The Doves of Ohanavank

by Vahan Zanoyan

  She had challenged him to recognize Nicolai as his son. He had been livid. She was persistent, but so was he. In the end, he allowed her to work freely, for herself, and raise the boy. She gave him her maiden name, but she registered his father’s name as Sergei.

  “Don’t bring him up again,” he had told her. “I don’t want to hear about him, or to see you again. You’re free and you’re on your own.”

  “I will tell him about you, Sergei,” she had said, spitting at him. “One day, he’ll want to know who his father is. And I promise you he will know the truth.”

  And Nicolai learned the truth. The whole truth, over time, as he was growing up, as Evgeniya told it to him. By the time he turned sixteen, she had told him about the rape, her profession and the person responsible for it all.

  His mother was kind and caring, but miserable. He had never seen her happy. He watched her come home in the morning, sleep until mid-afternoon, spend the afternoons in her nightgown watching TV, and then get ready and leave for work in the evening. He, as a young boy, would watch TV all night while his mother was out, and sleep late like her. She would not be up to wake him up in time to get ready for school.

  As he approached fifteen it became more difficult to continue this routine, but they had no choice. He was unemployable and no school would accept him, given his spotty academic record. It became very tense in the apartment. He could not stand watching her ‘get ready for work.’ Her clothes, her makeup, and most of all her ‘attitude’ as she got into the mood for her work annoyed him to no end.

  A year later he joined a street gang. They’d sleep in abandoned buildings or break into empty apartments in inhabited buildings. They’d steal from stores, and sometimes homes, and mug vulnerable people on quiet streets at night. He was sixteen when his gang cornered a woman in the street and took turns with her. As the youngest, his turn was last. At that point they did not even have to hold her down. She was nearly unconscious. That is how Nicolai lost his virginity.

  But Nicolai blamed neither his father nor his mother for this state of affairs. In a practical sense, both seemed exogenous to his condition, so blame was irrelevant. But in an existential sense, neither was exogenous. He had something from each parent, like any other human being. The question that was more relevant to him was who to identify with.

  His mother offered nothing with which he wanted to identify. She was not only sad, but also defeated. He did not see in her a victim that needed to be understood and protected. He saw a weakling who had been beaten and made miserable; he saw a loser who did not fight. There was no moral indignation in him when he thought of what his father had done. He did not have the education or the understanding to react on moral grounds. He saw instead someone who had not lost, who was not defeated, who was probably happy, or at least happier than his mother. He saw strength and toughness, and most importantly, he saw success. And he had not even met him yet.

  It took Nicolai two years of persistence after his mother’s death to finally convince Ayvazian to take him on. He kept appearing at his door, only to be rebuked and kicked out, but he did not stop. Eventually Ayvazian relented. Nicolai was twenty, his mother was dead, and something in Nicolai reminded Ayvazian of himself. Maybe he could forge the kid into something he could use.

  Nicolai worked with Ayvazian for thirteen years before Ayvazian was killed. During that time, he was restricted to Moscow, and there was no contact whatsoever with Ayvazian’s family in Yerevan. Even Viktor, who worked closely with Nicolai the whole time, did not know who he was until the last year, when Ayvazian decided the time had come to take Viktor into his confidence about Nicolai’s identity.

  Nicolai and Viktor were Ayvazian’s top two lieutenants in Moscow. Between them, they managed over a dozen henchmen, and ran around fifty prostitutes directly. But few of the henchmen knew both men. Those who worked for Viktor knew Viktor, and those who worked for Nicolai knew Nicolai. Yuri did not know Nicolai.

  Among the very few who knew both Viktor and Nicolai were Nono the housekeeper, a few prostitutes, including Anastasia, and of course Ari. But none of these people except Viktor knew about Nicolai’s relationship with Ayvazian. All Ari knew was that Ayvazian had grown fond of Nicolai over the years, and had begun to trust him more and more.

  Perhaps that was the reason why, in Ari’s eyes, Nicolai had risen over the years to become third in command, after Ayvazian and Viktor. And when he asked him to come to Moscow right after Ayvazian’s death, Ari did not hesitate. That is when Nicolai told Ari who he was.

  Nicolai Filatov enters the study alone. He does not want anyone else in the room when he first comes face to face with Carla. She is standing in front of her desk, in her black pantsuit and white blouse. Her face is stony and serious.

  “Good to finally meet you,” he says. Carla sees the resemblance immediately. His eyes are Russian, from his mother, but the shape of his forehead and chin are pure Ayvazian. So are his mannerisms. They sit on the maroon velvet sofa.

  “So,” says Carla in her most businesslike voice, “Papa had a boy three years before he had me.”

  “That sums it up,” says Nicolai, showing the first hint of a smile.

  “When did he find out?”

  “He knew all along, from when I was born.”

  Carla looks surprised. “But you’ve been working with him for only thirteen years?”

  “I met him for the first time when I was eighteen. I started working with him and cousin Viktor two years later.”

