The Doves of Ohanavank (15 page)

Yuri is impressed. Ano must need something, because otherwise she wouldn’t have bothered to say as much as she did. She must be giving him the benefit of the doubt that he does work for the Ayvazian family. That is the only authority she would recognize.

“I work directly for Carla, Sergei’s daughter, Viktor’s cousin.” Yuri is hoping that he’ll finally be able to discuss business with Ano. “Before that I worked for Sergei and Viktor, and was based in Moscow. Carla is the only one left, and she has already reclaimed almost all of her father’s businesses,” he lies. “Now her attention has turned to Dubai.”

“And how do you intend to reclaim what’s here?” Ano makes no attempt to hide her sarcasm. “By just parachuting into Dubai and throwing accusations at me? There is no physical asset here that you can just take and carry back with you, Mr. Yuri. There are women and relationships, and both are dwindling. If Carla wants her father’s business here to be what it once was, she better send me someone who understands how to operate in this environment, and do it soon. Someone who can give us the necessary protection. Can you do that? Can you do what Viktor used to do? If so, I’ll be happy to turn everything over to you.”

“Ano, let’s leave the girls and local protection aside for just one minute,” says Yuri, realizing that he will soon come to a dead end in the conversation. “Did Viktor keep an office in Dubai?”

“Why would he need an office?”

“Did he keep any documents?”

“He has a safe in my apartment. I don’t think there is anything important in it. He has not opened it for years. I don’t know the combination. It gathers dust in my closet.” Even as she speaks, Ano realizes that perhaps she is too quick to volunteer the information, but it is too late.

“How large is the safe?”

“Not very big.” She draws a one cubic foot space in the air with her hands.

“I’d like to see it,” says Yuri.

“I cannot let you near it or near anything else of Viktor’s until I have proof that you are who you say you are.”

Yuri is annoyed and glad at the same time. He’s glad Ano is so protective of the details of the business, even if she’s doing it to protect her own interests rather than Viktor’s. If it’s this difficult for him to pull anything from her, it must be the same with anyone else.

“How am I supposed to prove that?” he asks.

“That’s your problem, Mr. Yuri. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a business to run.” And Ano stands up to take her leave.

“Wait,” says Yuri. “Please sit down. If Carla Ayvazian talked to you directly over the phone, and confirmed who I am, would that satisfy you?”

“How can I be sure who I’m talking to over the phone?” asks Ano.

“You must have Sergei’s home number somewhere, right?” says Yuri after thinking for a minute.

“I’ve never called him, but yes, Viktor gave it to me a long time ago, in case of an emergency.”

“Do you have it with you by chance? Like in a phone book in your purse, or in your mobile?”

Ano checks her cell phone. There, saved under SA-Big Boss, is a Yerevan city number, with the ‘10’ area code indicating it is a city landline, not a mobile phone. She nods.

“Call the number. Ask for Carla. Then ask her to verify who I am. I will not say a word. Do you agree that there is no way I could set this up to trick you?”

Ano stares at him for a minute, then, without saying a word, dials the number.

“Ms. Carla Ayvazian, if possible.”

“Speaking. Who’s this?” Carla sounds even ruder than Yuri.

“This is Ano from Dubai. I used to work with Viktor.”

“I know who you are. How did you get this number?”

“Viktor gave it to me a long time ago, for emergencies.”

“Then this better be an emergency,” says Carla curtly.

“There’s a man here who says he works for you and wants access to some of Viktor’s things. I will not give him anything unless you confirm he is who he says he is.” There is defiance in Ano’s voice, which she feels is justified. After all, she’s doing Carla a favor by being careful.

“Is his name Yuri?” asks Carla.

“Yes.”

“I sent him to Dubai, Ano. I’d appreciate it if you cooperate with him.” Carla’s tone has changed.

“Can you please describe Yuri?” Ano wants to enjoy the feeling of calling the shots for a few moments longer. Carla is impressed. Is this loyalty or self-preservation?

“He has thick black hair slicked back, a long face and is kind of ugly,” says Carla, smiling to herself.

