A Place Far Away

by Vahan Zanoyan

  “Saro jan,” he broke the silence once they got on the main highway to Yerevan, “I am very thankful for your patience today. I know I made you waste a whole day, and I know you were not always comfortable with the meetings and conversations. But this could actually have something to do with what we’re facing in our village.”

  “No problem, Edik jan. I know you’re right. And it certainly was not a wasted day. Sometimes I think about how much you care about things, how connected you become, and I think that we all need to be more like that. So no problem.”

  “As we had guessed, it is too late to drive all the way to Vardahovit. We’ve had a very long day. Please let me treat you to a nice evening in Yerevan, and then we drive back in the morning. Okay?”

  “Ha, Edik jan. As you wish. Thanks.”

  Laurian debated which hotel to book. He usually stayed at the Marriott on Republic Square. But that was an expensive hotel, and could make Saro uncomfortable. He decided on the Congress, a few blocks down the square. It was a Best Western, and adequate for a night’s stay. And there was a good Armenian restaurant right around the corner, which he thought Saro would enjoy. He called the hotel and booked two single rooms for the night. He asked the receptionist if the hotel could provide each room with basic toiletries, as they were arriving with none; he specifically made sure that they would have toothbrushes and toothpaste, shaving kits and combs. Then he called the restaurant and asked for Hakob, the owner. They knew each other well, as Laurian had entertained many guests at his restaurant over the years. He reserved a table and pre-ordered several dishes, so they wouldn’t waste time after arriving. Having completed the chores, he focused his attention on Saro.

  “So, Saro jan, what do you make of it all? From Khev Gago in the morning, to the doctor in the evening, and everything in between.”

  “Hard to tell,” said Saro, sounding genuinely absorbed in the story. “There is too much information to process in one day. But,” he added with a laugh, “just so you know, I like your friend Gago.”

  “I wish he was in Vardahovit,” said Laurian. “We could use him there these days, don’t you think?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” laughed Saro. “We still have to be very careful up there. Your Khev Gago would stick out there like tits on a bull!”

  “Yeah, can you imagine him unleashing one of his Khev Gago laughs, guffaws really, in Vardahovit?”

  “We’d have a mass stampede in three villages at once!” laughed Saro, glad to lighten the mood, and glad that he and Laurian were pretty much on the same wavelength.

  “Seriously, though, I think we should help the family. Maybe there is nothing we can do about the mother, but I want to help Avo. I cannot tell you how my heart aches every time I think about that sixteen-year-old kid assuming the responsibility of a large family like that. Think about it, Saro. He is sixteen, he has three sisters to marry off, and you know what that’s like in the villages. And we’re not even counting Lara yet. He also has two younger brothers to take care of. He wants them to finish school, because that was the wish of his late father. Can you imagine that? How can we be indifferent to all that?”

  “The problem with you, my dear, dear Edik, is that you focus too much on what you know, but there is a lot that you don’t know. Do you know what I mean?”

  “No, Saro jan, I do not know what you mean.”

  “I agree this Galian story is captivating, but do you know how many families like that exist today in Armenia? Unfulfilled potential, unrealized dreams, unnecessary suffering, unnecessary deaths…If you knew, you’d either go crazy or become so insensitive that none of this would matter to you, not even the Galians.”

  “I doubt if none of it would matter,” said Laurian, moved by Saro’s words. “Saro, listen, we cannot solve the world’s problems, and that’s certainly not what I’m saying. But here is one concrete case where we possibly can be of some help. So what do you want me to do? Ignore it because there are bigger problems? Because it’s not so unique? You’re right; we focus on what we know. So let’s focus. What’s wrong with that?”

