Hov leafs through the papers, without reading one word, and distractedly signs at the indicated places.
“Thank you,” says Martirosian, giving him one of the signed originals. “That’s your copy.”
He shuffles through his files and produces another document.
“This is a restraining order issued by the judge. Do you understand what a restraining order is?”
Hov shakes his head.
“It says you cannot go within fifty meters of Anna Hakobian. Under any circumstances. If you are seen within fifty meters of her, anywhere, you will be immediately arrested. Do you understand?”
Hov nods.
“Sign here. By signing, you are acknowledging that you have received the order and understand it. It is in effect already, so you are warned.”
Hov signs. Martirosian stands up, without a second look at Hov. He turns to the officer.
“Thank you,” he says, shaking his hand. “My work is done here. The rest is in your hands.”
“We’ll see what we can do about his defense,” says the officer. “In the meantime, he’s staying in jail.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
To Edik, everything seems in limbo. To me, we are in the best shape we’ve been for a long time. The difference is that he needs to understand everything, and I don’t. From my perspective, LeFreak is dead, Yuri is dead, Carla is under house arrest and Hov is in jail and possibly facing a long sentence. All welcome news. But Edik wants to know who, why and especially how these things happened.
Manoj has come and we have registered “Apastan” as a foreign owned and sponsored charity, with the purpose of sheltering and rehabilitating victims of sex trafficking and domestic abuse. He had to stay one extra day to complete the procedures, even though all the legal documents were ready for his signature when he arrived. Nothing just takes one day in Armenia. Besides, we also had to open a bank account. The bank officer kept staring at me as Manoj, Edik and I signed all the paperwork. He could not believe that I was being given full signatory authority over the account, equal to the others.
Avo is back to being his enthusiastic self. They have registered a company—fifty percent Avo, forty percent Edik, and ten percent Gagik, who insisted on participating. The capital is in place, and Avo has already started buying the hives. He wants to be the best honey producer in Armenia—the most pristine and the most efficient. He is targeting thirty kilos per hive, when the average here is under twelve.
The other good news, at least for me, is that Sona and Simon have postponed their wedding. They are a bit disappointed, but they are not ready. As for me, there is far too much happening right now, and I know I wouldn’t be able to give the wedding my full attention. Their initial date, at the end of May, is only a week away. It is a relief to have an extra month.
Anna’s physical injuries are healing, as Dr. Suren predicted. But I still notice her withdrawing into herself. I know exactly where and what that is. That was an important survival tool for me too. Withdraw, heal a little, come back out, hurt again, withdraw again, heal a little more, until the hurt is less and more distant every time. No one who hasn’t been there would understand any of it. Some girls withdraw like that and find it impossible to come back out. Their self-esteem is so shattered that they do not want to face the world, or even to heal. For them, withdrawal turns into an emotional grave, not a healing process. That’s one of the main reasons why I did not want Anna to live alone.
Since Anna is not working, I manage to take her with me to visit the organizations that I had planned to visit. Her nose and forehead are still badly bruised, but that, in a way, helps melt the ice with the administrators, who do not understand the nature of my interest in their organizations. We spend a lot of time in each place. We learn about their programs, and we hear the stories of some of the young girls who board there. We speak to many of them and see their living quarters.
I have intensified the search for a suitable house for the shelter. Once or twice I asked Edik to come with me, because, as I had predicted, no realtor takes me seriously. We’re looking at two-to-three story, older homes, with fenced-in gardens, five or six bedrooms, and large common living areas. To minimize cost, we’re looking in the outskirts of Yerevan, but even there, homes like that cost upwards of half a million dollars. The realtors did not believe I was a credible buyer when they saw me, and would not bother to show me houses.
One day we go to the store where Anna works so she can get her pay. Lucy is in shock when we walk in.
“Anna jan!” she screams, “What happened to you? I saw the doctor’s medical slip but never imagined something like this.”
“It’s a long story,” says Anna. “By the way, this is my friend Lara.” Lucy and I shake hands. “We don’t have much time; I have another appointment with the chiropractor.”
“Come in,” says Lucy, leading us to the back room. She counts a few monetary notes from the drawer and hands them to Anna.
“I don’t know what this world is coming to,” she says. “First Yuri gets shot, then the manager of our sister store calls to say Madame Carla cannot make the rounds because she is under house arrest. Who are we supposed to report to? We have to file semi-annual audits with the tax authorities soon, and I have no idea who will sign the documents.”
“I’m sure it will all work out,” says Anna. “Thanks for the pay.”
“No problem,” says Lucy truly sympathetic. “I wish I could give you more, but I’ll get in trouble.”
“I understand,” says Anna, and attempts a smile. “By the way,” she adds as an afterthought, “do you still have the picture of that girl we were supposed to look for?”
“Sure,” she says, pulling the drawer open. “Here, do you want it?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Yuri’s dead. Of course I don’t mind. Good luck, Anna jan.”
We leave the store with the distinct impression that Lucy has figured out that the picture was of Anna, but none of that matters anymore, either to her or to us.
“What made you ask for the photo?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she shrugs. “Why should she keep my picture?”
