khosq.com

(this is translated from the armenian article on www.payqar.org via tzitzernak)

The story which I must recount to my dear reader is extraordinary for a number of reasons. I think very few expected that while being pursued, I would succeed in making a tour around the world.

Yes, yes, I am getting ready to tell you about my incredible journey around the world, which started on March 3. If memory serves me right, I am the first person who, while being pursued, has been able to travel around the world; at any rate, the first who makes it public. This is one of the reasons why my story is extraordinary. The next reason is that in the narrative of my journey, I have to be careful about the evidence, the incidents, and the exact locations where events took place. This is necessitated by my status as someone who is on the run. You understand that I cannot describe the exact locations of border crossings; I cannot mention the names of the ships on which I have traversed seas and oceans, not as much for myself, as for the safety of those who have helped and guided me along the way. Of my Armenian companions, I will mention neither the first nor the last names. Regarding my foreign-born friends, I will refer to some of them only by their first names, because in helping and guiding me, they were forced to break some of the laws of their countries. I do not want these people to have any problems with law enforcement agencies.

1. A Sudden Departure

Although I noted March 3rd as the first day of my journey, in fact, it began the night of March 1st, into the morning of the 2nd. I was in the last group to leave the area around the French embassy in the Republic of Armenia. The arena of the events of March 1 was surrounded on all sides by police, National Security Service (NSS), army and other forces of uncertain origin. As you would imagine, leaving that area was not easy, especially since several units of the NSS were pursuing me from the very beginning. And in that chase, they were right on my heels, in the true meaning of the word. Imagine, at one point less than one and one half meters separated me from one of the NSS agents. At that very moment, I was overcome by the feeling that the coming months of my life would be full of miracles, because the NSS agent, who, as I mentioned, was standing less than a meter and a half away from me, was looking right at me but did not see me. I almost put my hand to my head to see if perhaps I was wearing an “invisibility hat,” but any movement at that point would have been wrong, so I stood still, like a statue. But I won’t deny that my heart wasn’t beating like the heart of a statue, but more like the heart of a runner who had just set a new world record. My NSS friend, still looking at me with a searching gaze from a distance about the height of Serzh [Sargsyan] seemed he had not only lost his eyesight and his hearing (because he couldn’t hear the loud thumping of my heart), but his sense of smell as well. Had I not spent nine days and nine nights by the bonfires of freedom till dawn, and reeked of smoke? Despite this, the miracle took place. My hunter kept looking at me and, possibly missing the chance for a promotion, walked away.

Of course, the pursuit did not end with this, and would continue, although my compatriots at the NSS would come that close to me only one other time. By contrast to the first, this time there was a solid barrier between us; they would have discovered me had they opened the door, which didn’t happen. And that meant that my incredible journey would continue. Compared to the first incident, this second one was not even close to being a miracle, though if the first one hadn’t occurred it may have been able to make such a claim. But the first one had taken place, and had set such high standards that it wasn’t easily compared to the first one. So, in this way, the hunter went away, leaving me in a state of indecision; and I was wondering if I would end up in the prison in Yerevan or not, when I unexpectedly ran into the person who would take me to Tbilisi. I had known this man, whom I will provisionally call the Old Wise One, for a long time, but had gotten to know him more closely in May, 2007 at a sit-in on Freedom Square, a protest action which is known to the public as “1+.” That man is not at all old, but as I was realized time and time again, he is indeed wise. But if I am to write that he is wise, then I have no choice but to also call him old, according to the rules of the genre. After all, you can’t say “Young Wise One.” If he is wise, then he must also be old. And so, my meeting with the Old Wise One was quite opportune, because he was one of the few acquaintances I had left whose name was not on the list of people to be arrested. In no way can he pretend to be an organizer of massive unrest, nor could he, along with us, usurp power, because he had that power before March 1st, and he has it now. In short, according to the government, the Old Wise One is one of those people whose defense necessitates the arrest of my friends, and me.

The Old Wise One, however, did not scare at our encounter. Quite the opposite: he decided to seriously concern himself with my safety. He knew that the NSS was looking for me, he knew that the search was broadening, and that not only in Yerevan, but throughout Armenia, I had no chance of remaining a free man. As I mentioned earlier, he eventually took me to Tbilisi, in fact, without taking my opinion into account. I ended up there involuntarily. This, too, was a miracle, and may not have happened at all, since the NSS continued to pursue me, now the two of us, with them right on our heels. But they lost my trail in Dilijan. The NSS moved from Dilijan toward the village of Haghardsin, where I have relatives on my mother’s side, and then toward Ichevan, where my parents, brother and friends live. The NSS had hopes of finding me in those parts, but aware of their plans, from Dilijan we turned toward the region of Lori. I will say straight away, that the Old Wise One turned out to have strong ties in, and knowledge of the forests and ravines of the region of Lori. Because of that it was not particularly difficult for us to preplan misleading, that is, secured routes, and with the help of the locals, to actualize the plan, emerging at a deserted section of the Armenian-Georgian border and then cross the border. In the end, we surfaced in Javakhk, and this journey forced me to wonder if the Old Wise One was using his position of authority to engage in contraband. Regardless, if he can smuggle such a hunted man out of the country without any obstacles, then he can import and export goods with equal success. These doubts deepened when it turned out that he had a house in Tbilisi, but at this moment that man was my benefactor, and the law-enforcement bodies were searching for me, not for him.

