I’m not a drinker, and I have never understood when someone says they need a drink. Edik says that often, and as much as I respect him, I don’t understand why he would need a drink. Avo needs a drink most of the time. But now, for the first time, I feel I need a drink. It’s not that I’d like to have one, not that I want one, but I actually need one. I take a large sip of my cognac, and bite into a cucumber. I am so worked up that I don’t notice the pained look on Ahmed’s face at first. I take another sip, and then look at him, and my heart breaks into pieces.
If one could paint remorse, it would be a painting of his face right now. Deep, pure, true remorse, undiluted, seeking no exoneration, just overflowing from his eyes. The question that I had asked Edik starts to resonate in my ears. Is Ahmed a good man or a bad man? Neither, he said. I wonder if he’d give the same answer if he saw his face right now. I finish my cognac, and feel my head getting lighter. I’ve learned from Avo and Edik that one needs to eat while drinking. So I start eating to avoid getting drunk. And perhaps to avoid looking at him again. I could not bear to see the pain in his eyes.
He does not say any of the things that I thought he’d say—how he never treated me like a prostitute, how he never thought of me like one, how I gave him so much happiness. Those statements would all be true. But he does not utter them. He is not here to justify anything. He hurts for me, and for himself. That does not change the facts, but it does change my perception of him. Right now, I think he is a good man.
“If I could rewind the clock,” he whispers, “I would, and I’d start all over again. Don’t ask me how I’d restart, because I don’t know. All I know is that I wouldn’t want you to suffer like that. You were always different from the rest, Lara. Truly special. That’s why I’m here. But I never understood why you were different, until now. This is a revelation for me.”
“So here we are,” I say with some sympathy, but I know I have not rid myself of the sarcasm, “trying to save a good thing that came out of a bad situation. What is the good in this, Ahmed? What is it that you came here to save? To reclaim?”
“I told you already that I came here to understand why it had to end,” he says, and for the first time I sense frustration and even a bit of resentment in his voice. “Who said anything about reclaiming anything?”
“And now you understand?” My voice is gentler.
“I understand why you ran away,” he says. The way he ends the sentence implies that he does not understand anything else, including why it all had to end, but he does not say it. Ahmed has probably never been this vulnerable, so he is not familiar with the feeling. He does not know how to cope with it. I even get the impression that he may be regretting making the trip to see me. I don’t know what he was expecting to find out, but I know this has caught him by surprise.
“Thank you. Thank you for understanding why I ran away. It has been bothering me that I betrayed your trust.”
“Well,” he says displaying a characteristic abrupt change in mood, “I still think something good came out of your appalling situation. I met you.” He is serious but no longer sad. His expression is no longer remorseful. Then he laughs. “I hope you think meeting me was a good thing also, but I will not ask you that now. Now, I want to focus on getting some sustenance.” He refills my glass and we toast. My first impulse is to tell him about the painter’s dilemma of wanting to burn the canvas while saving the painting, but I change my mind. It’s time to drop the heavy conversation.
We eat and focus on small talk. He tells me about Manoj’s research on Armenia, how he was impressed with the development potential, and why he chose this area for us to have dinner. He says Manoj thinks it is worth looking into building a hotel here that caters to tourists from the Middle East. He talks about other business ideas, we ring the bell for the main course and he orders some red wine after all. “The cognac is good,” he says, “but we’ll have some more after dinner.” The only wine they have is the house wine, and it comes in a clay pitcher. Edik wouldn’t have liked it, I know, but Ahmed drinks it and says it is good.
Then, totally out of the blue, “So how’s your Arabic?” he asks. He had hired one of the most prominent tutors in Dubai to give me private lessons. Sumaya had to be present at every session, because I could not be in the company of another man alone. I was beginning to get good at it. I would surprise and amuse Sumaya with occasional Arabic phrases. She would laugh at my accent, and once in a while correct me.
“A’atazer, ya Ahmed,” I apologize, “but I haven’t kept it up. I have neither the time nor the tutor here.” He laughs, happy that at least the apology was spoken in Arabic.
“You said you had news,” I say. “You said you had come to discuss a few things, and now didn’t know how to proceed.”
“Yes, I do have something to talk to you about. But first, tell me how did these people, Ayvazian and his nephew, die?” He asks the question so suddenly that I panic for a minute, and he notices.
“Sorry,” I say, recovering my composure, “you took me by surprise. People say there was a clash of some sort between oligarchs. Six people died in one afternoon, far from here, in Ayvazian’s region. The nephew and a bodyguard died in a car crash. Two bodyguards shot each other. And Ayvazian and another bodyguard fell off a cliff. I do not know any other details. Why is that important?”
“According to your entry papers in Dubai, you are a married woman. You were married to some Viktor Ara… wait a minute,” he says, pulling a piece of paper from his shirt pocket, “here it is, A.ra.kel.ian. I’m not sure if I’m pronouncing that right.” I had not given the marriage another thought after Viktor announced it to me in Moscow. “And although you just turned eighteen, your papers in Dubai say you are over twenty-three.”