  Saro was quiet for a long time. Laurian imagined him thinking of all the sad stories in his villages, maybe even in his own family that needed attention. He imagined Saro having a moral conflict, between helping these total strangers and those much closer to home. ‘Focus on what we know?’ he could hear him think to himself, ‘Okay, Paron Edik, here is what I know…’ and he could just hear Saro listing a dozen sad cases that have been haunting him. But then, Laurian would respond, once you have seen a problem first hand and very close, how do you ignore it, even if it isn’t supposed to ‘concern’ you? Is that what Saro was thinking now, while maneuvering around the pothole-ridden entrance into Yerevan city?

  Besides, Laurian too could bring up a story or two that haunted him and made the Galian story much more personal for him than anyone could suspect. But he was not ready. He was not ready to talk about his youngest sister, Sirarpi, or about the circumstances under which she disappeared and died at twelve, when Laurian was sixteen, the same age as Avo. He kept telling himself that Sirarpi should have nothing to do with the Galian story, that she was not influencing his objectivity, that it happened thirty years ago, under entirely different circumstances.

  As they pulled into the front entrance of the Congress Hotel, a young doorman approached them. After confirming that they were guests, he removed one of the ‘no parking’ signs blocking a parking space and let them park. They agreed to go to their rooms for a quick wash and meet in the lobby in ten minutes.

  Laurian was at the lobby bar having a brandy when Saro came down a few minutes later.

  “You have earned a good cognac,” said Laurian, ordering him a Nayiri, the twenty-year old Ararat brandy that was famous throughout the Soviet Union in the old days.

  “Thanks. No more driving tonight?”

  “No more driving. The restaurant is right around the corner. And Hakob is waiting.”

  They downed their drinks and walked over to “Hakob’s Place.” The sign across the entrance boasted “Authentic Armenian Cuisine.” Hakob, the middle aged owner and manager of the place, greeted them personally and proceeded to list the day’s specials. There were ten types of authentic Armenian and Russian soups, a dozen stews, countless appetizers and main courses, all promoted as the real thing, as opposed to the less authentic versions one finds these days in Yerevan.

  Laurian ordered a rich menu. He was in the mood to indulge. He ordered more brandy also. They both needed to unwind and look at the events of the day from a distance. Food and drink would help a lot. Hakob came over often and chatted with them. The restaurant itself was small, with around ten tables, but he made most of his business by catering to state dinners and large parties. He also had two small private rooms in the back of the restaurant, which Laurian had used in the past.

  As other guests started to arrive, Hakob’s visits became less frequent. Laurian got back on the topic.

  “The kids are incredible,” he said.

  “I noticed,” agreed Saro.

  “I felt as if Martha could read my mind. She is very, what did you say before? Yes, very ‘connected.’”

  “The oldest daughter and first child,” said Saro, as if that explained everything.

  “Yes, but she cannot be much over twenty, has seven younger siblings, a dying mother and no father. And she’s recently married, with a load of new responsibilities at her husband’s home.”

  “But it looks like her husband’s family and hers manage pretty well together, almost kind of merged. That is a huge plus, Edik jan. Imagine if the two families didn’t get along.”

  “I agree. I wish we had met Martha’s husband.”

  “I have a feeling that you’ll make sure we do!” laughed Saro.

  “Here’s to survivors,” said Laurian and raised his glass.

  Saro toasted him. “To survivors.”

  “And Avo? Walking tall, owning up to his family, telling us his mother
may not survive the winter with such calm composure; would you think he is sixteen?”

  “Edik jan, now I feel obliged to tell you about this theory of mine.” Saro was leaning forward, the effects of alcohol apparent in his speech, his voice lower than normal, indicating that what he had to say was of utmost importance. “People grow up when they have to, not when their age says it is time to grow up. That’s the way it is. That’s why some grow up at sixteen, some at sixty and some never.”

  Laurian was impressed with Saro’s theory. He gave it due respect by thinking about it for a few minutes. A sixteen-year-old kid from a rich family in Yerevan would be better schooled, would know more about the world, but would not be able to handle any of the heavy responsibilities that Avo was now burdened with. Saro was right.