And in that way I did not get to see Lake Parvana. When I told my companion of my desire to be on the banks of that lake, he mocked me, “Are you a tourist, or a criminal?” My argument, that it is possible to mix pleasure with the practical, did not gain any foothold and we soon surfaced in Tbilisi. And the Old Wise One, having handed me over to my new companion, left. At that time I did not know that I would again meet with the Old Wise One during my long journey, a journey that had started involuntarily and would, equally involuntarily, become a journey around the world.

Nikol Pashinyan
May 7, 2008

The Other Side of the World (Part Two)

2.Hello, Georgia

In Tbilisi, my companion would be Zurap. To tell you the truth, based on Armenian prejudices, I wasn’t expecting much from my acquaintance with this young Georgian man; but moving forward, let me say that he became a true friend to me, my sweet brother.

My conclusion about my friendship with Zurap is that, alas, despite our geographic proximity, we don’t really know the Georgians, their culture, their feelings and their soul. The same, by the way, is true for them. And, despite the adage that “the next-door neighbor is better than the distant relative”, which Armenians and Georgians consider one another, neither we nor they apply it sufficiently. On the contrary, in many cases, we act exactly the opposite.

The closeness between Zurap and I is probably predicated on the fact that in many ways we are alike. Like me, he too had graduated from school outside the capital, and later came to the capital to attend college, and lived in his aunt’s house. Along the way, he had met with complications and conquered them, and in his life too, his grandmother played a major role.

In the practical sense, he had significant connections to be able to “handle” the circumstances that had brought me to Georgia, especially among the border guards. We didn’t know if the arrest warrant issued for me had been circulated internationally, but we had no doubt that it had reached Georgia. We were therefore sure that if I fell into the hands of the Georgian law enforcers, they would certainly hand me over to the Armenian authorities, to avoid further problems in the Armenian-Georgian relationship or to avoid the creation of tensions. This is the reason Zurap got involved in getting me out of Georgia, which was intertwined with a thousand and one issues. And while Zurap’s friends among the border guards were busy arranging for our needs, we left Tbilisi, especially since in one way or another, we would nevertheless have to reach Batumi. Zurap’s childhood friend Avo, an ethnic Kurd and a taxi driver in Tbilisi, accepted the responsibility to lead us. He agreed to put his car at our disposal for a few days, especially since he very much wanted his friend to receive his guest and then send him on his way appropriately.

But we had time, so Zurap arranged an interesting pastime for me. We went to Dzvari, the 6th century architectural complex which is a source of pride for the Georgians. We went to Zurap’s ancestral village, which is in a splendid mountain area. Here, I met everyday Georgians, I broke bread with them, the Chadi, heard their amazing, amazing stories, which were so funny you could cry and so sad, you could cry. I liked the Georgians, because they’re very similar to us, Armenians, be it in their shortcomings, or their strengths. Nothing extraordinary happened in Georgia, if we don’t consider it extraordinary that I received some powerful impressions, about which I hope I have the chance to speak in detail.

Finally, we reached Batumi, where it became evident that Zurap’s border guard friends had found a suitable alternative; they were getting ready to send me to Greece. If truth be told, I was very happy that my next stop would be Greece, because I didn’t want to pass through Turkey.

I was to leave for Greece on a boat, where Old Man Ugly, a member of the crew and janitor on the boat, would help me settle in. This was a young man with an incredibly ugly exterior, who was conspicuous not only because of his ugly exterior, but for his amazing intelligence and wit. But this already belongs to the Greek part of our story. In completing the Georgian part, let me say that it ended in tragedy. On the very first day, a young school boy who had come aboard the boat with us, drowned at sea. He had fallen from the boat in the open sea, although some people said he had jumped. The family of the boy, who was born and raised in Georgia but was of Greek heritage, was leaving for Greece to make their home there, and now, this tragedy had befellen them.

We parted ways with Zurap with the firm conviction to meet again. He will continue to tell me many stories from his life—till we meet again, padono (sir, in Georgian).

3. Forgive Me, My Son

The sea was grim, but peaceful. It seemed to me that it was an external and in a way, artificial peace. But what transpires in the deep? What does the Sea think? What does it want? What does it dream of? But I know the reveries of the Sea, don’t I? Don’t I know everything about it? Almost everything? Do I not strive for the realization of that reverie?

But what if that reverie is impracticable, what if that reverie is frivolous? It matters not. I will serve that reverie; I will serve wholeheartedly because I have promised my son…I remember that day. I returned home late as usual. My brand new official car drove me to the entrance gate. It had picked me up at the entrance of my newly renovated and comfortable work place. I also have a home, and in my newly renovated home live my loved ones, my family. I, who has left his provincial birthplace, a weighing burden on my hard-working family, now can carry on my shoulders more than the responsibility of my own family. I got lucky and I had the opportunity; but does that mean anything? Don’t I, as an honest, outgoing person who is not bribed, have anything to say to those people who have not been lucky, who will not be fortunate, because we have all denied them their chances for the sake of our own personal fortunes? Should we not struggle so that they may also be given a chance? Isn’t life short, so short, that it’s possible not to live? And they won’t live. Are we going to allow them to live without a life…?

