Lara Galian freezes at the top of the stairs as she leaves the University building, no longer aware of the fresh breeze after the stuffy lecture hall. She stares down at the woman waving to her. This is the last place on earth she would have expected to see Anastasia, her coach when she was first thrown into prostitution in Moscow. Anastasia is more conservatively dressed than she used to be in the hotel bars in Moscow, but still stands out. Her posture and overall attitude are not those of a student.
Lara continues down the steps and walks up to her. Anastasia smiles enthusiastically. She looks genuinely happy to see Lara.
“Lara, aziz jan, vonts es?” That’s exactly how she used to talk to her two years ago. Lara, dear, how are you?
Lara does not want to be rude, so she returns the smile, but she does not want to engage Anastasia as if everything is the same.
“How did you find me?” she asks, guiding her out of the University grounds and starting down the street.
“I’m good, am I not?” grins Anastasia. But Lara senses that she is nervous, and is trying hard not to show it. She does not respond, waiting for an answer to her original question. Anastasia remains silent, but picks up the pace a bit.
“How?” repeats Lara, looking at her as they walk.
“I’ll explain everything,” says Anastasia with another wide smile, and this time there is no doubt in Lara’s mind that the smile is fake. Anastasia isn’t just nervous; she is afraid. “Right now, act like you’re happy to see me.”
Lara had almost forgotten the feeling—the feeling of being constantly watched, followed, the sense of permanent fear of more beatings and rapes. She feels her head spin and a cold sweat dampen the hair on the back of her neck. She does not want this. She will not have this again, no matter what. A wave of blinding anger begins to well in her chest.
“Happy to see you?” she says with such sarcasm that Anastasia looks away. “What are you doing here? I do not want to be dragged into any of it again. What do you want?”
“Let’s get in a taxi,” says Anastasia nervously. “We’re being watched. I’ll explain everything when it is safe.”
Before Lara can say anything, Anastasia stops a taxi and opens the door. Her hands are shaking and her eyes are pleading with Lara to get in. “Please, aziz jan,” she repeats. “I’ll explain everything.”
Lara gets in and scoots over; Anastasia follows. “Just drive,” she tells the driver. “Towards the Monument.” The ‘Monument’ in popular parlance refers to the statue of ‘Mother Armenia,’ on a hill overlooking Yerevan, which, in 1962, replaced a statue of Joseph Stalin, built as a memorial of victory in World War II. Anastasia takes her cell phone from her pocket, turns it off and sits on it. Then she leans close to Lara and whispers.
“I’m sorry you’re upset, but at least hear me out. Someone I used to know a long time ago in Moscow, who worked for the Ayvazians, says the Ayvazian family is back in full control. He says all old debts have to be paid.”
“What does that have to do with me? I have no debts to anyone.”
“Don’t be so naïve, Lara, please. This guy, his name is Yuri, beat me, threatened me, and forced me to fly to Yerevan with him.”
“I thought both Viktor and that animal Sergei were dead,” says Lara, trying to give herself time to think.
“They are. I thought it had ended with them too. For many months I was keeping all the money, imagine that! Then this guy Nicolai shows up and forces me to pay him. He says he’s the new boss. Then Yuri shows up and says the family knows who killed Sergei and Viktor and wants everything back.”
The blood drains from Lara’s face. They know who killed Ayvazian? That is impossible. They would have been all over Saralandj if they really had known anything. She does her best to recover before Anastasia notices her panic.
“Why did they bring you to Yerevan?” Lara asks calmly.
“To talk to you. To see how much you know.”
“How much I know about what?”
“About the killings, and about who brought you back home and how.”
“Why should I know anything about the killings?”
“Because they say you returned about the same time as the killings happened.”
“So? How could I know anything?”
“They’re just checking, that’s all. I am not supposed to tell you any of this. I am supposed to befriend you again. Try to make you talk. I am taking a huge risk by telling you the truth. Remember Lara, I was a good friend to you in Moscow; the fact that you hated being there does not change that.”
That part is true. Lara remembers the day when Viktor, after being told by Dr. Melikov that she was pregnant, ordered him to perform an abortion. She did not even know that she was pregnant. It was Anastasia who was there when they released her from the hospital. She took her to her apartment and tended to her for the next three days. She fed her, washed her, and talked to her constantly. She tried to put things in perspective for her.
“So what am I supposed to do now?” she asks.
“Let’s pretend that we’re friends, talking about old times. Just for a few days. Then I tell them whatever you want me to tell them, things you confess to me in confidence and in friendship. That’s the only way they think they’ll get the truth from you. That’s the only reason why they have not come after you directly yet.”
“Yet?”
“Lara, anything is possible. A lot depends on what I tell them. So let’s think about this carefully.”
“What’s it with your phone?” asks Lara, changing the subject.
“My phone?”
“You’re sitting on it.”
“Oh, sorry.” Anastasia leans even closer to Lara and whispers in her ear. “I’ve heard that they can listen in on my conversations through the phone. That’s why I turned it off, but sometimes apparently even then they can listen. So I sat on it. That’s why I have the window open. The noise from the street should drown our whispers.”
