Lara had stopped holding back her tears. She just stared at Anastasia, the happy, energetic prostitute, and for the first time truly wondered what she was made of.
After a long silence, Anastasia added, “Do you know what my uncle sold me for? One thousand dollars. One thousand dollars! You made more than double that in one night.”
“How did the Ayvazians liberate you?” asked Lara, her voice barely audible.
“Well, they bought me from the Turk. They have business in Turkey too, you know. They sell girls there and the mustached Turk who had bought me sold me to them. I pleaded with them to take me out of Turkey. So they brought me to Moscow and we made a deal. I will work for them until I repay ten times what they paid for me, and then I will be free. Ten times. I had already made the Turk much more than he paid my uncle, and now I had started a whole new cycle of debt and bondage. But it was worth it to get out of there.”
This had been by far the most exhausting day for Lara, both physically and emotionally. She was still bleeding and was in pain; she was expected to see Melikov again in a few days. But now she had to close her eyes. Close her mind. Close her body and her entire being. Everything in her had to shut down into silence before it exploded. She thanked Anastasia for being there for her, for all the comforting words and explanations, and then went to bed.
It was early the next morning that she jumped out of bed and wrote her first cryptic note, which began her daily habit of record keeping.
Today I lost a child I did not know was growing inside of me. I did not know they had decided to kill it, did not know what they were doing when they were killing it. Now it’s dead; now I know. My friend Anastasia wants me to believe that I’m lucky.
V
Edward Laurian is always shocked by the contrast between the beauty of the mountains and the miserable state of the infrastructure surrounding them. Having lived in Switzerland for the past eight years, and accustomed to the seamless way in which a road and a mountainside fuse in the Swiss highlands, the country roads in this small Caucasian country, that was recently freed from the former Soviet Union, represent a rude violation of his sense of aesthetics. Man should not leave his mark on nature when it does so much harm, he thinks every time he drives on this road.
But the crude sense of pure functionality, void not only of aesthetics but often of any environmental concerns that had driven public projects during the Soviet Union, still survives here. During Soviet times, meeting production quotas was more important than any other consideration and Laurian understood that. But today, it is not even a concrete target such as a production quota that drives the process. There are no quotas. There is very little production, for that matter. What prevails is a passive, dismissive indifference, as the population, caught by surprise between the end of one regime and the chaotic wait for the birth of another, tries to scrape out a living.
The drive from the village of Shatin to his estate near Vardahovit is only twenty kilometers, but it can take over an hour given the condition of the road and would be considered a hard trek by any measure. That short stretch has been the stage for a fascinating part of the medieval history of Armenia. It is also home to old forts, monasteries, tombs of princes, graveyards of various ethnic groups and ruins of ancient cities, which persist quietly and stubbornly, oblivious to the utter insignificance of the life of the villagers around them.
The natural beauty of the region is another attraction that captured Laurian early on. Mountainous and rugged, with steep cliffs and valleys, rivers and streams gushing through almost every ravine, the region can simultaneously inspire both awe and total peace. Even for someone accustomed to the Swiss mountains, this is a clear step up. But for Laurian, it is much deeper than that. He can feel this place in a way that he cannot feel any other place on earth. He can feel the history. He can visualize King Smbat in his fortress, built in the fifth century, directly above the road he is driving on, on top of an impregnable mountain chain. He can visualize how the fortress eventually fell six centuries later to Seljuk Turks, who used thirsty horses to sniff out the underground clay pipes that supplied water to the castle, and proceeded to cut off the water source and take the fortress. He can see the scene rolling in front of his eyes like a movie. He can go beyond and imagine an old civilization, which in part belongs to him; or maybe it is the other way round, he cannot be sure. At least the history belongs to him. Or at least that is how he feels.