I crossed over the threshold and entered the house. My son was sleeping peacefully. I was happy, but not because of the peace that engulfed my home, but rather, because my son was asleep. I didn’t want our eyes to meet, I didn’t want to have my son look into my eyes because it seemed to me that he would understand everything and would not hesitate to ask me, “Father, are you afraid?”

“But son, I am afraid of losing you…”

“That’s a lie. You are afraid of losing your official car, you are afraid of losing your office, your artificial conceit, your artificial influence. Haven’t you understood anything, Father? Haven’t you understood anything from reading the Holy Bible next to your bed? Abraham placed his son Isaac on the sacrificial altar, and in that way, only in that way he saved him.

“To place you on the sacrificial altar? But don’t I do it all for the sake of a
better official car, for the sake of a better office, for the sake of a better
and more artificial authority, better but more artificial prestige?

“Father, are you a scoundrel?”

“I promise, I promise not to be a scoundrel, my son. I promise not to be afraid, my son, I promise to place you on the sacrificial altar. Forgive me, my son.”

The sea was grim, but peaceful. Here and there passing war ships seemed to watch over the peacefulness of the sea, as if they felt they would not allow the Sea to swell. They did not understand that if the Sea wished to, it could swallow them in an instant. But the sea was sad; it was sad for the boy who had jumped or fallen from the boat. The Sea loved its children, the Sea did not wish to devour its children; and the Sea was patient.

And I, am I doing the right thing? Don’t I belong with my friends who are struggling for their lives in dungeons? Am I not leaving them alone in this hour of temptation? But to go there willingly means to surrender, and surrender is impossible. It is essential to fight; it is essential to win. I will journey around the world, and that will become a new victory. I will not hide; I will proclaim my path - catch me if you can.

(Part Four)

5. Death or Liberty

Macedonia remained an unknown country for me. We preferred to travel by night, and sleep at roadside motels during the day. Travel by day in the same car where two of the passengers have arrest warrants against them, is extremely risky. And so, Macedonia became for us a country of evening breakfasts and morning dinners. Sometimes, when the moon or the dawn illuminated our path, it seemed to me that we were racing on the roads of our Armenia, here, as if we were on the winding roads of Dilijan or the valley of Arpa. But this is similitude, mere similitude. This is not Armenia but Macedonia, and as far as I could gather, this country for the time being doesn’t have much to be proud about. For now, it only has a name, but others want to deprive it even of that. That doesn’t surprise me, what surprises me is the Old Wise One, who is involved in such a wide array of activities. Using his position for sure, he trades in illegal arms and his meeting with Marko is part of that business. And they take me along. But no matter; I present no harm, and I’m even doing some good.

Marko, in contemporary lingo, is a regular guy: bright, bold, ready to overcome any obstacle. He loves his nation, his people, and is ready to sacrifice his life for them and destroy anyone who insults his people, his fatherland. Marko is not particularly intelligent, but he is kind and straightforward. He is a hero of his people, despite the fact that he has a foul mouth and constantly swears right and left. “I’ll f*** their mothers” he says about the Americans, “I’ll f*** their food” he says about the European structures, “I’ll f*** their parents” he says about the International Court of Justice at The Hague which had issued a warrant for his arrest and for many of his friends.

“No, did you see that slut of a prosecutor? (Marko is here referring to former judge Carla del Ponte of the International Court of Justice at The Hague). She’s written a book. I’ll f*** [her] mouth…But she has not covered the main issue, the most important one.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“I’ll tell you, my brother, I’ll put it to you plainly. You know, she can’t tolerate us because we haven’t screwed her. That woman had hopes that we would screw her, all of us, one by one, so she would, for the first time in her life, release herself in her f***ing. She had given up hope on the domesticated Europeans a long time ago and knows that only Serbian manliness would make her claw her mattress. But you’ve seen her face; would you screw her?” he asked me unexpectedly. I gave a puzzled look at the Old Wise One sitting next to me, but the latter looked back at me with such rebuke as if I was the one to blame for the direction the conversation had taken. But fortunately, Marko did not insist on my answer and continued to develop his seminal idea, with which he was trying to explain the global processes taking place in relation to his country.

“No, my brother. We, Serbian men can’t defile our bodies with such filth. Our girls—I love them all, some as women, others as sisters, our compatriots and blood relatives, and for whose purity of soul I would die—would spit on us if we did that. That slut of a prosecutor was disappointed, but she didn’t despair. And now she wants to throw us in the comfortable prison cells of The Hague so that she can chase us to her heart’s delight. [She] can suck my d***, f*** [her] mother.”

I tried to relocate the conversation to a more civilized vocabulary:

“But let’s face it; you really did massacre the Albanians of Kosovo.”

Marko was looking at me with surprise:

“And what were we supposed to do? Should we have let them massacre us?”

“But you were massacring not only those who were massacring you, but also the peaceful residents,” I answer.

