A Place Far Away

by Vahan Zanoyan

  “Ha Vart-jan. Apres. Yes, Vart, bravo. En karmir ginin el ber. And bring the red wine also.”

  Tchaikovsky’s piano concerto #1 was playing in the house and became momentarily louder as Vartiter opened the front door to go in. Laurian preferred the music to reach him through the closed door, more as a distant background than center stage; the centre stage performance was different, unfolding in front of his eyes. The sun had perched on top of the mountain behind which it would soon disappear, as if unwilling to take its leave from the magical sky, its last few movements deliberately slow and reluctant. He watched as it finally slipped behind the flanks of the mountains, as if coaxed, or perhaps nudged, by one of the movements of Tchaikovsky’s concerto.

  The commitment was made. He would not back down now, although he was keenly aware that he was powerless against the local oligarch. No matter how much he likes to think this is his region, it actually is not. In practical ways it is much more theirs than his. The likes of Ayvazian laid their claim a long time ago and it was not easy to unseat them. But he would not turn his back on this one, regardless of the consequences. He would organize and mobilize the villagers. He would give them the means to learn and, if necessary, fight back. After fourteen years of independence, it was time to give a push back to the vested interests. Granted, most of what he knew about Ayvazian was hearsay. The worst that was attributed to him could not be proven. The only thing that he had seen himself was his hunting of the mountain goats, and the cruelty of that totally revolted him. Because of that, he tended to believe most of the other rumors, provable or not.

  He gazed at the mountains for a long time. The background music playing inside was now Khachaturian’s Masquerade. The mountains were silent, attentive, majestic, and were staring back at him as if they were the real lords who kept watch over this space. It is neither you nor them, they were telling him. It is us. We’ve been here before the beginning. We’ll be here past the end. Khachaturian fully agreed.

  He then had the urge to finish a poem he had started writing on his last visit. Sitting here, in front of his house, he had experienced such total peace that he could not resist putting it down on paper. He went inside to fetch his notebook and the portable table light, and sat back down at the table. His unfinished poem was waiting:

  Midnight. Infinite calm

  On this remote mountaintop

  Not a whisper, not a movement

  In this deafening silence

  Only being and inspiration

  In front of me, the poplar trees

  Dissolved within their own shadow

  Silently float into the night

  Not even a chill in their leaves

  Not a shiver in their tender branches

  The mountains keep watch from afar

  Under the over-bejeweled sky

  Awesome and majestic

  They are the lords of this fiefdom

  Masters of this moment, of this night

  This is the poem that he had to finish tonight. He did not think long. He wrote:

  And I try to fathom

  That which the night keeps handing out

  The life that bursts out of these peaks

  The unbridled invisible torrents that abound

  The rhythmic heartthrob of the earth

  And here it seems that the mountains

  Have decided to accept me

  And they’re talking to me right now

  “A part of you was always ours

  Now a part of us is yours…”

  He turned off the table lamp and sank into the night. The last verse practically wrote itself, as if descending upon him like a revelation. He belonged here now. That was his answer to Ayvazian. Welcome back, Laurian, the mountains called. He smiled in the dark and filled his glass for a last toast.

  VI

  The drive to Ashtarak was long but uneventful. Saro offered to drive, and Laurian accepted. There was likely to be some drinking in Ashtarak, and he did not want the responsibility of being behind the wheel. Saro’s Chevy Niva could manage most terrains in the countryside, even where there were no roads, which was an added plus. They arrived around noon to meet one of Laurian’s old friends for lunch. He knew the area well, as he had been the deputy Governor of this region a few years back. Laurian trusted him, although Saro was anxious as usual.

  Laurian was anxious too, but in an entirely different way. He wanted to get to the bottom of things as quickly as possible. Once he zeroed in on a mystery, this impatience was trademark Laurian. In his mid-forties, he had been an investigative reporter for almost twenty years, working for Swiss, British and American news agencies, and covering everything from wars in the Middle East to regulatory violations in oil trading to financial scandals of the rich and famous.

