The alienated shore

 
English translations by Karen Khachatryan

«The  alienated shore» - is a  real story of two young people who happened to meet each other at the crossroads of this vast world and did not understand that their whole life prepared them for this moment. Alas, they did not suspect what lies ahead.





O h , h o w s a d i t i s t o s e e t h e e y e s o f a b i r d w i t h b r o k e n b l o o d i e d w i n g s w h i c h i s b e a t i n g a g a i n s t a s t o n e i n o r d e r t o r i s e a g a i n t o t h e s k y a n d t h e s u n .

H a m a s t e g h

W e s t e r n A r m e n i a n w r i t e r




CHAPTER 1

“Good morning.”

“Hi.”

“You are having your rest at home as if nothing happened, but do you know that you have a guest from Yerevan?”

There was nothing strange about Arina’s call. Her amicable-assailing way of speaking was usual too. But what happened then, was absolutely surprising and unexpected.

“Arina, my darling,” I said without a bitter irony, thinking that it was time of the TV program, and probably there was no one besides her in the section and therefore, she had called of boredom.

“Excuse me, I absolutely forgot to report you that according to the oral agreement with the editor-in-chief, I’m urgently making a program at home. Most likely the chief also has forgotten to inform you. I humbly ask to forgive us and accept my deepest reverences.”

Arina is a distant in-law of mine. It was around three years ago, in the summer, that my distant relative came to our


 
editorial office, telling me all about the bride they had brought from Karabagh for his younger son.

“A very good bride – and a very good girl,” he told me. “She can typewrite and work with computers too. But,” he continued, “it’s impossible to get a job around here with an Armenian education, and I thought that maybe you could help. She even graduated from the institute this year with honors!”

“No one can graduate from the institute with honors,” I said with a kind smile. “Maybe she has graduated from a university?”

“Well, maybe it was a university,” he conceded. “How would I know? I’m just a barber after all.”

I asked the editor-in-chief, and he didn’t object: “Well, since you are asking, how can I be against it?” he joked. “Let her come in tomorrow morning,” as I was leaving the chief’s office, I said to my relative, “and tell her to bring her personal documents, too.”

And so, it came to pass that Arina began working in the Editorial Office of Armenian Programs Division of the Azerbaijan State Television and Radio Broadcasting Committee.

From the very first days, Arina -slender, with a delicate, swarthy face and fiery black eyes young lady – she had evidently sympathized me. Though it certainly didn’t bother


 
her hot-tempered, impetuous self, she wouldn’t hesitate to express to me some spicery seasoning from the treasure trove of her rich Karabagh vocabulary. “Go to hell, where were you yesterday? Or, who were yammering away with? I had been calling you for an hour, but I kept getting a busy signal.”

“And who is that guest?” I asked, having the feeling that Arina wasn’t alone. Otherwise, she would’ve hardly swallowed my playful jibes.

“Didn’t I tell you the guest is from Yerevan?” She said with a tinge of anger.

“By the way: Yerevan is the capital of Armenia.”

“Nice,” I said, “you have enlightened me a lot. Now pass the phone to him.”

There was a little pause.

“Hello, Leo jan!1 My name is Armen. Armen Harutyunyan, a novice poet. I brought warm greetings to you from the grandson of one of our greatest national poets Avetik Isahakyan Avik,” pattered Armen Harutyunyan. “Leo jan,” he continued, “The matter is that I definitely have to meet you today. Call it an eagerness but it should be done, as, I must talk on some important things, since I can’t tell by the phone. Leo jan, Avik said that the only person who could help me in these foreign sites, definitely are you. Can I come to you now? The lady here told me your approximate address. What a wonderful lady she is, what a good-natured grace, what a noble soul. You do live next to the building of the Iranian Consulate, right?”

“Yes,” I replied involuntary, almost having no clue of his incoherent explanations, “the building number thirty-one, the second doorway, apartment sixteen.”

Within a quarter of an hour Armen was already at my place. Square -built and with smiley face – he left a pleasant impression on me.

“Is this your first time in Baku,” I asked just to start the conversation. I invited him to have a seat and started to prepare coffee.

“Yes, this is my first time,” Armen didn’t sit. He was walking in the room, carefully watching around. “It is not even a week since I am here. I live in Bayilov with my relative. Leo jan, you are living in such big city. Life here is brilliant and restless, and exciting. Living in a big city is a real joy. And the sea! The sea is worth whatever. To be honest, bro, I liked Baku, I liked it very much, and if my business goes well, I will remember this city for a hundred years. Mayakovsky was right by telling that there is something that attracts a man and keeps him here.” Armen


 
sat down on the edge of the sofa, then stood up and started to walk again. “Leo Jan, and this was an Armenian city, as a city of Armenians was Tbilisi in its time. Do You know the Yezidis’ joke?” He stopped walking. So, here is the joke: Yezid said, “Armenians are very good people. They built Tbilisi and gave it to the Georgians, they built Baku and gave it to Azerbaijanis, and now they are building Yerevan to give it to us, as they all leave for America.”

“Cool, right?” Armen laughed. “I spoke with your chief editor,” he continued, unexpectedly changing the topic of the conversation, “Leo, this Vladimir Abrahamyan seems not a bad guy, I think. Isn’t he? He understood me but said that I should talk to you. And I came to you. Leo jan, there is a problem concerning a murder.”

“What?” I said, turning back and looking at him.

“It’s on the ground of jealousy,” Armen said calmly. “In short, to tell the truth, the Committee Secretary of Vardenis District got his eye on my wife. She worked at his office with him. Someone informed me about that. And I decided to put end of him. This is the problem. Both of Police and the Prosecutor’s Office realized what was going on. And it was clear that Police and all the others were the ones of his own. Shortly, my mom and dad fell to my feet by begging not to do that, they sent me here to my relatives to stay away from the trouble.”


 
“And what about your wife?”

“My wife...” Armen frowned, shaking his head heavily. “Leo, what can I say to you? She’s pretty, that improper one, she’s very pretty!”

He took a deep sigh and heavily shook his head again.

“Ugh, Shoghik, Shoghik... I took her to Yerevan. She is in Masis now with her parents. That’s what is going on, my brother...I’ll stay here for at least seven or eight months and during that time I want to publish a book, even a small booklet of poems. That’s all, and, Leo, you have to help me with that. Do you understand that I need moral support so that I can go to Yerevan with that book in hand, I mean: to Masis? I hope that you would broadcast it by radio or so. I guess that won’t be difficult for you, is it?”

“I do not see any problem if poems are good.”

“Should I read?”

“Go ahead”

“Poems dedicated to Karabagh. So called Patriotic poetry.” Armen said and started with enthusiasm.

The more it grows behind the hills, In the valley, away from mom,

The more it spreads its branch and roots Soaked with juice and dense of life. - - -
That is Armenian poplar tree.

The more it’s been frustrated, thwarted, Had beaten by the storms and rain, The more resists to lightnings thunder, It grows slender, and blooms again. That is Armenian poplar tree.

It stretches up to pull its head from rocks and stone to shout at all, The ones, that wish it turns to dead, To look at it, as it grows tall, That everyone can note and see:

“Here I was, I am, and be”

It gets higher, like star that shone,

Gets harder, than the toughest stone.

That is Armenian poplar tree.

He looked at me and a smile with meaning appeared on his face. My father used to say about this poem. “It’s not just a poplar, it’s a Karabagh poplar, like a human, it’s smoother, stronger, and taller. And as the place gets narrow, and being oppressed continually from all sides, it still is rising up, stretching up from the canyons and mountains to be able to see the poplar of Ararat valley, and the Ararat valley poplar is able to see it as well. Thus, it’s also an Armenian poplar in Karabagh.”

At that moment I was taking a bottle of Apsheron brandy from the cabinet.



 
“How is it?”

“I have not tried for myself,” I gave an evasive reply without looking at him “but some say it’s good, Heydar Aliyev, as I know, drinks only Apsheron.”

“Wow, man!” he said with laughter, “I meant the poem.” It was an awkward and intricate situation, and I did not know how to react. Finally, I said.

“You know, many years ago Silva Kaputikyan came to Karabagh. My father was a tenth grader at the time. He says that Kaputikyan wrote that poem during her visit. She admitted about that at the meeting with the students.”

It seemed to me that Armen was confused for a moment, but it lasted only a half second.

“Well,” he said carelessly. “I liked it, so I memorized. I know that you are native of Karabagh. Therefore, I recited the poem specifically for you. I should’ve said that the people of Karabagh are strong. Magda Nayman glorifies and raises them up to heaven. Have you ever read her?” “Sure, I did”


“So, you were saying that the Apsheron is a good brandy.”

 
His habit to jump from one topic to another did not surprise me anymore. He rubbed his hands.

“So, fill the shot-glass and let’s see. Stalin wrote poems, too.” The rose bud embraced the viola tenderly, and the lark warbled over the clouds.


CHAPTER 2

The next day at the end of the work Armen came to me to the editorial office. He was not alone, but with a young lady. Looking at her, I slowly involuntarily stood up and being captivated by her effulgent beauty, just froze on the spot.

Armen noticed that and sort of got inspired. The girl would’ve been seventeen to eighteen years old, in a white, like her skin- dress that had tightly embraced her slim waist. Her gilded shiny hair with the brownish tint with thinly waves were falling on her shoulders, the eyebrows were arched and thin, the nose was attractive with elegant and sensitive nostrils, lips drawn with admirable curvature, a bit bulging and fiery, and the eyes... Her gleaming with the softness of the spring, blue eyes were smiling, looking from time to time at me and at Armen.

“This demon is very pretty, isn’t she?” Armen said in Armenian.

“Yes!” I didn’t hide my admiration, being still unable to cut my eyes off her.


 
“What is he saying?” She looked at me with a smile on her half-opened lips, and I saw that the pearly snowy teeth gave her some other charm. Especially the two front teeth which were slightly apart.

I couldn’t reply to the girl, since Armen approached me and embracing my shoulders, solemnly presented.

“Mahmudova Rena, she is a junior at the Medical College and the prettiest lady in Baku.”

Rena laughed softly staring at me with her lightsome eyes and extended her hand lightly.

I did not want to leave her delicate and cold fingers with nacreous nails for a while. I stared at her without winking, like as forever was trying to keep in my mind the charming beauty of her virginal, even somewhat childish expression of her glowing face.

“Leave her hand, man,” Armen said with laughter, most probably being satisfied from my confusion.

Rena sat in front of me on the other side of the table, legs crossed, deliberately demonstrating her sleek like, marble knees.

“Sit down, why are you standing?” Rena said with a bright smile in a very warm and melodic way, hinting me with her gaze to take a seat.

As if I was not in my office and I had to get the right to sit from someone else.


 
She threw her head back vigorously. Her hair scattered and spread again on the shoulders with lush curls.

“Leo jan, may I call someone in Yerevan?” Armen asked, taking advantage of the opportunity. He grabbed the phone and pulled out the notebook, putting it on the table.

“I guess, your TV and Radio Committee is not a poor institution, and the State will not go bankrupt on my few calls.”

“Make your call, of course,” I said and left the room in order not to disturb him.

The chief wasn’t there maybe he had already left home. Loranna Hovakimyan the editor of the Latest News Division, close to her thirties, tall, sturdy, nothing like Armenian. She had the body of Madonna, with almost same blonde hair, hazel eyes and stubbornly squeezed sensual lips. She was editing a material bending over the table. Some said that our former editor-in-chief had once been in love with her like a crazy, dedicated to her a lot of poems. Once I asked her jokingly, whether this story was right. Loranna neither denied, nor confirmed it, and said with laughter. “A geezer in love is one of the greatest deformities of the Nature.”

It was already a month that this former chief was coming in the end of the day and sitting in Arina’s little corner-room, was dictating some memories.

 
“Who is the girl in your office?” Arina threw from afar without interruption from the job.

The Former turned back and noticing me, greeted kindly bowing his head, through the open door.

“She is your close friend Armen’s acquaintance,” I said. “Do you have any other questions?”

Arina examined me with big, black eyes, but said nothing. “I thought he had brought her for you,” she could not resist biting me.

“Yes, he has something like that in his mind,” I confirmed, as if I were indifferent, “so, don’t you like her?”

“No, she’s pretty,” Loranna interfered in the conversation, “they have just come in here. Armen said that she is an Azerbaijani by the nationality and is studying at the Medical College. Even I, a female, was shocked, she has a stunning beauty, like a real top model. Gregory of Narek apparently had her in mind a thousand years ago by writing:

Eyes like sea to sea, like shiny two suns are bursting out, And lips like two petaled rose, have shrouded the mouth.

“Where did this traitor of the nation find her?” Arina asked and came up to us. “Samvel Atanesovich, sorry, but I’m tired,” she said over the shoulder. “My cap is already rising.”


 
Loranna laughed, as she knew that if Arina has no desire of typing, her systolic measure jumps up instantly, as if by special order.

“Well, what am I saying?” the former chief responded poorly. “We will continue on Monday.”

“Last time Armen had said something interesting” Arina said with unfeigned laughter. “He said that men love with their eyes, while women- with ears.”

“And in my opinion,” Loranna said, “men love with ears and women -with eyes. So, that the first ones will be able understand what is being told, and the second-mentioned ones can please those whom they converse with.”

“Armen also said that if you breathe, then you love, if you love, then you breathe. It is aptly said, since there is no life without love and never will be. If I’m not mistaken, I’ve read in Blok’s works that “only those have the right to be called a human, who is in love with someone.”

Armen says in India they put a red mark on the bride’s forehead at the wedding. Is that true?”

“Sure, it is,” I said, “and the groom is gifted with a sharpshooting rifle, so that they can be loyal to each other growing older on the same pillow.”

“Yeah, don’t you say,” Arina laughed heartily, admirably looking at me with glittering eyes. “Armen says...”



 
“Look,” I interrupted her, “you speak a lot on Armen. Are you jealous of him? You know the one who is not jealous of anyone, has no glimmer of hope. But remember that only a part of the jealousy is the love, the rest is totally selfishness.”

“If a man is jealous of his wife, he loves, if he is not jealous, means he knows nothing yet,” Loranna laughed. Arina did not pay even minimum attention to Loranna’s speech. She had a business with me.

“It’s selfishness... Oh, I’m jealous, and how did you realize?” Arina’s eyes sparkled furiously, but she restrained herself. Even a smile had appeared hidden in a corner of her mouth. “By the way, he was inviting me to a restaurant,” Arina added and, as if she had finished with me, turned to the former chief editor. “It is not worth of thinking about dying,” Arina advised, “since it is pointless to think about what is inevitable. So, keep thinking about living, Samvel Atanesovich, about nice, good things.”

“Arina jan, you are the one, who needs to think about nice and good things,” the former explained. “We only live with memories, cause when we are getting old, we are deprived not only of thinking of good and beautiful things, but also of any hope. Haven’t you read what I have written?

Hold the hand of the old man, Let him go home with some ease,

 
A day will come, and you will feel What the old age really means.

“So,” he said with an extending voice, sneakily keeping an eye out at Loranna. “Old people are like withered flowers, and who likes withered flowers?”

“What had happened, Samvel Atanesovich?” I asked, turning to the former’s side, “what a declining, pessimistic

conversation!”

“Oh, I do not know, Leo,” said the former chief, taking off the eyeglasses with the yellow- glazed frames and began to clean them with a handkerchief. “I was asking from our girls for an advice... I was a member of the Supreme Council of the Republic, in other words, a Parliament member for thirty years and was elected as a member of the Presidium during the last elections. It is clear, that they burry me in the governmental pantheon, but my wife is buried in the Armenian cemetery, near by the stadium. So how to subsist-she’s there, I am here.”

“Ask the Central Committee to bring her to you after your death,” Loranna suggested.

“They won’t do it,” he said skeptically. “Is that right?” he looked at me expectantly, “is that possible?”

Freelance translator Saghumyan, a gentle and delicate old man with a short beard, who was sitting in the far corner of

 
the spacious room and was translating the official material of the telegraph agency for the evening radio broadcasting, looked up at the former for a moment, then shook his head cheerlessly.

I could not comprehend what exactly was topic about?

“Or on the contrary,” Arina interfered, “let them take you to her.” “But it has no prospects either. Pantheon is something different...” Loranna covered her mouth not to snort with laughter. I looked at Arina with reproach-as if what are you twiddling about?

“Well, it’s time to go,” said the former, fitting the folder into the bag. “I ordered some foodstuff from a special store. If they’ll deliver it home while I am not there, they’ll take it back.”

He turned to me and said with a forgiving smile,

“Leo, it’s been a long time since you haven’t broadcast my literary opuses either on television or on the radio. Am I less worthwhile, than Kostya Khachanyan, that you broadcast his poems, but not mine? I’ve just written something new; I’ve read it to the boys, and they like it, I would like to introduce them. If it’s necessary, I will let Vladimir know.”

“You do not need to inform Vladimir,” I said, “just bring what you have, and we’ll broadcast them in the end of this month.”

 
“Thank You,” he looked with pathetic servility, then added, “otherwise, my readers will think that I’m already dead.” He left the editorial office swaying his bag.

“Look at him, how miserable he pretended to be.” Saghumyan complained. “He has lived all his life seeing no

fighting, no prison, and exile unlike the others. He always lived a secure and prosperous life. The country is falling apart, but he thinks of reburying his wife who was an ordinary nurse in the Governmental Pantheon.”

“He has no other concern to worry about,” Loranna pronounced bitterly. “His daughter is well housed in Yerevan, and the son - in Moscow. What else should he think about? The stores are empty, but he gets everything ready-made. Paruyr Sevak, God rest his soul, has these lines: Tell us the number of our countless and innumerable hours that we spent in queues and processions during those hard and light times.

Yesterday, I’ve stood in line for half a kilo of sausage for four hours.”

“The Republic is getting transfer-banner flags and orders every year for overfulfilling its plans, so, in this case, why are the stores empty?” Saghumyan threw from the far, continuing his translation.

“Listen, Arina,” I said, turning to her, “do you know what Cicero said about you?”

 
“About me?” She asked, pointing to herself with an index finger. “And what did he say?”

“He said, do not talk, if what you are going to say is less wonderful than the silence... What were you commenting about? What prospects do you see for the dead man? Do you talk, then think, ... or think, and then talk?”

“Do clarify please, I do not grasp anything you said.” She was looking at me with the laughter in her eyes. Her face was rinsed with smile.

“People are being distinguished from each other, as some are thinking at first, and then talk, while the others talk, and then think. Now, what group are you belong to.

And again, the same laughter in her eyes, and the same smile on her face.

“You didn’t get it again?”

“No,” Arina shook her head, continuing to stare at me.

“I would like to know what you are typing there that you have lost your mind.”

“Memories,” Arina replied with eagerness. “It’s a book of memories about the people, whom he saw or did not see.”

“Usually the memory book,” I said calmly, “is a recital of the memories, where the author recalls the narratives of his personal meetings with some worthy persons. Memories about people you do not see, is somewhat new”

 
“This is something new? So, what do I know?” Arina demonstrated signs of indignation. “He writes, and I type.”

“No, he writes, cause you type. You’re the guilty one,” I said with a serious face. “If you do not type, he will not write.” “He will not write... So, do you suggest leaving the book unfinished?” She asked perplexing.

“Arina, please keep silence, otherwise my cap is rising too.” Arina laughed.

“As for the restaurant, you definitely must go,” I advised, “otherwise, the guy will be offended.”

“The guy will be offended...Aww.” Arina made a wrinkled snout face. “What a relative! Just perfect, “and as if severely offended, she left to her room, clicking and thrusting the parquet with her shoe-heels.

I went out to the hallway with gleeful mood and walked to my office with some strange delightful thought that I would see Rena now.

Armen was about to finish his conversation on the phone.

He put down the receiver and said.

“Leo, thank you, I am done.”

Rena was looking through the paper. Then she asked, putting the paper aside and gazing at me with hesitance for a moment:

“Is it true that today is your birthday?”
 
“My birthday?”

“Seems, he is tricking me.” Rena gazed at Armen with

suspicion.

“Rena, you know what”, slowly began Armen, implying with his facial mime me to confirm what he said, but noticing that with my ignorance or unawareness I may spoil everything, he immediately took the initiative into his hands & said with a hurry.

“Dear Rena, the thing is that we have a long-respected tradition in Armenia. That is when on the eve of their birthday, people must go to a restaurant which is called a test-birthday. Or, for instance, over a cup of coffee, a glass of cocktail, or champagne, they discuss how to hold an event in order, so to speak, not to break the long-established national custom. My suggestion is that we also keep and protect this sacred national procedure that comes to us from ancient times. It is a strict law in our society.”

“There is no such a thing here,” Rena said gullibly.

“That is not here, but there-is” Armen cut off and stood up. “Rena, in a word, let’s not waste time and offend Leo. Be sure that he deserves our kind attitude. We’ll go together Nor Inturist, which I guess is not too far from here and have a cup of coffee or, let’s say, champagne, no difference.”

Rena gently tactfully tried to object.

 
“Excuse me, please, but I cannot... You told that our visit would take just a few minutes... You asked...”

“Oh, no!” Armen played actor. “You have to respect the ancient tradition of the fraternal nation. Rena jan, to be honest, you will offend me and Leo, too. Call a girlfriend of yours, but with a condition that Leo likes her. You told me that you have an Armenian girlfriend called Rima from your course. Is she pretty?”

“She is pretty of course, but...it does not matter. She will not go anywhere with strangers. I’m...”