“Then you go tell them apart. In the morning he is a peaceful resident, after lunch, a martyr.”

“But the women, the children…?”

“Listen, my brother. Their women are women and their children are children, but our women are rags, and our children rats? You speak as if you’re French. What do I have to explain to the Armenian? How many Turks did your pathetic court prosecute for the massacres of 1915? And haven’t you asked yourself what business the Turk has in the Balkan Peninsula, in Kosovo, everywhere? What, did we invite them as our guests and then asked them to stay to enjoy our first wedding night? You’re right; we’re the ones who are guilty, we, who loved our fragile life of today more than the future, more than our dignity. We didn’t wish to sacrifice ourselves, and so they have butchered us like sheep, yes, like sheep.”

Marko was silent. I didn’t say anything, either. The Old Wise One was not showing any desire to get involved in our conversation. It seems that he has already exchanged views with Marko on these themes. The Old Wise One was trying to sleep, as much as Marko’s agitated voice would allow him. And even though Marko had reminded me of 1915, in my mind, I had reached 1988. My God, how fortunate we had been that without any headaches, without a single shot fired, we had been able to free Armenia of the Azeris. What would have happened if the Azeris living in Armenia had stayed on, become citizens of independent Armenia, or, in the meantime, armed conflict had started in Armenia? That would have been our end. Yet that chapter of our history has not been acknowledged as it should have been, and those who shaped that history are not appreciated. It’s simply terrible. I break my silence finally:

“You know, Marko, I understand you. I also understand very well those of my compatriots whose motto corresponds to the Serbian: Death or Liberty. Believe me, I respect that motto, and I like it. But very often we forget about time and space, we forget that the world is changing. If, in 1918, we had not fought at Sartarapad, near Yerevan, and at Pash Abaran, against the Turk, we would not have a state. But if, in 1988, we had tried to avenge our ancestors against the Turks of Massis, Sissian, Vartenis, we would not have had a state because we could not have fought the Turks at Massis, Sissian, Vartenis, Karabagh, Nakhichevan and all along the border of Armenia—all at once. However, if in 1915 we had fought in Istanbul and everywhere else at once, we might have been saved. Do you understand that war in itself is not the objective, and neither is peace. The winner is he who can differentiate the time for peace from the time to wage war, fights when it’s time to fight, and makes peace when it’s time to make peace.”

Marko said nothing, and I continued:

“Let’s look at the results. You lost Kosovo, you lost Bosnia, you lost Montenegro. This is the reward for the fact that you fought them when you should have won them over. But don’t get me wrong. You are a soldier, you are wholeheartedly dedicated to your mission; and you are a hero, a hero of your nation. Your job was to fulfill orders, and you have spared nothing in order to do that. But those who gave you the orders should have thought before giving the order because their job is to think before giving orders. They didn’t do that, they betrayed their people.”

“Nevertheless, Americans are condoms, as are the Europeans,” said Marko bitterly.

“Also the Russians,” I added out of curiosity.

And so the Old Wise One said nothing.

[translator's note: the footnote you see in the original Armenian text was incorporated into the English version as a parenthetic explanation]

* * *

(Part Five)

6. His Specialty: Warfare

The skill with which Marko crossed the borders of countries strange and hostile to him left no doubt that it was part of his professional activities. This hypothesis was further confirmed by his superior knowledge of winding roads and main thoroughfares. He not only knew those roads but knew also what took place there, where danger awaited us and when that danger would be lifted.

The pace of our car, basically driven by Marko’s driver/bodyguard, would sometimes slow down intolerably and sometimes would come to a complete standstill, waiting for something or a telephone call. Although I didn’t see any of them, Marko had aides both in Greece and Macedonia. They recognized him in motels, where his appearance was received as an ordinary event. Marko, of course, is a suspicious character. But it was strange that during our travel together it didn’t once cross my mind that he could do me harm. This, it goes without saying, was also predicated on the Old Wise One, but even at first glance Marko had inspired trust in me: if you are not an enemy, you can be at ease.

Yet nonetheless, what business is this man engaged in? After considering different hypotheses, I concluded that he was involved in arms dealing, which turned out to be true. During our subsequent conversations Marko no longer made any secret of that fact. He didn’t want me to think that he was involved in narcotics or human trafficking. Concerning arms dealing, he explained it in this way: “Warfare is my specialty, and I get bored without danger.”

Marko was married and had a 13-year old daughter. But we never visited their home. It was located in northern Serbia while our destination was the capital, Belgrade, whence we were to travel to the Old Wise One and reach a decision on his subsequent itinerary. The circle of people Marko represented had for some time lost formal power, but despite that, my traveling companion felt very sure of himself in his country. An eloquent proof of that was the fact that he was able to secure a Serbian passport for me, with a new name and surname. In the process, I was simply required to be photographed, and before long, I was a citizen of Serbia by the name of Boyan, with visas that would make it possible for me to enter almost all European countries. Marko joked that I could even participate in the forthcoming parliamentary elections and vote for his friends among the leadership. He had attached hopes to the elections and wished that the real national powers would once more take the leadership of Serbia in their hands and remove the American “puppets” from the government.

