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[please note, all of the originals in Armenian are on payqar.org]

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD (PART 14)

15. Disappearing Identity

“And what have you done, Father, so that I may live in a better country?”
“We already live in a better country; we are already citizens of Germany.”

***

The
Rhine Valley in no way reminds me of Armenia; it is already Germany,
simply Germany. On these plains, my reflections on Armenia received a
real footing again when Baden-Baden appeared out of the train window.
But this is not about the future or the present, but more so about the
past of Armenia.

It is hard, hard to feel that you are not in
Armenia. Not the realization, but the feeling: the feeling of the
distance which at this moment has become insurmountable. It’s hard to
feel that there is no figure waiting for you on the horizon, no one
calling your name. In such circumstances fear overcomes you: what if
they have already forgotten you, what if you are already a stranger to
them all, to your loved ones…

Tap, tap, tap. I hear the approaching footsteps.
“Who is it…?”
“It's me…”
“Who are you...?”
“Hey, it's me, it’s me…”
“But you, who...?”

Everything
starts with this question. Everything started with the necessity of
having to answer this question: who am I? It would seem that everything
is clear: you say your name aloud, and the problem is solved. But which
name should I say aloud? That which I had or the one I have now? And
what is my name now, what was my name yesterday? What will my name be
tomorrow? What kind of conditionality or rather, what ruse? What is a
name, if not a way of escaping the answer to the most important
question, a conspiracy to kill the meaning of the question?

“What is your name: ‘what is your name’?"
“Boyan. Marko. Joseph. Nikol…”
“The last one is very amusing.”

Who
am I? This question was the nightmare of my childhood. The question
always came up as if part of a plot, during the times I felt happy;
when I had been asleep in the warm lap of my parents, my brothers, my
grandmother; when I was enjoying the privileges of being the youngest
in the family.

“Who am I…I…I…?” the question was roaring in me.

I
couldn’t understand: was it me asking the question or was someone else
demanding an answer from me? But it was controlling me, it demanded an
answer. I was jumping up, my tears frozen in terror. I would remember
my name, my last name, my parents, my paternal aunts, my maternal
aunts, my brothers, my grandfathers, my grandmothers, I would remember
even “the late Papo.”

But that would wring my heart even more;
the question would sound even more terrifying. I would get up from bed;
I would run, run toward the door… The question would disappear as
suddenly as it had appeared, and I would go back to sleep, as carefree
as I had been before it had appeared.

It is so hard to feel that
you are not in Armenia. Yet there is also comfort in that: I am going
to Armenia. But there is also the doubt: does anyone in Armenia need
you? And in Germany, even more so…

***

Dinner time is
near; I should take a bath, shave, and go to the restaurant wagon,
without forgetting, of course, about getting dressed. The restaurant
wagon is always full of people at this hour. All the tables are taken,
but there is still room to sit at some of them. I approach a table set
for two, where a typical looking German, of around 50 years old, with
sharp facial features, and a flowery bowtie, is studying the menu.

“May I sit here?” I ask in English.
“Bitte, bitte,” he answers in German and starts to scrutinize me.

A little while later he asks, with a curious look on his face:

“Where are you from? Are you Armenian?"

My confusion doesn't last long.

“No, no, I am Serbian, from Serbia.”
“Oh, excuse me, excuse me,” he laughs under his breath, “I am truly sorry…”
“It’s fine, what difference does it make, whether you are Armenian or Serbian?”
“It seems you are not familiar with the Armenians. Have you heard of them?”
“They live in Central Asia, isn't that right?”
“Southern Caucasus; they have a graceful, European appearance, but in essence are a miserable people.”

I
feel that my legs want to lift me up; my hand is curling into a fist
and wants to go toward that pig's snout. But wait, wait, wait. Wait, I
say. Smile, smile, smile, put an interested look on your face, don't
turn red, don't turn blue, don't turn black. Smile, just like that, now
relax that smile a little more, your face is tense, smile softly.

“Really?”
“I went to Armenia last year; an unforgettable journey, truly unforgettable.”

The
waiter came; my table-mate ordered salmon with white whine, and I,
steak and red wine. This break helped me regain my composure. But the
conversation had to continue.

My partner in conversation, it
became evident, was a German geologist by the name of Ervin. He had
visited Armenia on a company trip and had spent two months there. Ervin
was dressed neatly enough to hurt your eye. He was wearing gold,
round-rimmed glasses. His bald spot emphasized even further the
constant tension on his face.

“And what made that trip so memorable for you?” I asked, as though incidentally.
“Many
things,” said Ervin, a fake smile on his face, and continued, “Right
from the start, those people jump on every foreigner who comes to their
country, and proceed to prove different things. They start, of course,
by saying that they are the most ancient people in the world. And do
you know how easily they play with a millennium? Let’s say we're
sitting around a table with some very important men. And here, one of
them says that their people have a history going back three thousand
years. Invariably, there will be someone at the table who corrects him:
five thousand years. After a short discussion, they agree that Noah is
the first Armenian. But that's not all. They are also the first
Christians. And despite the fact that they are proud of this, they
nevertheless cannot forgive Christ for having come and destroyed their
several thousand year old pre-Christian culture, evidenced by their
Roman chicken coop. No, forgive me, also a pile of pebble stones, which
in their opinion is the brother of Stonehenge,” Ervin started to laugh
uncontrollably.

I didn't know what to say, I was swallowing the
pieces of meet without feeling them, like a goose, gulping the wine,
completely disconnected from the scene.

“But they have also
suffered the most. They were persecuted not only by Christ (although
they’re Christians), but also by Mohammed, because of Christ. And all
of this is proof of one thing: that they are the most intelligent of
all.”
“Yes, your time there was difficult,” I said with false sympathy.
“No,
what are you saying; it was very amusing. Then they begin to explain.
They explain what architecture is. They have heard nothing about the
Cathedral of Cologne, San Stefano, Sagrada Familia, or Notre-Dame. Then
they start to explain what literature is, their literature. They have
heard nothing of Goethe, Byron, Dostoevsky, or Marquez. They start to
explain everything; they talk of their world-conquering kings, and
kingdoms. They have heard nothing of The Macedonian, Napoleon, or
Caesar."

It seemed to me, that anytime now, I would start sobbing. Ervin continued,

“But,
the most amusing of all is when they start checking to see if you have
considered their explanations. Incidentally, in that monastery where
their saint had lived, and which is an observation point for their
sacred mount Ararat, there is so much trash that you'd think it's a
trash dump and not a sacred place…”

I wanted to change the
topic. But, no: what would this pig's snout say if, from the start, I
had told him that I was Armenian? I know what he would have said…

“Excuse me, what would you have talked about if it turned out that I am Armenian?
If, at the beginning of our acquaintance, it was made clear that I am Armenian?”

Ervin was looking at me like a criminal caught in the act.

“How should I know; we would have talked about something,” he said, bewildered.
“It seems to me, that you would have praised their history, their architecture.”
He turned red.
“Well, they like that…”

I was destroyed.

“Are you feeling okay?” He asked, noticing the change in me.
“It seems my stomach is upset,” I said and stood up. “Bring the bill to my compartment,” I addressed the waiter.

The
compartment was suffocating. I couldn't breathe. The waiter brought the
bill, I paid, but I was short of breath. I opened the window. There is
air, but the compartment is suffocating. The train slowed down, there
was probably going to be a stop. I quickly gathered my few belonging.
The train stopped at some station. I got off. The large signs at the
station read: City of Wiesbaden.

(to be continued)