The Doves of Ohanavank

by Vahan Zanoyan

  “Look,” he says when I do not answer. “It is the most natural thing in the world. I’ve felt it more than once, because I’ve had more than one home that I could never go back to. Everyone feels it when they move from a small place to a larger place.”

  “There’s a lot more to it than that.” He sees my annoyance.

  “Are you upset that I brought that up?” He sounds surprised.

  “Your American writer could never understand my issues,” I say seriously, meaning every word. “It is not just a matter of going back to a small place or a former lifestyle. It is also about where you’ve been, and what you’ve done. This writer character of yours, did he leave his town voluntarily?”

  “Yes.” Now Edik is totally focused on me.

  “And he did what he wanted to do after he left, right? He decided to write a book, that was his choice, right?”

  “Right.”

  “So how on earth is this similar?”

  “It is not those details that are similar, just the impossibility of going back.”

  “No,” I say, realizing that I have taken control of the conversation, even though none of this was in my original script. “That is not similar either, not at all. As I said, there’s a lot more to it than that.”

  “Tell me.” And he waits, staring at me, still, focused.

  “It does matter whether one leaves home voluntarily or not. It matters even more whether one does what one chooses to do while away. And it does matter that one is free to decide when to attempt a return. Either way, it may still be impossible to come back, but the process and the pain are entirely different.”

  “Tell me,” he says, still focused.

  “If I had been free to decide when to return, I would have been home the same night I left. The same night. I could easily have ‘gone home again’ if I had had that choice.”

  He is still silent, intently watching me. This is the most that I have ever told him. I feel that he is keeping still so as not to frighten me, like a birdwatcher careful not to scare away the bird he’s watching. He has broken loose a wave of emotions, he knows it, and so do I. Deep inside, I do want to talk to him; it feels good to tell someone all this. It feels good to have someone hear and understand you, someone so intent on listening to your words that he does not move, he just waits.

  The waitress brings the wine and opens the bottle. While he tastes, a waiter brings the salad and the Italian cold-cut appetizers. She pours the wine. He lifts his glass.

  “This is good, I think you’ll like it.” We touch glasses and take a sip. The wine is good; it is a dark red Italian wine.

  “Tell me more,” he says.

  “Edik jan,” I say after a while, my voice calmer. “I called you with the intention of talking about a few things. You have been a very good friend, and I appreciate everything that you’ve done for my family and me. But this is not how I wanted to start the conversation. You took me by surprise with your story about the American writer.”

  “I’m sorry, Lara. But I’m glad that we’ve finally started talking. Aren’t you?”

  “I am.” He’s right. It is a relief. His expression is warm, gentle and attentive, as if he’s trying to listen to me even when I say nothing. The notorious third ear is on full alert. I realize that I’m annoyed not because we’re talking, but because the conversation did not go as I had planned it. I know how childish that is.

  “If this is not how you wanted to have the conversation, then tell me how.” He passes me the appetizer plate. “So far, you’ve known me as a talker,” he smiles, “but I can also be a great listener.”

  I don’t recognize the meats on the platter. One cut looks like yershig, our sausage; I take a piece on my plate and leave it there. Then I take another sip of wine.

  “I wanted to start with the story of my friend Anna.” Then I tell Anna’s story as he serves more meats and salad on my plate. I tell him everything, at least everything that I consider important. I see a dark cloud gather in his eyes as I tell about her husband selling her and her father’s response. But he does not interrupt. The cloud thickens when I describe her constant fear. I tell him about our conversation in the café, about how I thought of him when I helped Anna think of a way out. And then I tell him I want to ask for his help in getting Anna a divorce.

  Edik listens patiently throughout. He does not eat, just drinks wine and refills his glass. They’ve brought the main course, and we have barely touched the salad and appetizers. We’re supposed to share the main courses also, one pasta dish and one chef’s special sea bass baked with herbs and spices.

  “Let’s eat,” he says, beginning to rearrange the dishes. Then he lifts his glass, toasts me.