I wished for Marko’s wishes to come true; and that surprised me. Wasn’t it very likely that had I lived in Serbia, Marko and I would have been in opposite political camps? He wasn’t, of course, a party boss nor an oligarch, but was from that type of circle, second tier, but not a secondary player. Despite that, in a very short time our relationship was on friendly terms and I one time, exploiting that relationship, upset him. We were dining in the restaurant of our hotel on the shores of the Danube:

“Marko,” I began, “I want to ask you a question. If I don’t, I just won’t forgive myself later on.”

“Ask; let’s see.”

“Look, you love your country. You say you love the Serbs and for their sake you’ve killed many Albanians as well as representatives of other nations. That is understandable. But tell me, has it ever happened that you, for some reason or another have killed, or shot down, or kidnapped or tortured other Serbs…?”

While asking the question, I could see how the color of Marko’s face and his expression were changing. He stood up and threw down the knife and fork.

“Boy, are you a sadist or a prosecutor?” he said, and left the restaurant.

I finished my meal undisturbed. Marko was reading a paper in the foyer; or rather, he was pretending he was reading. My question had profoundly disturbed him and he wouldn’t be able to read in that condition.

“Forgive me, Marko,” I said, approaching him. “I just wanted to understand; I want to understand myself.”

7. To Opera, via Prospekt

Marko would have to render me one more service: he would need to arrange it such that on the way to boarding the flight leaving for Vienna, the employees of the airport in Belgrade and the customs officers would not ask me any questions. You will agree that it would be strange if it became evident that Serbian citizen Boyan did not master his native tongue. But this was not a problem for Marko. He found a traveling companion for me from among the employees of the airport, and I, indeed, appropriately passing all inspections, arrived at the Austrian Airlines plane.

We had dined before saying farewell. When he learned that I wanted to return to Armenia, but from the other side of the world, he was speechless:

“No, you really are dim-witted!” he said.

Marko had made a similar declaration once before. I had wanted to know if the Old Wise One was involved in arms trading:

“Could it be that you want to write an article?”

“You guessed it,” I had said.

“You really are dim-witted!” had groaned Marko.

“Come on, Marko, come on, my brother! I don’t offer words of gratitude to you because that would sound extremely trite in this situation. I’m saying, sincerely, good luck; I’m saying, sincerely, my brother!

Before that, Marko had given me 10,000 Euros, which I had accepted without hesitation. He had also said that a man by the name of Josef would meet me in Vienna. I had been telling him that there was no need for that, that I was able to continue my travel without help on the side, that I had money, Serbian citizenship, and a fresh biography:

“Don’t get too excited,” Marko said, grimacing, “A person with the name and surname of your passport does really exist. And they would very much want to see him at the International Court of Justice at The Hague.”

We both laughed.

Behold, the plane took off from Serbian soil. The monitor before me shows how we’re leaving Belgrade and approaching Vienna.

Yes, this is an extraordinary and amazing trip and much easier to arrange than those ordinary trips we’re used to. Isn’t it true that a thousand and one complications rise when planning those ordinary trips, a thousand and one hassles? It is necessary to arrange one’s affairs, save some money, to prove to aloof functionaries in embassies that you are definitely coming back, pack the suitcases—with the fear that you have forgotten something. But in this case you don’t even say farewell to your loved ones. You just leave; like going to the store. But is it possible to consider this a journey? Is this in reality an escape? But how is it an escape; is it possible to escape from Armenia by going to Armenia? Am I not discovering Armenia from the other side of the world?

But, is it possible to consider going from one point to another in Yerevan a journey?
Am I not going from the statue of Myasnikyan toward Freedom Square?
It is true; there is a shorter route.
But who can claim that the short route is the right one?
Who, indeed?

(Part Six)

8. A Bottle of Stolichnaya

Josef was a banker and probably managed Marko’s banking affairs; hence their acquaintance. Josef and I almost missed each other at the airport in Vienna. My name wasn’t on any of the signs held by people waiting to meet passengers. And just as I was beginning to think that Josef hadn’t come, I suddenly remembered that I had a new name. A young man holding a placard with the name Boyan and the surname in my passport was standing there; it was Josef. I apologized to him, saying that I hadn’t read the placards carefully, and recalled, with horror, my trip from the plane to the arrival lounge. Thank God, no one at the checkpoint had asked for my name; if they had, I would have given my real name!

I asked Josef to take me to a hotel in the center of Vienna. On the way, I was constantly repeating my new name and surname to myself, so that it would be etched in my mind. I settled down in a very nice hotel and drank espresso with Josef in the foyer. We spoke a little of this and that, then he gave me his telephone numbers and left to attend to his business. He said he would return at noon the next day. I went up to my room. It was only 11:30 in the morning. I decided to sleep a bit. I woke up around 3:00 in the afternoon, turned on the television to watch Euronews. There was nothing about Armenia. I went down to the Internet Club, ordered a double espresso and began to read the Armenian newspapers which had resumed publication after the end of the State of Emergency. My article, which I had sent to the on-line underground newspaper, had also been published in Haykakan Zhamanak. So now I could write new ones.

