khosq.com

JOURNEY AROUND THE WORLD

Part 8

10. Nightmare and Visions in Lausanne

I should have accepted that harsh woman’s offer for a drink. I would have asked for a glass of whiskey. Europeans like to drink whiskey from thick-walled glasses; there is no doubt that they would have brought me whisky in such a glass. And that would certainly have been Jack Daniels, which I detest. But even if it had been “green label,” I would have taken a sip, looked at the woman with an obscure smile, then I would have stopped that smile by smashing the glass against her temple.

There, she has collapsed from the unforeseen assault. The death penalty has been carried out. It is I who has carried out that sentence. The lady—but why call her a ‘lady’?—that whore, has broken my law, my secret law, of whose existence neither she, nor I, in particular, were aware of. And who can claim that the sentence is not legitimate? Certainly there is a secret sentence on a secret page of any number of secret law books that would give me the right to carry out the death sentence on this whore. She didn’t know about that. But does ignorance of the law absolve any one of the responsibilities before the law? The death penalty: to plaster her head on the floor. There, I raise the heavy piece of alpine granite supported by a bronze base from the table and execute the death sentence. My hands are covered with blood; my face is splashed by the pressure of the whore’s curdling blood, her brain flowing on the floor with the ease of flowing lava. I shout out the most heart-felt curses.

“Father, what’s happened?”

That voice nails me on the spot. I can’t turn around, my face and hands are covered with blood. I can’t move; I cover the harsh woman’s smashed head with my body:

“Nothing has happened, my daughter. It’s just that this woman doesn’t feel well. There’s a man sitting at the end of the hallway. Go tell him to call a doctor.”

I hear her departing footsteps.

“Ma’am, stand up, ma’am. I beg of you, ma’am; wake up, ma’am; have pity on me, ma’am; don’t kill me, ma’am.”

I shake her; I try to wake her up; I try to collect her brain that flows on the floor; I try to put it back in her skull. I sob because I feel powerless; I sob in despair. I scream in confusion.

I hear a man’s voice behind my back.

“Yes, murder is like extra-marital sex. Its process offers indescribable pleasure, but when everything is over, the feelings of guilt and remorse come to torment you.

One of the horrifying pictures on the wall was talking to me:

“But don’t retreat. Didn’t you carry out justice? Didn’t you avenge Josef? Explain to your daughter and she will understand it all, she’ll justify…”

“Shut up,” I said without turning, “I don’t want her to understand all this, I don’t want her to justify any murder…”

“You’re just a weakling…”

I turned around. Looking at me from the picture was the Catholicos of All Armenians, twirling the keys to the Mercedes around his finger…

I woke up in a sweat. I was in Lausanne, sprawled on the bed in my hotel room.

I got up, washed and ordered some coffee. I have to call Marko. I search my pockets for his telephone number and find it:

“Hello, Marko; it’s me. They killed Josef.”

“I know; I’ve already heard about it…”

“Does it have anything to do with you, or your business, in any way?”

“No, not at all. But I thought it might have something to do with you.”

“It has nothing to do with me, either. I knew it had nothing to do with you, but I asked just to be sure.” The story is not believable. I also know where one of his murderers is—here, in Lausanne.

“If that whole story really has nothing to do with you, go on your way,” advised Marko.

I said good-bye to Marko and hung up the phone. I went to the window and opened it. Rainy gusts of wind froze my forehead. I need to drink something. If I were an ordinary traveler, I would definitely have a bottle of Armenian cognac in my suitcase, maybe even some dried apricots. And now, go and find Armenian cognac in this squeaky clean, orderly hellhole! I had seen a bar adjacent to the hotel and decided to go there (hotel bars are very tiresome). I ran there from the hotel, without getting wet, and went to the counter at the bar.

“Do you have Armenian cognac? Doesn’t have to be ‘Nayiri,’ it can even be ‘Akhtamar,’ ‘Ani,’ ‘Ararat’—five or three stars.”

“I’m sorry, sir, we don’t have it,” says the barman with a smile.

“What about Armenian wine? Doesn’t have to be ‘Areni,’, it can also be a Pachik, or Pasek, or mother-in-law, or brother-in-law,” I continue with bitter sarcasm.