  “That’s like my theory about marriage,” he said after a while. “People get married when they’re ready, not when they meet the right person,” he added, copying Saro’s style and tone. “And if someone just happens to be lucky enough to meet the right person when he’s ready, wow! That’ll be a great marriage. But in most cases ‘right person’ means nothing if you’re not ready.”

  “Edik jan, are you talking about yourself?” Saro raised his glass again. “To you, my friend, the most ‘connected’ person I have ever known.”

  “Thanks, Saro, but actually I was talking about everyone. Tell me, who gets married if they’re not ready? Of course, being ‘ready’ is also relative. In Saralandj, probably the family decides when one is ready. But in my case, I met the best candidates when I was not ready, and then when I felt ready I met no one. Now that I feel as if I am past the ‘ready’ stage, the whole issue is increasingly irrelevant.”

  “But was there actually a time when you felt ready and met no one?” asked Saro with a skeptical smile. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Well, you may have a point, my observant friend. But only partially; my work was not one that could accommodate a traditional marriage. I used to travel four weeks at a time in the most dangerous places on earth, return for a week or so to finalize my report, and then take off again. How can one have a family life like that?”

  “So even if you had been ready, you wouldn’t have known it, right?”

  Laurian had known Saro for years, but had never before talked to him about his personal life. The most he had said when asked was, “I’m single.” Of course in Armenia the oddest thing would be for a man in his mid-forties to be single; most had grandchildren at that age. Usually, everyone was too polite to ask further. But that night something felt different for Laurian.

  “Actually, I knew it. And there was someone I would probably have married. Someone very special. But I couldn’t settle down then. And she wouldn’t wait. I didn’t blame her. I wouldn’t have waited for me either in those days.”

  “Sorry to ask a personal question, my friend,” said Saro, sensing that Laurian felt like talking about himself, “but there must be someone special now, no? I’ve heard you sometimes having long telephone conversations with someone in that impossible language you call English, but even I can figure out that these conversations haven’t always been with your editor!”

  “Very observant again!” laughed Laurian. “Maybe you should have been an investigative reporter instead of me! But you’re right, there is someone. She is special, but not in that way. You know the old Armenian saying, ‘nman znman gtani?’—likes find likes. Well, she’s like me. Same profession, same crazy travel schedule and dedication to work, same inability to commit and settle down. So we’re perfect for each other. We have an agreement; when we’re both around and have time, we spend the time together like a couple. But it stops there. So you see, for me the whole thing about being ready or not being ready is already irrelevant.”

  “It’s not irrelevant, Edik jan,” Saro was saying, trying to make light of it. “We’re going to find you a great girl right here and we’re going to create a million new problems for you! And you know what? You’ll deserve every one of them! And then you’ll be ‘connected’ like never before.” As he said that, Saro wanted to go for a Khev Gago laugh, but could not manage it alone.

  Laurian had not seen Saro in this mood either. He downed his brandy and poured another for both himself and Saro. They were getting tipsy now, and they knew it, but did not mind. They toasted heartily to the new problems a man needed to face, and downed the shot. Laurian poured again. Hakob noticed the dynamics from a distance and decided to leave them alone.

  “I’m way past forty,” Laurian said, “and way past the ‘ready’ period. Besides, I am now so used to being alone, that a family seems like it would be too scary, believe it or not. It’s a beautiful thing—don’t misunderstand me—but not at just any phase in one’s life. I’m too set in my ways now.”

  Saro raised his glass again. “You already have many families, my dear friend Edik,” he said. “Maybe you don’t realize it yet. Maybe you do.” He was clearly sounding drunk. “But let me tell you this: you wouldn’t be more married if you had five grandchildren! Do you know what I mean?”

  “Actually, believe it or not, I do!” laughed Laurian. And in fact he did. “So you see my friend, forget hooking me up with anyone. I’m already hooked.”

  The two together managed to produce half a Khev Gago laugh; it was impossible to go the whole way without Gagik leading the chorus. But it was enough to clear the air and to turn some heads. It was also loud enough for Hakob to finally approach them, just to check if everything was okay.