Our next stop is not the chiropractor, but an apartment with two spare bedrooms to rent. The building is in the southern outskirts of the city, while our current rooms are in the north. This one is on the second floor of an old building. It is obvious that the place has seen better days. There are beautiful plaster designs on the ceilings, layers of oval borders with floral corners. The ceilings are higher than in our current apartments, and the dining room walls are finished with beautiful cherry panels. But everything shows the wear and tear of at least fifty years, if not longer.
The four-bedroom apartment is occupied by an elderly couple. Mr. & Mrs. Poghosian take two of the rooms for themselves, using one as their bedroom and the second as an office for Mr. Poghosian, who is a retired professor of philosophy. They thus have two spare bedrooms to rent. The apartment has two full baths, one of which goes with the two rooms, a large kitchen, which we are allowed to use as long as we keep it clean, and a large living room, which we also are allowed to use. They are in their late seventies and seem delightful. Gentle, soft-spoken, un-imposing. The rent is a little more than the two rents that we pay now, and the bus stop is a few blocks further away, but we fall in love with the place and decide to take it.
I tell Anna we’ll do what we can to give the place a facelift. The apartment is far too beautiful to remain in such disrepair. I still have the paint, brushes and scrapers that I had bought to touch up my room, which I never used. We’ll try to use them here.
I feel bad about abandoning Diqin Alice. I promise to pay her three months additional rent, and to do her shopping twice a month until she finds a new tenant. I also promise to advertise her place at the University.
Avo calls to say he has finished buying all the hives. He has managed to get ten extra hives for the same price. He has mapped the whole program of whe
re he will start the hives and how he will progressively move them up the mountainside throughout the summer and into the fall. He has also ordered the steel drums in which the honey needs to be exported. The boys will take turns helping, watching the hives while he starts preparing the space where they will extract the honey in the fall.
Hermine has been visiting with Martha more frequently. She is sixteen, and as innocent and clueless as they come. She’s pretty and somewhat unusual looking, with her light brown hair and dark blue eyes. She always wears trousers and long blouses that reach mid-thigh. Girls in the village do not like to wear skirts or dresses, because the only socially acceptable ones are the long gowns that reach their ankles. That is for grandmothers. Trousers are a compromise.
Martha likes Hermine and has taken her under her wing. Hermine loves taking care of her little niece, Ani, which helps Martha. When I see them together, I sometimes feel envious. Their mutual support is unconditional, inherently understood and accepted, never discussed or formalized, and never betrayed. No one has taught them to be that way. It is just the way it can often be in Saralandj. It has always been that way in our house.
Thinking about their relationship, I get a strong urge to visit home. Without calling anyone, I go to the bus station and catch the next bus to Aparan. From Aparan I take a taxi.
It is mid-afternoon. No one is expecting me. I walk in and see Arpi alone in the kitchen. The others are all in the garden or tending the animals. She’s getting ready to start preparations for dinner. I’m glad to be alone with her. I start helping her wash the vegetables and boil potatoes. I know she will not say much, so I start talking, telling her about the shelter that we’re going to start, about Edik and about the poetry that he often gives me to read.
Arpi listens but does not stop working. Then, she suddenly stops, wipes her hands on her apron, and leaves. “I’ll be right back,” she says. When she comes back she gives me a light blue notebook, the kind that students use to turn in their homework.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“Let me know what you think,” she says coyly, and goes back to washing the dishes.
“Arpi, did you write these?” I am shocked. Written in small and neat handwriting, the book is full of poems. Most of them don’t have titles. One ends and a new one begins, often on the same page, with a line separating the two. I remember we had to do that to economize on paper.
I start to read randomly, and I am even more stunned. Her writing is exceptional.
“Arpi, how long have you been writing?”
“A while.” She shrugs.
“These are unbelievable! Can I show them to Edik?”
She shrugs again, and nods. I can tell she wants me to.
“I can’t wait; I want to read him one right now. Is that okay?”
She nods. I call Edik.
“Listen to this.” I don’t even ask if this is a good time for him.
a lone robin on the bare apricot tree
meets my stare
rasp of winter’s voice in its song
doused in hesitance
I’m splayed beneath its feathers
coveting its wings…
the soil soaks what I spill in doubt
my shadow withers plucked from its roots but this is home
I decant myself on its threshold
restless
weary of its pull
stone on stone
I can’t settle inside its pulse
the kitchen drips
it drips laughter
my sisters’ voices
skip on river stones
as mine spatters on current’s foam
yet I turn the soil
I know the hunger in me
will starve this land and more
palm against the blur of certainty
I search for an aperture to free this light in me
but at dawn there’s yet another dead bird
under my grandfather’s apricot tree
“That is deep,” murmurs Edik when I finish. “I cannot place it. It is as powerful as the works of the great classics, but the style is unique. Who is it?”
I turn to Arpi. “Arpi, you were just compared to the great classical poets!” Edik hears me.
“No!” comes Edik’s voice over the phone.