  Writing was a passion for him, whether he was working on one of his documentaries or his poetry. Intense and uncompromising when focused, he was the antithesis of the dismissive mentality of the general public in most post-Soviet societies, including Armenia, which, in situations like the one he and Saro were in at the moment, could be a liability and a handicap. But he and Saro knew that his tendencies were closer to the rebellious Armenian character.

  “I am you without seventy years of Soviet rule,” he’d say. Then he’d look them straight in the eye and add, “You are me, with seventy years of Soviet rule.”

  And Saro and many others actually believed him. They remembered stories about their own past, their ancestors, their unyielding character, their moral fiber. Laurian fit better with their crazy old stories than they themselves did. But still, they didn’t see the point.

  We are who we are, Saro and other villagers thought. And he is who he is. No amount of analysis and soul searching will change a thing.

  Laurian first set foot in Armenia in the late eighties to cover a story. It was the eve of the collapse of the Soviet Union, which, according to Laurian, was the single most important historical event for those who had lived through the cold war and had become accustomed to seeing the world largely in that context. In that bipolar world divided between the USSR and the USA, Asia had not yet woken up, either economically or politically. And when one pole of a bipolar world starts to crumble, it is news of a lifetime.

  The British news agency sent him on a mission to document the changes in some of the smaller republics. Russia, and more specifically Moscow, was being covered every day, but little attention was being paid to the periphery, to the fifteen Soviet Republics. Laurian campaigned for and was given the assignment to cover the Caucasus as his main area of focus. That meant three republics—Azerbaijan, Armenia, and Georgia. In December 1989, all were still part of the Soviet Union, which although formally still intact had already started to unravel. The old system was dying so fast that no one was quite sure which way things would go or what would replace the old structures. For the first time in over seventy years, independence did not seem to be a crazy romantic dream for these republics. However, as the old Soviet economic support structures were being dismantled either deliberately or out of neglect, the charm and shine of independence was beginning to come under doubt. Those were exactly like the Dickensian best and worst of times, and Laurian documented that dilemma thoroughly in those days.

  He spent the last week of a two-week assignment in Armenia. Although ethnically Armenian, he had been estranged from the Soviet Republic like most Armenians living in the Diaspora. The deliberate policy of the Soviet Union during the Stalin years to isolate their republics from the outside world had an immense impact on separating the Armenian communities around the world from their homeland. Another major dividing force was that most of the Diaspora communities did not originate from Soviet Armenia, but from Western Armenia, which was now part of Turkey.

  Laurian’s ancestors hailed from Nakhijevan, a small enclave sandwiched between Armenia and Turkey, which in the twenties Joseph Stalin put under the administrative control of Azerbaijan, even though it had no shared borders with Azerbaijan. That is how the
map of the Southern Caucasus started looking like one big jigsaw puzzle.

  Laurian’s father had migrated to Switzerland as a teenager and apprenticed with a jewelry designer in Geneva; eight years later, he had his own jewelry shop and had become a successful businessman. He had then gone back and married the young girl that he had fallen in love with before leaving Nakhijevan. Laurian and his two sisters, Arpi and Sirarpi, were born in Geneva. Laurian had lost track of his relatives in Nakhijevan. His parents didn’t like to reminisce and claimed that they did not have any worthwhile memories to share. His youngest sister, Sirarpi, died when she was twelve. Laurian’s only family now was Arpi, who, after marrying a Swiss banker, had moved to New York when her husband was transferred there. It was her two daughters, Houri and Lorig, who had become the focal point of Laurian’s affections.

  “I first met Gago in December 1989,” Laurian explained to Saro in the car. “That was my first visit to Armenia. December 1989. I’m sure you remember how it was back then. The first anniversary of the big earthquake in Gyumri, the boiling over of the Karabagh war, the Empire had already fallen to its knees. Gago was a crazy revolutionary in those days, with a thick black beard, skinny like a skeleton, but with the wildest fiery eyes imaginable on what would otherwise pass for a corpse!”