“They manufactured those papers.” I stare at him, surprised that he is bringing all that up. “A fake passport and marriage papers. Viktor Arakelian is Viktor Ayvazian. I don’t know why he had two passports.”
“Because he was deported from Dubai and returned under a different name. We know they are the same person.”
“Ahmed, I have to ask again, why is all of this important?” I am wondering if I can get into legal trouble for lying about my age or having a fake passport.
“Because you may be the legal heir of a three million euro villa in Dubai,” he says smiling. “You may be a rich woman, and you didn’t even know it!” Now he’s smiling broadly. “I told you I wouldn’t come all the way here to give you bad news, didn’t I?”
“I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It is complicated,” he says, “but we have ways of un-complicating things in Dubai. Here is the story as I understand it: the real Viktor bought a villa in Dubai more than four years ago and paid cash. Then the fake Viktor married the fake Lara.” He sees the confusion on my face and smiles. “Bear with me,” he says, “it gets better. Then Viktor dies. In death, we’re all the same, and the fake and real Viktors die together. Apparently, Viktor has no immediate heirs—no wife, no children, no parents. So his uncle’s family sends someone claiming the villa for the ‘legal’ heirs. But they do not know that Viktor was married. By Dubai law, the wife inherits, not the uncle’s family. As I said, it is complicated, because we have to transfer the asset from the real Viktor to the fake Viktor by simply showing that they are the same, and then the fake Lara will inherit the villa, and pass it on to the real Lara, because we know they are the same person also. Of course, none of this could be done if the Dubai authorities did not want to uncomplicate things. And I’m telling you that they do want to uncomplicate things.”
“I don’t want to have anything to do with Viktor’s villa.” My head is spinning, and not just from the cognac.
“Lara, don’t be silly!” He snaps. “You’re being childish.”
“What am I going to do with a villa in Dubai?” I ask, matching his annoyance.
“I repeat,” he says, showing his frustration, “the villa is worth three million euros. I can se
ll it for you and give you the money. Are you going to ask me now what you’re going to do with three million euros?”
I look at him for a long moment. I know he’s seeing right through me. The temptation, the struggle. But he does not understand the half of it. Am I supposed to snatch a prized asset right out of Carla’s hands? Satisfying as that may be, it would be impossible to keep it a secret.
“Ahmed, you don’t know how this country works,” I say calmly. “The appearance of three million euros, through this process of uncomplicating the complications, could spell my death warrant and possibly the death warrant of most of my family. What you uncomplicate in Dubai will be re-complicated here.”
“There is also a simpler way,” he says brushing away my concern. “We have legal justification to confiscate the property on the grounds that it was acquired to launder money. I can still divert the proceeds to you, without raising anyone’s suspicions.”
“Why?” I ask, looking him in the eye.
“I came here to offer this to you because I thought, as the wife of the deceased, fake or real doesn’t matter, you are entitled to have it. Then I heard the truth about your story, and the wife angle lost its luster. But now I feel even more strongly than before, because this would, in a very small way, compensate for what they have put you through. So you tell me, why not?”
“There are many more answers to the ‘why not’ question than to the ‘why’ question. Both practical and ethical, not to mention legal. Let’s drop this subject for now, Ahmed, please. It has already given me a huge headache.”
“The subject is dropped,” he says with a charming smile. “I’m here for at least two more days, possibly longer. Think about it, and we’ll talk again.”
The only person I know who will understand the predicament presented by this news is Edik. I’ll have to talk this over with him.
“There is a lot that I want to see here,” he says. “Let’s plan the next two days. I understand that there are some rare Arabic manuscripts in your…wait,” and he reaches for the piece of paper in his pocket again, “let me see if I can say this, ma de na ta ran… did I say it right?”
“Perfect!” I say, clapping happily. “Much better than I pronounce Arabic words!”
“So that’s one visit. The Art Gallery is supposed to be good too, that’s another visit. Manoj says a visit to the Genocide memorial,” he checks his piece of paper again, “Tzi tzer na ka bert, whoa! Is a must. So that’s another visit. We can do these three tomorrow, then the next day we get out of Yerevan. There is so much to see, you’ll have to help me select.”
It is late. We decide to leave. Before calling the others, he stands up and takes my hand, pulling me gently to my feet. He holds me for a few minutes, and then lets go. I put my arms lightly around his waist, but I do not give him a real hug.
“Regardless of everything,” he says, “I am happy I know you.”
I tell Armen, Manoj’s driver, my address. They drive and we follow them. When we reach my building, I insist that he not come out of the car.
“Good night, Ahmed,” I say. “Thank you for this evening. And by the way, I am happy to know you too.”
He leans over and kisses me on the lips. I linger a minute not to give him the impression that I am angry, I smile, then I leave the car.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Laurian is in his beloved poplar forest. He has a bunch of stakes and a heavy hammer to push them into the hard ground. Agassi is helping him stake the crooked saplings, but he shakes his head and rolls his eyes.
“Edik jan,” he says, puffing, “have you ever seen a poplar tree that was not straight? You’re tiring yourself for nothing. Even the ones that look crooked now will grow straight on their own.”
