A Place Far Away

by Vahan Zanoyan

  “Good. Be very, very careful. Never show that camera to anyone, and never let anyone see it in your hands by accident. Who will take you back there?”

  “My son is here,” said Agassi. “He’ll drive him back now.”

  “So here is what we know,” summarized Laurian. “Two SUVs arrived last night. Two drivers and one other passenger went into the house. There was at least one more person in the house at that time. One car left sometime after two am this morning. Two more SUVs headed toward Sevajayr a little while ago. Is that about it?”

  “That’s pretty much it,” said Saro.

  “Anything at the house in Vardahovit?”

  “Not much there, I’m afraid,” said Agassi. “There is no one taking pictures there. The boys are watching the house, but there has not been any new activity reported. I don’t think that house is as active as this one in Sevajayr.”

  “That’s better, since we cannot watch it as well as the Sevajayr house,” said Laurian, but in his mind he had already brought the meeting to an end.

  “We can’t let all this spoil a good cigar and a good sunset,” he told Saro as they moved to the front terrace.

  “Edik jan, with your permission, I need to head home too. I’ve been away for two days. There are some things I need to attend to. But I’ll call you if I hear anything.”

  “Of course,” said Laurian, feeling bad for being so insensitive. Saro had a family and a home in Vardahovit, and he was the Mayor of the village after all. Laurian had already taken two days of his time. “Go, Saro jan, go. And thank you so much for all your time and trouble these past two days. I’ll be here, waiting for news.”

  It was seven o’clock by the time Laurian settled into the teak armchair on the front terrace. It felt wonderful to finally be alone. He had chosen this remote mountaintop as a refuge for solitude, to think, read and write in peace. The closest human presence to this place was over two-and-a-half kilometers away, and that was the small village of Vardahovit. The closest city, Yeghegnadzor, was over thirty kilometers away. The Laurian estate was a solitary place indeed, and yet he always seemed to have people around. People from the village and the region, people from Yerevan, and often even from overseas. He had entertained visitors from Switzerland, the Middle East and China, who had stayed overnight as his guests.

  He lit his cigar and allowed the delightful aroma of the Romeo & Julietta Churchill to take him away for a moment. Then he noticed Vartiter approaching from the guardhouse. He held off delving into his thoughts until she arrived, prolonging his focus on the exquisite first few puffs of the cigar. A pair of Eurasian Jays playfully flew past Laurian and perched on the poplar trees in front of the house. They were jumping from branch to branch, chasing each other, filling the peaceful air with their unique ‘chuck-chuck’ chatter. The locals called these birds ‘forest magpies,’ even though they looked nothing like magpies. Agassi was not fond of them because they caused serious damage to the apples and walnuts. They would fall on an apple tree and peck at each apple several times, then move to the next tree. If left alone, they could destroy the harvest of an entire orchard in one afternoon. So Agassi would chase them away and had asked Laurian several times to just shoot them, but Laurian wouldn’t.

  “They were here before us,” he’d say to a baffled Agassi. “I should shoot them for tasting your apples?”

  Vartiter and her smile arrived at the terrace together as usual.

  “Vonts es, Edik jan?” Her warmth always touched Laurian.

  “Lav, lav, Vart jan, du vonts es?”

  “Normal. Inch sarkem kez hamar? What shall I prepare for you?”

  “Something light, Vart. I’ve been eating too much lately. Don’t go into any trouble with a meal. Just some cheese and vegetables. That’s all I’ll have tonight. And of course some wine.”

  “Eghav. Done.”

  The Eurasian Jays flew away as Vartiter went inside. Laurian couldn’t hold back his thoughts any longer. He forced himself into the discipline imposed by his profession. You’re not involved, he kept telling himself. This is not personal. You’re just observing and documenting. You’re asking questions, seeking answers, explanations. This is not personal. This is not personal. You want to solve the puzzle, and move on. Okay, maybe you want to expose something; that too is part of the job. But then you move on. This is not personal.

