The Candidate

by Zareh Vorpouni

  He lifted his head to take a breath. Apkar wasn’t in his field of vision anymore, but his image remained underneath his eyelids, reminding Minas of a ship caught in a stormy sea, struggling against the waves. But of course, Apkar had disappeared like someone turning into the woods before reaching the café on the corner—nothing surprising about this. After all, this part of the city used to be woodlands, and Faubourg Montmartre, Rue Drouot, and others were nothing but paths that opened into valleys. In fact, what difference is there between the woods and the city? Perhaps it’s easier to get lost in the city than in the woods, as he had seen with Apkar earlier. The unending rows of trees and giant buildings. . . . Within a few minutes, human forms sprout like moving trees, people and city once again. The woods grow so much deeper, and the number of people running—always running—grows so much that it confuses the general mass with its stillness and turns the city not into woods, but into a real jungle. The proof? Look how Minas has gotten lost. When he looked around in bewilderment, springing out of his thoughts, he realized he had gone quite a distance past work. He hadn’t turned right at the corner café. He walked faster. He ran. He ran like everyone else. It suddenly seemed that hours had passed since he had come across Apkar in the metro, but now he was already in the doorway of the kitchen, having unknowingly gone through the revolving door like a breeze and seeing that he was the one who pushed the door. He saw that he had pushed it. There was no doubt about it: he was the one who had pushed the door and it was about to turn when he felt his lips moving. They moved to speak. Why else would lips move? Indeed, Minas mumbled something under his breath, but he wasn’t the one who commanded them. “Slaves, slaves,” the lips mumbled. He stopped again, this time in the doorway as if it were his first time there, like it had been on his first day when he was nervous and shy, as if they were going to throw him out. He didn’t feel like himself. He was unrecognizable. Yes, he was the unknown force whom he had wasted so much time on. He was the thief. He might as well have clasped his hands together like Harpagon and screamed, “Thief! Thief!”12 But since there’s no thief who wouldn’t defend himself and lie, Minas protested and made accusations, and at that moment a miraculous light dawned in his mind. All of a sudden, a summary of evidence in his defense was handed to him, as, once again, his lips started to mumble, “slaves, slaves,” in spite of himself. Yes, Vahakn was the thief and Minas was the plunder. So Minas wasn’t the one who offended Apkar, the one who had led him to do evil. Before leaving, Vahakn had stolen his soul and taken its place, taken the place of his soul where he settled in as lord and master and now ran everything as he pleased.

  Cleansed of his sense of guilt, Minas pushed through the door in good spirits, greeting the night guard with a “good morning.” “You’re early today,” the guard said in surprise.

  “Those bastards!” screamed Apkar as Minas came into the kitchen.

  With his sleeves rolled up, he had already started washing the dishes from the day before. He leaned over the sink without lifting his head and stayed in that position as he spoke.

  “Who?” Minas asked. “Who are the bastards?”

  “What? Don’t you know?” There was ridicule in his tone.

  “What do I know?” Minas said.

  “Weren’t you the one who avoided me on the street today?”

  A shudder passed through Minas’s body. He couldn’t finish the work he had started. He was in the middle of preparing the milk, coffee, hot chocolate, and teacups, when his limbs stopped obeying his will. Apkar saw it. He knew. He also knew about all those other times that Minas had walked behind him early in the morning on their way to work.

  Gripped by shame, Minas was destroyed, engulfed in the flames of a firestorm. He almost threw himself at Apkar’s feet, driven by an uncontrollable urge to confess, tossed like a tree toppled by the wind.

  “No, oh no. Ziya again. With his never-ending apologies.”

  He fell silent.

  He fell silent like he had late that one night when they were all sitting around the table, tired of the jokes and the waiting. The spring chill had pierced their skin and started to numb them. A weary Minas was sinking into his chair, miserable, hoping that his friend would finally take out his wallet, pay for their coffee, and say it was time to go. But Vahakn lingered as time passed in vain, aimlessly. Still, a strange feeling brought his heart to life. It flared and died down in bursts. Slipping his hand into his pocket, proudly paying, standing tall in front of Minas, and saying it was time to go had created a true struggle in him. Giving—giving for the one who had always known how to take. And yet he expelled that strange musing from his heart. He couldn’t. He wanted to but he couldn’t. Something intangible and slippery resisted his habit. The more he lingered, the harder it became to leave. But only by leaving could he put an end to that new feeling, which grew progressively more complex. The contradiction snuck into that intricate jumble that was his mind at that moment and settled there slowly and obstinately, but with certainty and control like an injection of poison. The café was almost empty and the crowd on the street had already thinned. The stillness of the night slowly took position like the riot police during an uprising.

  On the other side of the street, the night was sleeping with one eye closed.

  Suddenly an unusual commotion broke out, escalated, and rolled down the boulevard. Heads rose all at once and turned toward the street. It felt as though the enemy had penetrated the city from a newly conquered trench. The supply train, making a racket and spewing smoke into the air, shot toward the central part of Les Halles.