“Yes, that’s him.” Ano smiles too, looking at Yuri for the first time since she placed the call. “How much do you want me to cooperate with him? I mean, he wants to have the safe that Viktor kept in my apartment. Also, the business here is in grave danger. We can lose a lot.”

“Cooperate fully, Ano. And I’ll make sure that you are rewarded. Explain to Yuri what needs to be done there to get things back in order, and it will be done. I appreciate your holding the fort in this difficult period.”

Spoken like the real owner. Ano thinks she’ll probably lose everything in Dubai in a month or two anyway, so there is no harm in playing the role of loyal retainer. She has made close to half a million dollars in the last six months, in addition to her normal fees. It would have taken her over five years to amass that kind of money. There can be no accounting for all that; if they want her cooperation now, they’ll have to forget about the past.

Yuri spends the next few days learning about the setup in Dubai. He is alarmed at how much the business has suffered. He finds the challenge of rebuilding control in an environment that is totally unfamiliar to him daunting. Ano is helpful to some extent, but the more she explains, the harder the task appears to him. Dubai is a complicated place. There are no clear rules, and among the many ambiguous rules the strongest are the unwritten ones. Yuri is used to more structure.

Opening the safe is another major challenge. He has managed to bring it to his hotel room, but he cannot crack the combination lock. If he had been in Moscow this would not be a problem. He’d have a locksmith open it for him in an hour.

A substantial bribe to the Lebanese concierge solves his problem. Within a few hours an old Indian man appears at his door. In half an hour he leaves, on the desk a wide open safe.

Yuri sifts through the papers and then stares at a document. It is the sale-purchase agreement of a villa at the famous Palm development. 2.8 million euros paid in cash. The deal was concluded four years ago. It is unclear where the villa stands in terms of completion, but at the time of purchase they were still dredging for land reclamation. There is a deed of trust, as well as a separate representation agreement signed with a certain Mr. Jawad Ghanem, the agent who brokered the deal for Viktor. His office address and telephone numbers are listed on the agreement.

Chapter Thirteen

“W
hich do you prefer?” I ask, looking Edik in the eye. “Clarity or

“I’m ambiguity?” not sure I understand the question,” he replies. “Clarity or ambiguity in what?”

“In everything,” I say, doing my best to adopt his style of talking. “For example, do you prefer the words ‘yes’ and ‘no,’ or the words ‘maybe,’ ‘it depends,’ ‘it’s unclear’?” I persist.

“It depends,” he says with a smart-ass smile.

“Would you please take my question seriously?”

“Lara, I’m an investigative journalist,” he says a bit defensively. “What do you think? Of course I prefer clarity in all things.”

“I’m not talking about your professional life. Would you also prefer to have clarity in all things in your personal life as well?”

It finally occurs to him that I am not engaging him in light conversation.

“What is this all about?” he asks, giving me that focused look that he gets when he wants to hear more of what I have to say.

“Okay, let me put it this way,” I say, ignoring his question. “Does ambiguity give you more options than clarity? What I mean is that once things are clear, or once you accept them to be clearly one way or the other, is there any room for maneuver? On the other hand, if they are ambiguous, you keep your options open, don’t you? I mean, you can weigh alternatives, hold out on clarifying until you know better how you want to represent things.”

“Ambiguity does not give you options,” he says, with finality, like he really knows what he’s talking about. “It gives you time to think. And sometimes time to think is more important than options. Depends on what you’re facing. But the options themselves… well, they’re either there or they’re not, ambiguity cannot create them.”

“But it gives you time to think,” I repeat, sounding like I’ve seen the light. “Edik jan, that is brilliant!”

He looks confused. What is so brilliant about that, he wants to ask. And that is exactly where his brilliance lies. Oh how I want to say this to Ahmed, who thought ambiguity offered options. It just buys you time, my dear Ahmed. It allows you to put off decisions, which creates the illusion of having options. That is all. It can never create new options.

“Of course,” adds Edik casually, as if he has overlooked a simple detail that may or may not be worth bringing up, “if you are not sure which way to go, buying time can be valuable. Don’t ever underestimate the importance of time, Lara. After all, that’s all we have on this earth.”