As he enters Yeghegis, another ancient city that was destroyed and rebuilt several times between the fifth and eleventh centuries until an earthquake demolished it for good, the road seems somewhat less damaged than the thoroughly destroyed section of Shatin, but even here he has to maneuver through segments with potholes big enough to swallow up the better part of his Toyota Prado. The climb up the narrow curvy road can be dangerous, especially if one is not familiar with the area and does not know what to expect at the end of the next turn. The old, rusty pipe carrying irrigation water to the villages has burst again, letting loose a gush of water, which probably is the main cause of all the damage. Built in the 1940s, it has not been repaired since. It was built well, with solid stone foundations, but the harsh winters and constant water damage of over sixty years have taken their toll.
He has to cross three villages to get to his house. Most of the villagers either know him or know of him. Some refer to him by name; others simply call him the “American.” Before moving to Switzerland, Laurian had lived in the US for several years. To those who know him well he is “Edik,” the Armenian short version of Edward. To those who know him less well, he is “Paron Edik,” Mr. Edik. He always greets the villagers as he drives past them, and he always gives a lift to any hitchhiker that he passes on this stretch of the road, which he considers his turf.
It is late afternoon, in late September. Most village men are sitting in the village square in front of backgammon sets and chessboards or just doing nothing. Schoolchildren have already returned home, unloaded their heavy backpacks, and are out in the streets playing. The village cowherds are bringing the cattle back home from grazing in the fields about that time, which is always a distraction for most drivers and even an annoyance to some. But Laurian enjoys watching the cattle move on the street in lazy, deliberate steps, totally oblivious to car traffic, looking content after a day of grazing in the mountain meadows, regurgitating their meals as they walk and gazing beyond the car with dreamy eyes. This is what belongs on this road, he thinks, not my Prado.
After completing one of the more dangerous turns on the road into the village, he calls Agassi, the caretaker of his estate. Agassi is both guard and gardener, and lives in the guardhouse year round with his wife, Vartiter. He is in his fifties and has lived in the region all his life. Laurian hired him soon after he had bought the lands, even before the construction of the homestead was completed.
“Should be there in about 30 minutes,” he says. “Is everything in order?”
“Ha, Edik jan, all is normal,” says Agassi. “We’re waiting for you. Varujan caught some garmrakhayd for you this morning. It is in the fridge. I’ve turned on the water and gas in the main house already. Do you want me to turn on the heat in your bedroom?”
“How cold has it been at nighttime?”
“Not too bad, but toward morning it can get chilly.”
“No need for heat, then,” says Laurian. “I’ll be there soon.”
Varujan is Agassi’s middle son. He is one of four children who have given him fifteen grandchildren. All live in the neighborhood villages of Shatin and Vardahovit. Varujan is a master hunter and fisherman, and is the only one in the entire region who never comes back empty-handed when he goes to the rivers in the area to catch garmrakhayd—meaning red-dotted in Armenian—a wonderful fresh water trout known for the red dots on its skin.
Although it is approaching seven in the evening, it is still light outside when Agassi opens the huge gates to the estate. The guardhouse is right inside the gates, and the main house so
me hundred-and-twenty meters into the property, past the old apple orchard and sheltered from view by a grouping of tall poplars. Agassi says no one has planted the poplars, and they have never been watered, but they have grown so tall and healthy that he is convinced there is a natural water source under them somewhere. “We really should drill here, Edik jan,” he says every chance he gets. “Imagine having our own water source right here on the property.”
Not that there is any shortage of water. Drinking water is abundant and free, and is generally used to water all the plants and trees around the house as well. Most of the forty hectare plateau, at around two-thousand meters altitude, used to be agricultural land divided into one to two hectare plots that the villagers cultivated during Soviet times. The main crop was wheat, but some years they grew barley and corn. After the collapse of the Soviet Union these lands were privatized, and most villagers decided to sell their parcels. It did not make sense to cultivate small areas and take the full responsibility of marketing their crops on their own in a system that went overnight from state run socialism to pure capitalism.
Laurian had bought the entire area from twelve different villagers. The place had some twenty-five mature apple trees, and over twenty walnut trees. It was also full of wild pear, apple and plum trees, which Agassi says can easily be grafted to better stock. Instead, Laurian has focused on adding a few hundred evergreens and poplars, and about a dozen weeping willows. Poplars and weeping willows are by far his favorite trees.