“Okay,” whispers Lara, “we’ll play this game. As long as you understand that I have no intention of going back to that life. I think I’ll be happy if I do not see another man for the rest of my life.”
“Lara, aziz jan, of course. I’m very happy for you, please understand that. I used to tell you that you’d be better off accepting it because you really had no other choice back then. But now it seems that you do. I’m glad, really. But this is all I know. I just want to go back to my clients in Moscow.”
“Did they say they want me to work for them again?”
“Where to, lady?” asks the driver. They have passed the Monument and are driving up the road toward the suburbs.
“Go a few more blocks then turn back,” says Anastasia. “Can you then wait for us at the Monument for a little?”
The driver grunts his consent and keeps driving.
“They did not say that to me,” responds Anastasia. “Honestly. My mission is to find out what you know about the Ayvazian killings and how you managed to leave Dubai and return home. That’s all. I’m not here to talk you into being a good hooker, like in the old days…” And Anastasia can barely hold back a chuckle. “You have to admit, we had some good times back then.”
“You were having a good time back then, not me,” says Lara a bit too curtly, and regrets it. She does not want to judge her; all she wants is to be left alone.
“De lav, Lara jan.” Oh enough of that, Lara. “Don’t you remember the American at the Sheraton? He wanted you for the whole night? He paid a fortune! How bad was that?”
It always amused Lara to hear Anastasia, who is Ukrainian, use colloquial Armenian phrases. Their conversations have always alternated between Lara’s broken Russian and Anastasia’s broken Armenian.
“Look, I will not lecture you about this, because you will not understand,” says Lara, sounding determined and exasperated at the same time. “I have no problem with you doing what you do. I’m happy for you too, as long as you’re doing what you want to do. And yes, that nig
ht with the American was not so bad, but only if you accept that you are a prostitute in the first place. If you don’t, that night was as bad as any other.”
The driver pulls into the courtyard of the Monument and stops.
“Give us a few minutes,” says Anastasia. Then turns to Lara. “Let’s walk a little.”
They stand at the edge of the courtyard. It is already late afternoon, and it is getting dark. They watch as the city lights turn on in Yerevan below.
“It is amazing how things can look so beautiful from afar,” says Lara, staring at the city. “And yet, there is nothing beautiful out there, once you get closer.”
“You’re as philosophical as ever,” says Anastasia seriously. “I remember how I could never make you take anything lightly. I personally don’t think anything good ever comes from overthinking. It is the same city, from up here or from down there. It is neither beautiful nor ugly. It is what it is.”
Lara looks at Anastasia for a few minutes. ‘It is what it is’ she repeats silently. How true. Anastasia is okay. She too is what she is. The fight I need to fight is not with her, not even with what she does for a living. The only fight that I really have to fight is with myself.
Lara pulls Anastasia toward her and gives her a big, long hug. “We don’t need to pretend,” she says, “we are old friends. We’ll talk about old times all we want. And everyone else can go to hell.”
In a black Mercedes SUV with darkened windows, no more than fifteen meters from them, Yuri and Carla are watching the drama.
“You should have bugged her, as I told you,” she says.
The girls get back in the taxi and head down the hill to Yerevan. Yuri waits for a few minutes and follows them from a safe distance.
Chapter Nine
Although I believe Edik’s offer to Avo and me to call at anytime, with any issue, is genuine, so far I have not asked him for help. Avo has, when he needed the money to start the pig farm, and we both noticed how pleased Edik was to be called upon.
I know the time has come to call him regarding both Anna and Anastasia, but I’ve been putting it off. I find it difficult to ask for help, even for someone else, even though I know Edik would be absolutely delighted. It is as if once you ask and he comes through, you have in a way confirmed a relationship, which, for some reason, scares me. After what Edik, Khev Gago, Avo and I went through only six months ago in Sevajayr, you’d think I’d be over that fear, at least with them, but I am not. The fact is, I did not ask for that day; they just appeared and saved my life, at the cost of having blood on their hands. But I did not ask. Maybe that’s why, dramatic as that day was, it still does not count as a favor.
Avo helps me end my hesitation. He calls on a Thursday afternoon, all excited, and insists that I come to Saralandj the first chance I get.
“Kurig jan,” he says—how I love to hear those words from him. Dear little sister, words that take me back to the pre-secrets Lara—“We had one delivery already! Eight little piglets, you have to see them. Eight, imagine! They look like little pink rats, attached to their mother, eyes shut, suckling for dear life. It is amazing.” He is almost out of breath. I have not seen Avo this animated, except when he is angry, for a long time. This too is a voice from the pre-secrets days. He sees the farm as a venture that is one hundred percent his own, his contribution to our family, not something left over from Papa or our grandfather. Everything else in Saralandj, from the fruit trees to the sheep, even to the household furniture, is from the past.
“Avo, that is great,” I say, even though I have no particular interest in seeing the little piglets. “I have class tomorrow, but will try to get there on Saturday. Is that okay?”
“Sure. Just come. This will be great. If all goes well with the other nineteen about to give birth, I probably will be able to return Edik’s money in full this fall.”