  “It’s one o’clock,” said Vahakn anxiously.

  Then he jumped up as fast as lightning and ran without looking back. Minas hadn’t had a chance to figure out what was going on until Vahakn stopped in the middle of the boulevard, with his arms hanging and a strange look on his face, and screamed, “Wait for me. I’m coming!”

  The train had passed Pont Saint-Michel, but people still followed it with wide eyes. The street took on an unusual, unfamiliar look in its wake. The stillness of the night, barely settled, had scurried away in fear and then little by little reclaimed its position, hesitant and trembling.

  Vahakn turned and started running again. He feared he wouldn’t make it in time. As soon as it reached Les Halles, packs of vagrants would attack to empty the carts.13

  Vahakn had become an expert. He knew how to shove people aside to take their place. He was more amused than insulted by their curses. He was clever and didn’t shy away from work—the faster the better. The faster he finished, the sooner he would be free to go stretch his legs in the sleeping streets or parks, where no one dared lay a finger on or awaken a meek, sleeping flower. In his mind, he was rebelling against Minas, who had made him late, and now he ran without turning back, his elbows tucked under his shoulders. And yet he couldn’t help thinking as he ran, “Poor boy, how is he going to get out of this?” There seemed to be two people in him. One ran toward Les Halles, toward the line of train carts about to be unloaded, while the other thought. He thought about the person sitting worried in the café in front of two empty cups. He tried to go back, slowing down only for a second, but then picked up speed again and ran faster with a larger stride, panting.

  A sun rose unexpectedly around him. Of course this was impossible in the middle of the night. He was on the Pont Saint-Michel when it happened and it seemed that he had walked into a night illuminated by an invisible sun. The light in his heart radiated from his eyes and lit the darkness. The streetlights, whose light had grown pale, were fading. He wasn’t sure whether he had stopped or was still running behind the train, which, having almost reached Les Halles, shortened its breath like a dying man whose gasps had slowed, and the street fell back asleep, watched over by the cold, uniform light of the streetlights. “Give, give,” a voice in him said—he who was only used to taking—and waves of happiness crashed in his chest, which surged with a blissful sense of pride. “What would happen if I go back?” Already it was
n’t the same Vahakn, despite his attempt to justify himself. Perhaps because of it. There was a split in his mind and confusion that appeared as a result. “Give, give, but give what?” someone protested for him. He looked around and the only thing he saw was Minas’s face at the café, desperate because of his own unexpected exit. He couldn’t prevent that old, gurgling laughter in his chest, usually reserved for when someone played a bad hand. Why did he try to console himself with words he hadn’t summoned, but which rose to his lips nonetheless and made them move? “What would have happened if he had gone back?” Yes, what would have changed? Perhaps he could have found the calm, indifference, or joy that he had lost. Suddenly he grew sad. It was impossible. How could Vahakn be sad out of an inability to help someone? True, there was something heart-wrenching about Minas the day before, something he saw in his imagination—a Minas who roamed the streets and riverbank, forlorn and abandoned and quite possibly trembling, his sleepy eyes flooded by the confused image of a hotel, which he had chased hopelessly. “Oh,” he sighed as he stopped. “What an odyssey.” With his surging emotion, the image grew and a simple, banal phenomenon turned into an odyssey, in which perhaps he recognized his own life. But why did he stop? Had he stopped? No, he hadn’t. It seemed that way to him because as he looked up, he saw the train, which had stopped ahead of him. He had walked fast and without stopping, because he was already there. Hundreds of derelicts threw themselves onto the train. Mountains of goods were piled high on both sides. He made an effort, as though there were someone tugging at his arms, jumped, and threw himself into the fray for bread, but this time what gave him strength were the two unsettled cups of coffee holding Minas hostage. This is why he was sad? A sadness like alcohol, slow but assured, had penetrated his brain, his blood, and he did his work in a stupor. “No one would even bother to get him out of the water on this cursed night.” His mind was not on the work. Minas’s image swam and flipped in the water. Unable to work or even move, he suddenly broke away from where he stopped, jumped down from the cart, and ran, panting, toward the café on Saint Michel.

  At the same time, the images in Minas’s mind were replaced by Apkar—not his image, but the real Apkar who worked silently at the sink, focused inward. The boss had left. Why wasn’t Apkar saying anything? Surely he was holding a grudge. He had the right to feel wronged, but Minas was just waiting for a few words to muster up the courage to throw himself at his feet and beg for forgiveness. Not a word, not a single sound from Apkar. Minas didn’t even hear the unusual clanking of dishes and glasses that Apkar would make in the morning. Was he upset? He hadn’t even turned around once, but Minas, drained by impatience, fell to his knees and freed a whole flurry of words to express his regret and beg for forgiveness. Apkar didn’t move, didn’t look at him, and what was even more surprising was that he, too, stayed exactly where he was, even though his devastated face kept staring back at him.