It has been almost six weeks since Laurian’s last visit. The whole place is a lush green with the new trees, and Vartiter’s flower garden is bursting with color. A row of pine trees and poplars adorns each side of the path leading to the main house. He takes a quick walk around the property before darkness falls and looks approvingly at the changes since his last stay in early August.
Laurian has asked the Mayor of Vardahovit village, Saro, to join him for dinner that night. Saro is a soft-spoken, kind and intelligent man in his early forties. He has lived in the region all his life, though not always in the village of Vardahovit. After each absence, Laurian likes to sit with Saro and hear him talk about the new developments in the region, the problems the village is facing, and especially news of newcomers into the area. Vartiter has prepared the red-dotted trout, some chicken soup, and set the table outside on the front terrace, which has the most spectacular view of the mountains and of sunsets. Miracle sunsets, Laurian calls them.
Laurian fills their wine glasses and makes the first welcome toast before Saro starts his report.
“We’ve had some excitement here since your last visit,” he says, “and I’m afraid most of it is not good news. Ayvazian has been buying deserted homes in Sevajayr and has bought one in Vardahovit as well.”
“What does he need houses here for?” asks Laurian. “Does he need a place to keep all the mountain goats that he murders every year?”
Laurian is a hunter himself but hates the hunting style of Ayvazian and his friends. Sevajayr is very close, only a twenty-minute drive from his house. He is opposed to hunting the mountain goats and the bears that are native to the region, and has helped the governor of Vayots Dzor pass several laws regulating and even restricting hunting these animals. But people like Ayvazian act above the law, and not even the Governor can always prosecute them.
“No one knows exactly,” says Saro. “They usually come in the night, in cars with darkened windows. They have guards and bodyguards whom we see. But we do not know who else is staying there, if anyone. But,” chuckles Saro, “as you can imagine, everyone in the village has an opinion.”
“Do we know any of the bodyguards?”
“Some look familiar because they have been in these parts before. They have accompanied Ayvazian a few times on his hunting trips. At least once his nephew Viktor has been seen as well. One of our villagers swears he recognized one of the bodyguards from that incident around eight months ago, when the man from Saralandj fell off the cliff. But, to be honest with you, these guys all look alike to me. You know, the shaved heads, body building in their youth, which is turning flabby around the edges, always in dark sunglasses, regardless of the time of day or weather. I swear I sometimes think it is a disguise.”
“Any names?” asks Laurian, smiling at Saro’s description of the bodyguards, yet concerned about their presence in the area.
“Not yet. But we’ll find out sooner or later.”
“Do you think Ayvazian had anything to do with the incident?”
“I don’t know. That happened more than eight months ago and has long been forgotten. We have not heard anything more about the Saralandj man. All we know is that his family still lives there. Rumor has it that Ayvazian has actually helped them by sending food and money to the widow.”
“And you believe that?”
“One never knows, Edik jan. Even men like Ayvazian sometimes have a conscience. You never know what motivates them.”
“I don’t believe it for a minute,” says Laurian, staring into the mountains. “I bet he has not given the Saralandj man a second thought since the accident.”
Darkness had fallen on the mountains and the fields. There was only one thin sliver of bright red where the sun had set behind the western mountain chain. Saro had made one last toast, emptied his glass, and bid farewell. Agassi’s wife Vartiter had gathered the dishes, asked if Edik needed anything else, and then left for the guardhouse. She is an incredible woman, thought Laurian. The hint of a faint smile permanently imprinted on her face, hair always combed back in a bun, intelligent eyes on a face one could tell had been very beautiful in her youth. In spite of the harshness of aging in these mountains, she had retained her elegance. Her energy seemed inexhaustible as she approached every chore, from the needs of the extended family to the cows to the garden. In many ways, Vartiter was the matriarch of the family. Sons, daughter, in-laws, fifteen grandchildren and even Agassi were in awe of her; she was the central pillar on which everything and everyone in the family depended.