I pulled out the Flash Port from my pocket which had, among other useful things, the KDWin program and Armenian typeface. I wrote an article, sent it to the underground newspaper and realized that I miss Armenia. What needed to be done was the simplest thing: I found a supermarket nearby. I search and search for Russian vodka in the store window but can’t find it. I am compelled to ask. The supermarket employee accompanies me to a display case placed high up; its uppermost shelf shows, among a variety of bottles, a crouching bottle of Stolichnaya vodka. With a hand gesture I ask it to be brought down. The supermarket worker brings a tall ladder and brings down the half-liter bottle.

The participants of the ritual look at me with congratulatory glances. The reason is the highly unusual purchase. Hardly anyone buys Russian vodka from the supermarkets here. The Russians visiting Vienna drink their vodka in bars or restaurants, or simply bring it with them.

After I discovered the vodka, I also bought four potatoes, one onion, one smoked fish, two cucumbers, two tomatoes, two bottles of beer and bread. Looking for regular cheese here is meaningless; so I bought a pepper that looked promising and which should be as hot as need it. I returned to my room, removed a few things from the mini bar, and replaced them with the vodka and beer I had brought. I called the restaurant, asked them for a tray with a dinner setting: a few plates, a knife, a fork and a glass. I washed the cucumbers, the tomatoes, the potatoes, and the pepper.

The tray was brought by a young man 20-22 years old, named Günter. From the expression in his eyes I sensed that he was a fascist. I gave him the washed potatoes and asked him to boil them in water for 15 minutes, either in the microwave or on the stove, and bring them back. I especially cautioned him not to peel the potatoes. Before he returned, I cut up everything, quartered the onion, took out of the mini bar the vodka, which had gotten very cold, and the beer, which was already cold at the supermarket. I filled half the whiskey glass with vodka, raised my glass, said “To our land and water” and drank it. Then I took a piece of fish, some onion, bread, and ate them; then I downed the bottle of beer. I feel good.

There’s somebody at the door. It’s Günter. He’s bringing the potatoes. Who’s that I see coming? Come, my friend, come, my brother, we should drink a toast together.

“We must drink together: You and me. That is Russian vodka”, I say and raise the bottle.

“No, no, I’m working, I’m not allowed”

“Do you turn down Russian vodka? Has Austria forgotten its centuries-old enemy? Has Austria forgiven them? Is Austria no more? Because you didn’t drink vodka, you couldn’t overcome the Russians. Is it possible to overcome those who drink alcohol with Rum and Schnapps?

As surprising as it seems, the lad was effected by my speech. I filled the other whiskey glass halfway— and mine; I gave him his glass and cautioned him to finish it. I touched my glass with his and said, “Here’s to the superior race.” Günter was drinking to the last drop, as was I. All my efforts to get him to eat some onion go fruitless. He wants to go. I give him 10 Euros and tell him to return in 15 minutes to pick up the tray.

Günter returns in 15 minutes, we each drink another glass. He collects the tray; I give him another 10 Euros and say in Armenian “Drive Slowly.” Günter leaves; I sprawl on the bed.

I woke up at dawn from the throbbing in my head, which will split anytime now like the onion I had quartered with my own hands. Somehow, I turned over, picked up the telephone and pressed the “0” button.

“I would like some headache medication; double dose. Open the door yourselves, I can’t stand up.”

In a few minutes or so, somebody was offering two pills on a little towel in the palm of one hand and a glass of water in the other hand. I swallowed the pills and fell back on the bed once more. Some time later I woke up again. My headache had retreated but not surrendered, as if it had started a dialogue with my head, now numb from the throbbing, with the aspiration of finding possibilities of coexisting there.

The pain was bearable now, but it was the memory of my unprecedented suffering that made it bearable. That memory would soon fade and the pain would become equally unbearable.

I rose and stood under the shower in the posture of someone waiting for the tram. Then the pain was destroyed; it flowed, the sewer filled with the blood flowing from my nose. I got dressed and went down to the foyer…

“Espresso, please; double, please. With rum, please.”

Should I describe the foyer of this hotel? Many authors would have done just that. They would have described the gilded handrails and handles, the large mirrors and gilded walls of the elevator, the row of souvenir shops with ridiculous prices. But does that description give new meaning to our history? Is Vienna’s description, that city’s nauseating “organization,” necessary for our history; where even the bush grows according to an established plan and time table? I’m not prepared to bore the reader with these descriptions, especially since the exact description of each bush would lead my pursuers to my exact location.

That’s how the bushes in Vienna are.

(part 7) 

9. Death Penalty in Vienna

Josef arrived when I was already on my second cup of espresso. His expression had changed.

“I have problems; they’re pursuing me. I’ve been officially charged with crimes” he said hastily.

Then he explained that when he had opened his eyes in the morning he had seen a man sitting on the armchair in his bedroom, calmly reading a newspaper (Wiener Zeitung). The man’s black coat and cane had been tossed on his bed. When the visitor had sensed that Josef was awake, he had folded his newspaper and asked him a strange question:

“What do you think? Would it be right for them to admit Ukraine and Georgia into NATO?”

Josef, naturally, had asked for an explanation for the rude invasion of his privacy and threatened to lodge a complaint. But the visitor was not disconcerted and had explained that he had the authority and right to be there.