“No, sir.”

“Then you don’t have Armenian vodka, either. In that case, give me Carrabba.”

Carrabba is liquor made of Italian grapes, similar to what the Georgians call Jaja or Tchtatcha, in other words grape jaji vodka and we call it yatrchi. How the Europeans drink the yatrchi without cheese or pickles! Pickles. Oh, Armenians, do you know that you national value is not only in your self-aggrandized history, but your pickles as well. The greatest thesis of forgotten (and soon to be forgotten) Armenian cuisine can only be found in the subtitle “Pickles.” And at the basis of that foundation, of course, is the mixed pickle. But what a structure has risen on that foundation: pickled summer cabbage, pickled red beets dagi and jakhi, pickled cucumber, green and semi-ripe tomato pickles, carrot, green bean, cauliflower, kyaravouz, garlic, onion, watermelon, eggplant, pepper, dzidzag (not in the manner of the Molokans, but in the Armenian tradition), mandag pickles and caper pickles. But the masterpiece of all pickles is the pickled pepper, a special type, now on the way to being forgotten. They do this pickle in the fall, when the harvest is over. At that time, pepper bushes still carry small buds that haven’t quite ripened, and many leaves. These leaves and the unripe peppers are used to make the djakh pepper pickle. And if the person doing the pickle knows how to do it well, like my grandmother, may she rest in peace, then the result is not a pickle but a masterpiece, an artistic creation.

But this partial list does not include all the pickles of Armenia. We still haven’t talked about pickles made of wild plants—lily, pokhi, itzgot, Solomon’s-seal…

Solomon’s-seal is in full bloom in the open fields of Ichevan now; the forests are adorned in green. Every year about now, I go to Ichevan, to open the lamb season. What happens more or less is this: I reach Ichevan on Friday afternoon. My friends and I quickly exchange phone calls: “Are you here?,” “I’m here.”

After a while I call Pitzik, or he calls me.

“Shouldn’t we eat a lamb?”

“Of course; what else would we do?”

The real ceremony takes place the next day. In the meantime, though, it is necessary to find a lamb. Lambs are sold in the Ichevan market only a few days of the year, at Vartavar. In Ichevan, Vartavar is celebrated on the last Sunday of July, and, beginning with the preceding Thursday, the streets overflow with lambs and kids. But the rest of the year you can’t find live lambs in Ichevan. You can find lamb meat; but what we need is the live animal. To find the live animal you need to search in the nearby villages. In the meantime, we are “teghakum,” that is, we are trying to find a specific location where lambs are sold. As a rule, the “teghakum” does not yield any results. We have to go; but in whose car? This is an essential matter, because not only has the lamb not bathed, but on the way, it won’t ask to stop by the roadside to take care of its bodily functions; it does so on the luggage rack. Pitzik and I agree: we won’t take our cars. That leaves the option of taking Tchagh’s car, especially since it seemed to have been at the “Meyka,” meaning that it was just washed. Agreed!

Convincing him is not easy, but we do. Tchagh is with Smiley, Popo is off at work, and for the time being, we have no business with him. We go, let’s say, to Agnaghpyur. We reach the village center: “Hello, boys. Who has a lamb for sale in the village?” A short discussion takes place among the villagers. Finally, they give us a name, and get one of the village boys to ride with us and show us the house of the villager they named. As a rule, the kid calls out to the potential lamb owner from the gate:

“Who is it?” an old granny answers as is customary, and realizing the purpose of our visit, says:

“We had one, but they took it yesterday. The rest are too young, they’re not for sale.”

As is customary, you can’t find a lamb on the first try. The search must go on.

“But who would have a lamb, Grandma?” we ask her hopelessly.

“I don’t know. Ask so-and-so.”

It’s good to have a specific address; and the young lad knows the place.

“I have three, but they’re not for sale. I’m saving them for my son’s military conscription farewell party.”

“It certainly seems you’ll give a big party.”

If the stars are aligned in our favor, there will be a lamb in the third place we go to. We enter the barn. Pitzig lifts one of the lambs, or if there’s just one, the only lamb. Now the lamb has been weighed.

