region and Khev Gago’s hometown, wondering whether he should stop for a bite. It has been over eight hours since he’s eaten, even though he’s had countless cups of coffee. Aside from the two former employees of Ayvazian, he’s gone to see the head of the Aparan post office, an elderly, soft-spoken and docile man named Artiom, who, around two years ago was Samvel Galian’s boss, when Galian worked at the post office for $25 per month. The postman had no light to shed on either the Galians or on Ayvazian; he sounded as though he descended to Aparan from outer space yesterday. Of course Yuri knows better, because the money transfers to the Galians were made through the post office, but he keeps his mouth shut. In this deadly game, it is as important to understand the lies and the liars as the truth, because the lies, if one understands them, can often reveal more than the truth.

  He decides to stop at the restaurant of a hotel in Ashtarak. It is mid-afternoon, the slow period between lunch and dinner, and the place is quiet. There are two men at one of the tables at the front of the restaurant, one in military fatigues facing the door, the other in jeans and a brown jacket sitting opposite him. Yuri immediately senses from their body language and the slight pause in their conversation that his entrance may have meant something to them, and he is pretty sure that the reaction is not because of his unusual looks. He gets the uncomfortable sense that the men recognized him. He’s been asking enough questions around Aparan and Ashtarak to attract attention.


  It would be too awkward to leave. He passes them and sits at a table further inside, facing the door, so that now he can see the face of the man sitting across from the one in fatigues. Their eyes meet for a second. The waitress approaches him with a menu.

  “Not everything on the menu is available,” she says. “Would you like to eat or just have something to drink?”

  Normally Yuri does not waste time being nice to waitresses, but today he smiles politely.

  “I’m starving,” he says. “What do you recommend?”

  “The sbas is good,” she smiles back, referring to the traditional yoghurt soup with wheat and mint.

  “That will do fine,” Yuri smiles again. “A bowl of sbas, some bread and some sausages if you have them.”

  “Very well. And to drink?”

  “Just water for now.”

  When she returns with a basket of bread and utensils, Yuri slips a thousand dram bill for her on the table. “That’s for the good recommendation,” he says.

  “Thanks,” she says with a warm smile, “but don’t you want to taste the soup first to be sure?”

  “No need. I trust you already.”

  This is an unusual exchange, and the waitress is intrigued and cautious at the same time.

  When she brings the soup, he asks her to wait a minute while he tastes it. He takes a spoon, and looks up to her.

  “This is excellent indeed,” he says, “I knew I could trust you.”

  “I’m glad you like it.” She starts to leave, but he stops her again.

  “I have a small question,” he says, lowering his voice. “I hope you don’t mind. Are those two gentlemen over there from around here?”

  The waitress looks toward the table for a second. “Can’t say for sure,” she says. “This place is on a busy road as you know, and we get a lot of people passing through. Do you want me to ask them?”

  “Oh no, no need. I was just curious. So they are not regulars here, right? Otherwise you probably would have recognized them.”

  “The fact is, I myself am not a regular here. I work only three days a week. So it is possible that I’ve missed them even if they have been here.”

  Yuri eats quickly, visits the restroom and leaves, dropping another thousand-dram tip on the table, and hoping that that will create enough good will for her not to mention his queries to the two men.

  The waitress watches as Yuri’s car pulls out of the driveway, then walks over and puts her hand on Khev Gago’s shoulder. “What was that all about?”

  “You tell me, Houri jan,” says Gagik. “Edik was watching him and he says he was quite generous with you.”

  “That he was,” laughs Houri, who is one of Gagik’s cousins. “He wanted to know whether you two fine gentlemen are from these parts. That seemed to matter to him.”

  “Be careful with him,” says Gagik. “He’s been in Aparan a few times, but not here until now. Let me know if he shows up again.”

  “Will do. Can I get you two anything else?”

  “Thanks,” says Laurian standing up. “I need to get going. See you two soon.”

  Yuri has confirmed Viktor’s visit to the Galians and heard the conflicting and garbled rumors about the Galians’ daughter, ranging from the ‘successful model in Greece’ version to ‘prostitute’ and many variants in between. There is no doubt in Yuri’s mind that the Ayvazians recruited a Galian into prostitution. Although nothing specific in the rumors ties her story to Ayvazian, the pattern fits perfectly, even if not a single detail in the rumors is true. People would be afraid to include Ayvazian in rumors anyway, even after his death, and it is not the details that matter, but the very nature of the stories, involving modeling and prostitution. That, and the confusion surrounding it, is trademark Ayvazian.

  But in spite of the overwhelming evidence of a link, the thought that the Galians may have been in any way involved in the Ayvazians’ and Hamo’s killings does not even cross Yuri’s mind. Peasants, and vulnerable ones at that, simply do not go around killing powerful people. The most likely explanation remains that the killings were planned and executed by another oligarch. So Yuri does not think a visit to the Galians would add much to what he has already learned.

  He decides the time has come to go back to Moscow for a few days. Not only are his inquiries in Armenia raising more questions than they are answering, but also some of the leads point to Moscow.