“Listen to me, all the people are strangers at first, then they got acquainted, so what is in it?” Armen continued persuading. “Make a call, if she would not come, then call someone else. We’ll enjoy some music and at least for couple of hours set us free from everyday concerns. Moreover, tomorrow is Saturday, the next day is Sunday. Do I say something wrong? If so, tell me you’re wrong. Call, Rena, listen to the elder’s words. Leo, give me the phone. The whole expense is on me. I am inviting you.”

Rena helplessly looked at me with her sweet gaze.

“Armen, no need to call,” I did not realize why I said this at once. “I do not want to go?”

“Wow! Where you do not want to go? To the restaurant?” Armen tried to chide me, “hey man, do not spoil the whole thing.” He added in Armenian, gazing at me with reproach.


 
“With a friend like you do I need the enemy. Rena, do not listen to him, make a call.”

“Rena, please do not call anywhere,” I already said firmly. “Honestly, I need no one.”

I almost wanted to add except for you, but, thank God, I restrained myself from telling that.

Rena seemed read my thoughts, as a prankish light shone in her blue eyes.

“Well, let’s go three of us together then,” Armen brought on without a compromise, “so we go now”.


CHAPTER 3

Exactly half an hour later, Armen was already having a toast.

“I believe that all those people who are being disheartened from the thought that they are mortal and after, let’s say, hundred years, they’ll not exist. It’s the same, if one would mourn and grieve for that he did not exist a hundred years ago. What does Omar Khayyam say? When we were not existing, the World had lost nothing, and when we come to an end, the world will be the same without us. Today’s day is the most important day. Therefore, let us drink for this day, for this moment that we have fun together. They say, that there was a high cliff with an inscription carved on. When the rich people were reading it, they sobbed and wept.
 
On the other hand, poor people were getting rejoiced after reading it, meanwhile the lovers were starting to appreciate the moments every instance they spent together. And a very simple sentence was written on that high rock. That is: Everything in this world is temporary. Certainly, there will be many sweet days in our life, I am sure, but among those days let us remember this one: the day, when we were acquainted, honestly a good day. Cheers, dear Rena, be always as attractive and desirable, as you are now, and cheers to you, dear Leo, and cheers to me, cheers to this day and this moment...”

The entire second floor of the Nor Inturist from one end to the other, was presented by the restaurants with mirrors, Persian carpets on the floor and walls, with Eastern ornaments and illustrations from fairy-tales. The restaurants were so called Gorgayin (Carpeted), Arevelyan (Eastern)", Hayelazard (Mirror Decored), Byureghapakya (Crystal).

We were seated in the Arevelyan hall on the right wing of the hotel which had wide and high windows that were looking out to the sea playing with the setting sun.

Music, mainly Turkish, was booming everywhere. It became popular in the last couple of years. In all sides of the city, from seaside park to the distant suburb, from morning till late night one could hear the records of the Turkish singers Yaqub Zurufchu, Tezjan, Seden G;rel, Tarkan...

 
The musicians played a dance melody - How do You do, mister Brown? How do You do?

“Leo, is this fair?” Armen turned in the armchair, lighting a cigarette. “We are both sitting with one girl, and over there,” he pointed to the company being few tables away, “there’s a group of ladies with only two men. We need to invite one of the ladies to join us. There is a brunette one among them, who is very cute, look at her dancing, if you find her attractive, I’ll invite her to our table right away.”

In the circular dance pavilion, the couples were dancing rhythmically under the lights streaming from the colorful headlights. Especially notable were two dancers on the floor: a chubby boy and a brunette girl. It seems they never got tired. Even though the dance was contemporary, they were dancing apart, rather than hugging each other; were dancing unselfconsciously, staring at each other and smiling constantly.

The music was ended, and the couples were returning to their seats at the tables, when the music grumbled again.

“Leo, I ask you for the last time, so won’t regret it afterwards.”

Rena took a sip of the champagne, looking at me expectantly.

“I will not regret it,” I replied. “If you need it, go ahead:

invite, I do not need it.”

28
 
Armen pounced of his seat place and, bypassing the tables, went to the other end of the hall.

“Odysseus went to conquer Troy,” Rena joked.

A little later the brunette was already dancing with Armen. Probably, he was telling the lady something funny, as she was laughing continuously by tending her head to Armen’s shoulder from time to time.

“Leo, I want to call home,” said Rena, slightly leaning forward. “It’s interesting, is there an automatic phone somewhere here?” She asked thoughtfully. “My family may begin to worry.”

I pulled the radiotelephone off my waist that was still a novelty. I turned it on and handed to Rena, rejoicing inwardly that her phone number would remain on the phone. Rena looked at me with gratitude that she won’t have to seek for a phone anymore, and taking it, started to dial the digits. She waited for a while until response on the other end of the line and then began to speak. I was unable to hear her voice due to the loud music but was noticing the smile that was blooming on her rosy lips from time to time.

Rena finished the conversation, and joyfully returning the radiotelephone, added.

“Thank you. I told the household I would be home a little late. They were already worried.”


29
 
The music stopped, and we noticed Armen, who was approaching to us. He had hugged the naked shoulders of the brunette and was bypassing the tables.

“No, that’s not Odysseus,” I said to Rena with laughter, “but the Crown Prince of Troy Paris, who has kidnapped Helen, and now leads her to Troy from Sparta. And if that chubby is her Menelaus, then inevitable destruction awaits

us” .

Meanwhile Armen along with the brunette, quite drunk, and as a consequence pink from drunkenness, appeared at our table with the brunette girl.

“Will there be a Greek-Trojan war?” I asked.

“What war?” Armen did not understand.

“Did not you ask her, if she is alone here, or with her spouse?”

“Come on,” Armen laughed lifting his thumb and forefinger as a surprise gesture, “Am I looked scared? Anyway: Margarita Voitenko,” he introduced. “If you knew how hard it was to break the charming Margarita's stubbornness and invite her. She would not come and that is it.”

“Nope!” Margarita swung her head. “He is fibbing. I came here voluntarily and of my own accord, and yes, I can see that, I’m not mistaken, looking at your table,” she laughed and presented her hand at first to me, and then to Rena. “O my God! Look at their table: black caviar, red caviar,

30
 
barbecue, fried chicken, pineapple ... What are you doing? Listen to me. Aren’t you afraid of Financial Police? Don’t you live in the Soviet Union? Don’t you see our temporary difficulties? Armen, quickly seat me, otherwise, I will lose my consciousness.”
We laughed heartily.

“At this moment, dear Margaret, at this moment.” Armen roughly pushed me with his knee. “Hey man, move,” he explained in Armenian, “I brought her here for you.”

“Didn’t I tell you that I do not need her,” I moved aside with smile.

“Hold on a minute, let me understand,” Margaret Voytenko switched to Armenian all of a sudden. “Am I a merchandise on sale for you?”

Rena was perplexed. She did not understand what was going on and what our conversation was about. So, she kept looking at us, while Armen and I were totally flabbergasted.

“Margarita, I beg your pardon,” Armen chattered. “Why did not you tell that you are Armenian, and you know the Armenian language?”

“There was no occasion,” Margarita laughed. “Let me tell you a story: There was a man who had a son of five or six years of age who had not spoken since birth and it was a great misfortune for his father. One day they go into the woods to cut down some trees. The father cuts the trees with


31
 
the ax, then goes back for couple of steps to see which side the tree will fall on, when suddenly, the son cries out: "Be careful, Dad, the tree,"

The father jumps aside, when the huge tree fell with rumble. "Then you knew how to speak," his father says stunned, "why didn't you speak until now?"

"There was no reason for it," the boy replies. So, dear Armen, there was no reason,” Margarita laughed. "You are Armenian, you are Armenian, I am Armenian, I afflict to your pain," she sang firmly, holding tight Armen's arm. - You invited me here, so I'll sit with you. Leo,” she ordered, “move over. You are not against, aren't you?” she asked turning to Armen.

“Of course, not,” Armen agreed in despair, and with a smile on his face. “We’re having feast here, against what or whom me to be? Dear Leo, please sit next to Rena. If she gives the orders, what else we can do?” he laughed.

“She is a glowing flame, rather than a girl. I am Armenian, you are Armenian, oh, and I’ll eat your cute face. Leo drinks brandy, Rena drinks champagne, I drink vodka. And you, my dear, what do you prefer?”

“I like it them all, I do not know what to choose,” Margarita laughed.

“Ok, let it be vodka.”





32
 
I relocated next to Rena, where Armen was seated until then. The waiter rearranged our plates and brought new utensils to Margaret. I was inwardly grateful Margaret for this unexpected transmutation and winked her, and she - the real crafty one, realized where I am at, and reached out her hand for a clap as a sign of consent.

We slowly were enjoying the goodies at the table, making jokes and laughing.

"We – women, depend on men, and their manners,” Margarita said. “But if a woman can act on her own, be self-assured, then she does not need just a safe, prosperous man, but the one she’ll be able to choose, and not the other way around. There is a big difference in it.”

Armen solemnly raised his glass.

"So," he said. “The sun and the wind are arguing over, which one of them can take the woman's cloths off sooner. The wind blows and blows, but without success, as the woman wraps herself in clothes even more. But then the Sun comes, with its radiant sheen warming the heavens and the earth, and the woman, unable to withstand those warm shines, takes off her clothes. The sun wins with its warmth. So, let us be like that sun, drink for our beloved Rena and Margaret, and for our warm and gentle manners towards them”

“It’s a wonderful toast,” Margarita joined and then said, "As a continuation to my thought earlier, let me say for instance

33
 
that I have always felt free man in my life, and I know for

sure that I have my own opinion and my point of view. By

the way, do you know why God made women so beautiful

and so stupid?” She added, smiling and glaring at herself and

Rena: Beautiful - to love us, foolish - to love you, guys...So, I

agree, on behalf of me and Rena, to drink your immoderate

attitude and our endless beauty. And as for removing the

dress, I'm not against it at all. I'm ready to take off my cloths

right now.

We laughed.

“Let’s drink for those men who drink for us heartily,” Rena said timidly, glancing tenderly at me with a trivial look. “No,” she added, “let’s drink for those men who will drink for us in our absence. Oh, no, no,” she shook her head gracefully, giving me a flushed, charmingly mixed look again, “let’s drink to those men, who mentally drink for us...”

The musicians played a new melody. “With my sad song I will not awaken my sweetheart, let her have a sweet sleep.” That was a Slow Tango - when women invite men to dance. Margarita dragged Armen to the dance floor.

Rena looked at me, flipping her hair back from her spacious, beautiful forehead, and said:

“Let’s go.”





34
 
She affectionately put her hand on mine. I held her fingers, and we got up from the table, hand in hand.

I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Rena sometimes smiled shyly, snatching her eyes. I had hugged with my right arm her slender waistline above her hips and was feeling warm contiguity of her delicate body. Rena’s lush hair was touching my face and from its imminent scent and the stunning smell of the French perfume Climat, my heart was agitatedly throbbing. The white skin, she had, was also aromatic, I was feeling that too. Her one hand was on my shoulder. With the other hand, she hesitantly was moving her fingers in my palm, like a scared bird stumbling on the walls.


Then again, we had been seated at the table, the music was rumbling continuously, moving from one melody to another. Then we danced over and over. Margarita got some drinks and fruit from our table for her girlfriends and returned to us. Then she whispered something in Rena’s ear, whereupon both of them went to the side of the corridor.

“Listen to me, Leo, she is totally loopy,” Armen chuckled after they left. “She is a natural sciences teacher. They are celebrating a birthday with friends. Her husband is Ukrainian, who works at sea as a master-driller on Oil Rocks, also a deputy member, fifteen days out of the month he is at


35
 
home, and fifteen he is at sea. So, she invites me to her. What a wonderful thing to live in a big city, man!”

Somewhere behind at one of the tables we heard a conversation in Armenian. Armen rapidly turned and for a long time didn’t come off stare from there.

“Listen, they are Armenians,” Armen said, “from Armenia, the local Armenians do not speak that way.” Armen got up and went to their table.

Shortly thereafter, a consentaneous laugh bursted there. I looked back. Either Armen was telling them anecdotes, or they were telling him. For a moment, silence was dominating, and then a heartfelt laughter was erupting again. “Those are Armenians, and from Armenia,” returning to our table Armen said cheerfully, as if he had found relatives he had been searching for before. “By the scale of whole Armenia there is no any action can be done against them. They are the employees of the Central Committee, the secretaries of the Regional Committee, and have come to the High School of Party Personnel for one-month courses. Really cool guys.”

Armen called the waitress and ordered two bottles of Akhtamar brandy for them.







36
 
In the hall’s mirrored doors of the hall, both: Rena and Margaret, appeared simultaneously. Rena was at the head, smiling, stunning, and tall.

“Just look, Leo, see what a sweet look and tempting figure she has, what a passionate and inviting legs,” Armen said, “don’t mention her character, as if she were not a city-girl, gullible - like a child.”

“Sorry, but I would like to go” Rena said guiltily, looking recurrently at me and Armen, as she had reached the table and taking her seat again. “It’s already late. I beg your pardon my household ... Oh, thanks....”

“Well, we’ll go now, let me with Leo have just one more drink, and then we’ll leave,” Armen interrupted.

The glasses were full, and Armen raised the liqueur-glass: “This is our first meeting together in a group and God grant, not the last one. Margarita, take your shot-glass.”

“I can’t drink anymore,” Margarita fumbled, leaning on Armen’s shoulder. “The Czar of Russia Peter the Great once said: One should not drink vodka less but could not drink much. I will not drink anymore. But, in addition to what I have just said before, there is a man, one man, today, however, on whom I feel reliant. And that makes me crazily happy. Let me say you as a secret, that Armen is that man, and I promise to be faithful to him till tomorrow,” Margarita added with laughter. “It was so nice to meet you, and this

37
 
was an unforgettable evening, but alas, I cannot drink anymore.”

We drank. Margarita sent a goodbye kiss to everyone all of us and went to her friends, demonstratively shaking with her hips.

“I’m also very grateful, it was a really nice evening,” Rena said with a timid smile. “I hope you’ll invite me to Leo’s birthday too,” she looked at me, and through the opening of her crimson blazed up lips her teeth glittered. “Should I hope so, or will you forget?”

“Let’s make arrangements right now, in order not to

forget,” I said. “Tomorrow at about four PM I’m waiting for

Armen’s  call.  I  invite  you  to  Gyulistan.  Have  you  been

there?”

“No.”

“That is a new, luxurious restaurant with many hall rooms. Armen probably has not been there too.”

“No, I have not been there,” Armen responded, lighting the cigarette.

At that moment a broad and potbellied man in a black suit and tie approached to our table.

“Is everything all right?” he asked smiling cordially. “We do our best possible to please our guests.”

“Rauf Aliyevich, have a drink with us, please. So, what it would be: brandy or vodka?”

38
 
“Neither one, nor the other” Alieyvich crossed his arms over his chest. “Thank you, but during business time - not even a drop. This is the law.”

“Rauf Aliyevich is the headwaiter-captain,” Armen explained and introduced him to us.

“Very pleased to meet you,” Rauf Aliyevich said politely. “As you may see, there is not even a single free place. And it’s always like this. But for you, keep in mind, the place always will be found. You’re welcome.”

I went with Rena down to the first floor while Armen was paying the bill and came out to the street lit by bright neon lights.

The free taxicabs were lined up one after the other.

A bit further, on the other side of the coastal park one could see the sea widespread, infinite that was shining from the reflection of the moon and stars. Loudspeakers were inviting for a stroll, roundabouts were rotating. The wind was flickering away children’s screams and piercing laughter, blowing them back again making the impression of those shouting and screaming being too close and clear.

“Are you cold?” I asked, trying to take off my jacket.

Rena shook her head and smiled to me gratefully.

“Thank you, it’s not cold,” she said, staring at the yacht going to Nargin Island. The music from the yacht was also occasionally going and coming.

39
 
Drivers at the taxi cabs were watching Rena with a big curiosity. I did not like it. So, I held her elbow in my palm and took her to the front vehicle in a queue.

“We’ll take you home by taxi,” I said and sat in front of the car, next to the driver, in the meantime seating her in the rear of the vehicle.

“No please, there is no need for that” Rena asked suppliantly, touching my shoulder. “There is no need to go up to home. My brother usually meets me at the bus stop. Just drop me at the subway station.”

The driver got to the steering wheel too quickly. So, I asked him to hold a bit. Armen was hurrying down the stairs.

We accompanied Rena to the foyer of the Baksovet” subway-station, once again going through arrangement, that Armen will call Rena and we’ll go to the Gyulistan altogether. Rena entered the subway, at the last time turning over at the escalator and taking leave of waved goodbye by hand.




CHAPTER 4

Armen stopped a taxicab.

“That nutcase will gonna wait for me,” he laughed. “She gave me her address and phone number. She warned if I were late, she would hang herself.”


40
 
“Go,” I laughed, “anyway, take a rope with you, you can be late.”

Armen laughed again and approached the vehicle.

“Have a seat. I’ll take you home,” he said, turning back. “It’s only couple of steps, I’ll walk,” I replied. “See you tomorrow.”

The car took off, but then stopped, not even being driven a hundred meters, and rolled back with the rear red lights turned on.

“Hey Leo, is there a chance you have some money with

you: fifteen-twenty rubles?”

“Sure, I have” I said.

The car moved again. I was looking after for a long time until I lost it from my sight at the street turn.

I crossed the spacious avenue and walked home. I was leisurely walking home and my heart was throbbing, as if something unknown, very desirable and uncertain had come over me. What was that? I wasn’t able to comprehend. I was just feeling that because of that unknown and uncertain thing the world appeared to be a thousand times bigger in my eyes, and whatever had happened, seemed to be a thousand times more significant. Couples were passing by me, and I, lost in thoughts, wasn’t even looking at them, but want to believe that they certainly are happy. I was really wishing their welfare, them to be happy, since I was feeling

41
 
very happy myself. And that happiness was content to me. I was having the wish to salute everyone. I was wishing everybody’s well doing. Really, what was going on with me, was inexplicable I could not forget Rena for a second - her face, eyes, lips, the delicate sound of her voice, the delightful neck that was fragrancing like a new-blown rose. O, my God, is it possible that I’ve fallen with her at once? I was amazed and laughed at myself as this morning I did know nothing about her existence, and now even thinking about her makes me feel delighted.

I wanted to keep me away from this crazy thought. I was trying to think of something else, but I could not succeed in it. I was envious of Armen, but that wasn’t a wicked envy. I was simply regretting that the fortunate one to meet such a marvelous lady was not I, but he. It is essential by all means: to forget. How hard it would be for me, since it is not a nice move to think about someone who is not your acquaintance, but someone else’s with whom she came to you.

At home I was thinking of Rena again, the memories were surging and wavering my soul, and were awakening unfamiliar emotions in me. I was continually seeing in my dreams her bashful and attentive look, the dumpish glint of her teeth that was visible through her beautiful lips, the cold touch of her fingers, and all these were turning me really dizzy. It was lovable to think and remember under the

42
 
sounds of the classical music. To remember and think. And at night, in my dream I was with Rena again. In sweet selflessness I had hugged her and was confessing my love to her. I was kissing her over and over and couldn’t believe that I kissed her lips right now, believing that there could be such a thing beyond one’s dream, and I was out of breath from ecstasy and happiness...

A phone call woke me up from my dreams. Under the impression of my vision I jumped to the phone, thinking for some reason that Rena is the caller.

That wasn’t Rena, of course, but my mother who was calling from Sumgayit. And I felt shame, since my enthusiasm faded like a lit match got extinguished before the wind.

My mother was worried that I haven’t go home despite my promise. She informed me that also my sister called from Stavropol in the evening, but I wasn’t home then either. I said that I had a guest from Yerevan, and I would definitely make a visit next Friday. Then I washed myself, had a light breakfast, and started to prepare for today’s meeting. Like a lass I changed my clothes several times having hard time in choice of the ties on hand, and finally selected the black suit, with the blue shirt and the purple tinted brown tie. As for the cologne, my choice fell on Drakar. It was Arina’s gift on the local National holiday, and it was my favorite.

43
 
Armen called at noon.

“Hey, how are you,” I laughed. “Did Margarita succeed in hanging herself?”

“Yes, she was hung around my neck since this morning,” Armen laughed, then added, “Leo Jan, I came to get a movie ticket, but as ill luck would have it, I noticed that I am wearing some other pants, and the money was left in the pocket of the other one, so I do not know what to do until our meeting, as I wanted to go to the movies with Rena before.”

“Come on, I’ll give you some,” I said, thinking that he was under huge expense yesterday. “I hope you haven’t forgotten my address.”

“Are you kidding?” He said joyfully. “I have certainly not.” “Better that you have not forgotten. We’ll have coffee

together.”

Armen came in a half hour.

“Are twenty-five rubles enough?” I asked.

“Sure, even overmuch. Leo jan, thanks a lot. I’ll tell you the following: you are a true friend and a real man. That’s my opinion. Well done.”

He shaved, then we drank coffee. After seeing off Armen, I was walking forth and back again periodically checking the time, which was moving forward seemingly hard. I tried to


44
 
read something in order to shorten the time but got

succeeded nothing. I had to read the same paragraph several times, but to no avail, as all my attention and mind were occupied by thoughts about Rena.

The phone rang. Finally! My heart kept pounding and I slowly picked up the earpiece overwhelmed with some kind of pleasant delight.

