“That was entertaining,” Van said.
“I’ve seen that movie at least five times on TV.”
“You were laughing before the lines were out of their mouths.”
“I know some of the dialogue by heart.”
They strolled through throngs of tourists on the place Saint-Michel and headed across the river. After passing beneath the massive blackened walls of the Palais de Justice, which gleamed under stark floodlights, they paused on the Pont au Change to survey the facade of Nôtre-Dame.
An image flew like a bat across the back of Ani’s skull: a torn gap in the chain-link fence at the edge of the country club.
Watertown. Ani was sitting on a flat stone under a tree, having spent all her tears. She had fled the house after a fight with her mother. She squeezed her eyes shut and rested her cheek on her knees. When she heard footfalls approaching she lifted her head.
Van had said, Ani? Is that you?
What are you doing here, Van?
I come up here a lot. That rock you’re on is my thinking spot. And then I line these up and knock them off with stones. He scooped up a half dozen empty beer bottles and cans, nimbly arranging them at the foot of the fence. With a precise hand, he hurled a stone at the first bottle, shattering its neck. You want to try?
Ani lobbed a rock, missing a can by about a foot.
He handed her another stone. Look at it and aim for it.
Have you heard about my mother? Ani asked. She pegged the can.
Good job. . . . What about her? He pitched rocks in quick succession, knocking down the row.
She’s going out with a guy named Harry Vosdanian. His wife’s running around town weeping and calling my mother a whore.
Van grimaced. That’s too bad.
It sucks. Ani sat down on the flat stone.
He sat beside her. Must have been hard on her, coming back to Watertown after your father died.
Her grown-up life disappeared and she was in her parents’ house again, Ani said. Now she’s acting like a teenager. I’m the one who’s supposed to be running around with the boyfriend that everyone despises.
They sat in silence, listening to the wind in the trees and the occasional passing car.
Ani replayed the scene from earlier that morning when she had entered the kitchen. Her bleary-eyed mother, hair crushed on one side and billowing wildly on the other, was sitting at the table in her housecoat nursing a cup of coffee. Baba hid behind his newspaper. Grandma noisily stirred her coffee while spying Violet out of the sides of her eyes.
Mariam Kersamian’s face was like the time and weather display that hung in front of the bank in Coolidge Square: 8:50 A.M., 48°F, CLOUDY WITH CHANCE OF THUNDERSTORMS.
As Ani sat down with her breakfast cereal she felt the air pressure plummet.
Grandma said accusingly to her daughter, You out late last night.
Don’t start, Ma, Violet protested wearily. I have a headache.
You have hang-in? the old woman asked with contempt.
A hangover, Violet corrected.
Ahnbeedahn. Married vith tree children she take my daughter and get her drunk.
He, Ma. He took your daughter out and got her drunk.
Grandma inhaled sharply. You admit it! Vith a married man.
He’s separated, Violet said.
The old woman flipped into Armenian. Separated? He has separated from his senses? Have you also separated from your senses?
Baba carefully folded his paper, rose from his chair, and headed out of the room.
Where are you going, coward? Grandma shouted after him. Tell your daughter what you think about this squash head she brought to our house last night.
From the dining room Baba called, I’m not jumping into your cooking pot.
Violet pressed her temples with her hands. Ma, don’t.
Amot kezi. Aren’t you ashamed? Do you know what people will say? Look at your daughter. How can you shame her?
Hold on, there. Leave me out of this, Ani said.
She fled the kitchen and went down the basement stairs. She put a pillow over her head so the bickering was unintelligible.
In the late afternoon, Violet called Ani into her room. She patted her bed, indicating that Ani should sit next to her.
So, what did you think of him? Violet asked almost shyly.
Who? Ani asked.
You know good and well who, Ani.
Ani didn’t respond, but thought, You mean that fat rich guy with the mouth like a split cherry and the tacky white Cadillac?
Violet ignored her daughter’s silence. We’ve known each other for years. I was surprised when he asked me out on a date a few months ago.
Do I need to know this? Ani muttered.
Why are you so mean? It’s bad enough that my mother treats me like a criminal. After ten years of living in this convent, I have a boyfriend. What crime is there in that?
Is this supposed to be girl talk? Ani asked deliberately.
Get out! her mother shouted. Just go away!
So Ani stormed out of the house and headed to the golf course, where she had been discovered by Van. He was sitting next to her now on the thinking rock as stars were beginning to appear in the sky beyond the hill. Ani realized her mom would be worrying. Her own anger was spent and she could almost remember having been fond of her mother.
It’s getting late, Ani said to Van, looking across the darkening green of the country club.
Van stood and took Ani’s hands, pulling her to her feet. For a second they were facing each other, only inches apart. A feather of anticipation brushed along the inside of Ani’s skin. Did she want him to kiss her? It was confusing. But then he stepped back and they turned to go.