And then begins my favorite part: the bartering. Lat year, the lamb cost 20 to 25 thousand Drams, but if prices have gone up in general, the lamb, too, will be more expensive this year.

“What are you charging for this lamb, Uncle?”

“35 Manet”, says the uncle, each Manet being 1000 Drams. That meant he wanted 35,000 Drams.

“Oh, man, you want how much?” we say, our feelings hurt, “We’re giving you 25 Manets and taking it.

“I’ll eat it myself for 25 Manets.”

“A little ways from here we got a lamb for 20, it yielded 40 kilos of meat. There aren’t even 10 kilos of meat on this one!”

“A little way from here the flour is cheaper, too; the oil is cheaper, the sugar is cheaper. It has 12 kilos of meat.”

“There’s no other way, it’s a skinny one. We’re giving you 30, and taking it.”

At this point, as is custom, the uncle turns off the light in the barn. “I have no merchandise for sale,” he says, his heart broken. Also, as is custom, Tchagh, who has stayed in the car, toots the horn, as if telling us to hurry up.

“Okay, okay, tie up its feet, throw it in a bag,” we say to uncle. We pay him, take the lamb, and go back to Ichevan.

According to tradition my brother Artak slaughters the lamb. If the weather is bad, the ceremony takes place in the house. But, as is custom, the weather allows us to go to the forest.

[translator’s note: the words in bold are words that Pashinyan has intentionally spelled or arranged differently, in line with the Ichevan dialect. Also, note that throughout the piece, Pashinyan uses the phrase “որպես կանոն:” as is the rule, as is customary, as per tradition. I have translated it several different ways depending on the context, but the original uses the same phrase in each case.]

(PART NINE)