  What, then, is the puzzle we’re trying to solve, Mr. Laurian? Who is Ayvazian bringing into these homes? Are they being brought against their will? Most probably. That woman in the picture looked drugged to me. Are you sure it was a woman? No, but I will say it was for now. It makes a big difference, you know. You’d better think this through. How does it make a difference if it was a man or a woman? Well, if it was a man, it could be one of his business ‘problems’ that he’s trying to eliminate and needs to extract some information from him first. You know his reputation of having his enemies disappear. But if it is a woman, chances are that your story will change entirely. He’s not likely to have any young women as business competitors or enemies now, is he, Mr. Laurian? If he is bringing young women here, what could it be? Well, go ahead and say it, you know it happens here, in your beloved Armenia, don’t you? You know what Ayvazian is capable of, don’t you? So why not? Why not here?

  Vartiter had not come out yet. He needed his wine. The first few glasses always cleared his head and helped him think better. He put his cigar on the ashtray and walked inside to the kitchen.

  “Almost ready, Edik jan,” smiled Vartiter. She was setting up a beautiful tray of snacks and appetizers.

  “No problem,” said Edik, returning her smile. “You finish that delicious spread you’re working on, and I’ll take care of the wine.”

  He took a bottle of white Swiss wine from the refrigerator, a superb Chasselas from Valais, opened it, and walked back out with a wine glass. He had shipped a few cases of the wine over when the house was built, and he still had a few bottles left. Considering that he could not buy this wine in Armenia, he cherished his dwindling stock.

  He poured himself a glass and re-lit his cigar. Sunset was imminent, and the usual light show on the Western sky and mountains was in full swing. This, without its man-made problems, could easily be heaven, he thought, as he took a sip of the wine. The contrast between the immediate reality in front of his eyes and what was going on around him couldn’t be more pronounced.

  Vartiter came out with the tray and laid it on the table.

  “Here you go, Edik jan. Bari akhorjak. Bon appétit.”

  “Apres, Vart jan.”

  “Can I get anything else for you?”

  “Nothing, Vart. Many thanks. You go home now. Take care of Agassi before he starts complaining,” he said with a chuckle.

  “Never short of people to take care of,” laughed Vartiter.

  “Good night, Vart.”

  “Good night, then, Paron Edik jan. I’ll check on you in the morning.”

  Laurian was anxious to return to his thoughts about the ‘puzzle,’ though his instincts were craving something else. He normally would have submerged himself into poetry at that moment. Either reading or writing or both. The volumes in his library were calling for him. The wine and cigar were reprimanding him for dwelling on Ayvazian rather than Varoujan’s Pagan Songs, for example. But he could not shake the nagging questions.

  Okay, let’s say it was a woman, brought against her will, probably drugged. Why would such a woman be brought to Sevajayr? To that god forsaken house? Where there probably is nothing to give her any comfort? Probably no indoor plumbing, no water, no heat. Where is she sleeping tonight? On some foam mattress thrown on the cement floor? Is she being abused by the guards? She has been kidnapped, a victim in a plot that she does not understand. You’re sitting here enjoying your excellent Chasselas and cigar, and she is there drugged on some cold mattress.

  Just wait a minute, Paron Edik. Are you sure this isn’t about Sirarpi? His twelve-year-old baby sister had disappeared in the street
s of Madrid while the family was on vacation there one summer. One minute they were busy taking pictures of the statue of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza; the next minute they were frantically looking for Sirarpi. She was nowhere to be seen. To this day Laurian gets goose bumps thinking of the five sleepless days and nights that the family spent with the Madrid police trying to find his sister and the imponderable recurring images that haunted him about what might have happened to her.

  The police had no hesitation telling them what they thought had happened: abduction by human traffickers, to be sold into an international network of child pornography and prostitution. His parents were beyond devastated, and the apparent insensitivity of the police only made matters worse. After five hellish days, they decided that his mother should take him and his other sister back to Geneva, while the father stayed behind to continue the search. Every weekend his mother would leave them with some friends and fly to Madrid. But Sirarpi was lost. It was two months later that her body was found in Casa de Campo park, at the bank of the river Manzanares. She had been dead for twenty-four hours. She bore no wounds, either from blades or firearms. Just bruises. She had died after repeated beatings and rapes and prolonged malnutrition.

