Edik Laurian and Gagik Grigorian have somehow become an integral part of our lives. That is another novelty; before I left home, we had never had such people involved in our lives. Everyone we knew was from the village or a close relative. Gagik lives in Ashtarak. He has lived here all his life, and was close to my father. He is wild and crazy, with an intensity about him that I have not seen in any other man. They say he was a revolutionary who fought in the Karabagh war. His nickname is Khev Gago—Crazy Gago. He strikes me more as a crazy philosopher than a crazy revolutionary, but Edik says that’s because he has mellowed with age. Ashtarak is only around thirty minutes from Saraladj, so he visits often.
Edik is different. Although he is not from here, he is more interested in what happens here than anyone I know. He is interested in our family, in me personally, in Avo, in the country and he is obsessed with what Ayvazian did to me. Unlike Crazy Gago, Edik likes to talk to me. He is a journalist, has been all around the world, a poet, a hunter, and perhaps a bit of a revolutionary himself. I wouldn’t be surprised if he turns out to be a little Khev too, just like Gago.
Chapter Two
It took His Excellency Ahmed bin Abdullah bin Saif Al Barmaka several months to figure out what had happened. He finally put enough pieces of the puzzle together to form an idea, even if he had to assume certain details. The maze of schemes and counter schemes, every single one of which had blown up in the schemers’ faces, was so intricate and interwoven, that, without the full cooperation and confessions of the schemers, there was no way to discover every detail.
What matters to him most is that Lara had in fact campaigned hard to go home. The fact that Sumaya had plotted with two of his other concubines to get rid of Lara surprised him, but was less significant.
Sumaya, Natalia and Farah are dismissed and gone. He has brought a Chinese woman, whom he was bedding when Sumaya called to inform him that Lara had escaped, with him from Beijing. She now occupies Natalia’s villa.
That was a little over six months ago. The news hurt him deeply then, and the pain has not eased with time, as he had hoped. He never understood why Lara had wanted to escape. Keeping concubines was a way of life for him. None had ever wanted to escape before. On the contrary, they competed for his affection and aspired to have their contracts renewed. Most became emotional and cried when their term ended. So it had never occurred to Al Barmaka that any of his women could be unhappy being with him. Why then would Lara, to whom he was getting attached and whom he treated better than he had ever treated a concubine, want to escape?
She was hauntingly beautiful, very young and, although she was a prostitute, there was an innocence about her that disarmed Al Barmaka. She simply did not fit the mold of the sex worker. It was not just her youthful face and truly magical eyes—large, charcoal-black, with a depth that pulled Al Barmaka in and held him long after he had stopped looking into them. It was her mannerisms, her way of moving, so desirable, so seductive and yet so simple and innocent, or perhaps so seductive because it was so innocent. It was later, much later, that Al Barmaka would discover that it had been that same captivating beauty that had made Ayvazian notice Lara in the first place, resorting even to murdering her father in order to achieve his objective of recruiting her.
Lara had been the only one among his concubines whom he allowed to call him by his first name. He had arranged for her to take Arabic lessons, and even though he had not thought about any specific plans, he certainly had intended to keep her much longer than the one-year term he had approved. “What is amazing about this girl,” he had confided to one of his cousins, “is that she stays with you long after you leave; her feel stays with you.”
Al Barmaka does not know what exactly he will do next regarding Lara; all he wants to do now is find out as much as he can about her and why she left. He also knows that the Chinese girl is not a replacement for Lara. The hard truth is that no one could replace Lara.
Replacing Sumaya is proving to be difficult as well. She had been with him for more than eighteen years. First as his lover, later as the manager of his concubines. She ran the ladies’ quarters with superior skill and effectiveness, and was devoted to his needs. It took a lot to convince Al Barmaka that Sumaya had been involved in the plot to get rid of Lara. The manager of his private office, an Indian man in his mid-forties called Manoj, had suggested the possibility of her involvement early on, but he had dismissed it as vicious intra-staff rivalry. But as more details of the episode had come to light, it had became clearer to him that it would have been next to impossible for Lara to leave the compound without Sumaya’s assistance. Al Barmaka feels the void left by Sumaya every day. He plans to replace her with an experienced manager from China, but the process is proving to be more time consuming than he had imagined.