  It suddenly occurs to Carla that it was around thirteen years ago when she overheard her father say that he wished she were a boy. He must have finally relented and taken the bastard son in right around that time, when he so strongly felt the need for a son. She makes a mental note to tell Nicolai the story one day. For a second, she wonders how differently things might have turned out if he had taken her into the business. He might never have felt the need to accept Nicolai if he had.

  “Did you make the video tapes?” she asks, coming to the main question on her mind. She had received the second CD under her door, with the twenty-second clip of the scene in the orchard that left no doubt about her identity.

  “I ordered them made. As an insurance policy. I do not intend to use the second one, if we can work together. And if we cannot, well, then all this,” and Nicolai waves his hand around the room, “becomes irrelevant anyway.”

  “You want us to work together?”

  “Of course. Why would I be here otherwise?”

  “How?”

  “You keep running things in Armenia, but you coordinate with me. We split profits fifty-fifty. You also give me half of all the money Papa left behind, both in cash and in the banks.”

  “That’s it? You keep one hundred percent of everything else, and I keep half of Armenia?”

  “I spent thirteen years building what you call ‘everything else.’ Of course I’ll keep it. You’ve done nothing to earn any of this Carla, and yet you keep half of Armenia. I think if any of this is unfair, it is in your favor.”

  Very well played, thinks Carla. Besides, he can send me to jail on a whim. He’s not even mentioning that.

  “We obviously disagree on the definition of fair,” she says. “Besides, I don’t think it is about fairness, is it? It is about when it would no longer be worth dealing with each other. So allow me to suggest a slight modification to the arrangement. You keep one hundred percent of Russia, which is probably by far the largest operation anyway, and we split everything else fifty-fifty, not just Armenia. That includes the Ukraine, Dubai and Istanbul, as far as I know.”

  “You remind me of Papa,” smiles Nicolai. “Negotiating even when you don’t have a leg to stand on. That is why I’ll accept your suggestion, not because I have to. This is the one and only concession you’ll get from me as my sister. From here on, it is pure business. Do not give me any cause to suspect you, in anything. I can bring everything you have tumbling down on your head.”

  Carla is finally
released from house arrest on the basis of inconclusive evidence. However, the police order makes it clear that the case would be reopened if and when new evidence implicating her comes to light.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Two momentous events took place this week, hopefully both harbingers of better days to come. On Monday, Apastan officially opened its doors. It is a beautiful three-story house in the Malatya-Sebastia district of Yerevan. It has the charm of the old homes, but is renovated and well suited to accommodate twenty boarders. There is a two-meter high wall around the one thousand square meter property, with a small garden at the back of the house. Most of the furniture has arrived, and although we still have a few pieces to procure, we decided to do the opening because Monday was the only day that Manoj could visit again.

  Manoj gave me a small sealed envelope. It was a note from Ahmed.

  “Dear Lara,

  I’m sorry I could not attend the opening, but please accept my sincere congratulations. As soon as you have next year’s budget finalized, I will transfer the next tranche of the funds. The Ayvazians’ villa is still stuck in the court, but I will fund the shelter personally until the villa is sorted out and sold.

  On a personal note, I want to thank you again for opening my eyes. My life has changed immeasurably because of you. As you soar over your mountain peaks, know that you have a friend for life here in the desert.

  Sincerely, Ahmed.”

  There was no pomp and circumstance, no long speeches, no cutting of ribbons. Just us, and the few staff that we have hired, including my assistant, a guard who is also the driver, a psychiatrist, a housekeeper and Dr. Suren, who is on retainer. There were also two people from the government: the chief of police of the district and a representative from the Department of Justice. No reporters were invited. Manoj outlined the purpose of the foreign benefactor, Edik translated, and the guests toured the house. The ceremony lasted forty-five minutes.

  Although Hov is still in jail, I gave Anna the option to move into the shelter or stay in our new apartment. She opted for the apartment. She will enroll in acting and literature classes, and will work part time at the shelter. Her job will be to engage the residents in reading from classical literary works as a recreational activity a few times a week.

  The second event was the wedding of Sona and Simon in Ohanavank on Saturday. Everyone in Saralandj was there, in addition to a lot of friends and relatives from Aparan and Ashtarak. The main hall of the monastery was packed. The service was traditional and truly lovely. I had forgotten how beautiful Armenian liturgical music is. Sona looked beatific.

  The most amazing thing that Sona and Simon did was to leave the church through the secret door, into the underground cave, and out on the other side of the gorge, where a horse-drawn carriage was waiting to take them to a car on the main road, which, in turn, took them on their honeymoon, to a small hotel outside Ashtarak. Everyone laughed when she removed her high-heeled shoes and handed them to Simon. The scene where they walked down the hidden staircase as man and wife, she in her flowing white wedding gown, he in his silver-grey tuxedo, and disappeared into the ground, captivated everyone. As they emerged from the cave at the other side of the gorge, forty-eight white doves were released, which is the sum of their ages, twenty-two and twenty-six. It was their idea to build a bridge between their wedding and the thirteenth century tale of the church. Edik had tears in his eyes, as did I.