  His cell phone rang. He was tempted to ignore it at first, but decided to answer it when he saw it was Agassi.

  “Edik, jan,” he said, “two cars just left Sevajayr. One is still there. Hayk thinks that one of the newcomers stayed behind, and whoever was in the house left. A kind of changing of the guard operation; and he has new photos all taken during daylight this time. I wish we could follow the cars.”

  “Thanks, Agassi. Don’t worry about the cars. Let Hayk stay there and keep a close eye. I’ll check all the pictures in the morning.”

  “Ha, Edik jan. Eghav.”

  Laurian then called Saro.

  “Tell Nerses two cars are on their way down. Forty-five minutes or so. He should be on the lookout. Even if they don’t stop by the restaurant let him try to take the plate numbers.”

  “Ha, Edik jan, Eghav.”

  “Saro, see if he can also check the drivers and get a good description,” added Laurian.

  “Eghav.”

  He’s kidnapping young women and bringing them here to these abandoned houses. Then what? Obviously, they won’t be staying here for long. So this has to be some type of temporary station. Say it, Laurian! What is going on here, right under your nose?

  He poured another glass of wine. The sun had already slid behind the Western mountain chain. He realized that this was the first time ever that he had missed the precise moment of the sun setting while sitting here on this terrace. This is costing me too much, he thought. He allowed himself to focus on the afterglow of the sunset. Everything else could wait. The colors and lights were as spectacular as usual over the Western sky. It was Medzarents all over again—grandeur, harmony, perfection, love, mystique, romance, humanity. Elation and celebration of nature, always unique, like nowhere else. Every time it is different, he thought, even if it is exactly the same.

  He is trafficking people, that’s what he’s doing. Young girls and women, abducted, disappear from their homes, are kept here for a while until they sort out papers or let the dust settle, then are shipped somewhere, sold into brothels…You don’t have enough to conclude that yet, Laurian, so go slowly now. But what else could it be? You’ve heard that it happens, why not here? Nothing else would make any sense. That may be, Mr. Investigative Reporter, but you still don’t have evidence; and even if you want to forget about evidence for now, you yourself cannot be one-hundred percent sure yet, can you?

  The phone rang again.

  “Nerses got carried away a bit,” Saro said.

  “What happened?”

  “He toppled a tree trunk onto the road. An unfortunate accident. The cars should be getting there in the next few minutes. This way, he says, he’ll get to meet the drivers for sure.”

  “He’s good,” laughed Laurian, “better than I thought.”

  “I’m in touch with him,” said Saro. “I’ll keep you posted.” And he hung up.

  XI

  It was a very long night. Tired as he was, Laurian couldn’t wait until morning to pour over all the pictures that had been taken. Hayk arrived at his place around two in the morning. He had outdone himself this time, with several hundred photos taken since mid-afternoon the day before. There were also the verbal reports of Nerses to consider. Laurian downloaded Hayk’s entire photo file on his laptop and started going through them. Hayk sat in the large leather armchair by his side, in case he had to answer any questions, but soon fell asleep.

  The first hundred or so photos did not have what he was looking for. The regular traffic of the cars arriving and drivers rushing into the house was no longer of much interest to him. He was looking for that elusive ‘third person,’ who was probably being held there against her will. Almost an hour had passed viewing the first hundred pictures, and Laurian was getting tired and a bit frustrated.