  “You’ll see. A letter is going to come for you today from his wife.”

  As much as the prospect of the letter bothered him, Minas was glad to have established that Apkar was not angry at him after all. Like him, Apkar was preoccupied with Vahakn, too.

  In fact, there were two letters waiting for him at the hotel office at noon. One was from his mother. He glanced at the other one. The postal seal was smeared. He could only make out one word, the name of the département: Isère. The letter was from Arshalouys.

  He immediately went to lie down on his bed. He opened his mother’s letter first, but, holding it in his hand, he waited a moment before reading it. There was a strange silence in the room, inhabited by a whisper, the presence of the absent Vahakn. An absent presence. Yes, that was it. He didn’t find anything else and there was no need to look. The explanation had imposed itself with the undeniable force of reality and it was up to him just to accept it. Of course, it was a presence that was invisible to the naked eye, but it was present nonetheless, despite its absence, when Minas listened very closely.

  My dear Minas,

  We received the letter and the money you sent. Why do you do things like that, son? Why do you trouble yourself? We’re doing better now. Thank God. I’d written that Shoushan finished her apprenticeship. Now she’s making a good living. You should see what a stylish seamstress she’s become. She works in a nice factory and has a few French customers on the side. They pay her well. The poor girl has to work nights at home. Since my illness, your uncle has kept sending us some money every month. I wrote to you about this in my last letter. Take care of yourself, son. Make sure you’re not lacking anything. Don’t worry about us. I’m not as strong as I used to be, but I still manage to do some sewing. I don’t understand anything about that Sorbonne of yours. Will you at least come out having learned a trade? This century belongs to the tradesmen. There’s no other hope for us around here. Armen has his mind set on leaving school and going into a trade, too. As it is, the boy isn’t good at school. He didn’t turn out like you. It breaks my heart, but what can we do? Maybe he’s making the right choice in this cruel world. He just turned twelve. I wish your father could open his eyes just once more and see this. He dreamed of university for his sons.

  Let me add that I don’t see any other way for Armen. He’s not going to give up that old habit until he goes into a trade. Don’t think he’s stopped, even now that we’re doing better. I’m scared that something bad is going to happen to him one day. God spare us this misfortune.

  Take good care of yourself. How did you end up like this, my son? My heart breaks when I think that you’ve become a dishwasher in a restaurant. Everyone is making something of himself, but you’ve fallen into this situation. That must be our luck, I guess.

  Love,

  Your mother

  Sitting on a rickety chair in front of his desk, he read his mother’s letter once more under the electric lamp, while outside, the spring sun had given luminous clarity to the air, which, although cool, could have fanned his warming forehead, had there been a window that opened out onto the street. His window, permanently closed to the “courtyard,” made the room look like a blind face. It was as though a blind man were staring at him.

  Leaning his head against the letter, he thought about what he would write, which was always the same. Why didn’t his mother, who was pained by the thought of his work, want to understand that he wasn’t a dishwasher? He did have a “trade.” He was a breakfast cook in a small, but elegant hotel. He was lucky that he could leave at two in the afternoon to go to his classes at the Sorbonne. He offered this last lie as the salt and pepper on a flavorless dish, so he had an excuse to live away from them. And, why not, if it put his mother’s mind at ease?

  When he lifted his head out of the letter, the other one, waiting by his left arm, came into focus. Now he understood why he had read his mother’s letter a second time, and instead of responding right away or waiting until later, he fell into his thoughts, which stripped time away and let him put off reading the other letter. Suddenly he stood up, put the letter in his pocket, and went out.

  He sat on a stone bench by the Grand Bassin in the Jardin du Luxembourg and took the letter out of his pocket. He wasn’t too fond of the area around the Grand Bassin. He liked to sit with a book in his lap near the Fontaine Médicis, under the thick foliage of the trees, until the park closed. Afterward, he would slowly walk down the street and join Vahakn at the Billard. But since the day he had seen Nicole arm in arm with her friend, carefully walking down the stairs, passing the Grand Bassin, walking back up with the same caution, watching their steps, and disappearing into the woods at the top the opposite staircase, Minas abandoned the Fontaine Médicis and kept an impatient eye on his surroundings, with a hand on his heart to soften the blow. Often he would sit in the woods across from the stone statue of Verlaine. That was where he had finally talked to Nicole for the first time, and after, it was only there that he could meet her and dare to speak as he had when, trembling with the fear of losing her, he had approached her, not without his
chin quivering, and asked, so that something of her could remain after she was gone, for a scrap thrown to him as charity: “What is your name, Miss?”

  “My name?” she answered. “What’s my name to you?”

  At this, she and her friend, who was resting her head on Nicole’s shoulder, broke into riotous laughter, suddenly adding a new dimension to the depth of the woods.