  “Eat. I process this type of information differently than most people. I don’t like to react as the story unfolds. Let it settle in my mind first.”

  We eat in silence, probably looking like a couple that has just had a fight. Once in a while he looks at me, as if to re-hear parts of the story from my face, and fills our glasses again.

  “There is one risk,” he says finally. “I think it is well worth taking, but it is a risk your friend Anna should know about before we start divorce proceedings.” That is the first thing he says about Anna’s story. Knowing Edik, I was expecting a torrent of questions first.

  “Tell me,” I say, imitating his style. I may even have smiled, because he does not hide his amusement.

  “Once she starts the divorce, she’ll have to disclose her story to a judge, which means she cannot hide the story any longer, and it will be more difficult to hide from her husband as well.”

  “Is that one risk or two risks?”

  “Actually two, but they are related. If it’s only the danger of her exposing him that is keeping him away now, once the story comes out, he won’t be deterred any longer.”

  “But you still think it is worth taking the risk.”

  “Absolutely. Once the divorce is final, she’ll have legal recourse against him. Now she’s his wife and he has rights too.”

  “I agree,” I say. “One’s secrets may, once in a while, set one free, but fear never can. She has to get rid of her fear of him.”

  Edik smiles, and tries to lighten the mood by resuming dinner. It is actually very good, and we are both famished. But I can tell that he’s still thinking about Anna.

  “You’ve been reading,” he says with approval.

  “Yes, but I’m surprised you did not have any questions.”

  “About Anna’s story?” I nod. “Sure I do. Many. But not now. I will have to meet her, don’t you think? I’ll ask my questions then. Then I’ll call an attorney friend in Yerevan on her behalf, and we’ll take it from there. What I’d like right now is for you to continue.”

  “Continue?”

  “You said you wanted to start with Anna. So we started with Anna. Now continue.”

  Telling him about the episode with Anastasia is much more difficult, because it is not entirely about someone else. I have to explain who Anastasia is, which means I have to explain what I was doing in Moscow. Maybe they all suspect or even know that already, but I have never had to talk about it to anyone back home.

  But I owe it to Edik, Gago and Avo. They were all part of the killings. They need to know, and they need to agree on what story I feed Anastasia to take back to Yuri.

  “How much do you know about Ayvazian?” That seems like a good place to start.

  “That depends on what you mean by ‘know.’ Remember, I’m a journalist. Knowledge has many gradations to us, depending on how much solid verification we have for what we know.”

  “Edik, please. This is important for me, don’t get technical. Do you know what he did or not?”

  “Okay,” he says leaning closer again and looking me straight in the eye. “Would it help if I tell you first what I already know and what I suspect, so you won’t have to open the subject?” Only Edik could give me an answer like that, piercing through a hundred layers of fog straight to th
e precise point.

  “Yes,” I whisper, impressed and anxious at the same time.

  “Then get ready, because I will not beat around the bush, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Ayvazian was the largest sex trafficker in Armenia. He specialized in young girls like you. He either fooled them with false promises, like he did in your case, or he outright kidnapped them, and forced them to work as prostitutes. He also trafficked young boys, both for sex and for labor. He had operations in Moscow, Turkey, Dubai and Ukraine, as far as I know, and possibly more. Lara, I know what happened to you. I don’t know the details, obviously, but I know he forced you into prostitution. That deserted house we rescued you from in Sevajayr had other captive occupants before you, all young girls, all looking drugged and beaten. So we know. Gago knows too, and Avo. Stop hiding behind your secrets, at least when you’re with us. No one is judging you for what you’ve been forced to do. No one. We are angry and hurt, for you. Do you understand?”

  I cannot control my tears. Does he sound like Avo or like my father? The unconditional acceptance is too much to bear. For the first time that evening, he takes my hand.

  “Lara jan, it is okay.” There is pain in his voice, sympathy in his eyes.