  Edik had found the time to pull Arpi aside during the wedding and commend her on her poetry. He was not exaggerating. He honestly believes Arpi is already an accomplished poet, and should be encouraged to write. “Just keep writing,” he told her.

  Edik remains an enigma. I cannot decide whether the cause of his deep interest in me is his feeling that my coming home, and his role in it, has been a vindication of the loss of his sister Sirarpi, or whether a more romantic feeling is in play. Had it not been for the age difference between us, would he have wanted a romantic relationship with me? I guess I’ll never find out, unless I put him on his bench of truth and redemption and outright ask him one day. In the meantime, I’m happy to live with this ambiguity for a while longer. He is not only one of the most decent people I have ever known, but a true friend, and someone who has helped guide me through some of the most difficult conflicts that I have had to resolve. He’ll have a life-long friend in me as well.

  Anastasia is back to her routine in Moscow and calls once in a while. She is another enigma. She has embraced everything that I have rejected, and will never understand my inability to accept the life she has adopted, and yet we too have become friends of sorts. I know she would trust me with anything. I just don’t know why. That too is something I am happy to live with.

  On Sunday, everyone at home was still glowing with the memory of the perfect wedding. Even Arpi was livelier.

  Before lunch, I went for a walk toward the forests of Saralandj. I had no intention of reaching them this time. I just wanted to relive that experience from my childhood. The intense awe and excitement that I had felt years ago were replaced by a serene familiarity with the surroundings. The forest is now home too.

  When I returned home, I saw Aram with his nose buried in Arpi’s poetry book. I could hear Avo whistling a tune while working in the back garden with Sago, just like Papa used to do. He has his first shipment of honey to Dubai already scheduled for the fall. Alisia was chirping around like a spring sparrow learning how to fly. And I could see and feel Arpi drifting back and forth between the present and somewhere mystical in her mind.

  In the afternoon I took a bunch of white carnations that we had brought home from the wedding, and went to the village cemetery. I remember how we used to visit our family section in the cemetery on Merelots days; there are five in the Armenian calendar. Early on, the visits were a lot of fun for us. We did not personally know anyone buried there, and my parents used to turn the visit into a family outing. They burned khung, incense, and played duduk music, wanting to keep the memory of my grandparents and great aunts and uncles alive.

  Of course, all that changed when Papa was killed.

  Aside from the graves, there are two stones with crosses on them for my great-grandfather and for my great aunt, the legendary Araxi Dadik, whose ring I now wear. They both died in Siberia, and their remains are lost somewhere there. How many secrets are buried in this small cemetery, I wondered? Great-grandpa, who was tired of multiple exiles and came to Armenia in the mid-forties just so he could die in the Motherland, was instead exiled to Siberia, where he died. The beautiful Araxi Dadik had a miserable life. She left a man who was madly in love with her behind, ended up marrying someone else in Siberia and died of tuberculosis at a young age, alone, because they had quarantined her.

  How I wish I could exhume the secrets that have found a final home in these graves.

  I placed a white carnation on each grave and the two stones, starting with Araxi Dadik, showing her her ring, and working my way down, taking a minute to think about each person, trying to revive their memory like Papa used to do. I stayed longer at Mama’s grave. I told her how sorry I was that I didn’t make it home in time to see her. I told her how I never forgot our last night and her words of advice; I told her how I never forgot the sorrow that defined her. How many secrets did you take with you, Mama? Did you have any? Were they your prison or your sanctuary?

  I placed the last carnation on Papa’s grave, and could not control my tears. Thank you for not abandoning me, Papa. You were there helping me every step of the way. Somewhere in the Bible stories that you used to read, you read once that Jesus died for us. The only person I know who died for me is you, Papa jan. You died for me, and then you saved my life and brought me back home. I will not leave home again, no matter where I go.

  Acknowledgements

  Like its prequel, A Place Far Away, this book is dedicated to the thousands of young women who fall victim to international human trafficking every year and suffer silently trapped in a horrific world. It was m
y chance encounter with some of them and my first-hand familiarization with their plight that inspired me to write both books.

  Ultimately, this is the story of the heroic attempt of a young victim of sex trafficking to go home again. It is a work of fiction. All characters, events and places have no connection whatsoever with actual ones. However, once again, I have tried to tell the story in a way that allows a sense of the true nature of the anguish of that journey to flow through the fiction. My most valuable insights in creating that link came from the many victims that I had the privilege of meeting and interviewing, some still in captivity, others in various shelters in Yerevan. By their trust and candor, they gave me more than I can hope to return.

  I am indebted to many individuals who helped improve the manuscript: Jane Vise Hall, who patiently and expertly edited the manuscript; Armine Hovannisian, who made several invaluable suggestions which enriched the plot immeasurably; Silva Merjanian, who wrote Arpi Galian’s poem; Artak Tonikian, who helped both with my research and with the cover design; Debbie Beadle of Ecpat UK, who helped with my early research. I am also grateful to several individuals who patiently read the manuscript and made valuable suggestions, including my wife Charlotte Zanoyan, Nora Salibian, Ussama Saffouri, Arax Pashayan, Dikran Babikian and Hera Deeb.