“Hello.”

“Hello, how do you do. Leo, is that you?” The voice was unfamiliar to me. “Hello. Yes, I am at the phone.”

“This is Rauf Aliyevich from New Intourist. How are you?” “Thank You ... That was unforgettable evening, we spent wonderful time yesterday at your premises.”

“I am very glad. We do our best to please our guests. Welcome, we are always ready for you. But you know what...” he hesitated for a moment, then said right away,

“You’ve left yesterday without paying.”

“How come?” I was astonished, “that’s hard to believe.”

“I thought a lot with the employees on this case... we even wanted to pay by ourselves, but the amount is too great. three hundred rubles...was impossible”

There was a long pause. I did not find anything to say, and he was waiting me to respond.


45
 
“Until what time you will be at work?” I asked finally still not believing to what I had heard.

“Can you come tomorrow?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Please, come tomorrow at five or six PM. I'll wait for you.”

All this was so unusual and strange. Extremely strange! I remember, Armen left the hall several times and returned back. Maybe he was waiting for someone, and that someone was late? Anyway, how could it happen? After all, Armen himself invited us. He went to pay the bill, while Rena and I were downstairs waiting for him. And then... my phone number, how did the head waiter find out it. Could it be that he had called the Committee? These mutually exclusive thoughts were disturbing me.

Armen called at about four PM. I said nothing about Rauf Aliyevich’s phone call, but only mentioned that I should go urgently for some emergency case, and that our meeting would not take place today.

“So, tomorrow then?” he asked.

“Tomorrow is OK.” I replied and hung up the phone.

But he did not call the next day. The same contradictory thoughts were still disturbing me. I remembered that Rena’s phone number had been fixed in my cell phone. Yeah, here it is: 9 2 6 9 9 8. I dreadfully collected 9-2-6-9-9, and for a moment hesitated to dial the last digit. My heart was pounding



46
 
hard. Finally, I dialed the final 8, too. On the other end of the line the phone was picked up almost immediately.

“Hello,” I said still timidly.

“Hello, Leo,” Rena said with a pectoral sweet voice.

What a strange thing. If one is lovable to you, the voice is dear too. What a bliss, she recognized me right away, as if was waiting for that call. How little does it take to make a human happy. I instantly forgot and Armen, and that whole bizarre story related to the restaurant.

“Hello, Rena,” I unwittingly stood up as on Friday at the editorial office. “How are you?”

“I’m fine. What about you?”

“Thank you. I’m fine too. Rena, I would like to meet you on an important matter. Is it possible?” “Sure. Just say: when and where?”

“At the "Baksovet" metro station. At 5PM.” “OK, I’ll be there at 5PM”. “Thank You.”

For a moment I was walking in my room with the phone in my hand. It seemed to me that it was still keeping Rena’s dear breath and delicate voice.

Really, the sweetest voice among all has the girl whom you love. Could it be that I love her already?

I met Rena in the subway hallway. She was wearing a light blue blouse. A tiny gold chain was gleaming on her white

47
 
neck, and her hair was negligently had fallen on her shoulders, as was a day before yesterday. While standing on the escalator, she smiled at me dearly, and her smile was enchanting. So were the translucent shine and sparkling freshness on her plump lips.

“Hi!” Rena stretched her hand to me; I thought with exultation that she was not in hurry to pull back her hand. “Have You been waiting for a long time?”

“No, I just came,” I said, even though it would’ve been around fifteen minutes, that I was waiting for her, watching the uninterrupting stream of people coming up by escalator. We went out to the street. It was pleasant, warm weather.

“Yesterday Armen said that you should go to the movies together,” I said. “Was it a good film?”

“Yesterday? Yesterday I became nineteen years old. My birthday was yesterday,” she said and stopped.

I realized that the words what she said about her birthday, was slipped out from her mouth accidentally. Her face grew purple.

“I was home all day,” Rena added irresolutely. “And I haven’t gone anywhere. He hasn’t call me, and he could not even call me, as he doesn’t know my phone number.” I could not understand a thing.

“Accept my sincere Congratulations on your birthday!” I said.


48
 
“Thank You,” Rena replied with timid confusion.

“We arranged with Armen to go to Gyulistan if you remember. He was supposed to talk to you and then call me. But how would he call, if he did not have your phone number?”

“Perhaps he was thinking of taking it in the last minute, but I refused.”

There was a momentary silence

“Rena, sorry, of course, that I ask such a question,” I said. “Do you know Armen long ago?”

Rena looked at me in perplexity.

“You know, I’ve only seen him twice, and what is interesting, both times: by chance. The first time I met him, was here, at the subway station. That was just a few months ago. I was coming from the public library, when he approached me and asked for an address, so I explained to him how to get there. The second time was the day before yesterday, when I went to the post office that was located under your building for a call home, and he was there, calling somewhere. He came toward me to ask something again. Then he asked me to join him to go up to the editorial office, said that it was is your birthday, and it would be pleasant for you if we both congratulate you on your birthday. He beseeched me. In short, I don’t know what happened to me, what came to my mind, but I agreed to go


49
 
up for a moment. So, I went up with him to you. And the rest you know already.”

As if assuaged of the weighty burden, I took a breath.

“So surely, and the birthday, and the preceding it rituals were fabricated by him,” Rena smiled broadly, “he devised all that, isn’t he?”

“Maybe,” I said evasively. “So, he did not have your phone number.”

“Of course, not.”

“It is interesting.”

“To tell the truth, I was somehow confused from your call, too. I did not understand from where you got my phone number.”

“I won’t say,” I smiled. “Do you remember calling home

from my radiotelephone?”

“I do.”

“All the calls are being stored in the phone’s memory. That is the whole mystery.”

Rena laughed and said:

“Let it be so” she looked at me with her affectionate blue eyes and added, “What important thing were you going to talk about?”

“We left the restaurant without paying the other day.”

“Dear me” Rena backed up, fearfully holding her hand on her cheek. “That’s impossible.”

50
 
“Do you remember the head waiter, Rauf Aliyevich? The one whom Armen introduced us to. So, he called me in this regard, yesterday.”

“What a shame!” Rena looked at me worrisomely, “what are we going to do?”

“He’s waiting for us right now,” I said.

“Hold a minute,” she said musingly, making some calculations in her mind. “I cannot tell this to my father, or mother, moreover to my brother. But I will tell my brother’s wife. Irada will help. Also, my monthly stipend is with me. I can give that too.”

“Rena, nothing is needed. Do not worry,” I looked at her with tender emotion. “Let’s go.”

“Is it possible to do without me?” Rena’s voice sounded pleading.

“It is impossible. If it were possible, I would go alone,” I said with great satisfaction. “Well, so let’s go.”

I took her arm and almost forced her to the taxi station.


CHAPTER 5

Rauf Aliyevich met us with a respectful and indefinable smile. He assured that in his practice there was no such thing, that people will leave without payment. I.e., it has happened, but not with such reverent people, who may leave the entity


51
 
without paying, and that he does not remember occasion of that type.

We did not go to the Eastern hall and sat at "Mirrored" hall, at the window. Rena wanted that way. On the stage, there was a saxophone on one of the chairs, on the other were a trumpet and drum, double bass in a cover was leaned to the wall. The musicians had already appeared and were amicably conversing in front of the stage, looking occasionally at the clients’ side.

I ordered a glass of semi-sweet champagne for Rena and a shot glass of cognac for me. The waitress was a Russian girl with a bit pale, lean, but attractive face who was executing our orders with the emphasized complaisance as if it was a special pleasure for her.

In front of the bar two young ladies with long legs that were reaching up to their waist, had settled on the high stools and with colored straws were sipping gin with tonic and lemon wedges, from time to time gazing at the gentlemen with evaluating looks.

There was a pleasant atmosphere, soft music. I liked that everyone from the adjoining tables were paying attention on us. We were chatting; either I was telling a story, or Rena, and step by step, I was feeling that her close presence is turning me crazy.


52
 
Rena was listening me attentively, sometimes was smiling, from time to time was laughing. But to my amazement, in the oblong mirror facing me, I suddenly saw Armen. Having a cigarette in his mouth, he was slowly and unheeded going up to the second floor. I thought that probably the other day he could not pay the bill, and so has returned to pay it off. I turned back and waved with my hand in order to signal him, but he didn’t notice us, as he was occupied by those cocktail drinking ladies at the bar stand, who were seemingly acquainted with him. I even saw how he was smiling to them. But then suddenly he noticed us, stopped, looking at our side with a puzzled gaze, then drew a smile on his face and approached to us.

“What a meeting! Wow, Hello guys, I am calling and calling you since morning but no answer. So, here where you are. What do you drink, cognac, champagne, no vodka?” he asked, making himself comfortable on the unoccupied armchair at the table. He did not forget complimenting Rena when his gaze touched her. And Rena, as always, is stunning. “Here is a new joke by the way. A young lady is walking along and noticing that a guy is following her. After some time, the girl suddenly turns around and says: “Why are you following me?” “Now, when you turned to me and I saw your face, I may ask myself that same question: Why?”


53
 
We laughed. I called the waitress and she brought vodka. I certainly did not believe that he allegedly has called me, there were some calls, but not from him. I said nothing about it, I did not tell him about the restaurant story either. I also made it clear to Rauf Aliyevich, who had approached us on some occasion, not to say anything to him. The head waiter nodded as a sign of agreement. In the end Armen suggested an unusual toast:

“Let the coming day bring go in with peace under our roofs,” he said, and then, seems remembered something and worrisome added, “I have a friend from the sides of Georgia. If to be more precise, he is not a friend, just an acquaintance, whom I had met recently. So has a connection with criminal structures, and he is a good friend of the secretary of your Central Committee Hasan Hasanov. He told, that there is a rumor that for some unknown causes the criminals will be released from jails. He does not tell me everything, but I can see, feel that something bad may occur. Every weekend in Philharmonic building there have been happen some secret meetings under the leadership of that same Hasanov... And so, let the coming day go in with peace under our roofs,” he repeated with the same concerned look, “and let nobody become harbor less, and nobody weep and mourn over untimely loss.”


54
 
He run an eye over his watch, got up and said, “I am sorry, but I have a meeting at the 26 Commissars’ Subway station. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes”.

Armen’s toast was really strange. But since it was considered by us as a part of the regular conversation, we immediately forgot it, but in future, I often recalled the ominous words of Armen. After his leaving I noticed that the girls at the bar had also disappeared. Their glasses of gin half empty had remained on the bar stand.

I danced with Rena a few times. It was pleasant excitement for me to feel her timidity and confusion, the tickling sensation from the touch of her hair to my chin, the fragile warmth of her body on my palms, the easy tread in the dance, her joy, her gleaming slanting gaze, silvery voice, that nobody else has in whole world, the elegance of her movements and forms, and also how through the friendly look, she was blowing the strand of golden curls that was falling on her forehead.

Armen never came though. We waited for him ten-fifteen minutes, like as he had said. But an hour or two passed, and he did not show up again.

“He did not come back,” I said once more, looking at the mirror lit by the wall torches reflecting the granite stairs from top to the first floor.


55
 
Rena hauntingly looked at me. Apparently, there was not a

shade of regret in my voice, and Rena paid attention to this.

“Do you want him to return?”

“No.” I said.

“Why?”

“And you?” I casually replied to the question with question, passing to the singular form of the pronoun.

Rena shook her head and pushed her hair strand from the forehead with the already familiar movement of her hand. She smiled and said with delay.

“No.”

“Why?” I asked, unwillingly putting my hand on her hand.

She did not move her hand back.

“Because you do not want it,” she said with a smug smile.

I was nursing, caressing her fingers, and she wasn’t taking her hand away; then her hand turned in my palm and our fingers intertwined. Anxiety swept over me, my heart beated in alarm and was filled with immense love and affection. I touched my lips to her long, delicate, wonderful fingers.

“Rena,” I whispered excitedly and with faded heart, “I want you to believe this is the most glorious, the most beautiful, the most amazing and the happiest day in my life. Tell me, do you believe that is so?”




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“I believe,” she said, and her lips were fiery. “I want,” Rena continued, and her voice trembled, “I want that this day will be the start, and the following and remaining days will be as it is today.”

I thanked the waitress for the wonderful evening not forgetting to slip unnoticed into her pocket a red banknote. I also paid the bill we owed from the day before yesterday, and we with Rena went down to the first floor. I bought from a flower selling lady nineteen white Dutch roses on long stems, one beautiful from another, carefully choosing one by one and handed them to Rena for what she was extremely grateful for. She touched her warm lips to my cheek, confused from the excitement, which made me be petrified to the spot.

Rena did not want again to take her home by taxicab. We parted at the subway station. At the last moment she said quietly having pressed the white roses on her chest.

“Leo, I want you to believe that this day will remain as a very happy and unforgettable day for me, too.”

Rena was not seen in the subway lobby already, but I was still standing, unable to move. With her heady essence, she seemed to be still beside me, here, and I was feeling her warm breath, hearing her captivating voice, feeling her stupefying aroma, and the light fleeting endearment of her soft hair on my face...

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CHAPTER 6

I left the Planning department in low spirits. I didn’t want to go on a business trip at all, but I also couldn’t refuse the chief editor’s request. After all, wouldn’t I say that please acknowledge, that like an adolescent, I fell in love up to the degree of losing my mind? That, my heart really wants to stay here, in the city, in order to meet her one more time. And you do not even have a clue how attractive and alluring she is. And in whole world one cannot find an image more beautiful than her effulgent face. That for me, each and every sound of her voice is sweeter than any melody available in all over the world. So the business trip to the Mir Bashir region, to the Armenian village with a strange name Begum Sarov where the monument was erected in memory of the dead covillagers during the Great Patriotic War, somebody else let go for, since the village administration have made a call with a request to make a TV reportage on the opening ceremony of that monument.

It has to be a ten-minute program, and for its realization the four of us-the editor, director, cameraman and anchorman had to drive through more than three hundred kilometers of the road up to the Kura River. The road is made from the asphalt though, surrounded by dry, desolate, kind of dead steppe, no even a tree, or any type of vegetation are available. Nothing but stretched asphalt road with its

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bothersome monotony in the kingdom of ubiquitous desolation.

Vegetation was existing beyond the Kura River only. In the distance we saw women who were working in the vast cotton fields. Along the road, here and there, in open-air eateries men were playing backgammon or drinking tea idly gazing at the traffic vehicles.

Despite the village Begum Sarov was steppeous, it was covered with trees and flowers, a real paradise in the unbounded area.

I assumed that we would manage to finish the job in a day, but it turned out that we stayed there for another couple of days and had to return to the city only on Thursday afternoon.

Surprisingly, on our way back I was thinking immediately call Rena upon arrival, but later I started to hesitate and changed my mind. After all, when we went apart, she didn’t say anything, and to call her without her consent seemed hardly suitable to me.

We had a little talk with the editor-in-chief. He told us a new joke about a man who returns unexpectedly home from a business trip and sees his wife with a stranger in their bed. He asks, looking at the feet of the stranger outside the blanket. “Who is he?” “Who-who” His wife is replying. “Remember? When I was asking you so many times to buy a

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fur coat, and you didn’t. So, he did. Is there happened that at least once you'll take me to the beach? But he took. And then, there is the summer house, the vehicle that we own. Do you think that all these have fallen on us from the sky? That is all him. And now, he wants to leave money for a new apartment.

“If this is the case,” the husband said, “cover his legs, so that he does not catch a cold.”

I got up laughing and wanted to leave the office, when the chief asked.

“Would you like some coffee?”

“I would,” I said, sitting on the sofa again.

The chief pressed the selector button and said to Arina, “Arina, would you make a coffee for Leo, please.”

“With great pleasure,” Arina responded, and I felt noticeable delight in her voice.

The chief looked at me and ambiguously smiled. Shortly

after,  like  the  image  of  the  Jean  Leotard’s  Lady  Pouring

chocolate, Arina came in, solemnly holding the tray and

greeting me with risible look.

I responded to her greeting.

“Arina, bring please the papers of the last couple of days”. The coffee was palatable. I enjoyed it with pleasure and got up from my seat.

“Thank You! My tiredness went away.”

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“By the way, Leonid Hurunts is here now. Did you see him? He is at Loranna’s now. They are conversing. He was working at the Russian Editorial office before.

“No. I didn’t have chance to see him yet.”

Glimpsing at the doors opening onto the editorial corridor I walked to my office. It was hot in the room. I loosened the knot on my tie and turned on the air conditioner. I sat down at the table keeping eye on the phone. “No. I’ll not call her”, I concluded finally.

“Hello again” Arina entered the office and put the papers in front of me. “So, why were you late? We got tired waiting for you,” she added sitting in front of me with her permanent posture, i.e. mouth was slightly open, her elbow was leaning on the table, and her hand was on her cheek. And one could definitely observe the barely noticeable smile on the corners of her lips, precisely like the female sculptures of Antonio Canova.

“I wondered whether I could forgive you or not.”

“Me?” She asked, putting her hand on her chest and jittering with her nose.

“Yes,” I said in jesting tone and suddenly remembered: I only told her about Avik Isahakyan. But wait, for what reason. O, yeah, there was a talk about Beria once and I said that Avik Isahakyan was our lecturer, and that he is married


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with the granddaughter of Beria, who at the same time was also the great granddaughter of Maksim Gorki.

Obviously, she blurted out about this to Armen and that dodger has adhered to it and called me.

“Why?” she asked having pressed under her teeth the lower lip, and carefully looking at me.

“Have you told Armen about Avik Isahakyan?”

“I believe so... O yes, he was at the chief 's, then came out from the office and was interested about you, asked for you, then ...yes...I told him about Avik Isahakyan, and it looks like he didn't know about it, but what had happened?”

I told Arina briefly about the incident connected with the restaurant and asked:

“Had Armen showed up here in my absence?”

“No ...” Arina looked at me with wide open eyes. “What a dirty man! And we somehow took him for a decent man...Leo, excuse me please, I’m guilty...and I am sorry” “All right. So be it.”

Somewhere inwardly was pleasing to feel her spotless purity but playing with her dreamful and delicate soul was putting to pleasure, too. And so, I continued. “And I really thought if you were with him. Now I see that no...” I was thinking that maybe you have made arrangements with him, but now I see, that you didn’t.


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“I see that you didn’t... Leo, do you really think what you are saying,” she turned red hastily jumping from her seat with the touching sincerity of the unjustly accused child. “Do you understand what you are saying?”

“All right; take your seat. I was just kidding.” I laughed, “Do you know about such thing as joke? Here is one. The chief told me recently, and it’s a good one. So, calm down, please, and listen...”

“Calm down and listen...” Arina said still offended, and distending lips like a child, she sat in front of me.

So, the lecturer asks a student: “What’s your last name?” “Darbinyan” she responds and starts to smile. “And why are you smiling?” the lecturer wonders “I am happy that answered correctly to your first question” the student replied.

“The chief has told nothing like that,” said Arina already smiling. You just made that up. That’s all right, it’s kind of witty but I would like to tell you that I graduated from the University with honor...”

“Of course. Otherwise, why would’ve they award you with medal.”

“Award with medal... Shame on you,” Arina initiated the attack with an intimate tone and had her eyes squinted, “and why have you mocked an old man, “maybe that is not an institute, but a university” Arina distorted her mouth trying

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to ridiculate. “And he was so excited at home, was telling with a pride what a heartfelt friend he has. By the way, he was wishing to come to you.

“Why? Maybe he has repented and wants to fire you from your job.

“Vice versa,” Arina laughed. “He wishes that you’ll induct into a job his other daughter-in-law. “Hold on, let me get a pen. So how many daughters-in-law are there at your home all together?”

“Don’t be scared, they are only three of us,” Arina laughed again. “My middle brother-in law-would not allow his wife to work. He is extremely jealous.”

“If that is the case, there is only one remained. I am very happy.”

“I’m also glad that you’re happy.”

“And I’m happy, that you’re glad, that I’m happy.”

“And I’m happy that you are glad that I’m happy, that you

are glad, that I’m...” Arina laughed, shook her head, “listen, I’m

happy, you are happy, he is happy, O my God, they’ll gonna

kill me. My brain got shifted. In short, remains only my senior

brother-in-law’s wife Silvia.”

“Is she pretty?”

“Pretty? It’s not your concern her being pretty or not” “Listen, shouldn’t I know whom I am going to recommend?”


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“And whom are they looking for: a specialist or the pretty one?”

“The one who is a pretty, and specialist”

“...A pretty, and specialist ... If not your tongue to make you to come unscrewed, demons had been taken you away long time ago.”

“If the demons had been taken me, who would’ve admitted you to your jobs? What’s her specialty? What is her name, last name, age? You should’ve start from that one” Arina got angry, “She had graduated from the economy college” “Does she know the letters?”

With a bent eyebrow, she passed her eyes over me, and laughed

“What kind of letters?”

“Go on, the last name, the name.”

“Our last name is the same: Darbinyan. She is Darbinyan Silva, twenty-three years old. She will be twenty-three in October, to be exact. Something else?”

“There is a vacancy in the Committee’s Bookkeeping Department. The chief accountant of the Committee Seidozayeva, will not turn her down, I guess. Should I make a call?”

“No, there is no need for that,” Arina objected, “Wait until I’ll talk to Silvia, and then. I will tell you tomorrow. And whose is this pocketbook?” taking the bloknote with the

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black cover in between of the folders located at the corner of the spacious office table Arina said with a perplexed look.