10. Nightmares and Visions in Lausanne (continued)

When they say forest in Ichevan, they don’t just mean a regular forest. When they say spring, they don’t just mean a spring. In this case, we are dealing with a certain infrastructure which is especially designed for festivities in the forest. There are many gathering areas in the forests, bisedkas, long benches and tables. Next to these are barbeque pits, areas to slaughter the lamb, a small table to cut up the meat, and sometimes a separate table to play blot, backgammon or chess.
In the Kirandz forest there are even such springs (this is what the locals call such areas) where there are mechanical carousels for the entertainment of children, and even a museum of old goods. In these places the water doesn’t just come through the rocks or from under the river, but flows from memorial springs built in honor of a long-departed friend or relative. Sometimes the springs are named after the name or family name of the deceased: the Ghazoumyans’ spring, the Hovakimyans’ spring, the Aslanyans’ spring.
Despite the existence of this impressive infrastructure, they are not supervised and there’s no need to pay anyone to spend time there. You just need to get there before others. As a rule, this isn’t hard. If one spring is occupied, the other one is free. But there’s a big crisis during Vartavar. On the last Sunday of July many have to go there and spend the night to save the spot for the next day. But there’s a golden rule; if the individual who built the spring, or the family, decides to spend Vartavar at the spring which they have built (I mean, the same person built not only the spring itself but the rest of the things there) his rights are respected without any question. That is, they don’t have to spend the night there to reserve the spot. They only have to be there early in the morning before others start their festivities there, otherwise would be an awkward situation.
But now it is not Vartavar and there’s no problem finding a free spring. And if the group before you has cleaned up after themselves, which, by the way, isn’t always the case, you can start the ceremony [right away.] If the spot isn’t clean, festivities can start only after the area has been cleaned.
At any rate, the bottles are placed in the water and the lamb is hung on the pipe of the makeshift slaughterhouse, which means that the ceremony has begun. Yes, let’s not forget the most important attribute of the ceremony—the fire. The starting of the first is the first task of the user of the spring. It is necessary to start the fire quickly, so the “smoke will rise up thick and black” and groups looking for a free spring, having seen the smoke from afar, will know that the spring is being used, and don’t come to the spring for nothing and then have to turn back. As you can tell, this truly is a ceremony with its multitude of rules. According to one of those rules, groups that hold festivities in the forest springs must leave behind the salt they brought with them.
This rule may have been shaped as a result of life experiences; if people forget to bring the salt with them—and forgetting the salt isn’t hard—then they have to go back to the city. And perhaps leaving the salt behind is some kind of insurance. But local grandmothers have given a mystical significance to this tradition; if you take the salt home from the forest, some misfortune will come your way… And in Ichevan you will not find a single person who has taken salt to his home from the forest.
So now, when the reader is familiar with the conditions and rules of festivities in the forests of Ichevan, it is also worth recounting the local peculiarities of the slaughter of the lamb. The thing is, that in Ichevan they collect the blood that flows from the throat of the slaughtered lamb in a bowl; that is, they place the bowl under the slit in the lamb’s throat and the blood flows into it. Between the lamb and the bowl, as per custom, a sieve is placed so that wool and hair are strained out of the blood. With the collected blood they prepare the best-known delicacy of Ichevan: Djvjik made of lamb’s blood. The blood quickly clots in the bowl, and they boil that in water. It turns into a liver-like mass. To prepare the blood, the lamb’s tail is first melted in a pan; then, in the lard, they fry the chopped liver and lung. The blood, as you remember, is boiled, and when you smash it, it breaks up into tiny pieces: here, this smashed blood is added to the fried liver and lung. At the very end, you add finely chopped onion, and before long, the meal is ready. Believe me, it is very tasty. If you have the opportunity, make sure you try it, but down focus too much on the thought that you are eating blood: that deters from an objective assessment of the meal. The process of skinning the lamb, gathering kindling, or preparing the blood, is from time to time interrupted by this question addressed to no one in particular:
“Shouldn’t we have a drink…?”
Each one approaches the fire with glass in hand; we fill the glasses, we give a toast, and then each one goes back to his work until the question arises again.
“Shouldn’t we have a drink…?”
And, to tell you the truth, when the blood is cooked, the food [khorovadz] is ready, and the aroma of boiled meat [khashlama] has engulfed the world, there is no desire to eat. The purpose of this ceremony is neither to eat, nor to drink. The purpose of this ceremony is to feel the natural, primeval, and wild, freedom, and to savor it. And especially at that time when our wives and children, our parents, our guests, have already tired and returned home, or, wiped-out, are sleeping under trees, the ceremony reaches its culmination.
Around the table are seated Tchagh, Popo, Pitzik, Smiley, and me. All the toasts have been drunk, there is no one else around. It is only us, and we are happy that life has not disrupted our childhood friendships. We have talked about everything, there is nothing left to say.
“Shouldn’t we have a drink?”
Glasses are filled. But there is nothing left to toast.
“Tchagh, say a toast.”
Everybody knows what will happen, but everyone is holding back their laughter, except for Smiley, who always smiles.
“Come, with this glass, we will toast all of the prostitutes.”
We laugh, we clink our glasses, and drink. Don’t be hasty, dear reader, to consider this toast inappropriate or cynical or disgusting. This toast expresses the happiness of the moment, the carefree-ness of the moment, the freedom of the moment…
Ah, how tired I am of this Lausanne, and this Switzerland, this Vienna and Austria, this so-called civilized world. It’s true, I am, at the moment, seated in one of this civilized world’s civilized bars. But I am going to Armenia. And do not show me the way to Armenia. I am going in the way I know, I am going from the other side of the world.

[translator’s note: the quote regarding the smoke comes from an idiomatic expression in the local dialect]

PART TEN)

11. What is your name, prison guard?

After the second glass of Carrabba, I remembered that the 2008 European Football (soccer) championship will take place here in Switzerland and Austria. I think two billboards caught my eye. But somehow I didn’t really focus or notice them; I must have been really wound up. The Devil is tempting me: shouldn’t I stay here and watch some decent football? But what would my friends in prison think? I don’t know what they’ll think, but I know that Ararat Zourabyan will never let me hear the end of it: “We were sitting in prison, but you were enjoying the “Euro 2008” for yourself,” he would tell me incessantly. And I would never be free of it. Ah, dear Ararat, you can’t even imagine how much I miss you, how I miss Davit Matevosyan, Petros Makeyan, whom I still call Mr. Makeyan, but regardless, we’re still close friends. Not a day has passed that I haven’t visited your cells in my mind, felt their heroes’ breaths. Sitting in prison is hard, very hard, but it’s not easy to be free when your friends are in prison. Death with friends is a wedding, but there’s something humiliating in showing up alone to a European football championship, distinctly humiliating.