His only source of information about Lara in Dubai is Ano, the middle-aged woman who manages all of Viktor Ayvazian’s prostitutes. She is zaftig, with a disproportionately large behind, making the tight pants that she wears less than flattering. She dyes her short, curly hair dirty blond, and has turned bright red nail polish into one of her distinguishing features.
The death of the Ayvazians has wreaked havoc in Ano’s life. After over a decade of working for them, she suddenly is alone, which presents an enormous opportunity for her to ‘inherit’ the Ayvazian empire in Dubai, but at the same time poses risks that until that day she had not had to worry about. Local protection, for one, had been Viktor’s responsibility. And although in her everyday dealings the buck stopped with Viktor, she knew that there is more to the Ayvazian empire than Viktor. Someone could show up anytime and hold her accountable.
Ano is trying to sort all this out when she is summoned to visit Al Barmaka’s office. The time and date are precise. She knows enough about Dubai and Al Barmaka’s influence to know not to argue. The summons reaches her around noon, for a two o’clock meeting on the same day. She knows that Viktor met with Manoj and Sumaya after Lara disappeared, before Al Barmaka returned from China. And she knows that he had to concede to everything they demanded. If Viktor had to give in, who is she to resist? She makes up her mind to go with the intention of answering their questions as truthfully as she can. She has nothing to hide, either about Lara’s disappearance or about the Ayvazians’ death. Her activities in Dubai are well known to the authorities, and she knows some key people, as she has been involved in freeing the girls from jail on occasion, as well as in helping close the deal with Al Barmaka on Lara’s contract. She also has heard that Sumaya was fired for her involvement in Lara’s escape, so this clearly was an inside job, and she would not be under suspicion. Her only concern then is to make sure that she continues to operate in Dubai with the twenty-plus girls now working for her.
Manoj arranges to meet her at the entrance of the Al Barmaka compound. The office is deliberately built right outside the main gate, to receive visitors without having to invite them inside, thus avoiding the tedious formalities of registering guests. It is roomy but simple; the large window-mounted air-conditioning unit blasts away, and the solemn faces of the rulers of the confederation keep watch from photographs on the wall across from the couch.
Ano is invited to sit on that couch, offered tea or coffee, which she declines, and then is left alone. The reception room has not received much attention over the years. She notices scratches on the elaborate wooden coffee table, wear and tear on the carpet, and several stains on the couch. It is clear that Al Barmaka himself would not receive visitors here, and even Manoj would not hold his more important business meetings in this room.
Manoj arrives fifteen minutes late, looking rushed and frazzled, his dark skin glistening with perspiration. He greets Ano hurriedly, does not apologize for being late, and sits on a chair next to the couch. His trademark show of manners and flowery compliments, which used to annoy Sumaya to no end, are gone. Men like Manoj do not hide their distaste for meeting women like her. They consider it unbecoming of their social status and demeaning, even though it is Mano
j who handled the finances of Al Barmaka’s concubines. The hypocrisy revolts Ano, but this is not the time and place to reciprocate his attitude.
“His Excellency wants to find out more about the background and whereabouts of Ms. Leila,” says Manoj. “I expect that you’ll tell us all that you know.” Leila is the Arabic name that Al Barmaka had given Lara.
Ano has come prepared to face questions about Lara’s escape, possibly additional queries about the connection in Istanbul who handed her over to Ayvazian, or perhaps questions about who in Dubai could have in any way been involved in her escape. These have been the main themes of questioning in the past, which led everyone to believe that he was intent on solving the mystery of the security breach in his compound. But it now looks like that is no longer His Excellency’s main interest. Her whereabouts? Does this mean that he is now trying to get in touch with her, after turning down their offer to return her to him, saying his home was not a prison?