“Probably Armen has forgotten. Keep it with you. And hand it to him, if he shows up”.

Arina got up from her seat.

“The Ex is waiting for me there, so I must go. With his memoires he’ll go to torment me. I am telling you for sure.” She turned at the door and said incidentally, “By the way, that girl had showed up here.”

“What girl?” I asked as if indifferent, but with heartfelt delight, and with an inner feeling that the remark was about Rena.

“What girl...I do not know,” Arina threw a close look at me. “The one that had comen with Armen. She was asking for you.”

“Me?” I asked again with heartfelt bliss and acting indifferent again.

“Me... Yes.”

There was the same investigating stare. Arina slowly closed the door behind her. I realized that she is not leaving yet and is in the corridor.

Then was opened and closed the door for the common room. And a bit later in Ariana’s small room one could hear the clicking of the typewriter.


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I nearly jumped up from my place, closed the door and locked it with the key. I was thinking that if Rena will not pick up the phone, I won’t speak. I dialed the phone number 9, 2, 6, 9, 9, rotated the last digit: 8, and kept it and released it. The disk returned to its place with a small noise. “Hello.”


That was Rena.

“Hello, Rena,” I said with a voice that was trembling from

excitement

“Hi, Leo. I came to the editorial office twice, but you weren’t there.”

“I went on a business trip unexpectedly,” I explained by making somehow excuses, “and I was thinking of you at all time: on the road, and there.”

“Thank you.” Even on the phone, I felt her bashful smile at

the moment. “It is pleasing to hear that. Are not you are

going anywhere on Monday?”

“No,” I said rapidly.

“In that case, on Monday, after the classes I’ll pass by. Will

you wait for me?”

“Of course!”

But Rena didn’t hang up.

“Your roses have not withered yet.” she said. They are all got blossomed, and the room is filled with their aroma.” She


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paused for a moment, and said, “they continuously keep reminding me about you.”

“At the crossroads of hundreds of roads,” I said, “people

meet each other without knowing that their past life was the preparation of that meeting.”

“Yes, it seems like that,” Rena responded. “And what is awaiting them after that crossroad, is impossible to know either.”

“I like you, Rena, a lot.” I said excitedly again. “I’ll wait for you all day on Monday.”

“Goodbye,” Rena said, but still didn’t hang up. “I have sympathy towards you, too...I will come on Monday, bye.” “Tsavd tanem,” with irresistible urge of heart I said, and I noticed that my voice trembled.

“Savet tanem. What does it mean?”

“Not Savet Tanem, but Tsav’d tanem.”

“Tsaved tanem?”

“No, tsavd tanem.”

“Tsaved tanem?”

“No, no tsavd tanem.”

“But what does it mean?”

“Wordly in Russian it translates as I’ll take your pain upon me.”





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“Aaa... Aghrin alim,” affectionately articulated Rena. “Or in terms of meaning- dardin alim, gadan alim. In Azebaijani it sounds more precise and adequate, rather than in Russian.” “Tsavet tanem. Goodbye.” She laughed and put the phone down.

With the irregularly palpitating heart, I walked back and forth in my office with no idea of my further actions. My heart could not stand it. I really wanted to tell someone that Rena would come to me on Monday, and that I would wait for her all day long. But I knew also I would never tell anyone anything about her.

I looked down from the fifth story window; where an isolated oleaster had risen to the building blockaded wall and got hung over the street looking at the building of the Central Committee and spreading white pollen around. The colorful butterflies were hovering in the clouds of blossoms, touching down to the flowers. Puddled with silverberry’s aroma the vivifying cool air was bursting in through the open window shutter. From my window it was visible also the subway square of Bak.Soviet with its crowded traffic, the old Baku, i.e. Icheri Shahar, beyond the high fortress with artillery holes, shining under sun, tar covered flat roofs, caravanserais, baths, masques, for namaz doleful calls of the muezzin, and web alike narrow streets leading to the sea. One was able to see and the sea, where over the anchored

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ship seagulls were continuously circulating, from time to time slenderly tear into the water. The sea was perfectly visible before the new structure of the Central Committee was erected, thus letting to see only part of it. The waves under the spring sun were twinkling blindly reflecting its bright rays. The sky from my office also seemed has splitted into two. The loftiness of the Kirov Park was covering by itself partially the sky and it seems that the stately monument of Kirov with his hand stretched forward and the sea with the city underneath were creating an erroneous impression, that they were located not on the height but in the open sky. I went out into the corridor and turning to the left, entered the General Department.


CHAPTER 7

Loranna was sitting at her desk. Leonid Hurunts, a risible and jolly man, with wheatty streaks of grey hair stowed to one side, was sitting in front of her.

“Comrade Harunts, please make acquaintance with our vice chief editor,” Loranna introduced me, “his parents are from Karabagh, but he was born in Sumgayit.”

Certainly, I knew Harunts as a writer. I had read his books, especially the novel "The Karabagh Poem" fraught with tenderness, pure love, and romanticism, but I was seeing Harunts firsthand for the first time.

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“So, are you from Karabagh?” He vigorously held out his hand to me. “Why to ask, when it is visible without that? – Tall and handsome, and with considerable stroke of good fortune. Karabaghi people are all like that: tall, handsome, and with “lucky star.” As our Bagrat Ulubabyan has described you: “the offspring seed people. Are you married?” He asked with a wide smile on his face.

I negatory shook my head. Hurunts looked at me friendly, like a kinsman.

“I had divorced twice at your age, and you haven’t even married yet.”

“He doesn’t have time for that,” Loranna smiled cunningly.

“Or, you don’t give him enough time,” Hurunts laughed.

“One when youngster, has to live in order to love, while when-mature, has to love in order to live. My first wife was Taatul Huryan’s wife’s: Manya’s sister. And, since Tatul and I were close friends and have been married on two sisters, we decided to carry the same last name: he is Huryan, and I am Hurunts. Eh, there is nothing better in the world than being young,” he continued, “and there is nothing more valuable in the world than that. If the youth exists, there are only a few minor details left to feel the charm of happiness. So, while you are young, smile every day with the bright smile, find funny something in your life; One needs to smile and dream. As the saying goes, follow your dream, and a door be opened

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in front of you, where once was an inaccessible wall. When a person stops dreaming, he is already dead ...There are so many people around us that are dead, but they do not even realize that. There is a big difference between growing up and growing old,” concluded Hurunts after a little pause. “If you are thirty and lying on the couch you do nothing whole year, you will still become thirty-one. There is nothing complicated when one adds a year to his age. That is to say, there is no need for talent or skill for that at all. Talent and skill are the tools that just supports one to be able to gain new opportunities during that change for oneself.”

There are three things that never return the time, the word, and the given opportunity. That’s why one does not need to spend one’s time in vain, just a need to think properly before saying something, and not miss the opportunity. Remember my word and do not regret for anything. Do not regret what had happened yesterday, do not be afraid of what will happen tomorrow, and be happy with what you have in present. Older people usually do not regret what they did, they are getting sad for what they did not succeed, or what they did not manage to do in past. How is that in the famous song that you will never sorry for what you did, but thousand times regret for the undone. That’s it,” he continued with a deep breath. “There is really nothing better in the world than the youth. Certainly, there is nothing

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more valuable than that. But it is a pity that it’s too short timewise. With the youngster’s vigor, as with the gold, one may do everything one desires.”

I wrote my "Karabagh Poem" at the best period of my life, when I was young. But I didn’t see any joy out of it.” He added. “Only bitterness. At that time there was an atmosphere of fierce rise of nationalism in Azerbaijan. With various labels of lack of confidence, prominent Armenians have been driven from Baku and other regions of the republic, to the Northern parts of Kazakhstan, or even straight into Siberia, at the same time occupying their positions at work, taking over their comfortable apartments. In Short, everyone was involved, that one too, along with the others,” Harunts continued pointing with his head to the ex’s side, “they assaulted me and if I escaped from the exile and stayed alive, that is only by accident.”

Saghumyan was listening to Hurunts, nodding his head as a sign of agreement. He probably was aware of those events, and was recalling them, too.

“OK, but in what were they hold you responsible and place the blame on,” Loranna interested, “Were there any antigovernmental notions in the book?”

“Oh, no, indeed” Hurunts surprised. “What antigovernmental notions? The book title had made them furious. Exterminating an Armenian by the hands of an

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Armenian is not new,” Hurunts continued musingly, “Who donated the unassailable fortress of Shushi to a leader of a nomadic tribe Panah Ali of Sarijallu, who had fled Persia. That was the Armenian traitor Shahnazar. Or who joined to the proposal of Sergo Orjonikidze to revise the decision of the Transcaucasian Bureau of June 3, 1921, which was in favor of Armenia, and a month and two days later, on July 5, who voted against the incorporation of Nagorno-Karabakh into Armenia? That was another Armenian: The Secretary of the same Bureau Hmayak Nazaretyan. The Azerbaijani leadership has always sought the help of Armenians in its anti-Armenian acts, using them in a very flexible way, thus choosing those who were ready to trample on the interest and honor of the native people for their own benefit. Who overthrew the great Armenian like Bagrat Ulubabyan, a dishonorable dog by the name of Gevorg Atajanyan? I've heard, he works here. As yo may recall, Bulgakov in his famous novel “The Master and Margaret” describes how Judas from Kiriath kindly invites him home, regaled with food, at the same time inquiring about his attitude towards the authorities, and then betrays him to the executioners. In much the same way, that Atajanyan, with the one like him, I do not want him to be named, as it is unacceptable to talk bad about dead people, calls Ulubabyan along with Bogdan Zanyan on a visit, secretly records whole conversation

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around the table and hands over to the KGB. Ulubabyan was deprived from Karabagh, and that same dishonorable dog Atajanyan was appointed Secretary of the regional branch of the Writers’ Association instead of him. He was accepted into the rank of the Writers’ Association just in one day. That is something unseen or unheard of, as people have been waiting for ten-fifteen years, and still have not been

accepted into the Writers’ Association. Meanwhile they have been accepted that untalented, scatterbrained and immoral man in a day. And who gave him such urgent recommendations: those were Samvel Grigoryan and your new boss. Call him, and I’ll tell that to his face...”

The secretary’s door was quietly opened, and our former editor-in-chief entered the room with his inseparable net bag in hand. With a gray hair agglutinated from left to right on his bald head with droopy double chin, blond, and with a short stature, but still solid, it took him a moment to put the paper folder into his net-bag. He Looked closely at Hurunts, and said, as if with the obvious intention of adding oil to the fire. “Kevorkov has allocated an apartment to me”

Hurunts raised his head, looking at him with astonishment. “So, what, you didn't have an apartment?” he asked. “You had a three-room apartment not far from the Armenian Church, on Hyusi Hajiyev Street and, I know, I have heard


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that Heydar Aliyev bestowed you a new four-room apartment near the Government House, right on the beach.” “Not here, but in Stepanakert,” gratefully clarified the former. “In order me to go there summertime and taste the mulberry. Above all, Karabagh is my motherland, and I have dedicated few of my poems to it, such as: "Shaghasar", "Singara", “Lalik Aghbyur.” This one, for instance, I composed lately, after having the apartment:”


When one gives Karabagh’s name,

Mountains come to my mind at once,

I hear its rivers’ splatter game,

Oh, and stones, - I lay eyes at glance.

Hot lavash in tandoor I remember,

And the ground in barn cold, but fain,

Our mulberry...oh, land my so dear,

I recall in my memories again.


“So, what’s then?” Hurunts asked.

“What’s then?” the former sniffed with an ironic grin. “It’s a praise to Karabagh. Praise to mother-Nature. Isn’t it clear?” “One of my relatives, who is a worker of the Karabagh silk factory,” Hurunts said with a menacing courtesy, keeping his glance away from his interlocuter, “for almost eighteen


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years, with his family of six, he has sheltered in a narrow and humid basement, and is waiting for his turn for an apartment, and nobody knows how long he will still wait. So now your Kevorkov, how is he able to give you an apartment to enjoy mulberry. Bagrat Ulubabyan, who dedicated his whole life to Karabagh, and Bogdan Janyan who went to jail for Karabagh’s cause, they do not have right to enter Karabagh. I’m also forbidden to go to Karabagh, even though I have dedicated to it all my books, my whole life,” without any pause, but with a sigh, continued Hurunts. “Even my relatives are scared to talk to me because of fear from Kevorkov. He is a despicable and venal creature - that’s who he is, your Kevorkov. And until there are scums like him, until they are defacing atmosphere, it won’t be fair judgement and justice on the face of the Earth.”

“Leonid, please do not tell me such things,” the former protested sniffing with nose again.

“It’s a pity!” he said. “It’s a real pity as behind those fake authorities, you do not see, or more precise, you do not want to see the evil, that each day, each hour is growing bigger. It is getting bigger with the flattering support of those, who must fight against the evil.”

The Ex with the hostile disregard was looking at Harunts, and from time to time was sniffing, turning his nose left and right.


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“Why is that like this,” Hurunts continued, “Have you give a thought at least once, that why among more than a half a million Armenians living in Soviet Azerbaijan, there is not a single composer, artist, scientist, governmental leader, a secretary at the Central Committee, even a decent writer on the scale of the republic?”

“In your opinion, then, there is no a proper writer here? I am not a writer either, huh?” The former exclaimed with a furious rage. “Do you think that my two volumes of works were published vainly? That they gave me the title of the national poet of Azerbaijan needlessly?”

“The title of the National Writer was indued to you by those who are unable to read your writings. That is foolishness, and when it is so, when the stupidity is being put on the place of the truth, that is horrible.”

“Thank God,” the former said, slowly stretching out the words “Neither you, nor the ones like you, are decision makers, whether to award somebody with the title or the rank. Thank Goodness! Thank God!” He repeated moving to the exit door.

“Go, go! Of everything that I said here, this one only touched you, right?” Hurunts grinned, outwardly keeping calm impression. “Go, otherwise the products will be delivered from the special store, but you won’t be home. Special store, special hospital, special hotel, special salary and extra bonus

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fee, special drug store, special lavatory... Completely special-from the maternity hospital up to the cemetery. Completely special, and completely separated from the people. They have already reached the final goal of their struggle, they have built special communism: from each one-nothing, to each one -according to their needs. Those needs are so big, that the real communism for now was succeeded to build only for themselves.

The former significantly looked at Hurunts. His pupils reflected the shine of the glittered wickedness, but he said nothing. Silent, reddened, he took off without saying goodbye. But after a moment he returned and opening the door with inexorable malice threw through clenched teeth.

“You know what, Hurunts, I would like to remind you the saying about the sour grapes,” He slammed the door shut. There was a long-lasting silence.

Arina had opened the door of her room and leaning her head on the side panel, was looking around. Finally, Saghumyan broke the silence.

“He rushed to report.” He concluded.

“I know,” Hurunts leniently agreed, and shook his hand.

He kept silence for a bit again, grumbled and said.

“Have you ever seen a separated, lonely tree, whether in good weather or bad, endlessly winding, as if searching for something with its branches? It has always seemed to me that

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the tree is looking, seeking for someone's reliable hand, someone’s support but not finding one. Years pass by, decades follow each other and there is still that tree, beaten by the winds, keeps winding and searching, searching and winding. That is Karabakh. It has been sending delegates here and there for over three hundred years, from Israel Ori to the present day, begging, complaining and suffering is waiting for help, but standing in deadly silence and indifference, does not find its supporter, a reliable hand, as that lone tree. And so it is writhing, is moaning in pain, does not realizing that the oceans are determining its fate”. Hurunts took his old, faded and discolored big briefcase, and was the first who went out into the corridor.

The hosts conversing with each other, were approaching from the elevator, being prepared to the evening network programs. The editor of the children’s programs Telman Karabakhly-Chakhalyan -with yellow tie, with a lock consisting of fifteen -twenty hairs, with swollen eyelids, with running eyes that were always having reddish tint, pale, and with shrivel lips man, in his fifties, who was leaving the impression if not of a crazy, but a disturbed person. If he would’ve kept thin and twisted mustache with the ends up, one might ‘be seen that Salvador Dali is standing in front of him.


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“We are coming to work, and you are going home!” Telman expounded his philosophical dictum in the Karabaghi dialect, without any doubt that he expresses himself in an exemplary literary Armenian and passed by us without greeting.

The childhood of this Karabakhly-Chalyan passed in the town of Barda. His mother with two juvenile kids, married an Azerbaijani guy. He had obtained Azerbaijani education, had been graduated from the Department of Law of the University. Some say, that he even worked as a prosecutor somewhere: in a remote area, for several months at the time. Then he was working in one of the Azerbaijani editorial TV offices, and after opening the Armenian television network, he has been transferred to our editorial office. But how he had managed to graduate from the university, and how he had worked before the transferal to us, was inconceivable to imagine; over the two or three pages of the children’s program he pored for two weeks in anguish, and why had the former chief transfer him to the Armenian edition, remained a puzzle. Either it was imposed by the State Security Committee, or from the Central Committee, but now, he was living for several years with no needs, gloriously, by doing nothing. Our guys had contrived joke about him which seemed funny to Hurunts too. As if Telman’s mother takes him by the hand like in the


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Tumanyan’s story Gikor and leads to the editor of the Armenian newspaper Kommunist Gegham Barsegovich Antelepyan to apply for a job.

“Does he, at least, know the letters?” Antelepyan, who was descended from Western Armenians, asks.

“No, my dear,” the mother replies; “if had he knew, why I have to come to you, I would’ve taken him to the Bakinskiy Rabochiy.

The new chief also did not want to mess with him. Once, at the board meeting we were talking about his idleness. The chief, for some reason, got excited, rubbed his face with his hand, as if trying to put away the heavy barden, and glancing away, said: Keep in mind that this is a closed topic, and please, do not talk about it”, and later privately told me, “I can’t fire him. It is beyond my power”.

The three of us-Hurunts, Saghumyan and I-took the elevator down and went out to the street.

It was spring. The day was clear, the sun was pleasantly warm. Under the shade of the limetrees with massive trunks, a group of the young men were drinking tea leisurely glancing at the by passers. The vehicles had formed endless stream on the avenue. In the depth of the park under the high gates of Icheri Sheher, in the open-air caf;, a group of the school students was enjoying ice cream, and their careless laughter was spread all over the park.


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“He is obliged to edit others’ materials, and he: doesn’t. Obviously, he can't do that,” Saghumyan said at Telman Karabakhly-Chalyan’s address. “If that is not enough, someone has to sit and translate his childish balderdash nonsense pilfered from here and there, process them and prepare, in order him not to lose his monthly fees”.

“This is also an expression of an unfavorable attitude towards our people,” Hurunts concluded, “the Television and Radio Broadcasting Committee has dozen editorials. Was it really impossible to place him in other office?”

“He doesn’t know Azerbaijani letters either. Who ‘ll want to keep him?” Saghumyan joked, “There are two people in the section, he and your mentioned Gevorg Atajanyan: impious, quarrelsome and sly. That is his type. All day long there is a wrangel and contention. He got expelled from Karabagh, we accepted him and got into trouble.”

Hurunts turned and while was standing on the sunlit sidewalk, was surveying for a long time our editorial office building once again appreciating the proportionality and harmony of its parts, arched windows frames, shield like forming ornaments and bas-reliefs.

“Life is an instant between the future and the past,” Hurunts articulated with an expression of a deep regret on his face and brushing with the fingers his disobedient hair.


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“Do you know what the charm of youth and its secret is? It seems to me that the whole secret of the charm of adolescence is not in being able to do everything, but in thinking that you will do it all. A man lives his life with dreaming: when a teenager- wants to live happily, even though adolescence is already joy in itself, when grown-up-wants to live well, and only in old age one wants just to live long. It seems like yesterday when I was young and whole my life was in front of me, and I was climbing up and down these stairs. Now even the stones of the stairs are worn like my life...”

We silently walked to the subway.

“Ok, I have to go,” Hurunts said with delay, then added jestingly “men to my mind marry because of stupidity, getting divorce because of a lack of patience, then marry again because of a short memory. You do not do that...” He smiled kindly and commanded, “you certainly marry by my next visit, though, of course, marriage sometimes brings bitterness, but there is nothing good in staying single for a long time. Man has two ways in his life: remain single and feel unhappy or marry and no longer want to live.”

He hugged me by shoulders and laughed.

“And for you,” Hurunts said, shaking farewell Saghumyan “I wish your health. We must withstand and see





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how is everything ending up.” He took a step and then turned back.

“We’ll meet again!” He smiled meaningfully.

When we go apart from someone, we never think, that we will ever see him again. Unfortunately, we never had a chance to see him anymore.

We were looking at him from a distance, when Hurunts entered the subway vestibule, turned to us, and we waved to each other a goodbye.

“As far as I know him, he was always like that,” Saghumyan said about Hurunts, pensively stroking his beard. “His parents were exiled in 1937, he himself went through the turmoil of the war, reached up to Berlin. And always stayed the same, i.e. upright, principled, courageous and irreconcilable. I also know Samvel for the same time period. Will act as a sycophant and miserable one, if it needs to, and merciless and cruel to the poor, if has the benefit of 10 pennies. Two opposite poles and look how the destiny arranged their life: one in contentment and honor, and the other with the same old, outworn ten years old coat hung on his shoulders.”


CHAPTER 8

I prepared a script for a TV program dedicated to the opening Of the monument in Begum - Sarov until late at night. In the


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morning I took it to Arina for typing.

The door of her room leading to the general department was ajar; one could hear Arina crooning under her nose.

