The Doves of Ohanavank (44 page)

“She hired you?” he mumbles.

“That is not your concern, Mr. Samoyan,” says Martirosian. “I represent Anna Hakobian, and these are the charges against you. As the officer asked, we’d like to know if you have a lawyer you’d like to contact.”

“I don’t have a lawyer.”

“The charges against you are serious. You can go to jail for a long time. I think it is best if a lawyer represented you.”

“I’d like to call a friend.” They allow him the phone call.

“
Dah
,” says Ari’s baritone voice.

Hov explains where he is and why, skipping many of the details, but giving the basics.

“You attacked her, after I told you to forget her and go back home?” Hov is silent. “Are you really that stupid?” Now Hov is in a cold sweat. “I’ve made a big mistake about you. You’re on your own. Never call this number again.” And Ari hangs up.

Hov is given a large stack of papers to sign, acknowledging the various charges and notices.

“These,” says Martirosian pushing a document towards him, “are your divorce papers. I strongly recommend that you sign them. There are no claims or demands made, so you don’t need a lawyer. By signing, all you do is end your marriage to Anna Hakobian.”

Hov leafs through the papers, without reading one word, and distractedly signs at the indicated places.

“Thank you,” says Martirosian, giving him one of the signed originals. “That’s your copy.”

He shuffles through his files and produces another document.

“This is a restraining order issued by the judge. Do you understand what a restraining order is?”

Hov shakes his head.

“It says you cannot go within fifty meters of Anna Hakobian. Under any circumstances. If you are seen within fifty meters of her, anywhere, you will be immediately arrested. Do you understand?”

Hov nods.

“Sign here. By signing, you are acknowledging that you have received the order and understand it. It is in effect already, so you are warned.”

Hov signs. Martirosian stands up, without a second look at Hov. He turns to the officer.

“Thank you,” he says, shaking his hand. “My work is done here. The rest is in your hands.”

“We’ll see what we can do about his defense,” says the officer. “In the meantime, he’s staying in jail.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

T
o Edik, everything seems in limbo. To me, we are in the best shape we’ve been for a long time. The difference is that he needs to understand everything, and I don’t. From my perspective, LeFreak is dead, Yuri is dead, Carla is under house arrest and Hov is in jail and possibly facing a long sentence. All welcome news. But Edik wants to know who, why and especially how these things happened.

Manoj has come and we have registered “
Apastan
” as a foreign owned and sponsored charity, with the purpose of sheltering and rehabilitating victims of sex trafficking and domestic abuse. He had to stay one extra day to complete the procedures, even though all the legal documents were ready for his signature when he arrived. Nothing just takes one day in Armenia. Besides, we also had to open a bank account. The bank officer kept staring at me as Manoj, Edik and I signed all the paperwork. He could
not believe that I was being given full signatory authority over the account, equal to the others.

Avo is back to being his enthusiastic self. They have registered a company—fifty percent Avo, forty percent Edik, and ten percent Gagik, who insisted on participating. The capital is in place, and Avo has already started buying the hives. He wants to be the best honey producer in Armenia—the most pristine and the most efficient. He is targeting thirty kilos per hive, when the average here is under twelve.

The other good news, at least for me, is that Sona and Simon have postponed their wedding. They are a bit disappointed, but they are not ready. As for me, there is far too much happening right now, and I know I wouldn’t be able to give the wedding my full attention. Their initial date, at the end of May, is only a week away. It is a relief to have an extra month.

Anna’s physical injuries are healing, as Dr. Suren predicted. But I still notice her withdrawing into herself. I know exactly where and what that is. That was an important survival tool for me too. Withdraw, heal a little, come back out, hurt again, withdraw again, heal a little more, until the hurt is less and more distant every time. No one who hasn’t been there would understand any of it. Some girls withdraw like that and find it impossible to come back out. Their self-esteem is so shattered that they do not want to face the world, or even to heal. For them, withdrawal turns into an emotional grave, not a healing process. That’s one of the main reasons why I did not want Anna to live alone.