Not a day has passed when I haven’t wished I could appear at your sides; I shouldn’t think about it. But I can only get there by an honorable path. I did everything, to the point that finding me would become a matter of pride for the Serj-ite National Security Service (NSS). Once I even tried to help them, I cued the NSS, I offered them 50-50, phone a friend, or ask the audience.

As a result, I’m sitting in a cozy Swiss bar-café in Lausanne, downing Carrabba…how humiliating…

In the past 10 years I haven’t been in any bar in Armenia, I couldn’t take any of the restaurants; I was disgusted by the cafes. My comfortable office as chief editor had become a prison cell for me; at least that’s what it often felt like to me. Tens of times I’ve tried to escape that cell, and I have, but for one hour at most, with some Invisible hand grabbing me by the neck and bringing me back to my cell. Some Invisible hand has nailed me to the armchair that signified my position.

For every omission, every error, every misprint, every inaccuracy, for every bit of carelessness I have been ashamed, I’ve wanted to hide. With every one of these occurrences it has seemed to me that I’m standing naked in broad daylight at Republic Square, where people are paying 100 Drams to watch my nudity, to mock my grotesque appearance. I can’t bear this; I’ve wanted to escape, and I have.

But that cursed Invisible hand is not the NSS, it’s not possible to escape from that. Each time it has brought me back to my cell and put an Invisible guard by my door. What is the name of that Invisible guard’s name? Could it be Ambition, Arrogance, Careerism, Ignorance, and Profiteering? Or perhaps a sense of Honor, Responsibility, Love, Fatherland, Citizenship, Service? And maybe in front of my door stand not one, but tens of Invisible guards and by my door exist, side by side, in peace and harmony, Ambition and Service? Perhaps not so much in peace and harmony, for they break each others’ faces every day; they struggle to forever drive the other away from my door, and for the right to be my prison guard. Whatever may be the name of my Invisible prison guard(s), I have given my signature that I will not be absent. In the late evening, he has allowed me to visit with my children. But often that visit did not take place: either my children were asleep or I have been torn to pieces by internal agony.

Sometimes at night I have startled awake, having realized that I had allowed yet one more mistake, one more misprint, yet another literary error. I’ve gotten up and run, but the clock has caught my eye; it’s too late, the tickets are all on sale and with the dawn, I display my own nudity at Republic Square, for 100 Drams.

In the morning, at the prescribed time, I presented myself to my prison guard(s). I’ve gone into my cell, been embarrassed, gone mad from powerlessness and assaulted those who have arrested me. Later, I’ve been more embarrassed, I’ve sobbed out of powerlessness, escaped from powerlessness…But the Invisible hand has gotten me, the Invisible prison guard has trampled on me; and I have obeyed, I have obeyed…

The State of Emergency was a salvation for me, the criminal charges against me were my hope, and the investigation announced on my person was like liberation. But my expectations were in vain; and as you can see, I am now not only obliged to drag myself across the world, but also my cell, my shame.

And despite the fact that I am in Switzerland now, even now from time to time my nudity is bared at Republic Square. For 100 Drams, a mere 100 Drams.

I am sitting in a cozy bar-café in Swiss Lausanne, and feel that my Invisible prison guard(s) is watching the door, all the doors that I enter, dragging my cell with me.

Is there no escape from this cell, from this prison guard(s)? There is, and the liberation is the isolation cell of NSS. Only the prison guards of the NSS can snatch me away from my prison guard(s), only under their boots can the Invisible hand be destroyed, only under their blows will my prison guard(s) run away from me, whatever its (or their) name may be—Ambition or Arrogance, Careerism or Ignorance, Citizenship or…But no, if its (or their) name is Citizenship, or Love, or Fatherland, or Service or Freedom, I won’t be free of them, they won’t leave me regardless of internal agony or physical torture or even under threat of the death penalty.

“Who are you, my prison guard? I want to know you; I want to know your name.”

“My name is written under the boot of the prison guard at NSS. You’ll see my name when you see the underside of the boot.

(to be continued)