I spend that night in my parents’ room reading Arpi’s poems with her.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Nicolai Sergeiovitch Filatov never forgets the day he confronted Sergei Ayvazian. It was fifteen years ago, and he was eighteen years old. It was January third, and Russia was still celebrating the New Year. Sergei was throwing a lavish party in a hotel ballroom in Moscow. He had some thirty select guests—politicians, businessmen, an oil trader from abroad, a few police officers, and other wealthy-looking men of less known professional backgrounds. There were also around twenty ladies, invited not as guests, but as paid companions. The men were in their most expensive suits, and a live band was playing classical Russian music, waitresses were passing champagne and caviar, and the ladies, scantily clad, were doing their best to act classy and available at the same time.
It was twenty degrees below zero and Nicolai’s bones were freezing. His mother was sick in their tiny apartment in Moscow, burning with a forty degree Celsius fever and coughing blood. She had told him about Ayvazian before, and shown him pictures, but he was not allowed to meet him. She had raised Nicolai in that apartment alone. That’s why she had stopped bringing clients home when he had turned five. She was thirty-five years old, and on her deathbed. She called Nicolai to her side, and gave him a piece of paper.
“This is where you can find him,” she whispered. “You can now go and introduce yourself.”
Nicolai asked a friend from the days when he had been a member of a street gang to drive him to the address on the piece of paper. They drove through the icy streets and parked a few meters from the entrance of the apartment building. Nicolai was rehearsing what he’d say to him. He was nervous and angry and yet he felt an unusual anticipation. He was about to get out of the car when Ayvazian left the building with three other men. He was wearing a thick, dark-gray winter coat with a black fur collar, and a Russian fur hat. They were talking and laughing, and got into a black sedan parked by the entrance of the building. One of the men got behind the wheel, Ayvazian in the passenger seat, and the other two in the back.
“Let’s follow them,” he told his friend, who was curious himself. He followed the sedan to the hotel. The four men left the car at the entrance and walked in. An attendant came to park the car.
Nicolai’s friend parked by the curbside. He stayed in the car while Nicolai walked to the entrance of the hotel and watched through the huge glass doors as Ayvazian and his friends walked down the wide hallway and entered a room on the right. He waited outside for five minutes, in the freezing weather, to make sure that was not just a stop on their way to somewhere else. He did not have on the right clothes. His coat was light and very old, he had a simple wool hat and gloves that had tears in them, exposing his knuckles, which were turning blue.
He did not know what to expect in the room that Ayvazian had entered, but he did not care. The doorman tried to stop him, but he kept walking. “I’ll only be a minute,” he said, “I have to give a message to one of your guests.” The doorman watched him walk into the ballroom and Ayvazian’s party. He relaxed. That room was swarming with bodyguards.
Two muscular men were standing at either side of the door inside the ballroom. One grabbed Nicolai as he walked in. “You’re in the wrong place,” he said, “out!” The scene inside mesmerized Nicolai. Huge crystal chandeliers hung from the eight-meter high ceiling, crystal sconces were all over the walls and gold moldings decorated the walls, framing rectangular spaces where huge paintings hung. His eyes scanned the room looking for Ayvazian. People were mostly standing with glasses in their hands, others were seated in large armchairs. They all seemed to know each other.
“Out,”
said the bodyguard again, pushing him.
“I have to talk to that man,” said Nicolai pointing at Ayvazian. “I have an important message for him.”
“He does not want to hear your message. Leave, now.” The bodyguard grabbed Nicolai’s arm so hard that it hurt. He pushed him over the threshold and blocked his way. “If you don’t leave now, something bad is going to happen to you.”
“Ayvazian!” screamed Nicolai at the top of his lungs. “One word, please.” The bodyguard slapped him so hard that he stumbled to the floor and his nose started to bleed. Nicolai was quick to get back on his feet. He wiped his nose with his sleeve and looked inside. He saw someone approaching him. Ayvazian was watching from inside.
“Who are you and what’s your business here?” asked the man.
“Tell Ayvazian that Evgeniya’s son is here with an important message. It will take only a minute.”
The man walked back and whispered in Ayvazian’s ear. Ayvazian walked toward the door, but to Nicolai he looked like a bull charging to make a kill. He reached Nicolai and pushed him a few meters into the hallway.
“What do you want?” he hissed.
“Sorry to interrupt your party, esteemed father,” said Nicolai, “but my mother is sick. She’ll probably be dead by the time I get back home. I thought you should know.”
“Once again, what do you want?!” Ayvazian’s face was turning red. The dying woman did not seem to interest him.
“I am your son!” Nicolai raised his voice. The last thing Ayvazian wanted is to cause a scene in front of his guests. He took a wad of cash from his pocket and threw it at Nicolai. “Don’t bother me again,” he hissed, and walked back inside, telling the bodyguards to shut the door and not let him in again.
Nicolai’s mother died the next morning. She had been one of Ayvazian’s early victims. He had just turned twenty-one and, eager to prove himself to his boss, he had beaten and raped her into submission, and she eventually accepted her fate as a prostitute. But she had managed to keep her pregnancy a secret until the seventh month. The doctor that the boss kept at the time had refused to perform an abortion at that late stage. She was seventeen when she gave birth to Nicolai. That was eighteen years ago; today Ayvazian would have forced an abortion even at that late stage.
The Doves of Ohanavank Page 33