Since Anna is not working, I manage to take her with me to visit the organizations that I had planned to visit. Her nose and forehead are still badly bruised, but that, in a way, helps melt the ice with the administrators, who do not understand the nature of my interest in their organizations. We spend a lot of time in each place. We learn about their programs, and we hear the stories of some of the young girls who board there. We speak to many of them and see their living quarters.

I have intensified the search for a suitable house for the shelter. Once or twice I asked Edik to come with me, because, as I had predicted, no realtor takes me seriously. We’re looking at two-to-three story, older homes, with fenced-in gardens, five or six bedrooms, and large common living areas. To minimize cost, we’re looking in the outskirts of Yerevan, but even there, homes like that cost upwards of half a million dollars. The realtors did not
believe I was a credible buyer when they saw me, and would not bother to show me houses.

One day we go to the store where Anna works so she can get her pay. Lucy is in shock when we walk in.

“Anna jan!” she screams, “What happened to you? I saw the doctor’s medical slip but never imagined something like this.”

“It’s a long story,” says Anna. “By the way, this is my friend Lara.” Lucy and I shake hands. “We don’t have much time; I have another appointment with the chiropractor.”

“Come in,” says Lucy, leading us to the back room. She counts a few monetary notes from the drawer and hands them to Anna.

“I don’t know what this world is coming to,” she says. “First Yuri gets shot, then the manager of our sister store calls to say Madame Carla cannot make the rounds because she is under house arrest. Who are we supposed to report to? We have to file semi-annual audits with the tax authorities soon, and I have no idea who will sign the documents.”

“I’m sure it will all work out,” says Anna. “Thanks for the pay.”

“No problem,” says Lucy truly sympathetic. “I wish I could give you more, but I’ll get in trouble.”

“I understand,” says Anna, and attempts a smile. “By the way,” she adds as an afterthought, “do you still have the picture of that girl we were supposed to look for?”

“Sure,” she says, pulling the drawer open. “Here, do you want it?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“Yuri’s dead. Of course I don’t mind. Good luck, Anna jan.”

We leave the store with the distinct impression that Lucy has figured out that the picture was of Anna, but none of that matters anymore, either to her or to us.

“What made you ask for the photo?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” she shrugs. “Why should she keep my picture?”

Our next stop is not the chiropractor, but an apartment with two spare bedrooms to rent. The building is in the southern outskirts of the city, while our current rooms are in the north. This one is on the second floor of an old building. It is obvious that the place has seen better days. There are beautiful plaster designs on the ceilings, layers of oval borders with floral corners. The ceilings are higher than in our current apartments, and the dining room walls are finished with beautiful cherry
panels. But everything shows the wear and tear of at least fifty years, if not longer.

The four-bedroom apartment is occupied by an elderly couple. Mr. & Mrs. Poghosian take two of the rooms for themselves, using one as their bedroom and the second as an office for Mr. Poghosian, who is a retired professor of philosophy. They thus have two spare bedrooms to rent. The apartment has two full baths, one of which goes with the two rooms, a large kitchen, which we are allowed to use as long as we keep it clean, and a large living room, which we also are allowed to use. They are in their late seventies and seem delightful. Gentle, soft-spoken, un-imposing. The rent is a little more than the two rents that we pay now, and the bus stop is a few blocks further away, but we fall in love with the place and decide to take it.

I tell Anna we’ll do what we can to give the place a facelift. The apartment is far too beautiful to remain in such disrepair. I still have the paint, brushes and scrapers that I had bought to touch up my room, which I never used. We’ll try to use them here.

I feel bad about abandoning Diqin Alice. I promise to pay her three months additional rent, and to do her shopping twice a month until she finds a new tenant. I also promise to advertise her place at the University.

Avo calls to say he has finished buying all the hives. He has managed to get ten extra hives for the same price. He has mapped the whole program of where he will start the hives and how he will progressively move them up the mountainside throughout the summer and into the fall. He has also ordered the steel drums in which the honey needs to be exported. The boys will take turns helping, watching the hives while he starts preparing the space where they will extract the honey in the fall.