“Come to me, greet me and speak.

Please, do not leave me and make me sick”

“She has been turned into nightingale from the early morning, and does not allow us to work”, Loranna complained without malice. “Yesterday the former made her a compliment, and so, probably she lost her head.”

“One works relishing while singing,” Telman Karabakhly-Chakhalyan, aka Salvador Dali said. “Once the water was asked. Why are you wailing? It replied, that’s, cause the stone is my friend. That offal, named Gevorg Atajanyan, chattered with other people’s wives so much that the phone got broken,” he added, as if making an excuse. “So, I came to use your phone.”

At a point in the course of our conversation Arina opened the door of her room and looked at me with wide smile.

“Who is that mysterious one that is the light and the sun for you?”

“The sun? You are, who else,” she laughed, looking at me drastically. “You came in and not even said hello.”






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“Well, hello!”

“Hi” She replied with a grimace. “Do you have any errands to do? Silva will gonna show up today.”

“At what time? Let’s go to the first floor to meet her.” Arina twisted her lips in seek of an answer.

“You can’t without ridiculing our family?”

“I can”, I smiled handing her the broadcasting text, “Two copies, one is for the director.”

Telman went to his office, leaving all three of us there. “Arina, what is going on here? The former is making compliments to your address lately! How should we comprehend that?”

Arina threw a furious look at Loranna, but she chose to refrain from clarifying relations in front of me.

“Tell me what you have to do with that kid,” Loranna reprimanded the former with a fake tenderness, deliberately inflaming the conversation.

“Okay, so what did he say?”

“What did he say? He said what beautiful, black eyes you have,” finally Arina confessed with a contented smile. “To whom did he say? To you?”

“Yes, to me,” she confirmed proudly.

“Do not trust him, he is a tasteless one,” - I said. “He had reached to such a dangerous age limit, when all women seem to be belle to him. And again, do not trust him.”

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“Do not trust him...” Arina mocked me twisting her lips and steadily looking at me.

“Hurunts did very well yesterday, when gave a good dressing to him,” Loranna said. “How mad he was. Was blushed like a cooked crayfish.”

“Let him know,” I said, winking at Loranna, “what it means to insult a person inappropriate. What a beautiful, black eyes you have!”

“But after all, Arina’s eyes are really beautiful,” Loranna said with a sly smile, as if defending her. “Look at her from any point: full face, profile, you name it. She is like from the Love’s Boast of the Solomon’s Song of Songs. “I am black and beautiful, Daughters of Jerusalem

I am the rose of Sharon, The lily of the valleys. I adjure you, O daughters of Jerusalem, if you find my beloved, as to what you will tell him: For I am lovesick... “Leo, look carefully, aren’t these eyes beautiful?”

“If a gallant cavalier in his eighties finds them beautiful,” I said with a smile, “we should admit, that they are beautiful.” Arina slammed the door, and Loranna guiltily said.

“Leo, she will kill me. Why did you tell her?”

I knew Arina’s emotional outbursts that were ending just as fast as they were starting.

“Do not be afraid,” I reassured Loranna. “In few minutes everything will be forgotten.”

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And really, in less than a minute, she came out of her room with a typewritten page in her hand.

“Just listen, this man has completely got mad. You should see how he collects his papers with trembling hands. I am telling him, “Samvel Atanesovich, you do not have the trouble of coming every day, just leave the manuscript. I’ll type it, and then you may come and get it. No, he says it is impossible, my thoughts will be stolen. Go to hell with your thoughts,” Arina said heartily. “I’ve kept couple of the paragraphs, listen to this: “It was the autumn of the 1942, month: September or October. In the morning my wife Anya announced that is going to cook dolma with grape leaves which I love very much (Most of his memories are about of food and drink, Arina commented).

I was working in the Radio Committee. Once on my way back home, still at the doorway, I felt the smell of dolma. I went up to the second floor, where was our apartment on the former Caspian, now: on Schmidt Street. What I saw there, was incredible. A young man in military coat and with a crutch under his armpit, the essential arm was cut off, probably a deserter, who had escaped from the army, was standing in front of our paraffin stove and swiftly was gobbling our dolma. I rushed into our room where I was keeping a long stick behind the door, came back to the kitchen, and battered him, his head, his back, wherever was

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possible to strike. His head was teared off in two places, wounded in two places, his blood started to flow, and he tries to defend himself, but is unable to do so. And how can he protect himself: with a cut arm, with a lame leg, with a crutch under his armpit. There was a noise and hullabaloo all over the apartment. All my neighbors had gushed out from their rooms, too, and those deficient ungifted ones. Instead of being thankful that I’ve caught a thief, they were reproaching and upbraiding me. I called the police, and they took him away. What happened to him afterwards, we did not have a clue.”

“Do such people have really the right to live?” said Loranna, turning pale from indignation, “Arina, how do you type this sort of idiotism?”

“A deputy and a member of the Presidium of the Supreme Council,” Arina said angrily. “Go to hell shameless one. For sure he is half-witted.”

“We can see that from his compliments,” I filled in with merriment.

Arina laughed, looked up kindly, and then recalled:

“Leo, Silva has to come soon,” she said amiably. “Please, go

and talk to her about the case.”

“OK, I’ll go.”

I went down to the Accounting Department and made arrangements with Seyidozaeva. The place of the accountant


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was still vacant, and Saida promised her support. When I returned, Loranna came to me - she was smelling an expensive perfume, her lips were painted into bright red. She had some paperwork in her hand.

“Leo, the chief instructed to look at this material us together.” “What kind of staff?”

“It’s a TV show. I’ve prepared it. It is about the tour role of the Yerevan Theater of Young Spectator in Baku.” “OK, let’s read.”

I sat down in my seat, and she sat opposite to me, negligently crossing her legs.

“Leo, what beautiful hands you have!” she said.

I looked at her and smiled.

“If the material won’t be good, I’ll reject it.” Loranna laughed and continued.

“And your fingers are beautiful too. No matter how every time, when I look at them, at your graceful and lovely fingers, I admire with jealousy.”

“Is that all? Do I have no other advantages?” “You have a lot of advantages.”

Loranna looked at me with her soft cordial eyes and smiled.

“Tall, courageous, sensitive, delicate, handsome. Also, sincere, responsive, and not niggard either. Should I say more? Leo, sometimes, I think how little a person needs to


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feel happy. A kind word, phrase, or even a glance, or, per se, a smile, and it seems immediately that the whole world is yours...I forgot to mention about your merits: that unusual charming, beautiful smile when you look askance from under your eyebrows and smile indulgently and favorably. There is something procuring in it.”

“Make dozens of compliments to the woman, and she will thank you lightly and indifferently, and that’s it, whereas for a man even a small compliment is enough to remember it for his lifetime.”

“If you ever will forget me, at least you will remember my compliments,” Loranna laughed. “Do you know what Arina was telling about you?” She says, “when I first saw Leo, I felt a scalding strike in my chest, and for a moment it seemed to me that my heart stopped.”

“OK, give me the text. Who is going to read it, you or I or

you?”

“You. I want to hear continuously your charming voice... Leo, I will tell you one thing, just don’t laugh. Why is this happen I don’t understand myself – let’s say, ten men in love are at your feet, and you don’t even notice them, you don’t need them, you need the other one, that eleventh, the one that, as it happens, doesn’t look at your direction. That’s amazing, right?... May I smoke?”

“You may. Just turn off the air conditioner.”

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Loranna stretched to her full height, exposing her white thighs, but couldn’t reach the conditioner. So, she stood up, turned off the air conditioner, and lit a cigarette, standing at the window.

“When does the tourrole start?”

“This is not quite a tourrole, to be more precise,” Loranna explained. “There will be only one performance -"Our corner of the big world" by Hrant Matevosyan. But I talk about the theater in general, about the path it passed, about its repertoire in general, and, this production- in particular. I perceive the theater as one of the forms of social consciousness, as the art of personifying, i.e., the art of oral speech on the stage. I met the director at the hotel, yesterday morning. They have a tape, ready for broadcast. We will pass it through and conduct an interview with the director and the leading actors involved in the play. The broadcast will go live, and the chief wants you to conduct the interview.”

The text was well written. I made two or three small remarks to which Loranna agreed.

“And who is participating to the network?”

“Violeta Gevorgyan, Kim Yeritsyan, Vehmir Khachikyan, Jhasmen Msryan & the performance director himself: Artashes Hovhannisyan.”

I connected with the chief with the inner phone.


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“Vladimir Gurgenovich, Loranna and I studied the material about the Yerevan Youth Theater, it is written well and, in my opinion, Loranna herself should conduct the program.” Loranna looked at me very touched and smiled.

“If you find it more appropriate,” the chief said, “then I do not mind. Leo jan, and you, if you are free, come to me for a minute. I have to tell you something.”

Loranna and I went out of the office at the same time. At the door, she looked up in embarrassed bewilderment, and gently said, almost touching and surrounding me with her aroma.

“Leo, why are you so nice?”

Some kind of a remote, secret gossamer appeared on her purple face. She was breathing heavily; a charming smile appeared on her hazel eyes and on her half-open, stubborn, well-defined lips. She was squinting her eyes...

The chief’s topic was referring to Telman Karabakhly-Chakhalyan, more precise to his yesterday’s children’s TV show.

“Did you watch the program?” The chief asked.

I haven’t watched the program. He shook his head, walking back and forth in the roomy office.

“There are some great films in the committee. But that doesn’t matter, since the employees just sitting idly, they are being lazy to go even to the film library, look at the

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collection, choose the appropriate film. But no, on the background of some photographs they are ready to broadcast for the children annoying and boring program. Can it be so? Not only for children in general, but even for the toddlers of the nursery-kindergarten, they are boring: those programs.” The Chief was not calming down. It is disgrace, total disgrace. “Vladimir Gurgenovich,” I intervened, “I have personally spoken with you on this subject, but, as they say, that was useless undertaking. The board also had repeatedly raised this issue of his inefficiency, laziness, weakness, and the matter that he doesn’t want to do anything at work. If it is really impossible to transfer him to another editorial entity, and if we are obliged to keep him with us and provide him with fees for some reason, I have the following suggestion: that we no longer broadcast any programs on TV under his authority. Let him write whatever he wants-a fairy tale, a story, I do not care, as they should be broadcasted only by radio. I see no other way out, although, I also feel sorry for the radio listeners.”

“I agree. At the next board we will make a decision. If there was a way, we could get rid of both.”


CHAPTER 9

Silva came in right after the break.

“Here is Silva,” Arina said introducing her.

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She was wearing a dress with deep neckline. She wasn’t tall, had large cheekbones and lush breast that was visible from the dress d;collet;. On one side of her voluptuous mouth, on the upper lip, there was an artificial black mole of a pinhead size, with densely smeared cherry lipstick, eyes contoured with mascara, eyelids with bright eye shadow, and the lashes that were long and carefully curved. It seemed she had made a great effort to leave an impression.

“Did you bring the documents?”

“Yes.” With an instinctive feeling to attract sympathy, she looked at me intently smiled, and slowly and solemnly pulled out her passport, work record, diploma from her bag and put them on my desk.

“Let’s go,” I said, picking up the documents.

“Should I wait here?” Arina asked for some reason in a confused, rather in a depressed tone and replied to herself, “No, I’d better go to my room, I have something to machine type. Silva, stop by, when you are done.”

We walked along a long crowded corridor, went down the stairs to the fourth floor, then turned left, passed a brightly lit endless series of doors on both sides, turned left again at the end of the corridor and following the signs on the closed doors, stopped in front of the door with the signboard "Accounting" printing in black letters. I opened the door letting Silva to enter the first. All three rooms of the

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Accounting department were visible from the hallway. There was nobody in Seyidozayeva’s office. The piles of thick folders and various papers, were scattered on the desk and the computer with the monitor standby mode, had occupied the table, near which no one was present.

“She’s coming now,” Alvina Osipova said with a sunny smile on her erotic, cute little face, stretching her neck from the next room and chewing gum in her mouth. And the eyes mischievously asking. “Who is she?”

We went out again to the noisy corridor to wait for the principal accountant.

The fragments of songs and music were reaching to us from the rehearsal halls. Somewhere behind the thick walls the children’s choir was singing vigorously: “Ju-Ju-Jujalalyarim myanim ghashang Jujalyalyarim, Ju-Ju-Jujialalyarim...” Then right after that, Baba Mirzoyev’s sweet soundingly gurgled, “Aman, Tello, Tello-jan, Tello...”

“Hi, old buddy!” That was Siyavush from the editorial office of the Russian TV shows. I turned back to his voice.


“Hello, Siyavush!” I greeted him cheerfully. “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you for two weeks.”

“I was transferred to the Writers’ Union,” he replied, glancing at Silva and greeting her with his head.

“Why?” I was upset. “Was it really bad here?”

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“I have more free time there. My work begins at ten o’clock

in the morning and ends at afternoon four. In total - six hours,

that is including the lunch break. Also, one of the weekdays is a

creativity day. There are much more opportunities for creative

writing.  And  the position that  I  got,  is Union’s Chairman

advisor, easy and pleasant job. Listen, old buddy,” Siyavush

added, straightening his glasses with his forefinger. “I have to

receive four hundred rubles for the scenario. I have come

twice, but there is no money, they say. Talk to Sayida, she likes

you and will not refuse.”

“I’ll talk to her.”

“Three hundred I have to take home, the Hundred is for

booze. You know that Siyavush is master of his word.” Sometimes

he talked about himself in the third face.

“I told you I’ll talk to her, I am waiting for her, too. Call me in the evening.”

“Ehh, you are never home,” Siyavush said glancing with meaning, and laughed, “I see what you are doing.” “Who was that?” Silva asked after he left.

“Siyavush Mamedzade. A poet who graduated from the Gorky Institute of World Literature in Moscow. A wonderful guy. Hard to find like him.”

“His face is very pleasing and familiar.”

“You saw him on TV. He conducts literary programs.”


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“Probably ... Arina told me a lot about you,” Silva said suddenly, raising her eyes and staring at me again. A pause.


“You know she can talk about you for hours.” A pause again.

“I’m starting to understand her now,” she spoke again and suddenly added.

“Is it possible me to lose my head here?” “In what sense?” I did not understand.

“In the sense that a pretty woman can lose her head in the company of handsome men.”

“You may not worry,” I said with a sneer. “At the Book-keeping Department all employees are women.”

“That’s good,” Silva uttered with a light sigh. “Otherwise, you know, my husband is very jealous.”

She, with quite simple impudence was playing the role of a loving woman. I’d figured that out, but kept silence, as since that had nothing to do with me.

“You know what,” Silva went on, barely opening her lips and gazing meekly from the bottom up, “If a thousand people speak good of you except one, then the people around will believe that one and be glad. And there are always rumors hovering over remarkable men and pretty women.”

The HR Department door was opened, and Seyidrzayeva tittupping came out from there.

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“Sayida, we are waiting for you,” I said.

She had also a gum in her mouth. With closed lips, idly moving her jaws in harmony with chewing, she was approaching to us.

“Is that the girl?” Seyidozayeva asked in Armenian, reaching us. Her mother was Armenian, and she was fluent in Armenian.

“Yes, that is the same girl I have told you about, so to speak:

comrade Darbinyan, here are her documents.”

“Let’s go,” said Sayida dropping assessed look towards Silva.

Then she looked at me and smiled ambiguously.

Sayida was in tight gray-blueish slacks, which were almost going to be torn from the tautness of her hips.

In her office, Sayida went through Silva’s documents.

“You have no accounting experience,” she said, flipping through busily the employee history booklet. “We will hire you as a bookkeeping aide for a while, until you will learn the subtleties of the specialty, and then, in a few months we’ll transfer you to the account anting ledger clerk’s assistant position. I will talk for you to the HR department. I think the chairman of the committee will not mind either. I’ll let Leo know about the results. You will need to write a statement and fill out a form. All that, later on, of course. That’s it for now. How else can I be helpful? The question applied to me, and Sayida smiled.

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The question was applied to me already. She was looking with a smile.

“Sayida, Siyavush Mammedzade has to get some money, if it’s possible, please help him on that matter.”

“Tell him to come on over,” she smiled widely. “Don't forget to give a toast on my honor, when you have a drink.” “Thank you. We will not forget it.”

At the end of the day Arina came to me. She was not in mood.

“What’s wrong, Arina?” I worried. “What had happened?” “What had happened? ...nothing had happened. I just shouldn’t have brought her here”

“Whom?” I asked, of course, realizing that the matter refers to Silva.

“Silva.”

“Why?”

“Why? Cause she was looking at you like a whore,” Arina bursted with rage.

Unable to restrain myself, I laughed out loud. Later, on my way home, and even in the bus on to Sumgayit, I was recalling Arina’s words, her furious rage, totally unexpected, like anexplosion, and was laughing again, feeling some kind of heartiness and deep tenderness toward her.




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CHAPTER 10

My father came home from work long time ago, but he had not dined yet, and was waiting for me. He hugged me, patted me on the back, and was taking a stroll gladly in the room, until I’ll be able to change my clothes.

“We were waiting for you last week,” my father reproachfully, but without offense, looked at me and continued without waiting for reply, “Aren't you aware, that we are unable to resist, when we do not see you for a month?”

My mother laughed, entering in from the kitchen. She said.

“I do not know whom this guy resembles to. Your brother Valodya puts in front of him a two-kilogram weighted chicken, and the children watch him with open mouth. And he will never give them a piece, until he gets full. But this one... It looks like you have born not from the same mother. He is losing his mind over the kids. All our money, Leo, is being gone on phone calls. The week starts with calls - Charentsavan, Stavropol, Baku -that’s what it is.”

“Be quiet, woman, this is not your business,” dad said and

winking at me. “Look, what brandy I bought: Hobelyanakan.” He took out a bottle from the cabinet and put the bottle with gilded Armenian letters on the table. “My son has arrived. We will drink together.”


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“He speaks in a way, as if hasn’t seen him the whole year,” my mother’s voice came from the kitchen. “It’s some twenty-five kilometers from here up to Baku.”

“Long hair, short mind. To whom is this saying refer?” Dad smiled. “For me, a month lasts like a year. My heart is weak, I cannot resist. Are we done here?”

“We are done” Mom said with a chuckle, entering the room and began to lay the table. “Why didn’t you come last week?”

“I had a guest from Yerevan.”

“Who is he?” Dad asked.

I could not tell him about Armen.

“Writer Leonid Hurunts.”

“Hurunts?” My father surprised.

“Yes,” I confirmed. “He says the next time I come; you should’ve been married.”

“Look at that. What a good man!” My father shook his head with satisfaction. “What a kind heart he has. A man should be like that. Do you know how many people he does good? So, you’ve seen Hurunts.”

“Sometimes Suren Ayvazyan comes to us. Recently, Sero Khanzadyan had been here too. He speaks in our dialect.” Dad looked proudly at mom.

“Look, what kind of writers your son is acquainted to.” He filled the glasses. “Drink you, too.”

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“Are you going crazy?” my mother got irritated. “That’s what I need”

“Well, don’t drink,” my father receded. “Even better. Will remain more for us.” He laughed, took a seat at the head of the table and raised the glass.

“Let’s drink for the parent who has a reverential child, and for the child who tributes with himself his parent’s kind name.” My father looked at me with visible satisfaction, clinked his glass with mine, but did not drink. “I know a man,” he said “a decent, hardworking man, who’ve said to the face of his thirty years old, alcoholic loafer son. With tears in his eyes, I should’ve died, the day you were born.” Solomon the Wise said. “A respectful son is a contentment to his father, and the unworthy one is misfortune for his mother.” That’s how it is, my dearest. The pain caused by child is unbearable, it is so hard to withstand it. That poor one thought that he was raising son in torment, but, in fact, as the saying goes: he sat at the river and sowed flour into the water. Do you think his bitter words affected his son? Not at all. This also happens, my dear. Sometimes one person is worth a thousand people. On the other hand, one thousand others are not worth a penny. Both: having a good heir and being a good heir are kind of good fortune. Otherwise, from the day of creation, it is so, and it will be so.


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The wise one always has been suffered in the hands of the unwise one.”

He gulped a shot of cognac. He drank and made a wry face. “Oh no, it smells like bedbugs,” he said, got up and pulled out a bottle of vodka from the cabinet. “How do the people drink this?” Dad shook his head. “You’ll drink brandy, and I will drink vodka. Although, I don’t drink much, two or three shots. So, you have seen Hurunts,” he returned to the previous topic. “In Karabagh, people swear by his name. Do you know, how many innocent persons did he save from prison? And then, the mulberry gardens? He printed several articles in Izvestiya and did not allow the Azerbaijani government to destroy them, like the vineyards had destroyed by them later. What would it be without mulberry leaf? The business at Karabagh silk factory with all its branches in the villages of Khndzristan, Tumi, Chanakhchi, and Karintak would’ve fail. Hundreds of people would’ve lost their jobs. And I do not even mention about fresh mulberries and its dried raisins, the molasses, and the enduring mulberry vodka? I think, how much people should lose their conscience in order to decide to destroy those millennial gardens, in fact, depriving of their livelihood inhabitants of those areas. Actually, let’s say, that all our decisions have always been against ordinary people. What is good for their welfare, does not work at all, and


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what is against it, will be implemented immediately.” “Do not talk so much, man, let the child eat a little bit.”