  “I’ll go see how persuasive I can be in Moscow,” he tells Carla that night, accepting her challenge. Carla smiles like a schoolteacher sending her star student on an important mission, even though Yuri is ten years her senior. She has started paying Yuri a salary. He no longer receives anything in Moscow; his paymaster there was Viktor, and he did not hang around Moscow long enough to find out what is left of Ayvazian’s operation.

  Moscow indeed proves to be easier to crack. Yuri goes to the apartment that Ayvazian kept in a relatively poor section of town, and finds that the housekeeper, a middle aged woman called Nono, whom he’s known for years, is still there. It is the same apartment where they kept Lara before taking her to Dubai. Yuri has initiated many recruits in that apartment over the years, and knows that Nono is more than a housekeeper. She’s also drill sergeant, disciplinarian and mother hen, as the circumstances require. The new recruits sometimes need to be convinced to accept prostitution as their new way of life. So they are raped and beaten, until they see that there is no way out, and succumb to the new reality. Once the rapes and the beatings are done and the men leave, it is Nono who takes over, cleans up the mess and makes sure that the girls do not do anything desperate, such as try to escape or even worse, make clumsy suicide attempts. She talks to them, alternating between the dangers and futility of fighting their new fate, and the bright future ahead if they simply fall in line.

  Nono confirms that Lara was there and that she was eventually handed over to Anastasia. Yuri knows Anastasia too; he has collected from her for Viktor in the past, before Viktor started giving her more leeway and freedom.

  But confirming that Lara Galian was there is only a peripheral curiosity for Yuri. He notices that Nono does not seem to be affected by the Ayvazian killings. Everything seems normal in the apartment and in Nono’s demeanor. She does not look stressed, nor is she acting as if anything is amiss. She is talking to Yuri as the landlady entertaining a visitor, confident and in control.

  He then asks the question that has been haunting him.

  “Nono,” he says looking her straight in the eye, “who is paying your salary now?”

  Yuri feels that technically, with both Viktor and Sergei Ayvazian gone, he should be in charge of the operations in Moscow, even though that was never made clear to anyone by Ayvazian and could easily be challenged. Had Nono not known Yuri, and seen him in action with Viktor in the past, she would have no reason to answer his question. Even knowing his past, she is under no obligation to answer.

  “One of Viktor’s men,” says Nono finally, and Yuri is glad to see that she manages to overcome her initial hesitation.

  “Anyone I know?”

  “He is Russian,” says Nono, somehow resolving in her mind that there can be no harm in telling Yuri the truth. “His name is Nicolai. I have seen him with Viktor here many times. Once he, Viktor and Sergei had a long meeting in this apartment. I remember because Viktor asked me to leave for a few hours. Do you know Nicolai?”

  Nono’s words hit Yuri hard. His mind soars with the imponderable possibilities. He should have wondered about this situation much earlier. He now realizes that by rushing to Armenia to seek compensation for Hamo’s death, he may have passed up a much larger prize. Once again, he is amazed at how little he knows about his former boss’s operations. He did not know about Nicolai’s existence. He always thought that the key people in the business were all Armenian.

  Then it occurs to him that now Carla is playing by the same rules. The flow of information is one-way. Until now, he had assumed that she does not know anything more th
an what he tells her. He realizes in a cold sweat that he has no idea who else Carla has engaged as informers, and, why not, lovers?

  Nono is staring at him. Does he look like he’s just seen a ghost? He gathers himself quickly and returns to the moment.

  “Is Nicolai also paying the rent here?” he asks, ignoring both Nono’s question and surprised expression.

  “As far as I know, yes. One of his assistants was here and he also took care of all the utility bills. Now everything goes to them.”

  “Has there been a lot of activity?” Seeing that Nono does not understand the question, he adds, “Have they brought girls here in the past few months?”

  “Oh, yes. More than ten girls, almost all Ukrainian and Russian. Only one Armenian girl since the Ayvazians died.”

  “And everything is handled by Nicolai? Is there anyone else running things?”

  “Well, there are others that come here, but I think they are Nicolai’s assistants. I cannot always be sure who is who. Every time someone comes who has the key and knows my name, I assume that Nicolai has sent him, just like the understanding was with Viktor.”

  Yuri decides that he can go no further with his investigation without getting to the source of the money; he has to figure out who is collecting it and where it is going. He chides himself again for not having done that as soon as the Ayvazians were killed. How many girls are left working for the Ayvazians, who runs them, who collects? How could this Russian he has never heard of take over Ayvazian’s operation in Moscow? If he has not, whom does he work for? The end of the string making up this tangle is the money, as usual. And the prostitutes are the source of the money. Time now to pay Anastasia a visit.

  Chapter Seven

  Edik has written two poems about secrets. They contradict each other, professing quite different philosophies of life. In the first, he talks about how secrets imprison people, how man remains captive to his own secrets as long as he needs to keep and protect them. Your secrets encircle and restrain you, he says, they dominate you, until you no longer have memories, only secrets, and in order to keep them, you create new lies and new secrets, until you become your secrets. The implication is that freedom only comes from screaming secrets from the rooftops, until there is no longer anything to hide, even though the poem doesn’t say that in so many words.