“Sure I have,” says Laurian. “Look at this for example,” he points to a tree that is almost at a forty-five degree angle from the ground. “How can this poor thing grow straight? Either it won’t grow at all, or it will grow crooked. What does it take to push in a stake and tie it?”
“Vonts kuzes.” As you want. He knows he won’t change Laurian’s mind.
A light drizzle, closer to a fine mist than rain, descends upon them without warning. Laurian looks up at the gathering clouds.
“It looks like you won’t have to water for a few days,” he tells Agassi. “So stop sparing yourself from work and help me finish this row before the rain starts.”
“Ha, Edik jan. Vonts asés.” As you say.
The drizzle changes to rain, and a burst of thunder erupts with such ferocity that the two men instinctively hold their ears. The downpour follows almost immediately. It is a torrent so strong that there is no point in running for shelter. In a few seconds they are drenched to the bone.
“I told you once that people here get their personality from the weather,” yells Agassi over the horrendous noise of the rain. “You won’t find a single predictable person in this entire region!” He laughs, amused by the shocked and shivering Laurian.
It is later that afternoon when Laurian finally sees the missed call from Lara. He has walked back to the house, showered, and is sitting at the dining room table with a cup of coffee when he notices it. It came more than two hours ago. He calls back.
“I really need to talk to you, but this is not a good time. When can I call back?”
“Did he arrive?”
“Yes, yesterday evening. We’re having lunch now. Can we talk in couple of hours?”
“Of course we can. But is everything okay?”
“Everything is fine. I’ll call back.”
Although Lara sounds fine, Laurian decides to go to Yerevan. He packs an overnight bag, calls his hotel and takes off fifteen minutes later. He feels he should be in Yerevan while Lara’s visitor is in town.
He is about to enter the Yerevan city limits when Lara calls back.
“Can you talk now?”
“Where are you?” asks Laurian.
“He just dropped me at my place. I’m seeing him again in a few hours.”
“I’ll be at the entrance of your building in twenty minutes. We’ll talk face to face.”
“Edik jan, you drove down? There was no need.” Lara is surprised but also happy. This does call for a face-to-face conversation.
Laurian picks Lara up, drives to a deserted road, and parks the car.
“Tell me,” he says.
Lara explains the situation with Viktor’s villa and the three million euros. She goes through all the ‘complications,’ as well as Al Barmaka’s ‘uncomplicating’ scenarios. She explains how Al Barmaka thought she was being silly and childish when she told him she wanted nothing to do with Viktor’s money. She explains her fear of retaliation from Carla and her gang, which he well understands. And she touches upon the moral conflict she was having. She even tells him about her fictitious painter and his dilemma.
Laurian listens, interrupting only a few times to clarify the details of the fake and real Viktors and Laras. After around half an hour, Lara ends her story. Laurian waits for a few minutes, thinking.
“Obviously,” he says, “you are not sure whether you should accept the money or not. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have called me.”
Lara is quiet. She just looks at him and waits.
“Let’s eliminate two variants of ‘not sure.’ First, ‘not sure’ could mean that you want the money, but you need me to tell you it is okay. Is that it?”
Lara shakes her head.
“Second, perhaps you don’t want the money, and you want me to convince you that you’re not being silly or childish, and making the right decision. Is that it?”
Lara shakes her head again.
“So you really don’t know what to do,” says Laurian, more to himself than Lara. Lara is still quiet.
“Lara, are you sure you do not want the money? You know how much money that is, right? Can you visualize three million euros? That’s almost four-and-a-half million dollars. Do you know how many problems you can solve with that? For you
, for Avo, for everyone in your family?”
“I know how many problems I can solve with the money,” says Lara, but her expression is stern and uncompromising.
“Okay, I have one more question, and then I’ll give you an idea. I want you to explain to me why you don’t want the money for yourself.”
“De lav, Edik. Isn’t it obvious?” Lara sounds frustrated.
“Maybe it is, but I want to hear it from you.”
“Fine,” says Lara curtly. “I’ll tell you why, short and to the point. Let’s not analyze the obvious to death. First, it is not my money. That ‘legal’ heir argument is a sham, and we all know it. Even if by some twisted logic it is made legally mine, it is not, and can never be, rightfully mine. Second, I thought the point was to kill the past and move forward. How would I be killing the past if I take that money? Do you want me to finally become the woman that I tried not to be for eighteen months? Third, think of the complications when the Ayvazians find out that their villa is confiscated, and then all of a sudden the Galians are living like kings. Can I take a risk with the life of a single one of my siblings? And believe me, everyone’s life would be endangered. Fourth, Ahmed says it would be a ‘small compensation’ for the suffering they put me through. In one way, that would be too small compared to what they did to me, but in another way, it is far too much. How many girls like me did they exploit and abuse to amass three million euros, do you think? Why do I deserve that money now, and the others don’t?”
Lara has surprised Laurian many times before with her depth and maturity, but she has always looked vulnerable and even weak in his eyes. He’s seen her as someone to be protected, coached and advised. He is not prepared for the inner strength and moral fiber that he sees flowing through her words and filling his own soul.
The Doves of Ohanavank Page 22