That’s all we have on this earth. Time. I’m no longer hearing Edik, but my father. And every second that passes will never return. We can never live the same second twice. He used to talk like that about time. So much so, that I became obsessed with the passing of time, and started recording things in my spiral notebook, just to keep track.

I come out of my reverie and see him staring at me with such intensity that I shudder.

“Are you sure you’re only eighteen?” he asks sardonically.

“Ha, ha, ha Paron hundred-year-old Edik,” I chuckle. But I know what he is asking. Am I eighteen?

Again I think, ambiguity buys you time. Not options. You need clarity to see the options, those that are there already, or those you may have a chance to create. Either way, without clarity, you can neither recognize what’s there, nor create what’s not there. It is clarity that enables
options, not ambiguity. Ambiguity buys you time—oh how I love that phrase.

Edik is still staring at me. God knows what my face looks like right now. It is late Saturday night, and we have returned to Yerevan, showered and changed the clothes still reeking of pig, and then met at a jazz club on Isahakian Street to go over the events of the day. The music is loud, especially when the band plays. During the intermissions, when they play recorded music at lower volume, we can hear each other more easily. Overall, in spite of the noise, this is a good place to talk.

I feel I have to give an explanation of what prompted me to ask the questions, which also provides a good opportunity to bring up Ahmed again. I tell Edik a little more about him and what he used to say about ambiguity versus clarity, his view about the whole Eastern culture thing, and how I thought he used ambiguity to his advantage in business negotiations.

“In a complicated negotiation,” Edik says, “I can see how keeping things ambiguous can keep options open. There’s no advantage in clarifying your position prematurely.”

“Anyway,” I say in a tone that suggests we can now bring this topic of conversation to a conclusion, “maybe that’s what he meant. I’ve been thinking about it in the past few days. In my case, clarity has been good. I’m glad some things are now out in the open. And thanks for helping move the process forward. I wouldn’t have been able to get this far if you had not been such a good listener.”

“You’re welcome, but not everything is out in the open, right?”

“Of course not,” I say as casually as I can. “It is not possible to have everything out.”

“You told Avo you feel bad for betraying Ahmed’s trust. Is that all that’s bothering you?”

I’m glad the lights in the jazz club are dim; otherwise, he’d see me blush. I hate to blush. It’s like your own body turns into a snitch and exposes you, in plain view for everyone to see, without warning, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

“He was kind to me,” I say. “He did not deserve to be treated like I treated him. I was obsessed with getting back home. I had a feeling. I had to get home before something happened to Mama.” Then I add, “And I could not be sure, or take the risk, that he would allow me to leave if I asked.”

“I’ve been debating whether I should tell you this,” he says, “but I think this is as good a time as any to bring something up. It is people like Al Barmaka that grease the wheels of Ayvazian’s operation. They create the high-end demand for what Ayvazian sells, and they have the money to spend. I will keep an open mind about him because you do not seem to hold a grudge. But I want you to know that without people like him, the Ayvazians of this world would not find this business so worthwhile. You do see that, don’t you?”

His words hit hard. Which Ahmed should I think about? The one I knew personally or the broader role he plays in the sex trade?

“I cannot think of him as the same as Ayvazian,” I say, aware that my voice is shaking. “There is no similarity between how those two men have treated me.”

Edik does not push the issue, even though I have not responded to his comment. Then I find myself volunteering more about Al Barmaka’s estate, my villa, Sumaya, the other girls. I talk about how he used to treat me, I describe both his moments of extreme kindness, and his desert-hardened, dispassionate behavior that sometimes abruptly reminded me where I was and who I was, and who he was. And then, how it would start all over again, how just when I would be very clear as to my role in his house, he’d spring such an incredibly touching surprise, that I’d start wondering again. I tell Edik about the night he brought the CDs of an Armenian singer with the deepest, most velvety voice, who had an Arabic song followed by an Armenian song on the CD, and how moved I was that night, because Mama used to sing that Armenian song. And then, of course, the wake-up call would follow about who he really is and what my role is.

“Sounds like he was hiding behind ambiguity in dealing with you as well,” says Edik when I finally stop talking. “He couldn’t decide about you, so he wanted all options open, at all times.”