“If I didn’t” he had said, “I wouldn’t be here.”

The stranger also informed Josef that he was under arrest and that he would be given additional explanations at the Institute, where they were to go without delay. The mysterious stranger had also cautioned him that resistance would be useless because he was not alone. And indeed, when Josef had come out of his bedroom, he had seen three men engaged in a card game in the front entrance, all of them dressed in the same way as the stranger.

The stranger had refused to leave Josef alone in the bedroom while he got dressed. More, he had even accompanied him to the bathroom. And while Josef was on the toilet, the stranger, leaning against the wall next to Josef, had continued his reading of the Wiener Zeitung. Only once had he stopped his reading to say to Josef:

“It seems we ate at McDonald’s yesterday.”

Finally, they had taken Josef in a white limousine to a tall building outside Vienna, where the sign over the entrance simply read: Institute.

They had ordered Josef to wait in a long and narrow corridor, where no one could be seen except for a gray haired janitor who was endlessly mopping the floor. They had then taken him to a hall full of people; on the stage were seated nine people in judicial garb. They had seated Josef on the defendant’s chair. A man, seated in the middle of the stage, had stood up and announced:

“Citizen Josef, you have been officially charged with crimes because you are a criminal. You are under arrest. Do you have anything to say to the Institute?”

Josef had somehow overcome his confusion, had stood up and said:

“I have not committed any crimes…”

Indescribable laughter had erupted in the hall following this announcement. Those seated in the front rows were dying of laughter and rolling on the floor. The same had been true of the man seated first on the left side on the stage. By contrast to the others, he had not calmed down after 10 minutes. He had continued to laugh uncontrollably while he was being taken out of the hall on a stretcher, then, he had tightened up and clutched his abdomen. Finally, the people in the audience had resumed their earlier solemn looks and Josef had continued.

“I want to know what I am being accused of.”

The person sitting in the middle of the stage had frowned for a moment, but had answered calmly:

“Your accusation has not yet been officially formulated. It is in the formative stage and we can not reveal the secrets of the preliminary inquiry to you. Your crime is considered a secret of the preliminary inquiry.”

“May I at least know what law I have broken?” had insisted Josef.

“That is your sacred right, and I officially reveal to you that you have broken clauses 306, 212, 224 of secret law No. 865 of the Austrian Republic. But I can not tell you what they are about, because as I have mentioned, they are the secret clauses of the secret law,” had said the man sitting in the middle.

In despair, Josef had thrown himself back on the defendant’s chair.

“The trial, only the trial, determines what verdict you are worthy of” had said the man sitting in the middle. This had been followed by ardent applause and standing ovation, accompanied by “Bravo” and similar chants.

Finally, the people sitting on the stage had left the hall through the back door, and the audience by the side door. Josef had been left completely alone in the hall. After a while, he had come out to the corridor. But here, too, there was no one around except for the old gray haired janitor endlessly mopping the floor. The latter had approached Josef and said, “They are getting ready to put you in front of a firing squad, so tend to your unfinished business.”

The old man had not waited for an answer. Josef had somehow found the exit and left the building. Once outside, he had noticed that the sign “Institute” he had seen earlier, was no longer there.

This story greatly astonished me, even though it seemed all too familiar. After thinking for a short while, I told Josef that he should get a lawyer.

“I’ve already done that. An old acquaintance of my uncle is a lawyer. He promised to try and find out more about my accusation, although, he said, it wasn’t that easy to get information from the Institute.

“But what is that Institute? What does it represent?”

“I don’t know. My lawyer didn’t say anything, either.”

“Perhaps you should go to the police, to law enforcement officers, the press, even.”

“My lawyer advised me not to. He says that wouldn’t help; it would only anger the Institute. My lawyer says that the best solution is to plead guilty and ask for pardon.”

“But have you really committed a crime?”

“No, but isn’t it best not to anger the Institute?”

“That carries great responsibility. I can’t give you advice of that kind. Perhaps it has to do with Marko.”

“I don’t know what they’re accusing me of. I know I haven’t committed any crime,” said Josef despairingly, and gave me an envelope:

“I ask of you that if anything should happen to me, if I am no longer alive, you make sure that this is delivered to the Lausanne Pan European Foundation. The address is on the envelope.”

I picked up the envelope. The word “Protest” was written on it in large letters.

“If you want it, I will certainly deliver the envelope to Lausanne. But what good is protesting if, as you yourself say, it should be done only in the event you are no longer alive?” I said, stunned.

“That is the procedure,” Josef sighed. “My lawyer is ill, bedridden, and if the need arises, he wouldn’t be able to take the envelope to Lausanne. And according to my lawyer, the most important thing on issues related to the Institute is to have a Protest letter ready, and to make sure that in the event the death penalty is carried out, the letter reaches Lausanne promptly. Since you have to go east, anyway, I thought it wouldn’t be difficult for you to deliver the letter of Protest.”

“Of course it’s not difficult for me. But why are you constantly talking about the death penalty? You’re basing it on the comments of a decrepit janitor?” I exploded at him.