  “A very wise man I know once told me, ‘Life’s too short to drink bad wine,’” he declared. Then turning to Saro, he added, “And, my dear Honorable Mayor, that’s a direct quote from your friend sitting here. So I hope all was in accordance to your taste?”

  “All was great,” laughed Laurian. “In fact the bit about bad wine was embroidered on the cushions of the sofa in my lawyer’s office in Switzerland.”

  “Not the type of message I’d expect to be displayed in a lawyer’s office,” said Hakob. “It would fit better on a restaurant menu, don’t you think?”

  “Actually this lawyer was great. He asked me when I was going to learn French. So I said to him, ‘Life’s too short to waste it on French.’ He laughed and pointed to the cushions on his sofa. ‘No, no, Monsieur Laurian,’ he said, ‘Life’s too short to drink bad wine. You learn your French!’”

  “Hakob jan, everything was great,” said Saro. “I just hope we did not overstay our welcome.”

  Laurian paid the bill and they walked into the cool night. Instead of going straight to the hotel, they walked up to Republic Square, watched the fountains and the light show, took a leisurely walk around the square and then returned to their hotel. They bid each other goodnight and went to bed.

  X

  There is a roadside restaurant on the way to Vardahovit, past the spectacular rock formations of Noravank, right before reaching the junction that turns toward Getap, where Laurian usually stops to break up the drive and have a cup of coffee. It is a relatively busy place, where travelers and tourists stop regularly. The owner, a young, skinny man called Nerses, with pale, honey-colored eyes and a hairless head and face due to alopecia, has become a good friend of Laurian’s over the years. Nerses also knows that Laurian is working very hard to have the road from Shatin to Vardahovit repaired, which will increase the tourist traffic considerably in that region and give a boost to his business.

  Laurian has extended his stay in Vardahovit from the initial planned three weeks to over two months, and wants to set up with Nerses a regular weekly catering service to his house. The restaurant has excellent khorovadz, the popular Armenian charcoal grilled meats of lamb, pork, beef and chicken. Laurian often takes the marinated meats home uncooked and grills the khorovadz himself. This requires pre-ordering, to make sure that Nerses has enough to meet the needs of his eat-in clients as well.

  Nerses joined Laurian and Saro as they were having their coffee at one of the outdoor tables. It was a wonde
rful fall afternoon, under a cloudless sky, and the sun giving out a delicious variety of warmth that Laurian claims, to the skeptical amusement of the locals, is unique to this region. The huge poplar trees lining the front of the restaurant’s parking lot are almost bare; only a few stubborn yellow leaves remain stuck on the top branches.

  Laurian ordered three skewers each of pork and lamb khorovadz, marinated but uncooked, to take with him. He also told Nerses that he would need more in the coming weeks, and would call with specifics. As they were finishing their coffee and getting ready to leave, two black SUVs with darkened windows pulled into the parking lot, and the drivers got out. Two husky, muscular men with clean-shaven heads and dark sunglasses walked over and took a table at the end of the outdoor section, several tables away from where Laurian, Saro and Nerses were sitting. The waitress who served that section, a friendly young girl in her late twenties named Arusyak, gave Nerses a pleading look, clearly indicating that she wanted to be relieved from serving that table. Nerses then signaled to the male waiter to approach the new guests.

  “I see your clientele has become more interesting since my last visit,” said Laurian.

  “We see new faces here almost every day, Edik jan, but I’m not sure what to make of that crowd over there. Not your run-of-the-mill happy tourists. They yelled at poor Arus last time for not serving their order fast enough. They’re rude, but so far haven’t done anything alarming.”

  “Do you know who they are?”

  “Not really. They stop here for a meal or coffee, but we’ve also seen them just drive by without stopping. Local folks say they mostly turn toward Getap, but then it is less clear where they go. They’ve been seen past Shatin.”