Leaving the golf course, Ani and Van walked under the broad canopy of summer trees down Bailey Road as the asphalt glittered under the streetlights. Across plush carpets of lawn, they saw the gold glow of table lamps or the stuttering blue glare of televisions from living room windows.
I can’t believe you’re going to California, Ani said, when they reached the bottom of the hill.
What’s the matter with California? he asked.
It’s about as far away as you can get without leaving the country.
Leave the country, now there’s an idea, he said. I’ve never been on an airplane.
Me neither, Ani said. So where to?
Moscow, Tokyo, Buenos Aires, Istanbul, Delhi.
How about Paris? Ani asked. That’s where I want to go.
Sure, why not? Van had replied.
That was the last conversation between them before he left town. How many years ago was that? Almost six. Now here they were on an old stone bridge in a foreign city as black water flowed beneath them, long streaks of light playing across its surface.
“You hungry?” he asked.
“Ravenous,” Ani said.
“Let’s go,” he said, putting his hand at her elbow. “There’s a good couscous place a few blocks from me.”
When he dropped his hand to his side Ani still felt the pressure of his fingers on her arm. It was a phantom touch that ached. She glanced over at Van’s profile, and her heart fluttered in its box.
This was how it began: a hunger that was indifferent to food and averse to sleep. The feelings frightened her, because they reminded her of the early days with Asa.
The first night she went to Asa’s apartment he had cooked supper. After the meal with his housemates, Ani and Asa had retired to his bedroom. There were stacks of paperbacks under the window and several yellow plastic milk crates filled with ropes and climbing gear. Ani and Asa sat across from each other on his mattress on the floor, both of them cross-legged.
Thanks for dinner, she said.
My pleasure, Asa said.
Ani looked into his blue irises patterned with black. She felt a flickering near her ribs and a slight dizziness.
I want to show you something. Put your hand up like this, Asa said, holding his palm facing out at the level of his face.
When Ani imitated his gesture she noticed how perfectly proportioned his hand was—long fingers with a broad palm. The hand looked so gentle and sincere that she couldn’t help but trust it.
Now, he instructed, move your hand toward mine. Stop when our palms are about an inch apart.
Ani did as he said. Their palms were parallel.
Now what? she asked.
Close your eyes. Stay like that and see what you feel.
It was as though light with the force of water flowed in the space between their two hands. Ani felt its warmth pulsing against her skin.
Open your eyes, he said. Can you see it?
Ani stared intently at their hands. No.
One time I saw the energy curling like little tendrils of smoke, he told her.
Were you in an altered state? Ani asked.
Tripping my brains out. He laughed, clasped her hand, and leaned toward her.
When they kissed it was black velvet; it was a cleft in the sky.
Wow, he said. Nice.
A confusing set of sensations danced through the nerves in her body.
That’s the problem with bodies, Ani said. If you try to say what you feel, the words bounce off sideways. It’s like smells. How can you describe a smell? I mean, the smell of white paste brings back first grade, but how can you explain what white paste smells like? Some combination of flour, sugar, the sourness of yogurt, and a Popsicle stick. I feel everything in that scent: the colored construction paper that we cut with small scissors, the rows of desks with children at them, the yellowing window shades on the tall windows.
Is how to describe it the first thing you think of? Can’t you be in it? Asa asked.
Ani paused. What do you mean?
Try to empty your mind of words so the only thoughts are sensory perceptions.
They kissed again.
Falling, falling, Ani thought, down a dim stair with satin-lined walls.
Ani saw herself and Van reflected in a display store window as they walked.
There would be no more pitching headlong into the dark. Gamatz, gamatz, Grandma always advised. Slowly, slowly, one foot after the next.
A bell jangled as Van opened the restaurant’s door and gestured her in. All the tables were occupied, but the patron assured Van in Arabic that it would be two minutes. Then a waiter showed them to a table and soon afterward a platter of fluffy couscous and a steaming tureen were set in front of them.
“How’s your mother?” Van asked, as he ladled food onto Ani’s plate.
“She’s okay, I guess,” Ani replied. “She writes me these long letters filled with news about people I don’t care about.”
“Whatever happened with that Harry guy?”
“He eventually went back to his wife and broke my mother’s heart. I hated him so much it was hard to be sympathetic,” Ani said.
The waiter came to the table and refilled their water glasses. A few minutes later Van excused himself to go to the men’s room. Ani stared out the window, her focus turned inward. Another scene surfaced from the pool.
Violet switched on the table lamp. When are we going to meet this Asa, your mystery man?
I don’t know, Ani said. Her voice caught in her throat. She and Asa had been arguing again.
Are you sleeping with him? her mother asked.
Yes.
Your father and I didn’t sleep together until we were married.
I thought you guys were sophisticated hipsters. Grandma acts like you were practically a harlot.
Violet sighed. Ani, your grandmother believed any woman who wore a dress that showed her knees was a harlot. I was a nice Armenian girl. My vices were an occasional cigarette and marriage to an odar.