“And what? Am I disturbing him to eat? We are having a conversation. The table is not for sitting and thinking about food only.” My father explained. “It is also for talk and discussion, during which to say something and hear something, to teach somebody, and to learn from others. The horse is eating, so is - the cow. And how the people are differ from these animals: with intelligence -because of thinking, chatting, comprehension and memory. Otherwise, human is, in fact, the same animal. So, for the sake of God, do not interfere and interrupt me, and make me to get up from my seat,” my father swaggered with a fake anger.

“And whoever will listen you, will think of you as a beast,” mom laughed, looking at my dad with a loving gaze, “someone will wonder if you had in your life, even with a finger, touched anyone, had used a dry speech.”

“But why should I say something or reproach” dad said peacefully, looking at the mom with a smile. “You’re my lovely, intelligent fathom wife, and my faithful friend of my good and bad days.”

My mom looked at my dad with a gentle, deep admiration and tenderness, and then looked at me with the smile of hesitation.


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“From all the well-known Armenian writers, I saw only Silva

Kaputikyan about thirty years ago, in our school. She came

with Bagrat Ulubabyan and Sargis Abrahamyan. Young, pretty.

And the way she was speaking, and reciting poetry, had made

us  covered  with  goosebumps!  She  was  the  first  Armenian

writer after Isahakyan who had visited Karabakh. But

Isahakyan was not welcomed in 1948. The Regional

Committee jerk Secretary Tigran Grigoryan, had asked him,

"Do you have permission to visit Karabagh?" The Armenian

Secretary of the Armenian Regional Committee had refered to

the great 72 years old Armenian poet with such question.”

“I’ll tell you something you may not know,” my father became

lively, in the village of Talish, in our region, Isahakyan  is

kissing the hand of a very old lady; “In my life only two people

had kissed my hand,” she says, “One of them you are, and the

other one was aman with a beard.” The other one was Raffi.

Can you imagine? Zorayr Khalapyan is also from that village,

do you know?” suddenly remembered my father, “very

talented writer, very. His writings I have read, God knows

when, but until now I fully remember. His heroes: Stepan,

Antik, Nora, Vasil, Habeth, three sons of Hunan, the others, all

of them are in front of me. One would be happy to write that

way.”





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My father poured himself vodka, sniffed and pushed the glass away.

“No, I will not mix. If my son is drinking brandy, I will drink brandy too. As it should be, brotherly way.”

I poured my father brandy. He raised his glass and said:

“Some believe that life is too long. There is no such thing! This world is eternal, but the life is short. People can’t get it. It’s not short, but too short. During the young time, the life seems long, but that’s only seeming visibility. In reality, the life is too short. One does mistake, and that is it, no time to correct it. Therefore, one must live his life without doing any mistakes. Even though that is a complex task indeed. But one must try being pure and clean, despite the dirty environment. One must be fare. There is no other way. One must do everything possible that at the dawn of the life one would able to say to oneself, rather than others, that has lived his life correctly, as they say by own sweat, never made bad to anybody, since the life is given only once, and there is no second life to live.

More precisely, it does not matter whether life is short or long. It is important to live it without mistakes. It is a pity that people understand this at the time when there is no longer any time or opportunity to go back. The Lord commanded Adam. “In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread” one should never forget this, since whatever comes


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by dishonest way, will be gone away by the same route.” My father paused. He was contemplating, and then continued. “The Bible you gave me is in the other room, I read it all the time. The oldest and the wisest of all books existed. I learned a lot from it. For instance, “Let’s be like water spilled on the ground, not a grain of sand caught by the wind.” Or “Love one another.”

For a short instance he looked at me, and then added:

By the way, in the holy Quran the same is commanded, “love thy neighbors and live with thee with kindness and piety, and not in evil and enmity.” Hark at these words of wisdom. Be healthy, son, let God save you from troubles and misfortunes, as for the honest person, the worst is to be accused in dishonesty baselessly and intentionally. Let God always guide you to the right path, son, far from the stones hurdling your march. That is because blissful is the human, who is not moving by the advice of the impious ones, is not stepping to the path of guilt, and not becoming like-minded friend to the criminals, but enjoys the kind things he has done, knowing full well that the good he has done, will return to his front tomorrow. As, is stated in the Bible for that type of man, “...that he will be like a tree planted on the water stream, that its leaves will never fall, and it will stay fruitful at the right time, and whatever one ‘ll do, he’ll






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succeed. To your health! Come more often, so that we’ll not miss you.”

Dad drank, frowned again. But he did not express discontent.

“It doesn’t smell anymore,” he said.

“Just have another shot and you’ll get the smell of violets,” Mom laughed.

“That’s right,” dad smiled kindly. “Pour, it is better to have an empty head than an empty glass.”

Mom put fried green beans on the table. Deep dish was steaming, and the delicious smell of fresh beans was filled the room.

“Wow! I can smell Karabagh,” my father inspired. “but... the taste of the Karabagh beans is something else, special, and the air there, is special, and the water. There is nothing to compare with. And the people are different there, honest, hardworking, courageous, and heroic. What other small nation gave so many heroes during the Great Patriotic War? And how about marshals? And the generals? Several dozen! More, than twenty Soviet Union heroes, and one of them is the double hero` Nelson Stepanyan. And how about the glorious commanders of the royal Tsar’s royal army? Madatov, Behbutov, Ter-Ghukasov, Lazarev, Shelkovnikov, which one to count? And let’s not forget Murat, Mamelyuks of Napoleon: Rustam and Peter. And the population is only hundred and thirty. Have

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you seen something like this anywhere? No. never have seen such a thing”.

My father looked thoughtfully at a point, and then shook his head slightly:

“But no one appreciates that. Moscow did not appreciate before and now does not appreciate the centuries-old faithfulness, loyalty of Armenians. As the great patriot Taras Shevchenko says: My thoughts, my thoughts, I am in trouble with you...” He paused for a moment then said with a sigh, “Karabagh is being emptied, being emptied like Nakhijevan. The youngsters are going to Yerevan, are receiving education, but can’t return to Karabagh, since already, are not permitted. And even if they will be allowed, what should they do here, where will they work, there is no industry, no construction, no factories, no roads. Nothing is available. People are complaining in despair, demanding to be united with Armenia. And what? All the complainers are being expelled from the region or put them in jail. On that road do you know, how many people got killed, and how many have been persecuted and got lost in Siberia? Countless.

If I were the leader of Karabagh, I would have set up a high monument in the center of Karabagh with the following letters carved on it:" In memory of all those who died and will die in the name of Karabagh”


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“Don’t confuse him, it’s enough,” my mom got angry. “We have heard those stories thousands of times. Is there benefit in it? No, so change the topic.”

“OK,” dad agreed. “Let’s change the topic. I have read Gikor again recently. Do you know what conclusion I came to? We love Tumanyan the most, among all of our writers and poets. The works of this gleaming and luminous man, whether in verse or in prose, are emanated from our heart. And Gikor is in the heart of our people, do you know why? Because we are Gikor nationally in our childhood, and are turning into Hambo, when we are already mature. My dad, that is your grandfather, Voskan, was Hambo as is. He was a na;ve and poor man, had always his head down, under the weight of tormented thoughts. All his life he has contributed to the collective farm, worked hard, but got nothing, and remained without welfare. Isahakyan seems to have written about him. “Oh, our heart is full of pain, like from sharp cutting knife, we do not see a single sunny day in our life...”

How to see, when the dearest state stripped the countryman alive. They were not allowed to have a cow, but they had to hand a certain amount of oil by the assigned plan, one doesn’t have a sheep, doesn’t matter, he has to come up with the certain amount of wool according to the plan again, no chicken, but the plan for eggs is available and due ... The home



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lot was measured four times a year, and the one has to pay fine for some additional meter, and/or pay the taxes on the fruit tree that was discovered. Living conditions should be so bad, that one will send his fourteen, fifteen-year-old kids to the pezo that is cotton recruitment in Sumgayit. But we were walking hungry and naked, accompanied by trumpets and drums, were marching through the streets with red ties were singing about our broad native land, and were believing that there is really no other country in the world where one may be so happy. We were walking through the village hidden in mountain, were singing again with belief that the happy life we have, is thanks to our comrade Stalin. We did not just know that Stalin was the one who destroyed our home. He and Lenin. One of the first decrees of 1918 was about forming the concentration camps.”

“What kind of man you are! Talk about something suitable, proper, say a proper toast,” my mom said angrily. “OK, let’s drink for comrade Stalin.”

I hugged my father and kissed his cheek. It was so good to hear him, although I was familiar to his stories, as I had heard his stories them from him many times.

“For Stalin whose Armenian-betraying policy...,” he said taking the glass. “We have to drink for our parents first, as it’s our duty. And not like let’s not forget to drink for them.


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My dear father was like Christ, and my mother-Mary the Virgin-for them! My dear wife, to your parents, rest in peace, for our two daughters, who are already parents and who have got a higher education with our support, despite to our hard condition. As the saying goes: The tree is sweet and fertile because of its fruits, and the human - because of his children. A good child is like a spring flower or an autumn fruit that is pleasing the sight and calming the heart.

Let’s have a toast to them along with us, as we are also part of the toast speech dedicated to the parents. Leo jan, drink my dearest, and, as Hurunts had said, just get married to know what means to be a parent. The best thing in the world for me, is when the father and his son together are having feast with a happy heart.”

We drank. My dad was looking at the bottle for a long time, and then turned to my mother and said:

“Imagine this, you were right. This cognac has not a violet but some other good aroma.”

My mother laughed and went to the kitchen.

“Who knows,” my dad said again, “if my sisters had not been brought to the pezo, and I would not have come with them to Sumgayit, my life would have been different from now. I was publishing correspondences and poems since. Once the writer Margar Davtyan had published two of my short stories in his literary journal. Later on, he wrote me a broad letter. I’ve got

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of letters from editorial offices. I have seen those letters with the printed names of the papers on the envelopes, with the same: printed return addresses on them. My granny was keeping them with care in the old chest.

“Grandma keeps those letters,” I said. “She keeps them in the chest laid out in order.”

My dad looked at me, his eyes immediately turned wet, but he restrained himself from crying.

“There is no one more precious than the parent,” he finally said in a broken voice. “And no one in the world can replace them. Nobody... I owed to my parents. I couldn’t do it, whatever my heart was wishing, had no enough power, When I recall their bitter days of existence, my heart is stinging.

He heavily rose from his seat and walked to the balcony. He was standing there for a long time, then he returned in no mood and grim and said, having his seat at the table:

“When I arrived in Sumgaiyt, the building of the central post office was being constructed at that time. Look what you can see from here now. The City Committee along with the City executive Committee building, the huge club of the Caoutchouc Plant, your school, neighboring quarters reaching up to the seashore, - all these were not existed. We built them later. There is not a single building here that will


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not have my fingerprints. I did everything: masonry, carpentry, plaster facing, you name.

“But why did you stop writing?” I asked, since realized that this thought oppresses him for many years.

“A lot of things are needed for becoming writer,” dad said with a smile of regret. “The writer may become the one who has something important and significant to say, who sees and feels things that others do not see or feel. One needs to have a large stock of vital comments and a high-end culture that cannot be mastered without education. And what was my education? Only Secondary School, even though with high grades. My parents did not have the opportunity to educate me. I could not study further as there was no one that would be able to send me even a penny.

Therefore, I came to my sister in Sumgayit and became a builder. Here they are, my creations,” my dad said in a bitter tone, “those beautiful buildings standing side by side.”

“Come on,” My mom intervened, “I feel sorry and for you, and for the kid. Why are you retossing your soul up and down?”

“What am I saying?” my dad justified himself. “Bring some tea. Tomorrow I’ll call Abbas. I’ve met him twice. He says when Leo comes, let me know, I haven’t seen him long ago.”




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“He said that to me too,” my mom said, “The other day he saw me, stopped the trolleybus, and stepped out. The trolleybus was full, and he was talking holding everyone.”

“Good man,” dad said proudly, “he’ll not spare his soul for a friend. He is unsightly and ugly from outside, but from inside a crystal-clear man with a golden heart. We are friends for almost twenty-five years. You better listen to this old story. In one village an old man was dying. Who wants to die? No one - so is he. He asks God to give him a chance to live a bit longer. And God says; “OK, but what do you mean under “a bit. How long do you want to extend your life?” The old man says: “Here is the tree with leaves on its branches. As many leaves are on that tree, that many years I would like to have.” “No”, God says: You ask for too much. At that point give me the years equal to the number of the apples on that fruit tree. “No”, you are asking for too much”, God says again. “All right”, the old man says give me as many years, as many friends I have. God agrees with this. And you know what? he is still alive, since he had too many friends, more than the leaves or the amount of the apples on the tree. That’s what it is. There is nothing better than a good friend. We have worked together as loaders at the Tubular Welding Plant, then at the Chemical Plant Postayin Arkgh 240, then I went into masonry, and he went to the trolleybus drivers’ courses. It has been almost twenty years that he


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drives trolley bus. Whatever had happened to us during these years, whether good or bad, we have been always together, unseparated. Previously, you know that, he was living nearby, in the village of Dzhorat, which was next to us. Then the city grew, Dzhorat and other villages were demolished, and he got an apartment in the ninth micro district. But he is accustomed to the farm and garden, and so he lives in a farm, holds a few sheep. There is a good lamb among those sheep, the black one, he says, “when Leo comes, I will slaughter that sheep for him right under his feet.” (I’ll come with Rena, I thought). He likes you a lot.”

Uncle Abbas came the next day, late in the afternoon. A grown man, but childlike, and shy. I am like a son for him, but he is being ashamed of me, getting confused and blushing when talking. When I went out to accompany him, he asked me with a shy smile.

“Is there a girl in your mind?”

“There is one.” I said.

“Really? Your father did not say a thing.” “He doesn’t know. I didn’t tell him yet.”

“When will we meet her? – There is a lamb for you. Come with her, so we can meet her, a good reason for a lamb slaughter and feast. What kind of girl is she? Is she pretty?” “Azerbaijani. She studies at the Medical Institute.”


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“Do her parents agree?” he looked at me incredulously. “Ours look at these things a bit reluctantly. We marry Armenians women ourselves, but we do not like to give our daughters to Armenians. It does not matter though,” he smiled, “we will figure something out.” “What?”


“Never mind!” Uncle Abas laughed loudly, hugged me. “We’ll either snitch her, or will go for matchmaking, I will say that you are my son.”


CHAPTER 11

I didn’t go home but went straight from the bus station to the editorial office, although it was still too early and hardly any of the employees had come yet. But Arina was already there. She probably just had arrived and was using the lipstick, standing in front of the wall mirror fastened to the wall of in the general department and singing along the way. “Let’s go, my son, my little friend, Let’s go to our dear land”.


“Hello! You are early today.”

“Oh, God,” Arina cried out, shanking back from the mirror and holding her hands on her chest, “You scared me!” She was excited. “As if my heart jumped out from its place.” “Should I call an ambulance?”


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“Should you?” She scowled and derided me, “Go ahead. Call. And why are you so early? Is it possible that you didn’t have your sleep, because of being impressed by Silva?”

“Maybe. Isn’t she coming today?” “No. Her husband does not let her.”

Recalling something, Arina opened the door of the room quickly, took out from a folder of the table drawer Armen’s notebook in a black cover which was familiar to me, and turned over several pages.

“Leo, here,” she approached me. “Look. That Armen guy is

a liar. He was in prison.”

“It’s impossible.”

“I’m telling you the sure thing,” Arina clarified with the self-confidence of the woman that is knowing well the value of her word. I have investigated notebook of his completely, have studied point by point. For these notes, he, in fact, has used a cryptogram, but I was able to interpret them. Six months; moreover, every single day is taken in a black frame. There were noted two articles of the Criminal Code: the 163rd, and the 159th. The first is a robbery, that is, the stealing secretly of others property, the other is fraud, which, in turn, means again the appropriation of another’s property by deception or trust abuse. There are some lines from the thieves’ song “It is snowing in Magadan”, and a woman name -


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Shoghik. Was written in a retrospective way, so, you’ll be able to read only through the mirror.

“Do not cry, my dear, believe me and trust. The doors open the one, who closed it for just.” In one place it is written.

“The prison is the whole world, if ask, no one is guilty and is sitting for no reason,

But this is the universal truth, let everyone knows that the world is a big prison.”

In another. “To the its own rails the train is chained It is arrested, there like I’ve got nailed.”

“So, what would you say on these? But most importantly, are these the verses, which must be addressed to Shogik.” “You’ve missed me, my darling, my baby, I know.

But there is no way to get back to you.

The jail is too tight, the door is too closed,

I can’t open it, whatever I do.”

“Well, what can you say about all these?” “But ... How was he released?”

“By Criminal Code something like that is permitted. Whoever has committed crime that can be considered as not felony, but misdemeanor, for the first time can be released of Criminal responsibility, if one has helped the investigation to




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solve the crime or has reconciled with the victim, and in some way, had compensated for the damage been caused. Or, say, if it will become clear that due to the conditions changed, one is no longer represent danger to the society.”

“Now I finally believe that you really have graduated from the institute with honor,” I laughed, “you would better work in the criminal investigation field.”

“Thus” Arina concluded with a triumphant face, “he is a fraudster and a liar, I’ve proved it. But what a verse he had dedicated to us! Silva was here, too. Wait a minute. I’ll bring it.” Arina entered to her room, hurriedly dragged the shelves and pulled out a piece of typewritten paper.

“I typed it, listen to this.”

Arina is lively, fiery and warm

Like swarthy Indian girl has been born.

She raised her eyes, partially opening her mouth, looked at me gracefully and continued.

Loranna like a rose and like a snow white, She has those eyes, that are hazel and big, And Silvia is portly, seeming passionate,
She is beautiful, a wished love, you’re always seek.

The talk that she had, and the movements she made...

She truly was born to make love in the bed.





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Loranna’s voice was heard in the corridor; as she was talking with someone and profoundly laughing.

“It seems, you spent the night here?” she asked: cheerfully and with a charming smile.

“Yes,” Arina responded immediately. “That’s it.”

“Aren’t you the pitiless ones? Why didn’t you tell me to join you?” Loranna quickly was tidying herself up in front of the mirror, scrutinizing her face and hair.

“There is a certain age, when a woman must be pretty to be beloved. But there is a time when she must be beloved to remain pretty... My age is like a mountain doe. Runs away from me. Oh..., And there was a time, when I was running after to reach it.”

“The third is superfluous” Arina stringed with a little delay.

“And am I the third one?” Loranna laughed and winked at me in the mirror.

“Leo, my husband told a good joke.”

She turned with the same charming smile. “It had happened in the Russian province. A husband who had gone for outgoing work in Russia, gets the news that his wife is spending time with somebody else. In a furious rage he sends a telegram to his wife “If that is true, I‘ll axe your head on my return. After a short time, he comes out of patience, sits

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the train and comes home. He arrives home in the late evening and coming closer to the house, starts looking through the window. He sees his wife in the hugs of the other man. The husband is perplexing: “Is it possible that she had n’t receive my telegram?”

It was a witty joke, and we laughed.

“I had a conversation with Bojikyan,” Loranna said, taking her seat. Yesterday our former called him. He is very offended. He said we haven’t protected him from the Hurunts insults. He had called and complained to Nora Baghdasaryan, too. According to Nora we have not do the right. That we should’ve stand for him, as he is the party member since 1939, the famous poet and deputy. One would have told her. It’s not your business, Nora, why are you, an aged lady, interfering.”

“It would’ve been perfect, if he was really offended and no longer brought me his silly memories to type,” Arina was dreaming. “Memories about eating, drinking and dying.”

“Listen,” Loranna said, “perhaps, he needs an epigraph to his

book. Let’s think on this so that it was about food, drink and... What did you say? -Oh, yes, about death.” She rapidly sketched quatrain on the paper, substituted some words and handed it to Arina. “See, if this corresponds to the essence of the book.”






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Arina look through the lines on a piece of paper, laughed, and said, “Corresponding perfectly,” She started to read loudly.

When I pass away, visit my grave

That must be at dawn, early, as it gets. Bring with you cheese, and a piece of bread. And a bottle of vodka, please do not forget.

Arina laughed again.

“Epigraph is worthy of the book.” And she added with a heartily laugher:

“Why are you so adorned? May I know?”

“As I will go live today, Arina jan, in all Azerbaijan, as well as my native Sisian, where the people also watch our programs. They will look at me and think that once I was young and pretty, and now I am only pretty.”

With a smooth round neck, round and white, in a dress with neckline on the chest and with her perfect figure, she was, in fact, really pretty.

Loranna turned gracefully toward me.

“Leo, will you come to the director’s office? I absolutely need your moral support to make a stunning impression on the viewers. Open your sugar lips and say sweet sugary words: I will come.”




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“I will come,” I smiled.

“I knew that,” Loranna said kindly with squinting...

“Although lately, I notice that you are not paying much attention on us. As my mother used to say, when the melon is ripe and handy, the cucumber loses its taste.”

She winked me again and smiled slyly, making clear that she knows precisely about what kind of melon she is talking about.

I walked to my office.


CHAPTER 12

“Are you coming, Leo?” Loranna blurted out hurriedly, opening the door of the office. “We go live on air in five minutes”

Shortly after, I was in the director’s office. Loranna and the actors were already in the studio.

The studio was brightly lit. Loranna was sitting in the center. The actors were located on her right and left, all spotlights were directed towards them, and, apparently, it was hot in there. Loranna smiled at me through thick, soundproof glass.