  It was down about another hundred photos when something finally caught his eye. It was a shot of the window of the house in Sevajayr. It was taken at dusk, with the last dying traces of daylight hitting the window, creating a glare in the upper right corner of the windowpane. The rest of the window was darker, and at first glance the curtains looked drawn as usual. Laurian wondered why Hayk had bothered taking the picture in the first place, but when he looked closely, he noticed a slight opening, no more than a few inches, at the left side of the curtain. There was a sequence of twenty-two shots of the scene, and in each photo the curtain was pulled a fraction of an inch farther. As the opening of the curtain got wider with each consecutive shot, the blurry image of a face appeared inside. First, it was no more than a faint shadow; but the twelfth photo in the sequence was the most alarming. Laurian could clearly see the horrified face of a woman; she was staring outside and holding the curtain back with her left hand. This was the proverbial picture worth not just a thousand, but several thousand words. Laurian first thought that it was something she was looking at outside that was causing the terror in her eyes. But there were many pictures of the front of the house, and he did not remember seeing anything there that would cause such horror. She must be reacting to something else, even though she was looking out.

  He studied the eleven photos, from the twelfth to the twenty-second in this sequence. The twelfth was by far the most telling in terms of the expression on the woman’s face. It was a successful photograph in its own right, and had it not been for the specific context, Laurian would have been tempted to submit it to a photographic magazine for publication. The woman’s expression reminded him of Edvard Munch’s The Scream. Although this woman was not screaming, the terror in her eyes was almost identical to the screamer’s terror. The photograph showed the window’s glare on the top right corner, the face on the bottom left corner, and the progression of light in between, which created a mysterious atmosphere.

  He guessed that the eleven photos between the twelfth and the twenty-second were taken within fifteen to twenty seconds. After the twelfth photo, the curtain did not appear to be opening any farther, and the face barely changed in position or expression. But the twenty-second photo was different. The curtain was almost fully drawn again, with no more than a few inches remaining open. Judging from the shadows showing through that opening, Laurian guessed that the face had turned sharply to the left. His suspicion was that someone had just noticed her opening the curtain, and had rushed to draw it back and pull her away from the window. But he could not be sure.

  That is when he decided to wake Hayk up. It was approaching four in the morning and he probably would need to get into a bed soon anyway.

  “You see this?” he asked the sleepy boy, pointing to the twelfth photograph on his screen. “This, Hayk jan, is a winning picture in more ways than I can count. We’ll call this one the twelfth picture.”

  “The twelfth?” asked Hayk, confused.

  “Yes, this is the twelf
th picture in a series of twenty-two photos that you took. The twelfth in this particular sequence, not in the whole deck.”

  “Yes, I remember now. That was an exciting moment, when she appeared. We were getting tired of staring at that curtained window for hours.”

  “And you did a superb job with this sequence,” said Laurian. “Now watch this.” And he went back to the first photo in the sequence and flipped through all twenty-two in quick succession. “You see what you’ve done by taking many pictures quickly? You have almost filmed the action, but we can stop and inspect each screen of the action as a still snapshot.”

  Hayk, who had no idea that he’d be getting such a result while taking the pictures, was impressed and fully awake.

  “Now,” went on Laurian. “The twelfth picture is clear, and we can talk about the details later. But the twenty-second needs your input.” He opened the twenty-second and enlarged it to focus on the small opening between the curtain and the window frame. “Now watch this,” he added, going back to the twenty-first photo and quickly moving back to the twenty-second. “If you took these two immediately one after the other, it is clear that the curtain was drawn very suddenly. Do you remember if this is true??”

  “It definitely was very quick,” said Hayk without hesitation. “I remember clearly. There couldn’t have been more than a couple of seconds between the two shots, and as you can see the curtain is almost fully drawn.”

  “Very good. Now I want you to really think back to that moment. Did it look like the woman decided to close the curtain herself, or did you get the feeling that there was someone else in the room doing it? There is nothing here in the picture that would indicate either way. So you need to think back and try to remember what you saw between these two shots.”

  “That’s harder to answer,” said Hayk, struggling with his recollection. “She did look somewhat surprised, almost as if she snapped out of something, between twenty-one and twenty-two. You see her face has turned left, right? That was almost like a sudden jerk. I did not see anyone else, but it wouldn’t surprise me if there was someone who came from her left and grabbed the curtain and pulled it.”