What about Harry? Ani asked.
That’s different, Ani. I’m a widow with a grown daughter. This mess I’ve been in with Harry was guaranteed to disrupt my life alone.
What about his wife?
Harry moved out long before he and I started seeing each other. And if you’d like to know, Harry and Hasmig have been meeting with their priest for the past few months. They’re talking about getting back together.
Oh, Mom, I’m sorry.
I could use a cigarette, Violet said, sniffing back tears.
You’ll be okay, Mom. You’ll find somebody better. Ani brushed her mother’s hair back from her forehead. She noticed for the first time a few white strands threading Violet’s black hair.
It wasn’t so easy, was it? You loved somebody whether they deserved it or not, probably more if they didn’t deserve it.
Ani glanced up to see Van approaching from across the room.
His face was clouded as he sat down, as though he were puzzling over some kind of a problem.
Ani commented, “You know, Van, you were never what anyone would call talkative, but now you’re downright taciturn.”
“Do you mind?” he asked.
“It leaves me lots of space for my thoughts, but sometimes I want to know what’s going on in there.”
“What are you doing next year?” he asked.
“I’m waiting to hear from graduate programs. What about you?”
Van shrugged. “At the moment, I’m satisfied with the work I’m doing.”
“Any long-term goals?” she asked.
“I’d like to sail a small boat to Aghtamar—you know, the island in the middle of Lake Van.”
“That’s in Turkey, isn’t it?”
“The Armenian homeland. I could see myself building a house on the shores of the lake. People from the Diaspora will come back to restore the community there.”
“You think people are going to pack their bags in Watertown and Fresno to head to Turkey—I mean Armenia?”
“Some will. The ones who still have an attachment to the homeland.”
“Even if you get a bunch of Armenians to go back, aren’t other people living there now? I mean, it’s been almost seventy years.”
“After the revolution, Armenians, Kurds, and progressive Turks will live side by side and rebuild the region.”
“After what revolution?” Ani asked.
“Ours. You want to join?” He asked this with a wry smile.
A sexy smile, thought Ani, with some kind of question in it. “I’ll take a rain check. I’m not sure I want to go back to Watertown, let alone the Armenian homeland.”
Ani was accustomed to riding the metro by herself at night and walking solo along dusky streets, but when Van insisted on escorting her home she felt grateful. They skirted the grand boulevards, making their way through narrow side streets. She glanced at his profile, which filled her with yearning.
These were the ways that Van was unlike Asa: his skin was olive, his eyebrows emphatic, his hands square with hair on the knuckles. His hometown was Ani’s hometown. They had both traveled far from there.
There was a wall around him, but maybe there was a door in the wall. Was that the way all men were, walls and doors? The problem with Asa was that inside the door was another wall with another door.
They made a half circle through the place des Victoires past a floodlit statue of the Sun King on a rearing stallion. Ani glanced in the windows of designer boutiques. She admired a dress in the Kenzo show window, then worried whether Van would suspect that she coveted the dress. He would not approve, she was sure.
Van put his hand at Ani’s elbow, shepherding her through the crossings. Again the sparks flowed from his fingertips up her arm. Here again th
e craving welled up inside her.
The man, according to Tacey Barton, should love the woman more. But Ani wasn’t about to start taking advice from Tacey.
Maybe it was like walking across a frozen pond. She was on one side; he was on the other. Let him take the first step. Then she would take a step. Until they met in the middle or plunged into the icy water.
The night was chill. She pulled the shawl closer around her neck.
“Are you cold?” Van asked.
“I’m okay,” she answered.
“Here, take my hat.” He pulled a black felt beret from his coat pocket.
Ani pulled the hat on and tucked her hair inside.
It was such a thoughtful, friendly gesture. Asa was never Ani’s friend. Van had been her friend for a long time.
Tell me who your friend is, and I will tell you who you are.
Don’t spoil it, Ani told herself, by tumbling down the old stone well.
On Beaujolais they stood awkwardly near the building’s back door.
“Ani,” he ventured.
“Yeah?” Ani asked, looking at him quizzically.
There was something urgent in his tone. She studied the downcast lids with sable lashes and the planes of his shadowed face.
He stared at his upturned palms.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me. . . .” His voice was edged with flint.
Was he angry?
She joked. “Our great-grandfathers were first cousins. You come from Dexter Avenue. The only other thing I need to know is your phone number.”
He replied, “And that I can’t give you. I don’t have a phone.”
The tension of the moment dissipated. In her nervousness she had slammed a door on whatever it was he had wanted to tell her.
“So how can I get in touch with you?” she asked.
“I’ll call you. I’ve got to go now. Good night, Ani.” He backed away. “Thanks for the fun. I don’t get too much fun these days.”
“How about an address?” she called after him.
He laughed, turning toward the dark. “I’ll phone, I promise.”
Dreams of Bread and Fire Page 9