Sound producer Mark Bronestein approached to the monitors screening the stage, which was completely captured by video cameras located at different spots. Operators in the headphones were moving tele-cameras on

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the wheels back and forth, in order more clearly to capture participants of the show.

The concepts of time and space are getting materialized here, and along with the irregular heartbeat second by second inevitably bring to the beginning of the broadcasting program.

Just few seconds before the start of the program, our director Zhirayr Avetisyan, who was at one time the director of the Armenian Theater of Baku, a highly honest and educated man

- warned through the microphone: “Attention please! We are on the air” and pressed the button.

Red light bulbs turned on immediately on the cameras. The old sound producer switched the music on, the first camera showed the inscription of the program, and then Loranna, who was a bit pale and slightly confused.

“Hello, dear friends!” Her tuneful voice sounded finally.

The program started. Moral support was provided, now was remained to make a stunning impression on the audience.

I discreetly went out from the directorial office.


xxx

Involuntarily, constantly, and restlessly I was glancing at my watch. Today Rena will come to me, and since Thursday I was thinking that with gradually growing excitement.


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I thought she would come in the afternoon, but at the same time, with some sort of sixth sense, I was feeling that she would come earlier. And really, she came before the lunch break.

She appeared quite unexpectedly, distorted from the excitement and out of breath. And this condition made her in my eyes even prettier. In a sky blue short flapped dress, her slim body and not large, melon wise round breasts were being even more highlighted.

She opened her rosy lipped mouth in half, and said with a light puff, “Something is wrong with the elevator.”

She is looking directly at me. But her eyes are laughing with capricious grace, tenderness, and sweetness. They attract, captivate, fascinate. And I involuntarily am taken by these charms, am rushing, and my heart is growing feeble from the freshness of her parted dazzling lips.

“So, I came,” she added, throwing her golden hair back and smiling with eyes, with a bit moist lips, with endless white tooth line, in a word: with her entire face. “Aren’t you glad to see me?”

Fascinated and charmed, I looked at her with unquenchable eagerness, as if I hadn’t seen her a whole eternity. My heart was pounding badly, and I was enjoying my ecstasy with her fascinating beauty, simultaneously having hilarious fear that it will take my sanity away.

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“I ran away from the last class pair,” she said softly and quietly, still breathing heavily.

“If I’ll kiss you, would you get angry on me?” I said in response with a quivering voice.

Without taking her blue eyes off my eyes, Rena shook her head. The blush covered her entire face.

Later I could not recall how it happened; the key with a slight click has been turned in the lock, the next moment I was hugging Rena, feeling with my fingers the concave line of her fragile back and delicate dimples in the collarbone; her hair was fragrant and was tickling my face, I was whispering something incoherent which I was not able to remember later, carefully and tenderly was kissing her bare shoulders, aromatic neck; my lips blindly wandered upon her face, passionately searched for and found her half-opened full lips, which, at first, tried to be kept away, but soon got readily conceded, submissive and hot. Her breath was interrupting, raving, barely noticeable groan was incredibly sweet... This is how I kissed Rena for the first time.

My days were not simply passing, but flying, as my full of love and inspiration heart was flying without any resistance towards Rena.

I was in love with her like crazy, cause she had embodied the feminine charm, and it was impossible not to love and


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adore her, and that love was really making me insane. Day after day, Rena was revealed before me in a new way-with perfect taste and incredibly kindhearted, open, direct, attractive in all respects and at the same time charming, loved and petted, endowed with a fine sense of humor and amusing. She was admiring and laughing at every single joke I was making. And her restrained but murmuring laughter was infectious and bright. While walking like a deer, she was suddenly hanging from me and was hedging my neck with her hands, or was blocking my way, in order to tell me something, and her eyes like the blue sky were sparkling, illuminating her wonderful face with inescapable inner light and beauty.


CHAPTER 13

Life in the editorial office was on its way. That is: on Mondays, the board meetings, the composing of the upcoming program, daily Armenian one-hour programs on radio and television, visits, brief meetings.

Our former did not finish his memoirs yet, and was continuing to dictate them to Arina, bothering and annoying her. Once, he told a story, after which I started to tolerate his presence with nuisance, too. Until that, Saghumyan had told us that once a prominent literary and public figure Yeghiya Chubar who was the Deputy Minister of Education of Azerbaijan in

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1933-1936, and the actress of the Baku Armenian Drama Theater, Arus Tarayan and her eighteen-year-old student daughter were arrested because of our former’s denunciation. In the internal prison of the GPU (State Political Administration) the girl was tortured, raped in front of her mother and writer Zabel Yesayan transferred here from Yerevan for some reason. Needles were inserted under her fingernails. The girl was accused of espionage for the following: once she avowed that she wanted to go to London and see her father, the Englishman Mr. Clark. The beautiful Arus, the daughter of the writer Sedrak Tarayan, the one to whom, according to Saghumyan, Stalin and Vahan Teryan had once dedicated their verses in Tbilisi, was also tortured in front of her daughter.

In the early sixties, (at the time of the short Khrushchev Thaw, it became possible, temporarily though, to talk about everything) Arus Tarayan here, in the editorial office, threw the very last words to the former’s face. And he, blushed to the tips of his ears, could not find any justified reply. It happened in Saghumyan’s presence. “And what happened then?” I asked. “Did they let Tarayan’s daughter go to her father to England?” “What you are talking about!” Saghumyan responded with sadness. “After the tortures the poor girl lost her mind. She was in Mashtagha Psychiatric Hospital some time ago and now… I don’t even know if she is alive.”

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“And what about Arus Tarayan herself?” I asked.

“She died alone and in extreme poverty,” Saghumyan replied. This new story was associated with some girl, with whom the former, by his own words, fell in love, when he was at his sophomore year.

“I had dedicated verses to her,” he told Loranna. “She was very pretty, the prettiest among all in the school. Once I recited to her, while she was passing by:

“I love you my dear, in secret I love.

My sleep has been lost, my sweet little dove.”

And she looked from above and said, “And I despise you”. Said and passed by. I was stunned. There were some guys in the school, who heard all these. These bastards did not like me, they would take away my glasses, they would spit on me. Later, of course, I took revenge on them. They were taken and lost. Anyway, I remained standing there, and promised myself to take down her a peg or two.

Later, I learned that she had married, has a child, and her husband is an administrator in the Armenian theater. I went to Mirza Ibrahimov, who he was leading the Principal department for Arts. I convinced him to let that husband of her’s to go away. So, he got fired. Later on, some embezzlement accounts have been found in the theater, and so, he got




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imprisoned. I saw her later, that pretty girl,” covering his mouth with his hand, the former said with laughter, “she was walking in rags like a beggar. “Do you remember your “I despise you?” I asked. “I remember,” she said. “I despised you then, and I hate you now.” “Well, so did you eat it...” I said to myself, but then I regretted, that didn’t say it loud. Am I right?”

Loranna, as if the air was not enough, fanned herself with hand. By opening her mouth like a fish from the water, she said with a loud voice.

“Give a cigarette, please!”

“But you don’t smoke,” the former said.

“After your stories one will not only start to smoke, but also will turn into a doper”, Loranna said rudely and quickly left the room.

Shortly after, I also came out and passing through the halfly dark corridor, went to the chief’s office. Loranna was sitting there and smoking.

“You don’t know anything about him,” the chief started the conversation with sigh. “He brought to the brink of death Margar Davtyan and Gevorg Petrosyan. I don’t even talk what he did to Bagrat Ulubabyan, Arshavir Darbni, Abraham Bakhshuni, Elmir Mkrtchyan, Samvel Knaruni, Emma Petrosyan




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and Hamo Amirkhanyan. Amirkhanyan had to escape to Yerevan. He didn’t even wait for his book publication. So, to speak, the book was withdrawn later. Another one: the editor at “Literary Azerbaijan” Vostik Karagyozyan, who was harassed by him for years, once is coming out to the street, and right in front of the writers’ Union, is passing away. The clerk from the periodical “Ulduz” Siavush Sarkhanli is calling him and saying that your employee is dead right on the street. You could not imagine what type of reply he got. “Just think of a dog which had expired” and dropping the phone. And at one time, they were close friends, spending most of his time at the other’s home. He is a member of the Presidium of the Supreme Council, was the editor of a periodical for more than twenty years, almost that long work experience he had. He is a communist for over fifty years, public poet, what can we do? Just to arm with patience and wait until...”

“Until when?” Loranna caught his thought. “Do not expect, he is not the dying type. In this huge city is there really no Armenian, better than him to be nominated for deputy?

“If he dies, Telman will be elected,” I said.

The chief laughed sincerely and nodded in agreement, - it will be so. And right at that moment, as the saying goes, name the one and fill his plate,” Telman Karabakhly-Chalyan came in with shaggy eyebrows and parched lips.


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“I will kill, I will kill anyway,” he was repeating with gasping and panting.

“Just hold on, Gevorg Atajanyan, you will see, what game I am going to play on you... When Mnatsakan will return from the army that I’ll be able to get rid of this one and kick him out from the department...”

“Telman, sit down, you have already started to rhyme. What’s wrong?” As if concerned, the chief asked, holding laughter with all strength.

“I caught my wife,” Telman said, sitting on the edge of a long table, his voice got interrupted from frustration. “God cannot rebuild the house, which was destroyed by a woman. Oh, I caught...”

“Where did she go?” Loranna asked naively, removing the smoke from her eyes with the hand.

“But where should she go?” Telman went mad, and, with all his strength he kicked his knee. “Are you senseless?” I caught her at home. I called my neighbor to witness, he saw everything...”

From the unconnected words of Telman, it turned out that he had caught his wife with another man, and if this villain would’ve been a simple mortal, Telman would have torn him into pieces. “I would have broken his head,” he said. But that was Safar Aliyev, the State Security Committee employee with a large black mole on his cheek. Vile type, who came

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from Armenia and was speaking Armenian, purer than anyone else from our editorial staff.

Loranna knew him. Before he had often visited our former, and we, understood indeed, who had suggested and supported Telman Karabakhly-Chakhalyan to appear at the Armenian editorial office. However, whether the former had taken advantage of Telman’s young wife’s worthiness, remained unknown, although we all were tended to think that it couldn’t have been without it, especially when Loranna twice spotted the former with Telman’s wife murmuring and whispering in the former’s office.

“The old man has no need to marry a young woman,” Telman philosophized.

“As you are still alive, but she only thinks with whom she’ll spend her life after your death...”


CHAPTER 14

In the editorial, certainly everyone already knew about my love. The chief said with a smile, “I do not want to jinx it, but the choice is miraculous.”

In the corridor Nora held her step, bending her neck and keeping her left hand on her cheek. Shaking her shoulders, she managed to reproach in her Hadruti dialect.

“Leo jan, my dear, everyone in our editorial office knows how much I respect you; I greatly respect you, but when

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forgotten about your own nation, you are lay your eyes on a girl from other nation, that I can’t forgive you.”

Arina was the only one, that was not saying anything. She was looking intently from under her eyebrows, as if not noticing anything.

“Yesterday some girl had called you, but you weren’t here.” She did not say who was she, although she knew her well and recognized her voice. Once Loranna said.

“Leo, one has to be blind not to notice your passionate love towards that girl. But I want you to know that for a single smile, you will have to shed a lot of tears, since the great love means wholly tears and pain. And for some reason, it seems to me that this love will certainly bring you not only joy but also suffering, laughter, marvelous days, happiness and joy, but also anguish and affliction. And I do not know if you’ll have the strength to withstand all these.”

I did not pay attention to Loranna’s Gypsy fortune-telling. Every minute with my blue-eyed belle was giving me great joy. She was my whole being, my soul, and my heart, I could no longer imagine my life without her. And how pleasant it was for me, when once Rena, as if knowing the topic of my thoughts, softly whispered, “I cannot live a single day without you.”

“You also fell in love with me at first sight?” I asked her with humorous self-confidence.

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“Yes,” she said happily and gently, cuddling up. “I don’t know how it happened, I liked your confusion and that you didn’t want me to call any girl; even though, if you would’ve insisted, I would’ve not call. You liked me, I felt that, and was enjoying it. And subconsciously was understanding that you did not want to cheat on and be unfaithful to me. Am I right?”

“Yes, you are,” I said humbly, tenderly kissing her fragrant hair that had the color of the May oozing honey.

“Maybe that was the reason why I agreed to go to the restaurant, I don’t know. I remember that all the time I was trying to get out of your office, but I could not. My mind was telling me-to go, and my heart - to stay. And I was continuing to stay. This is the kind of struggle that took place in me.” She smiled, raising her shining eyes. “Funny, isn’t it?”

“Not at all... Well, what did you find in me?” I said it for no reason, but apparently, it was not about effort of arrogancy, I just wanted to hear again from her wonderful lips that she really loves me.

Rena pulled her head back from my chest, looked at me with a shining glance and replied to the question with question:

“And what did Esmeralda find in the hunchback Quasimodo?”







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Great! She was comparing me with the blind and dwarf Quasimodo.

“Special thank you for Quasimodo,” I said with the insult of imitation and indignation.

Rena burst out laughing, came closer to me again, encircling my neck with her hands and touched my lips with her hot, soft lips.

“Remember?” she said, charming me with her lucid blue eyes, what Majnun replied to his father who had told about Layla “What did you find in her?” “Look at her with my eyes, father,” Majnun replied, “with my eyes.” “So, Leo, so, my beloved, my sweetie” she smiled again with her snow-white smile, “look by my eyes and you’ll see that you are incredibly handsome in comparison with Quasimodo.” She gently ran her hand over my cheek. “Look, you do not love for reason, you just love, and that’s it. What did the seventeen-year-old Ulrika find in seventy-year-old Goethe?” “Goethe was a genius poet.”

“Why did Turgenev love Polina Viardo? What he found in this not-so-beautiful, married Gypsy, why he idolized her until the end of his life and never married anyone else? And what did two celebrities of universal meaning Paul Eluard and Salvador Dali found in a simple Russian woman Elena Dyakova, to whom were dedicated many of their works, and Salvador Dali was putting on canvasses signature with two

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names-his own and the woman, who was ten years older than him: Salvador – Gala.

Sultan Shah-Jahan had over three hundred wives in his harem, but he loved only one of them and if I am not mistaken, her name was Mumtaz. And she was an Armenian lady, as some say. Tell me, please, why specifically her? In his dearly beloved wife’s memory, who died suddenly, he built a five-domed marble mausoleum in Agra known to the whole world as the Taj Mahal and did not want to see anyone anymore until his death, staying in there. One does not love for something. A person falls in love directly, without question, even earlier than realizes that he is in love. Why is like that, I don’t know, I can’t explain, but the fact that the love actually is being born spontaneously, sometimes even instinctively, driven by incomprehensible higher energetics. And that is impossible to deny.”

“OK, you convinced me, I give up,” I said with laughter, “but I won’t forgive you for Quasimodo anyway.”

Rena suddenly bit me on the finger and laughed.

“Ren, are you a puppy?” I rejoiced.

“Only now you understand it?” with red lips, light-faced, jubilant, she stuck her tongue at me with jester and laughed again.

What can fascinate one at once, if not the favorite girl’s attractive laughter?

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I slowly and tenderly slid my fingers along her like Michel Mercier’s juicy and warm lips, without even trying and/or being able to hide my admiration...

Rena gently was kissing my fingers, biting them with moist lips and looking at me with a smiling glance.

Oh, my beautiful Rena, how pretty you are - the waist is slim, the lips are effulgent smiley, the body is slender, the eyes are beautiful, I love you passionately, only you - in the whole world, I love you, my wonderful, come to me, so that I’ll be able to kiss your rosy lips, I am dying for you... My God, she really makes me crazy with her dazzling charms, fantastic attractiveness...


CHAPTER 15

Our meetings were occurring on Saturdays. (Those were the library days for Rena). On a yacht, accompanied by the interrupted chirrups of white-winged seagulls and music, we were floating to the distant island of Nargin, enjoying ice cream in the coastal cafes. From the height of the Park named after Kirov, we were watching from afar the gloomy city in the haze of blue mist and the whirling sea of white waves on the shore, which was continually peaceful during those months, watching for a long time, till the dusk of the departing sun shone forth, changing colors.


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There, in the Kirov Park, in the depths of the alleys, Rena, who either had heard or read somewhere, or had seen in the movie, or the thought had occurred to her, said with blush and excitement. “If I tell something, would you agree with me?” she asked.

Without knowing what she was going to say, I replied positively to her, since I was sure that I would certainly agree with her, whatever she would say.

She slowly took out a safety razor in a bright wrapper and slowly released it from the packaging envelopes - one of them was transparent - removed them, she gave the razor to me and at the same time putting her wrist up at the same.

“Cut vertically with the blade right here,” Rena showed where exactly the cut should have been made. “Why?” I was surprised.

“Without any why,” Rena smiled broadly. “You promised.” But instead, I touched my passionate lips to the area on her wrist she had shown.

“I will not do that; I cannot cause you pain.”

Rena laughed, looked into my eyes with her eyes, dimmed with tender emotion and taking the razor from me, ran it along her arm. Red blood dabbled immediately on her white wrist.

“You know that blood does not flow into the artery, but enters in it in a form of intermittent waves, as water pours

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out from a bottle with a narrow neck? Each wave in a short time expands the walls of the arteries and moves forward by the previous waves’ pushes. Give me your hand,” Rena ordered, looking at me with smiling eyes and notched my hand, a bit higher than the palm pressing tightly the cut on my hand on hers.

“Leo,” whispered Rena, grasping me with her body, “my blood is now flowing to your heart, do you feel that? I feel the flow of your blood through my veins. This thought makes me crazy.”

An inexpressible sweet tremble ran through my body, fulfilling my whole essence. We were standing absorbed perhaps by the importance or by the solemnity of the moment. I’d pressed Rena to my chest with the other hand, and it seemed to me that I was feeling the irrepressible mad run of my boiling blood to her gentle heart. After, Rena stretched her crimson, passionate lips to my lips. Our lips merged. It took a long time to last. I was kissing her frenzily - wildly, holding her more and more tightly in my arms as if trying to put her in my heart, squeeze her into the very depths of my soul. I was whispering selflessly and feverishly.

“Rena, you are my sweetheart, and you will be my sweetheart forever, I will love and protect you to my last breath; Yes, I love you and I love all that are close to you,


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surround you, touched you and being touched by you. I love everything that makes you happy and excited.”

I told her these words incoherently in the remote alley of the Kirov Park, and somewhere far away, either beyond the fence of the park, in one of the parked vehicles on the street, or from one of the apartments of the multistory building we could hear the song.

“Ah, those blue, blue eyes have captivated me, I can’t forget them...,” and it was about Rena, about her blue-blue eyes. I was so thankful to Armen for my luck, for my happiness. That incident with the restaurant seemed to me a funny adventure, a reading of poems about Karabagh - an innocent play, the dedication to the girls based on the motives of "Don Juan" - a boyish fresh-faced joke.


CHAPTER 16

“I will make your acquaintance with my relatives tomorrow,” Rena said on the phone and laughed.

“Ren, I am unable to distinguish lately, when are you kidding and when – are serious. So, are you serious, now?” “If you do not want to be introduced, I will not,” she laughed again and added quietly, “tsaved tanem,” and hung up the phone.

“She really decided to drive me crazy,” I thought with laughter, “and, fortunately, she manages in it.”

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The next day she came with precious, out of this world smile all over her marvelous lips. The hair nicely assembled on her head, white marble swan neck was opened up; she solemnly took a seat in front of me and pulled out a whole stack of photos from her purse.

“All my family members are here,” she said with smile, spreading photos on the table. “Meet my family, please, for now, in absentia so to speak,” she said with laughter.

I started to look at the photos.

“This is my brother Rasim, he is five years older than me and he works for encyclopedia. Does he look like me?” “A little bit.”

Under black eyebrows, with a frown glance Rena’s brother was looking at me from the picture, - tall, broad-shouldered, with a well-groomed black mustache. His eyes were black, and expressive. Yes, there was distant similarity between him and Rena. But, say her sister Esmira with her delicate beauty was much more looked like Rena. The difference was that she was swarthy. On the long, ovally, tan face the mouth was a little bigger with bulging lips, as was Rena’s: the lower lip was a little bit plumper.

“Four years younger than me. She is a nine-grade student,” Rena explained, having her warm palm on my arm, bending over my shoulder at the table, and pampering me with her sweet aromas and the soft warmth of her breast.

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“You know, she is spoiled a lot as is the youngest home, we love her so much. And the way of her talking... Her tongue is long, sharp. If I’ll not see her a day – I’ll get a deadly dose of melancholy.”

In the other photo, Esmira was sitting on the sofa with crossed legs. Straight, black hair was falling down on the collar and refined dress had held her stately body, emphasizing pointed little breasts. She was looking straight at me with her large, beautiful eyes, and a mocking smile on her pulp lips.

“And this is my brother’s wife, Irada. If you only knew what kind of gentle nature she has. My brother does not allow her to work, although she is a college grad. And this is my mother who is professing at the Oil Technical school. And here is my father. He graduated from the Pedagogical Institute, but he never worked by his specialty, always has been in different areas. Rasim looks like my father. Right? Esmira and I are not look like him, while Rasim is.”

I was looking at the photos mentally longing for the day when I would personally meet Rena’s family members, who were seemed to be dear to me as well.

And really, I was fortunate enough to see them soon, not everyone, of course. I was talking to Rena on the phone, and I felt that she was not in the mood and preoccupied with something.