  “What’s his full name?”

  “Gagik Grigorian. Khev Gago, back then. Crazy Gago.”

  “He must have fought in the Karabagh war.”

  “Yes, he did. But he had no patience for the politicians. He saw no downside to a total revolution, and no upside to caution. I have to admit, I was young then too, and I liked him!”

  “And now?” asked Saro, hopeful that both had settled down a bit with age.

  “Oh don’t worry. The beard is gone, the skeleton has some flesh on it, the crazy eyes have mellowed a bit too. But make no mistake, the old flame is still there under the ashes.”

  “Long live the ashes, then,” said Saro. “Listen, Edik jan, I beg you, what we’re up against in Sevajayr and Vardahovit is not for crazy revolutionaries. Those days are gone. We need to be very careful. And wise. Shat khelok, Edik jan. Very wise.”

  “I know, I know. Don’t worry so much. I’m telling you, you can trust Gago, khev or not. He is a wealth of information about this region, as you’ll soon see. But he is discreet, honest and loyal. I will not tell him everything, just to put your mind at ease, but I can tell you now that I would not have any hesitation to tell him the whole story of why we’re here. I won’t though, because of you, not because I don’t trust him.”

  “Ha, Edik jan, ha,” repeated Saro a few times as Laurian was assuring him. “And that’s exactly how it should be, at least until we figure this out.”

  When they pulled into the parking lot of the hotel-restaurant, Saro was not prepared for what he saw. Gagik’s passionate embrace of Laurian was so intense, so powerful, that they both almost fell to the ground.

  This guy is crazy, thought Saro, watching the old revolutionary run toward them in his military fatigues and grab Laurian with such force that it was not clear whether he was embracing him or wrestling with him.

  “Edeeeeeek, aper jan!” he kept yelling. “Edik, my brother! It’s been far too long! How are you? How are you?”

  “Fine, fine, Gago. Listen, this is my friend Saro, the honorable Mayor of Vardahovit.”

  “Vardahovit?” asked Gagik. “Where in the hell is that?”

  “What do you mean where is that, Gago?” said Laurian. “You know exactly where it is. In Vayots Dzor. It is my village.”

  “You mean good old Guli Duz?”

  “Now you owe our honorable Mayor five-thousand drams,” said Laurian. “Don’t you know that’s the old name of the village, the one the Azeri Turks used to call it? The Armenian name is Vardahovit. There is a five-thousand dram penalty for anyone who uses the old name. Please pay up.”

  Gagik’s laughter was so powerful that it infected them all. Even Saro couldn’t hold back. They all laughed uncontrollably, almost in tears, as Gagik pulled out a 5,000 dram bill from his pocket and handed it to Saro.

  “My sincere apologies, Mr. Mayor jan, Saro jan, aper, ke neres… Saro, my brother, forgive me.”

  Still laughing, Saro was not sure what to do, and looked at Laurian.

  “Gago,” said Laurian, doing his best to sound serious, “since this is your first offence, and since you are not from our region and did not know the law until now, we’ll forgive you. Put your money in your pocket. Let’s go eat.”

  “No way!” Gagik insisted. “I like your new law, so I’ll abide by it. But if you ever come up with stupid new laws that I don’t like, watch out!”

  Saro felt awkward and uncomfortable, as if being forced to take the money. “I’ll send you a receipt,” he said sheepishly. “This is going to the municipality.”

  Another roar of laughter burst from Gagik as they walked into the restaurant.

  Gagik had preordered and the table was already set. They filled their glasses and started a boisterous conversation.

  “Have you been to Saralandj lately?” asked Laurian, once the first couple of nostalgic toasts were out of the way.

  “Saralandj?” Gagik asked in surprise. “How do you even know about that village?”

  “Now, now, Gago,” said Laurian, “we’re from Vardahovit, remember? We’re two hours farther away from Yerevan than Saralandj! Why wouldn’t we know about it?”