Ano’s antennas are up. This could be worth a lot of money. Had Al Barmaka accepted Lara back when they offered to return her, they would not have had to refund $75,000, three quarters of the price he had paid for her exclusive contract for one year. But he demanded a refund and Viktor transferred the money right away. So now he wants her back? Does he expect to just get her back for free? The answers to Manoj’s questions are quite simple. And although Ano had decided to play it straight, the nature of the inquiry has already changed things.
“Her background and whereabouts,” she repeats deliberately. “Well, her background is in the file that was submitted to you when you signed her contract. I am not sure what more we have. As for her whereabouts, now that Mr. Ayvazian and his nephew are both dead, that will be difficult to ascertain.”
“Her so-called file,” snaps Manoj, “has nothing in it and you know it. One paragraph, giving her age, the name of her manager in Dubai and her country of origin. The rest of the twenty pages contain only photographs. Surely as her manager you have a lot more information on her background. Let me repeat. I expect you to fully cooperate with us on this matter.”
“What exactly do you want me to do?” asks Ano to give herself time to think about how to raise the issue of payment for her help.
Manoj checks his watch and shows his impatience. “Let us start with what should have been in her file, but was not: where in Armenia is she from?”
“All I know is that she is from a poor village.” Ano has assumed a minimalist manner of responding, as if in a deposition by a hostile lawyer.
“Which village? Surely you know the name of the village!”
“Actually, I don’t. I could try to find out, but without Viktor it will not be easy. It will take time, and… resources.” Given Manoj’s impatience, she wants to start negotiating before the opportunity is lost.
But Manoj is in no mood to play along.
“Look,” he snaps again, this time more forcefully. “I really don’t have time for this. So this is what we’re going to do: I will give you twenty-four hours to answer the following specific questions. If you fail, your operation in Dubai will end and you personally may come under investigation for illegal activities. I hope it is clear to you that in the meantime you cannot leave the country. If you try, you will be arrested on the spot.” Manoj stops for a few seconds to let that sink in, then continues. “My questions are: first, where is Ms. Leila from, the precise name and location of her village; second, what are her family circumstances, in other words, status of her parents, how many siblings does she have and their ages, and their economic circumstances; third, the full name and contact details of this so-called Mr. Abo, who handed Ms. Leila to Ayvazian in Istanbul. You have until—he checks his watch again—precisely two-thirty in the afternoon tomorrow. Call my secretary at this number with the answers.” Then he hands her his secretary’s card and, without another word, leaves the room.
Ano sits there for a minute, stunned, before one of the aides comes in and, with a smirk that Ano knows is meant to mock her, escorts her out.
Chapter Three
There is an old proverb that goes something like this: “Everyone has three ears: one on the right side of their head, one on the left, and the third in their heart.” I remember my father telling us this. “Few have developed the habit of listening through that third ear,” he said. “But it is often more important than the other two put together.”
Based on my experience, it is women, more than men, who listen with the heart. That is not always an advantage. Those who use only the ears on their head can be better off. The third ear often exposes unhelpful truths and, even worse, falsehoods. There are those who swear by it. But I am not sure it is as reliable as it is made out to be. It is possible to mishear with the heart, sometimes with devastating consequences. Unlike the two ears on the head, the third ear is subjective; it serves different functions for a woman in distress, a woman in love, a criminal, a mafia boss, a shrewd politician… It does not always serve its master well, unless the master is focused and selfish, and even then, it can still mislead.
My father had an evolved third-ear. “The third ear keeps doors open,” he used to say. “What you hear with your head is what people say, which may or may not be the truth. You hear this or that, who did what; you hear possible or impossible; you hear what happened. But the truth is never that simple, and it is what you hear with your third ear that gives you the depth, that turns the ‘no’ into a ‘yes’, the impossible into possible…” We were kids then, and had no clue as to what he was talking about.