Laurian opened a second bottle of wine, lit a cigar, and sat on his favorite terrace, thinking. Albinoni’s Adagio was playing softly on his iPod inside, mixed with the typical evening sounds from neighboring villages, which would fill the air a while longer before total peace descended on this remote mountaintop. Dogs barking, cowherds calling their long, musical calls in attempts to convince the last stubborn cows to enter the barn for the night, night birds chirping in the poplar trees, and the first bats of the evening emerging from their lairs to start their frantic nighttime flights, all filled the air with the magical, condensed burst of life that Laurian loved. He then heard the snorting sound of wild boar from the far end of the field in front of his house. That got his attention for a minute, for that was one animal he did not mind hunting, but he soon changed his mind and sat back in his chair. He would do no hunting tonight.
“What are you up to, Ayvazian?” he thought, staring at the sky. “This time you’ve come too close to home to ignore…”
The western sky was totally dark now, but he could see traces of light in the east at the other side of the house. He stood up and walked around, and sure enough the half moon was peeking out from behind the eastern mountains. By daybreak, before the sun would make its comeback, the moon would set where the sun had disappeared. The temperature had dropped significantly in the past thirty minutes. He put out his cigar and walked inside.
The house was a spacious single story stone construction of tuff, travertine, granite and basalt. It consisted of one large common room, four en suite bedrooms and a kitchen. It also had a large basement, used largely for storage of garden machines and tools, which doubled as a garage in the winter. Arches, arched windows, columns, every detail designed by Laurian himself, was handed over to an architect to produce the necessary drawings for construction. In the common room he had his library, a gun cabinet and leather sofas and armchairs. He went to his library and browsed through the various English and Armenian books. He wa
s in no mood for prose; this was a night for poetry. His library was practically complete with all of the Armenian poets that he liked—Charents, Isahakian, Sevag, Sahian, Varoujan, Siamanto, Turian and Medzarents. He scanned the shelves quickly, but had already decided on Medzarents. He picked the volume of his complete works and sank into a leather armchair. The poet had died at the age of twenty-two, leaving behind a small volume of poems that Laurian considered the most sensitive and lyrical poems ever written. Every sunset, every flower, every green field, every mountain road and every night sky in Vardahovit reminded him of a Medzarents verse. Laurian often wondered what invaluable treasures he would have created had he lived to be twenty-five, thirty, forty-five, sixty-five.
But as he sat there reading, his mind wouldn’t let go of the latest news. He had heard of the incident eight months ago. Saro had recounted to him all the details that he could gather at the time, but they did not amount to much. A poor man had come to visit Ayvazian in Martashen. They had driven to look at his tree farm plan near Sevajayr, and he had fallen off a cliff and died. It was an accident. The police investigation had been closed in twenty-four hours. But what business did this poor man have visiting someone like Ayvazian? No one questioned it, because so many people visited Ayvazian. But Laurian was an investigative reporter and simply could not accept the story as told. Not much was really as ‘normal’ as it seemed.
Laurian knew in his heart, but did not yet want to fully admit to himself, that he was struggling with something bigger and deeper than just the news of an oligarch buying deserted homes in his neighborhood. This one man, Sergey Ayvazian, represented so much evil that Laurian could easily be blinded by his own rage and be driven to tackle problems bigger than his means would allow.
What made matters worse was the fact that the specific dirt on Ayvazian touched a very personal nerve in him. This was not just another story of corruption on a grand scale. Ayvazian’s disregard of village life and of the villagers, his inhumane hunting habits, his total disregard of the welfare of the country that he exploited every day, were issues that Laurian could easily turn into a personal cause and crusade. But perhaps the deepest and darkest issue of all, which Laurian fought hard to keep covered even from his own thoughts, was Ayvazian’s rumored involvement in human trafficking—an issue so personal and painful for Laurian that he could not maintain his objectivity as an investigative reporter when dealing with it.
A Place Far Away Page 8