  Fortunately, I have to wipe my tears, and it does not look like I pulled my hand away from his for no reason. I look at him for a long moment. I want to say “there’s more to it than that” again, but I remain quiet. There is more to it than that, but this is not the time. It is past ten-thirty, and I have to get to Anastasia.

  They come to clear the table. He orders another bottle of wine. Edik loves wine, and it does not seem to affect him. I’ve had two glasses of the first bottle, and I already feel the effect. Without asking me, he also orders two desserts for us to share—tiramisu and dark chocolate cake.

  We sit in silence for a while. I need to gather my thoughts, and he lets the time pass. They bring the desserts right away. For some reason, the wine takes a bit longer. We wait in silence as the waitress pours it into fresh glasses, and puts two forks by the side of each dessert.

  I look at her closely for the first time. She looks like she is in her early twenties. I wonder what her story is. No one would guess Anna’s story by just looking at her, so one never really knows. I see the young men and women on campus, and it is difficult not to wonder—what’s their story?

  Without giving Edik any feedback on his statement on Ayvazian, I delve straight into Anastasia. How we met in Moscow, what she did for me then, how she appeared on campus a few days ago, and the message regarding Yuri and the Ayvazian family. He listens intently.

  “She told you Yuri said that the family knows who killed Sergei and Viktor?”

  “Yes, but I don’t believe that’s true. They would have acted differently if they knew. Anastasia thinks they’re just checking around.”

  “Who is ‘the family’ now?” That’s a question I should have asked Anastasia, but didn’t. Maybe I was too nervous, or maybe that’s just the difference between Edik and me.

  “Sorry, I don’t know. And I didn’t ask. We always assumed that with Sergei and Viktor gone, no one of any importance is left.”

  It is late, and we’re the only ones left in the restaurant. The staff is lined up at a distance watching, waiting to close. Edik pays the bill, helps me with my coat, and we leave. He drives around for a while, in silence. Then he drops me at my building.

  “Lara, don’t worry. It is good that this is coming up now. Otherwise, we’d always wonder what happened to the rest of the Ayvazians. I’ll pick you up around ten, okay?”

  “Okay, time to go and congratulate mama pig for eight newborn piglets. Good night, Edik jan.”

  “Good night, Lara,” he says laughing. “Think only of the piglets tonight; don’t let Ayvazian disturb your sleep from his well-deserved grave.”

  Chapter Ten

  Laurian picks Lara up the next morning and they head off. She is in her “Saralandj clothes.” A pair of old, worn-out khaki pants and a long black sweater that reaches mid-thigh. Her face is again bare of any makeup, and her hair is tied up in a ponytail. She looks rested and refreshed, and she radiates youthful charm in spite of her attempt to appear shy and reserved. “She’ll never be able to hide how beautiful she is,” thinks Laurian. “One cannot camouflage one’s genes, in either direction.”

  Laurian has a love-hate relationship with driving anywhere in Armenia, and the road to Ashtarak is no exception. The contrast between the natural beauty of the countryside and the horrific conditions of the infrastructure haphazardly imposed upon it shocks him to distraction. This particular stretch is not only beautiful, but it is the stage where some his favorite stories from childhood played out, such as Arayi Ler (Ara’s Mountain) and Mount Aragats. When he was a kid growing up in Switzerland, he could only picture these places in his imagination. Being here, let alone driving on these roads in his own car, was one of the many impossibilities during Soviet times. It is the stories that tie him to the place. He feels he owns the stories, so he also owns the places where they happened.

  “Look how much damage man can do,” he tells Lara, pointing to the potholes in the road and the unfinished buildings—abandoned concoctions of stone and mortar, spread beyond the road like zombies from a horror movie—the old, rusty pipes piled up on the side of the road, and the plastic bottles and bags scattered all over the fields along the roadside.

  “And now look at that,” he adds, pointing to the majestic quadruple peak of Mount Aragats. “We should be ashamed to even face that mountain. We have no right to turn its dominion into such a miserable dump!”