  “Did you know that Saralandj was off limits to tourists during Soviet times? I remember back in the eighties there was this visitor from the United States, a kind, old lady, who had a long-lost relative whom she had managed to locate in Saralandj. But the village was not on the Intourist map of allowed places for foreigners to visit. Do you remember Intourist, Saro jan? Edik, that may have been before your time in Armenia. At any rate, we had to secretly smuggle the old lady into the village so she could see her relative.”

  “Why was it off limits?” asked Laurian, even though he was anxious to get back to the main topic.

  “Far too backwards, that’s why,” said Gagik. “We were not supposed to show the outside world a village that miserable! Think what they would then say about the mighty Soviet Union.” Gagik was now on the verge of totally getting off track.

  “Okay, fine,” interrupted Laurian. “Have you been there lately?”

  “No, not recently,” said Gagik. “But tell me, what do you want to know?”

  “I’m interested in the Galians,” said Laurian without hesitation.

  “The Galians, eh? The farthest house of the farthest village of Aparan. You really like faraway places, don’t you, dear old faraway friend. ”

  “I love faraway places,” said Laurian seriously, leaning over the table and looking straight into Gagik’s eyes, indicating that the joking around was over and they were on to the main topic.

  “Well, poor Samvel Galian died in an accident in your neck of the woods some eight or nine months ago. What took you so long to show up?”

  Saro was not sure whether he should feel new respect for the guy or be even more concerned than he already was.

  “What’s their story?” asked Laurian, ignoring the question.

  “Their story,” said Gagik, putting deliberate emphasis on the word ‘story,’ “is not simple to understand. The Galians are arguably the poorest family in the whole region. The father dies mysteriously in some remote, no, wait, in some faraway place in your backyard. The family is devastated, but then, a few months later, starts to recover.”

  “Recover?”

  “Recover. They’ve bought ten new sheep in the last six months. The oldest daughter is married with a dowry. The youngest son, by far the most promising in school, is back to school and is excelling. They have paid all their debts. What else do you want to know?”

  “How?” asked Laurian.

  “Well, as you can imagine, we were curious too. The mother says her daughter is sending money from Greece. She is a famous model or something like
that. But we checked. The transfers are not from Greece. They are from Moscow. I have no idea why she has Greece set in her head.”

  “They have a daughter in Moscow?” asked Laurian. “How did she end up in Moscow?”

  “Well, Edik jan, here is where things get fuzzy. We do not know for sure. We don’t even know if she is still in Moscow. That was a few months ago. The mother won’t say much because I don’t think she knows much. If she knew, she would have said something by now. By the way, she is very sick. She has been to the hospital here in Ashtarak a few times. But she is very quiet about her daughter’s whereabouts. All she says is that her youngest daughter has a modeling job in Greece, and is very successful and she is sending money. When they tell her that the post office in Aparan says that the money is being transferred from Moscow, not Greece, she yells at them. ‘You idiots know nothing,’ she says. ‘My Lara is in Greece, and she is a first class model.’”

  “How old is this youngest daughter?” asked Laurian.

  “Around sixteen, maybe seventeen. I’m not sure exactly.”

  “How would her sixteen or seventeen-year-old daughter get a modeling job in Greece?”

  “Yes, how indeed. She says Ayvazian found her the job.”

  The name fell on Laurian and Saro like a ton of bricks.

  “Sergey Ayvazian? From Martashen?”

  “None other. His men were seen in Saralandj a few times back when poor Samvel Galian died, but not since. Maybe you know more about that side of the story than I do. He is from your region after all.” The sarcasm in Gagik’s voice could not be missed.

  “What do you know about this girl? Did you say her name is Lara?” Laurian was very much aware that Saro was getting uncomfortable with the whole conversation.

  “Yes, her name is Lara. And I don’t know much. She is a kid. Only one thing is sure—she is no longer in Saralandj, and she is supposedly sending all that money to her mother. Imagine that. A sixteen-year-old saving her orphaned family. Oh, also, I have not seen her since she was a baby, but those who have say she is beautiful physically, apparently very beautiful.”