Terrified, Josef looked straight into my eyes:

“My lawyer, too, confirmed that the Institute’s work can have two outcomes: pardon or the death penalty. Decisions are enforced and applied without delay.”

I didn’t know what to say. Josef’s tale appeared fantastic to me— a monstrous misunderstanding. He, too, hoped that it was all a misunderstanding and that was why he turned down my offer to leave Austria together.

“I have to stay and find out what’s really going on. I only ask that you don’t forget my request.”

“But how will I know if, God forbid, anything happens to you?”

“If I don’t come or call, tomorrow, of if I don’t leave you a message, go to Lausanne,” said Josef and got up. “I have to go.”

“Josef, I’m convinced this misunderstanding will be sorted out,” I tried to give him heart.

“Lets hope so, let’s hope so,” said Josef bitterly, and left.

I went up to my room and placed Josef’s Protest letter in the safe. Then, an unexpected thought crossed my mind: I want to see the Danube.

“I want to see the Danube”, I repeated the idea to myself.

I really wanted to see the Danube. That seemed to me the only way to overcome the gloomy atmosphere created by my conversation with Josef.

“How can I get to the shores of the Danube?” I asked the hotel employee.

“Take a left on the street across the hotel.”

“Is it far? Is it walking distance?”

“It’s walking distance; a 20 minute walk.”

That would really be a salvation. After a 20 minute walk it will be obvious that Josef’s tale is sheer fantasy. That sort of thing can’t be true, especially in the heart of Europe.

I walked for 20 minutes; there was no Danube. I walked another 10 minutes, but still no Danube.

“Excuse me, is the Danube far from here? Can I get there by foot?” I ask a passerby.

“It’s not that far. If you want to go by foot, you’ll have to walk for 20 minutes. Continue walking straight on this road.”

Good, walking doesn’t bother me. I walk another 20, and then another 10 minutes, but there’s no Danube. I ask a passerby again. The reader may think this is an artistic thing, but it’s the truth. The passerby gave the same exact answer to my same exact question. I walked for another 20, and, 10, minutes. It’s been one hour and a half and I still haven’t been able to complete the cursed 20 minute trip!

The next passerby was kinder. He suggested taking a taxi. And that’s what I did, because I was no longer in any condition to walk. But the cursed taxi stopped by the shore of the Danube in a total of a minute and a half!

“There’s the Danube,” said the taxi driver with pride.

The Danube was truly beautiful. True, it had been much larger in Belgrade and much more commanding, but here it had acquired its calm, sereneness and peace. What a combination of turmoil and peace…

I stood by the shore of the Danube for about half an hour. I was enchanted by it. I asked a passerby to photograph me with the Danube. I remembered Marko, who perhaps at this moment was also standing by the shore of the Danube.

It was already getting dark and I decided to return to the hotel—naturally by taxi. My feet were protesting, I had sprawled on the armchair in my room and was switching the channels on my television. It’s Josef; yes, it’s Josef! They were showing his photograph on the television, and some frames of a car covered with bullet holes. It was Josef’s car. And the inert, slumped body in the car was Josef’s.

The broadcast is in German and I understand nothing. But everything is clear: the death penalty was carried out. I’m in shock. Was it all true? Did it all happen in reality? The Protest letter: I’ve promised to deliver it to Lausanne. I call the hotel operator:

“I’d like to find out how I can get to Lausanne as soon as possible.”

About 10 minutes later the phone rings:

“You can go to Lausanne on a train that leaves in two hours…”

“Please reserve a place for one person, prepare my bill and call a taxi. I’m checking out.”

When I went down to the hotel foyer, the English language evening papers had just been delivered. There was a small news item with Josef’s photograph. It said that he was executed by the police for not submitting to their orders and for attempting armed resistance.

I was in Lausanne the next evening. I got into a taxi as soon as I got off the train and showed the address on the envelope. The address was a door that opened directly onto the street. I rang the doorbell. An elderly man opened the door. I told him I had brought a letter of Protest. The man invited me in and accompanied me to the front entrance where pictures, large pictures, of terrifying scenes were hung. I sat down on one of the many armchairs. Five minutes later an attractive woman of around 50 years old came in. She was dressed formally, but tastefully. And, she had seen to it that the upper part of her shirt was unbuttoned, exposing part of her breasts. Those were by no means the breasts of a 50 year old; and the contrast had become even more obvious against the background of her brown costume.

I gave her the envelope without saying a word. She opened the envelope, took out the letter and after glancing at it, she asked:

“You work efficiently. If I’m not mistaken, they executed him only yesterday. You seem to be a good lawyer.”

“I’m not his lawyer, just a messenger.”

“Regardless, it’s admirable. Would you like something to drink?”

“No, thank you, I have a car waiting outside. But with your permission, I’d like to ask a question.”

“Please do.”

Josef was executed for having broken the secret codes of a secret law.”

“Yes, you’re altogether correct.”

“But how could he have known about a law if it was secret?”

The woman seemed to tense up.

“Ignorance of the law, young man, does not free anyone from its responsibilities,” she said.

There was irrepressibility in her expression; I, in turn, assumed a similar expression. Without saying goodbye, I came out of that cursed foundation and into the waiting car:

“Take me to any hotel,” I said.

(to be continued)