  As much as Lara is baffled by his reaction, he is amazed by the indifference of the locals to all this. How is it possible to gain an independent country after seventy years of Soviet rule, and then neglect it to this extent? But Laurian has come to realize that coveting an independent country was a Diaspora obsession. In the Diaspora, he, like millions of his compatriots, lived with the dream of being model citizens of an independent Armenia, instead of working as hard as they did to fit in and become model citizens of whatever country fate had made them adopt. The locals rarely felt this nostalgia.

  “Edik jan,” says Lara genuinely concerned, “what’s the matter? What is bothering you?”

  Laurian looks at her for a long moment, but remains silent. She really doesn’t get it. She doesn’t see that Laurian means what he says; this is not venting spurred on by some deeper problem, which he presumes she believes it to be.

  “Vochinch,” he says. It’s nothing. Then he changes the subject. “Have you thought more about what we should give Anastasia to pass on to Yuri?” Lara is still thinking about his outburst and cannot focus on Anastasia. What was that all about? Look at this, then look at that, and we should be ashamed to face Aragats? Even as she looks at all the disrepair along the roadside, Lara cannot really understand him. What does he want to do? Clean the whole mess up? Is he mad? Maybe we should call him Khev Edik; he sometimes deserves the title more than Gago.

  “Not really,” she says, returning to his question. “You told me to think of the piglets. So, that’s what I thought about.”

  Laurian bursts out laughing, dragging Lara with him. It is clear that they both needed to lighten up. This contagious laugh is actually a Khev Gago trademark, passed on to Laurian over the years. “You thought about the piglets all night, eh?” he mumbles between bursts of laughter. “Just as I told you to, eh?” And Lara laughs too, happy to have changed the mood, but still harboring an uneasy feeling that something she does not understand is bothering Laurian.

  They approach Ashtarak. Late March dominates nature. The trees in the orchards are still bare, with buds aching to burst out, and the snow is slowly melting by the roadside. The birds, mostly black-billed magpies and crows, unsure if spring has yet arrived, act confused, roosting on the bare branches and diving aimlessly into the wet soil, hoping instinctively to find something. Laurian has to make an effort to tak
e his mind off the imposing presence of nature, which Lara barely notices.

  “Seriously,” says Laurian, “have you thought about what to feed Anastasia?”

  “Seriously, no. That is something we all have to plan together.”

  “Hopefully we can get to it today. After you’ve had a chance to cuddle with the little piglets…”

  Lara hits him on the shoulder. “And after we let you cuddle with the mama,” she says laughing.

  “Gago will get there an hour after us. That will be enough time for all the piggy cuddling we need. Then maybe we can chat, before Avo gets to the vodka bottle.” That is Laurian’s first direct comment about Avo’s drinking, but it does not surprise Lara. Avo does have a drinking problem, and after the candor of their talk the night before, the comment sounds casual and matter-of-fact.

  “At any rate,” she says, “I agree with what you said last night. This is a good opportunity for us. Imagine being able to stack the deck of cards in a high-stakes game.”

  “Where did you learn to talk like that?”

  “What, you think you’re the only educated person I’ve dealt with in my life?” She smiles, but her mind goes to Al Barmaka, to some of their rare times when he talked about his business. The talks were more monologues than conversations, and she felt that Al Barmaka was thinking aloud rather than talking to her, but some ideas stuck in her mind regardless. ‘Stacking the deck’ was one of them.

  “De lav, Lara jan,” says Laurian, using the catchall local phrase meaning, depending on context, ‘okay, fine’ or ‘fine, that’s enough’ or ‘okay, I get it’ or any number of similar expressions. “So you’re wise and experienced beyond your years, I admit. And I agree that this is a chance to ‘stack the cards’ in our favor. We still need to find the best way to use the opportunity. We will not get it twice.”

  “Let’s start with this question,” says Lara, sounding like Laurian in his lecturing mode. “What do you think they are really after?”