That’s something even I can get excited about. Knowing Edik, he probably wrote off the loan in his mind the minute he made it. But paying him back is a huge obligation for us.
“Edik would be interested to hear the news too, you should give him a call,” I say, thinking this would be the perfect opportunity for me to talk to Edik.
“Bring him with you,” he says with excitement. “Maybe he can drive and pick you up.”
I’m glad my going to Saralandj with Edik is now Avo’s idea.
I catch Edik at a bad time when I call. He sounds rushed and distracted.
“Lara jan, so good to hear from you. Can you hold for just a minute?”
“Sure, but if this is not a good time, I can call later.”
“No, no, it is fine. One minute.” I hear the slightly muffled noise of his hand covering the phone; his voice is still vaguely audible, and it sounds like he’s giving instructions to someone.
“Sorry about that,” he says, his voice calmer. “Sometimes I have to explain things over and over to Agassi. I’ll have to leave Armenia for a few weeks, and there’s too much that needs to be done here. Anyway, how are you?”
“I’m fine,” I say, beginning to wonder if I should forget the whole thing; he sounds like he has enough on his hands. “If I had known you are so swamped, I wouldn’t have called.”
“Absolutely no problem. I don’t leave till the end of next week. There’s plenty of time to plan everything. What’s new with you? How can I help?” He sounds so eager and so genuine, that I decide to stick with the plan.
“Edik jan,” I say, hesitation still lingering in my voice, “I’m calling to see if I can see you on Saturday, and if we can drive to Saralandj together. But as I said, if you’re too busy, it is not important.”
“Lara,” he says with a chuckle, “I’ve been waiting six months for this call! Of course I’m not too busy. I can be in Yerevan before noon on Saturday. We can have a quick lunch, and then drive to Saralandj. Would that work?”
“That would be perfect, thank you so much.”
“But tell me, what’s the occasion?” Of course I knew that he wouldn’t be able to wait to find out what’s behind my request.
“Avo wants us there,” I say, happy to have the pretext. “One of the mama pigs delivered, and I have not heard him so excited for a long time. And there are a couple of other things I’d like to talk to you about. So I thought the drive up there will give us a chance to talk.”
“In that case I have a better plan,” he says, and I can feel the impatience in his voice. “I will come down to Yerevan tomorrow night. Let’s have dinner together—much better for a good chat than a rushed lunch and a drive. That way, we can leave earlier Saturday morning and have more time in Saralandj too.”
“Edik, are you sure?”
“Absolutely. I’ll call you when I reach my hotel. Most probably I’ll pick you up around eight.”
“That’s fine, Edik. And once again, thank you.”
I’ve had a lot of time to think about how I’ll approach Edik, what I’ll say about Anna, Anastasia, about Avo, and even about the nature of secrets, and in what order. I have it all clear in my mind, from the first hello to the last good night, and for once I feel like I can finally turn a corner by taking Edik into my confidence, but at my own pace and in my own way.
I dress conservatively. A pair of navy blue pants, beige turtleneck sweater and my light coat. I wear no makeup at all, and tie my hair up in a ponytail. After being ordered for eighteen months to be seductive at all times, I’ve developed a distaste for any attempt to appear attractive.
He picks me up a little before eight, and drives to one of his favorite restaurants on Toumanian Street. Until we get to the restaurant and are seated, all he talks about is what he is up to in Vardahovit—the new trees that will be planted in a few weeks: poplars, fruit trees, weeping willows and weeping birch, which he has recently discovered and fallen in love with. “There are forests of it in Russia,” he says. “They are even more graceful than weeping willows.” Then he shifts to the irrigation system he is working on, both for the village and for his est
ate. I find it fascinating to hear Edik talk like a farmer, as if at that moment he neither knows nor cares about anything else.
I should have known that it is impossible to stick to a script when talking to Edik. When it comes to conversations, he can be a force of nature, connecting dots at lightening speed and charting new courses for every train of thought, until the original script disintegrates and even I forget what my plan was.
When we sit down and we order, he shocks me with his opening line.
“There is an American writer,” he says, leaning over the table and looking very serious. “He wrote a book, You Can’t Go Home Again. Have you heard about it?”
“No.” I say, but the title hits home. Is this about me also, like the poems?
“I don’t know if it ever was translated into Armenian, but it’s worth checking,” he says casually. “I think you’ll find it interesting.”
“What’s it about?” I ask, wondering what happened to my script and how I can get the conversation back on track, but at the same time I’m intrigued by the title of the book.
“The specific story may not interest you. It is about a writer who leaves his hometown and writes a book about it, and makes everyone in the town angry at him, so much so that he cannot go back. But the real message is that no one can go back to his childhood, to his former way of life, even to his family, once he leaves and sees the world.”
“And you think I should read the book because that is what I am struggling with?” I sound a little curter than I mean to be. I was prepared to bare a little of my soul to Edik tonight, but not like this, not with the coming home issues, which cannot be discussed without getting into the secrets.
“Well, of course you are,” he says so casually that I relax a little. “Aren’t you?” He is talking as if we’re discussing the weather. Could it be that I am making much more of this than it is?
The Doves of Ohanavank Page 7