Hermine has been visiting with Martha more frequently. She is sixteen, and as innocent and clueless as they come. She’s pretty and somewhat unusual looking, with her light brown hair and dark blue eyes. She always wears trousers and long blouses that reach mid-thigh. Girls in the village do not like to wear skirts or dresses, because the only socially acceptable ones are the long gowns that reach their ankles. That is for grandmothers. Trousers are a compromise.

Martha likes Hermine and has taken her under her wing. Hermine loves taking care of her little niece, Ani, which helps Martha. When I see them together, I sometimes feel envious. Their mutual support is unconditional, inherently understood and accepted, never discussed or formalized, and never betrayed. No one has taught them to be that way. It is just the way it can often be in Saralandj. It has always been that way in our house.

Thinking about their relationship, I get a strong urge to visit home. Without calling anyone, I go to the bus station and catch the next bus to Aparan. From Aparan I take a taxi.

It is mid-afternoon. No one is expecting me. I walk in and see Arpi alone in the kitchen. The others are all in the garden or tending the animals. She’s getting ready to start preparations for dinner. I’m glad to be alone with her. I start helping her wash the vegetables and boil potatoes. I know she will not say much, so I start talking, telling her about the shelter that we’re going to start, about Edik and about the poetry that he often gives me to read.

Arpi listens but does not stop working. Then, she suddenly stops, wipes her hands on her apron, and leaves. “I’ll be right back,” she says. When she comes back she gives me a light blue notebook, the kind that students use to turn in their homework.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“Let me know what you think,” she says coyly, and goes back to washing the dishes.

“Arpi, did you write these?” I am shocked. Written in small and neat handwriting, the book is full of poems. Most of them don’t have titles. One ends and a new one begins, often on the same page, with a line separating the two. I remember we had to do that to economize on paper.

I start to read randomly, and I am even more stunned. Her writing is exceptional.

“Arpi, how long have you been writing?”

“A while.” She shrugs.

“These are unbelievable! Can I show them to Edik?”

She shrugs again, and nods. I can tell she wants me to.

“I can’t wait; I want to read him one right now. Is that okay?”

She nods. I call Edik.

“Listen to this.” I don’t even ask if this is a good time for him.

a lone robin on the bare apricot tree

meets my stare

rasp of winter’s voice in its song

doused in hesitance

I’m splayed beneath its feathers

coveting its wings…

the soil soaks what I spill in doubt

my shadow withers plucked from its roots but this is home

I decant myself on its threshold

restless

weary of its pull

stone on stone

I can’t settle inside its pulse

the kitchen drips

it drips laughter

my sisters’ voices

skip on river stones

as mine spatters on current’s foam

yet I turn the soil

I know the hunger in me

will starve this land and more

palm against the blur of certainty

I search for an aperture to free this light in me

but at dawn there’s yet another dead bird

under my grandfather’s apricot tree

“That is deep,” murmurs Edik when I finish. “I cannot place it. It is as powerful as the works of the great classics, but the style is unique. Who is it?”

I turn to Arpi. “Arpi, you were just compared to the great classical poets!” Edik hears me.

“No!” comes Edik’s voice over the phone.

I spend that night in my parents’ room reading Arpi’s poems with her.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

N
icolai Sergeiovitch Filatov never forgets the day he confronted Sergei Ayvazian. It was fifteen years ago, and he was eighteen years old. It was January third, and Russia was still celebrating the New Year. Sergei was throwing a lavish party in a hotel ballroom in Moscow. He had some thirty select guests—politicians, businessmen, an oil trader from abroad, a few police officers, and other wealthy-looking men of less known professional backgrounds. There were also around twenty ladies, invited not as guests, but as paid companions. The men were in their most expensive suits, and a live band was playing classical Russian music, waitresses were passing champagne and caviar, and the ladies, scantily clad, were doing their best to act classy and available at the same time.