Now I understand the wisdom behind those words. And I believe that it was his ear of the heart that got him killed. Without that ability, he probably would not have been so suspicious and would have let Ayvazian take me the first time he asked. But even after refusing to give me up, without his third ear, he probably would not have accepted Ayvazian’s invitation to visit him for a day in Martashen, which gave Ayvazian the opportunity to take him to Sevajayr and kill him. He saw the danger in going, but he saw a bigger danger to all of us in refusing Ayvazian twice in the same week. Of course no direct threat was made; he heard it with his third ear.
The only other man I know who can use his third ear is Edik Laurian. Al Barmaka may have the gift, and he did tell me something similar once, but I was not really paying attention at the time. As I think back about specific moments with him, I have to admit that the man demonstrated a rare ability to listen, even to unspoken words. But there were also moments when he was just like any of my other clients—totally third-ear-deaf.
Edik is different. It seems that he is always listening with all three ears. Always. That must be an incredibly exhausting way to live. I am not sure I could handle that, twenty-four hours a day.
Avo has invited Khev Gago and Edik Laurian to my birthday party. This is not a party like the ones they have in the city, but rather a family gathering with friends coming to eat and drink. The only difference from any other day is that there will be more people at the table and better food. There will be nothing to mark it as a birthday, other than possibly a toast or two. The fancy parties with decorations and presents in colorful wrapping paper with bows and ribbons, which have reached certain well-to-do homes in Yerevan, have not reached Saralandj yet, and I am thankful for that.
It is ten a.m. and I am still in my nightgown, lying on my parents’ bed. The others have been up for hours, but have not come into the room in order not to disturb me, forgoing their morning coffee and breakfast. I have grown to cherish my morning hours alone. I did not know what solitude was when I was taken from home at sixteen. Not only did eight of us share a cramped bedroom, but we could at anytime barge into our parents’ room for any reason. The concept of privacy simply did not exist, so we never sought it and wouldn’t know how to miss it. But during the months that I spent in my own villa in Al Barmaka’s estate I developed not only a keen sense of privacy, but also an appreciation of solitude. Solitude does to the soul what sleep does to the body—it restores it, men
ds the wear and tear, pacifies the inner storms, creates a space that is yours.
This is all the time alone I’m going to get today, until late at night when everyone leaves and I go to bed. My sisters, and maybe even Avo, would want to bathe before the guests arrive, and then they have to start preparing the feast. This room will go through various transformations, as it is set up for its various functions one after the other. At the end, it will look its best as the dining room, cleaned, tidied, and made to accommodate around a dozen people in the space and at a table that can reasonably accommodate no more than four or five diners with any measure of comfort. That will not affect anyone’s joyful mood; here, the more crowded a room at times like this, the more festive the atmosphere. Space is irrelevant. It is all about sharing joy, not space.
I decide to get out of bed. Although the fire in the stove has been out for a few hours, the lingering embers have kept it and the pot of water over it warm. My rings are on the table, and I debate whether I should wear them both. One is the simple thin band that belonged to Araxi Dadik, my great aunt whose fabled beauty I am supposed to have inherited. She died in Siberia way before I was born. My mother gave me the ring the day I left home. She said my father had wanted me to have it; she said he loved me very much, and with me he felt a special tie to his past. Throughout my time away from home, the ring, in turn, gave me a link to my past. I always had it with me, either in my pocket or in my purse at first, and then I started wearing it permanently.
The second ring is much fancier. It is thicker and has a large emerald. Ahmed gave it to me in Dubai. “I hope you’ll always wear it,” he said. It is beautiful, but entirely out of place in Saralandj. In Dubai, I needed Araxi Dadik’s ring as a link to home; but here, do I need Ahmed’s ring? Do I really need any link to Dubai?
I re-start the fire and wash up hurriedly, using all the warm water in the pot, which I refill from the bucket in the corner. I change, put Araxi Dadik’s ring on my middle finger, place Ahmed’s in my purse and walk out.
The Doves of Ohanavank Page 2