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“What had happened, Ren?” I asked anxiously.

Rena informed that world famous band “Boney M”30 is on farewell tour with daily concerts in the largest cities in the world. And after Moscow, Leningrad and Kiev the band will visit Baku, and then – to China. The concert in Baku is at the end of the month, but the tickets are already sold out. Someone had promised her at the institute, but in vain: nothing happened.

“To tell the truth, Irada and I really wanted to go to the concert, but it’s impossible. And so, we are okay,” Rena said hopelessly. “But if it’ll be feasible to obtain, at least one for Esmira. She really dreams of this concert, some of her classmates had acquired the tickets. Well, if they are going, she put in her head that she will also go. She has been in tears for two days, crying like a baby. Rasim also tried hard to get a ticket but failed to find one.”

I said nothing to Rena, but as soon as I hung up the phone, immediately started to seek for a ticket. I called everywhere possible, but futile. I went to the editor-in-chief maybe he would help somehow. Telman Karabakhly-Chakhalyan had just returned from a business trip and fanning himself with a straw hat, with obliging obsequiousness was telling about the tremendous report about tobacco growers of the villages Drmbon and Atenk of Martakert Region that he had prepared for the radio. He also twaddle that in the Drmbon village

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blackberry sowing was well done, but he did not mention it in his report. The chief was looking at him all shut in himself, thoughtfully and was keeping silence. I felt sorry for the chief. I returned to my place and called the Writers’ Union, to Siyavush.

“Siyavush, I need three tickets for the "Boney M" concert. If you do me that favor, all my life I will think about what I should do to get out of Siyavush’s debt.”

Siyavush laughed sincerely and loudly.

“You see, old buddy,” he said, “What you cannot buy with gold, will get it with sweet words. However, it’s not about me, you can’t buy Siyavush with a sweet word. He prefers fresh kebab, barbecue, and good, selected vodka.”

“You will have at least ten bottles of the best vodka and twenty skewers of kebab. Just get three tickets for me.”

“I’ll call you back in half an hour,” he said. “Are you home

or in the editorial?”

“In the editorial.”

I decided for myself that in extreme case I would take tickets on hand directly from Lenin’s Palace even at ten times more expensive value than they are.

Siyavush did not call at the time he promised. He called exactly in hour and a half.





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“Old buddy, I called Moscow,” Siyavush started slowly, and I laughed in my mind, since that was his habit - to start everything from afar, from the China Great Wall.

“Why did you call Moscow for? Did you want to talk to the group? They have not arrived Moscow yet.”

He laughed.

“Well said, you won’t get into a pocket for a word. Have

patience, man, patience is life. Kyubra-khanum, manager of the

Writers’ Union has saved three tickets for the chairman, who is

in Moscow now. So, I called him and asked for those tickets

with the condition, that you will translate one of his short

novels into Armenian. He said that you have already translated

one. Which one was that?”

“"I, You, He and the Phone".”

“Not a bad thing. Translate better "Dante’s Jubilee".” “"Jubilee" has already been translated into Armenian.” “Well, then translate "White Harbor". Great story, had got an award.”

“Siyavush, do not fool me. In short, what’s the agreement?” Siyavush laughed out loud.

“What kind of agreement are you talking about? The tickets are at Siyavush. You keep your promise, right?” “Sure.”

“Do you know Abbas Abdulla?”

I laughed.

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“You know him as a poet and editor-in-chief of the "Ulduz" magazine. But for us, he is not a poet and not an editor, but a driver. I am taking him with me, so as not to spend money on a taxi. We’ll be at your place in half an hour. And then we’ll decide where to go.”

I did not want to call Rena until I see the tickets with my own eyes.

It did not take half an hour them to get to me. After a quarter of an hour, Siyavush and Abbas were in my office at the editorial.

“We are not late, right?” Siyavush said, looking at the clock. “That is not the case for Abbas to be late for a free feast,” he laughed. “He didn’t care about traffic red light or anything like that. We were driving too fast: hundred and twenty was on the speedometer.”

We hugged, Siyavush handed me the tickets.

“Old buddy, I understand for whom two tickets are, but who is the third one?”

“For the future mother-in-law,” said Abbas, adjusting his glasses on his nose and smiling through his thick Shevchenko-wise mustache. He had recently awarded with the Shevchenko Prize for translations from the Ukrainian original; he attached a button-sized badge to his jacket with the image of Shevchenko, and it turned out they were


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having very similar look-the same drooping mustache, the same bald head and the same gaze under shaggy eyebrows.

“Old buddy, if she’s a fat and crummy lady, take me with you, you know that Siyavush is not indifferent to obese women.”

“Leo, when Zikina31 was here, this empty headed one didn’t miss a single concert of hers,” Abbas said. “Really?” I laughed.

“Sure,” Siyavush nodded with a pleased smile. “Each of her big breasts was in size of Abbas’s head exactly like Pamela Anderson’s, she was walking on the stage stately, smoothly.”

“Zikina said from the stage. “I didn’t know that the people in Azerbaijan like my songs that much. What do you want me to sing?” And someone responded from the audience. “You don’t have to sing; you just walk around the stage.” Abbas laughed.

Tall, handsome, but not serious, forever not serious Siyavush burst out laughing

“There are local sheep, not the merinos32 but local, almost two pooded33, with a fat double-tail. One’s wife’s butt must be so soft and tender enough, that when slaps it slightly in the morning, it will still move when one returns from work.” He again burst out laughing. “And we, and the Armenians, will give our lives for chubby women. Am I right, Leo?” “No,” I said.


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“Well, you are, therefore, an exception,” Siyavush

retreated. “You are fond of skinny ones. Listen, Abbas,” he abruptly turned to Abbas and said cheerfully, “Look and learn what the civilized nation means.”

“Look, what kind of office Leo has - shiny parquet, fluffy curtains, air conditioning, Japanese TV, reproduction of the "Ninth Wave" in excellent quality and a calendar with Sophie Loren’s big sexy mouth on the wall, do not mention, soft sofa for some pleasures. Not like your small room - dirty covered with the dust and lost in tobacco smoke, and the mess with the folders on the table. Look and learn while I’m alive.”

“Siyavush,” Abbas said softly, with smile on a good-natured face, “one more word and you will go to the restaurant on foot... I don’t understand this,” he continued with the same smile, “Leo invites us without any expectation, can you tell me what this cheap, half-penny flattery means?” Siyavush laughed.

“Leo, have you ever got in the Abbas’s car? "Zhiguli"34 from Nadir Shah’s times35, which everyone teasingly calls "Cadillac". Damaged by rust, crashed about ten times, one turns the steering wheel to the left - it goes to the right, turns it to the right – it goes to the left.”

Abbas smiled softly under his mustache. The trembling phone call has urged me to pick up the phone.

“Hello, aghper! ” That was Seyran Sakhavat from the second


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floor, from the general editorial on the drama programs. “Leo, I’m looking for Abbas, I called "Ulduz". The people there said that he and Siyavush had gone to see you. He promised to publish two of my stories in this issue, but the guys said that the proofreader was without those stories. We ought to know what’s the matter.”

Seyran was speaking loudly, and Siyavush with Abbas could hear everything. With a grin through his mustache, Abbas made a negative gesture with his hand, hinting me not to tell that they are here.

“Seyran, they are not here yet,” I laughed silently. “They must be still on the road.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Seyran said louder than before, “I can see through the window that broken-down red "Cadillac" is parked on the street which means that they have reached to you without an accident. Be a man, give him the phone. You are going for the feast, I see.”

“The girl is fine, but she isn’t mine. So, what is in for you?

“Leo, look, I’ll leave, and I won’t forgive you for a hundred years, I won’t talk to you for a hundred years,” he swaggered. “So, are you going to for drinks? Tell me the truth.”









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“Maybe.”

“Shame on you! And what about me?” Seyran begged. “Aren’t you go to take me?”

“We’ll take you, if you pay at least a very small part of a part of the bill.”

“Me?” Seyran snorted. “And do not even expect, I do not have a penny.”

“So why did you prefer pseudonym Sakhavat instead of your harmonious surname Khanlarov?2 Why Sakhavat35? It’s not about you. Name yourself Seyran Khasis36, it would match you more.”

“Vay, vay, vay,” as if Seyran were surprised, moreover, in the Armenian manner. “What is going on? Where am I?” He added laughing in Armenian.

“Me? Khasis?” He continued in Azerbaijani. “Leo, aren’t you ashamed? If I only collected the empty bottles of vodka that I made tipsy others and refunding them to the store, I would be able to buy for that money a cow with a calf under it. I would sell that cow with a calf, would buy a new "Zaporozhets" 37 at the Aghdam market, and I swear, I would pass it to Abbas that he would not dishonor us- the Armenian people, with his utterly worthless "Cadillac," I am paying alimony to three ex-wives, what do you want from me?”




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Abbas who had camouflaged his bald head with existing hair, with open mouth was listening to Seyran. At his last words he laughed loudly and got caught with a sudden attack of cough, he bent and stepped to the window.

“OK,” I gave up, go down to the car, and we are coming, too.”

Siyavush attentively looked at Abbas, who was still coughing, and then said with lovely and ironic manner:

“Old buddy, this one is dying, I think, I brought him in vain. It seems to me we have to catch a taxicab.”

“Do not badger me” Abbas said not maliciously, and with heavy breath, turning red and staring at him, and then added hoarsely: “Leo, let’s go, otherwise, couple more of blatherskites like this one and Seyran will appear here.”

“Ainen moment,” Siyavush said and having moved his glasses up, looked at me defiantly. “Old buddy, Abbas knows this, so I’ll tell you. I have two friends in Moscow, I was there in the winter. So, those guys stuck to me, that we weren’t been in the CHW38 restaurant for a while, let’s go there. Well, we know the Moscovites’ habits - they visit us, we treat them, we visit them, the same - we still treat them... In a word, there is a large grocery store not far from the Central House of Writers, and we agreed to meet there. It turned out that I came very




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early. I was standing at the grocery store and waiting for them. And there was a line for vodka stretching between the houses almost to Kalinin Avenue39. Suddenly, I see that one is coming straight to me. It’s clear that the third out of the group of drinkers is missing, and that one I was. And he, in a black coat and a hat with earflaps and beard, got me.”

“At first sight, he realized that you are a simpleton,” Abbas commented, but Siyavush ignored him and continued enthusiastically:

“In a word, old buddy, he didn’t look like a homeless drunk- all in order, sober as a glass, respectable appearance; Abbas next to him is like a hundred –year-homeless,” Siyavush laughed with pleasure. “OK, listen.” “Does a young man have any idea to warm up a little in this frost?” He wondered. “Why not?” I said.

I myself do not understand why I said so. Sometimes it happens to me, I go with the flow without thinking where, why. He turned, called one. Half a liter for triad is a common thing in Moscow. They took the money and went to the store. I was waiting for them on the street, laughing at myself that I involuntarily got involved in such preposterous game. But it was late already. The time was passing; it’s time them to be back. I was waiting, but there was no one. But it was too late.




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I should wait. From the cold I was stomping on the spot. I was even thinking that maybe the store has another exit, and so, they took vodka and left. This thought made me crazy, and at that very moment, I saw that the man with the beard leaving the store. Earflaps pulled down over his eyes, he passed by me quickly glancing at me. I was rather surprised by this, but I thought that they got the vodka bypassing the law, so, probably, it was necessary that the police not notice. The second one was not there too, and again, I thought that this was probably also some kind of conspiracy. The man with a beard went into the front entrance of the next house, and I followed him. He was going up the stairs looking around. Obviously, I thought, he was waiting for the second one. We went to the third floor, I also looked down – may be the second one was there. One of the doors on the floor had opened at that time. The man with a beard threw himself inside. He slammed the door. Old buddy, as you can imagine, Siyavush was shocked, I came to my senses, and started gently to knock on the door; but no sound. Madness overwhelmed me again. I knocked harder.

“What do you want?” Somebody asked from behind the door.

“My part of vodka,” I said.

“Now I will call the police, they will show you there.”





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I think it was the man with a beard. I completely lost myself then. They had cheated you, and that’s not enough, they managed to intimidate you with police. It turned out that they were cheating you in broad daylight by even frightening with police. “This is what it is, man: either a glass of vodka, or I am breaking the door.” I was repeating over and over, like a crazy, hitting the door with my fists and legs.

“You should hit by head,” Abbas advised, chuckling. He was afraid to laugh out loud after his coughing. Siyavush laughed and continued:

“Leo, I can’t imagine, what came over me. Finally, someone opened the door slightly without removing the door chain and gave me an elegant tea glass with vodka through the half-opened door: “Here you go, Get choked.” I took this full glass and like an alcoholic drained it at once... Everything cleared up, flashed and fell into its place. No madness, nothing, everything was gone. The world was calm and nice, people were kind, and nice, and in a good and triumphant mood, as they had not managed to fool me, I went out into the street, laughing at myself, and suddenly, old buddy, I was stunned, I didn’t believe my eyes – the man with a beard and his friend with a bottle in their hands were looking for me... I had confused,” Siyavush laughed, shaking his head. “The same black coat, the same fur hat,” he said.


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“Listen, guys,” he applied to us, “we have not decided yet where to go.”

“Wherever you want” I replied, still continuing to laugh. “Let’s go to the station, they bake bread in tonir40 there, or to the kebab house behind the Semashko hospital, or, if you want, to the "Carvansaray", I do not care.”

“Let’s go,” Abbas said and first went out into the corridor.

I called Rena.

“Tell Esmira that everything is OK. I took three tickets for you.”

“Leo, what about you?” Rena asked sincerely.

“Ren, there is no greater pleasure than the fact that all three of you will go to that concert for me.” “Tsaved tanem,” she replied.

And that was the greatest reward in the world for me.


CHAPTER 17

On the morning of the concert day a hurricane suddenly started. I went out to the balcony, from where, through the gap of the high-rise buildings, as from my editorial office, there was a quite narrow view to the sea. During late evenings I often follow the majestic movement of the moon over the sea reflected in pacified water. Sometimes, the moon falls from up to down and slowly floats in the darkness. A lighthouse


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harmonious flicker is clearly visible in the depths of the sea at the nighttime.

Today the sea is dark like the sky. The waves are whipping and raging. The poplars are bent by the hurricane as if they are going to be broken any time.

Later the rain started. I stood hearkening to the unceasing roar of the drainpipes.

And then everything calmed down at once, the sky had cleared, as if neither the hurricane, nor the heavy rain had been earlier.

It was going to be a sunny day.

I was waiting for Rena’s call. She had not taken tickets from me yet. Finally, the phone rang by the end of the day. She called from the machine.

“Would you come down?” She asked in a sweet, velvety voice.”

“So, you would not go up to the editorial?”

“I want to,” she said, lowering her voice. “But I am not alone. So, you better come down yourself.”

Do not know why, I got excited. I realized that Irada and Esmira were with her down there. I was walking a little around the office, hoping to calm down, but ineffective.

I saw them immediately. They were standing on the other side of the street, in front of the Philharmonic Park in high heels and dressed in festive clothes.

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Irada had almost the same age as Rena, two or three years older maybe, and Esmira (I have correctly noticed) looked like Rena —slender and slim.

There were three pairs of eyes were staring on me, and I didn’t know where to hide my hands, or how to cross the street under Esmira’s and Irada’s examining and curious glances.

“Hello!” I said shyly, crossing the street and approaching them finally. “Here are the tickets.”

Esmira extended her right hand to me, taking the tickets with her left hand and I unwittingly held her thin cold fingers in my palm.

“Esmira,” she said, glancing at me with the look of the already matured beautiful girl that attracts both: young and mature men, making their hearts palpitating with the hope of possible prospect for the first ones, and with regret that youth passed so inexorably for the second ones.

“Thank You for the tickets.”

Irada responded to my greeting with a nod, and Rena just smiled.

“There’s still time before the concert starts,” I said. “Let’s go to the cafe, they are serving really superb ice cream there.”

“Why not?” Esmira quickly replied for all with a charming smile.

A smile suited her pretty face.

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“Esmira,” Irada rebuked her.

“Let’s go, why you are standing,” she said, and under the chirping of the birds, we walked along a wide alley lined with tall linden trees to that outdoor cafe under the enclosure of Icheri Sheher40, where we heard the sound of a mournful song coming from some record player. That was Yalchin Rzazade41:
I wandered for a long time in blooming spring.

That you were with me, my love, I saw a dream.

Esmira stopped and holding her breath with inexpressible joy, with her clear, wide-open eyes, stared at the branch of the linden tree inclined towards the avenue along which the yellowish-beige squirrel was skipping. The animal reached the very top of the linden tree, jumping from branch to branch. Its fiery-red tail appeared for a moment on the branch that touched the sky, trembled and disappeared into the foliage.

“One or two people in the hall will faint,” Esmira said in a childlike happiness with an overt delight, turning to me. “They were sure that I would not manage to get a ticket.”

She looked at me with buffoonish eyes; the smile never disappeared in her black, shining eyes and lips, spreading over her face. There was a smile even on her shining, sugar-white, whiter than the snow, teeth.




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“And the seats are not far from the stage, in the third row,” I said pleased that it would bring her joy.

“What?” Esmira really got happy. “The third row! Do you know where are they go to sit? In the very last row. Aman Allah, they will be exploded from envy.”

“Do you know whose tickets were these?” I kindled her curiosity even more.

“Whose?” Esmira asked, looking askance at me with burning eyes.

“Chairman of the Board of the Writers’ Union of Azerbaijan Anar.”

“Anar?” A pause...Her large luxurious eyes were shining brightly. “I read his novel "The Sixth Floor of a Five-Store House". A wonderful thing. And Tehmina’s death shocked me... No one would believe. No one. Do you know who of our writers the best is? Anar, Elchin, Akram Aylisli, Ibrahimbekov brothers, Chingiz Huseynov. Did you read the story of Huseynov "Magomed, Mamed, Mamish"? A wonderful story. The main hero’s name is also Rena, but she is one of those immoral cheaters, when my sister is her antipode. Wow! Anar’s tickets... After all, they will see where my seat was.”

“Did Rena also read this story?” I asked for no reason.

“I don’t know,” Esmira threw with obvious neglect and a playful, innocent smile. We laughed.

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“She studies Armenian literature now,” she laughed looking at me. What has she recently read? Let me remember... Alexander the Great had thirty thousand soldiers, he knew everyone by sight and by name, and I am unable to recall the title of a simple book.” “Esmira!” Rena asked solicited this time.

“I remembered,” she said, not paying attention to her sister’s adjure.

“Forty days of Musa Dagh”42. A thick book, I cannot overcome it in forty days. "Children of the Arbat" is also a big book, but I read it in two weeks. I cried for four days because of Sasha, the hero. Poor thing! If I were on the place of Varya, his beloved girl, I would follow him to Siberia right up to Kansk. Just like in “Histoire du Chevalier des Grieux et de Manon Lescaut,” where de Grieu voluntarily followed the exiled Manon to America. Do you know what Sona was saying?” “Who is Sona?”

“Our classmate,” Esmira said indifferently. “She makes Nargis of herself. Well, yes, she is pretty, but not perfect. Nargis, whose real name, by the way, was Fatima, which Sona hardly will know, was a famous film actress and was reputed to be a beauty not only in Bollywood and India with a population of a billion people, but also in the whole world. In New York, when she was sick in bed, taxi drivers did not


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charge anyone who went to visit her but asked to buy white roses instead. Aman Allah, look at her, with whom she wants to be compared. There are students who know that they know, others know that they do not know, and some others do not know that they do not know. Sona is just one of those - she does not know that she doesn’t know. “I c-a-n-n-o-t-l-e-a-r-n m-y t-o-m-o-r-r-o-w’s -l-e-s-s-o-n-s b-e-c-au-s-e o-f t-h-e c-o-n-c-e-r-t” Esmira mocked. One might’ve thought, as if she always prepared her lessons properly. It is terrible torture for her to formulate an idea clearly. She always recopies from the others and answers with someone’s help and hint, barely snatching a “satisfactory” grade. She said about the concert loudly on purpose, so that I can hear. She wanted to sting me, but she can’t.”

With easy gait, like a doe, Esmira fell ahead of us. The guys around looked at her, like sunflowers that twirl their heads following the sun

“Esmira,” Irada called, “don’t rush!”

We settled around a round table. The waitress knew me. I often come here with the guys to have a cup of coffee or an ice cream. She greeted warmly. We started to order.

“Do you like ice cream with strawberry or chocolate?” I asked Esmira.

“Both: strawberry and chocolate,” she said quickly, “I like both very much.”

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“Esmira,” Rena tried to rein in her sister again. “What did I tell you?”

“You said you better behave yourself,” Esmira admitted. “I really behave badly?” She asked, turning to me and looking with eyes in which laughter was played.

“Not at all,” I said. “Just on the contrary.”

“You see?” Esmira declared triumphantly. “No complaints.” She added, turning to me: “I do not speak to this Sona. And with Zaur too.”

“And who is Zaur?”

Esmira looked askance at me again, blowing a strand of hair on her forehead with plump pink lips. Just like Rena.

“An excellent student, the best student in the class,” she explained not without pride, but with false indifference. “I am in the sulks with him.”

“Why?” I asked her with smile.

Rena and Irada were also smiling, glancing at Esmira with tenderness.

“He gave Sona to copy the solution of the test problem in mathematics. For that. And that was it.” “So what? What’s special in it?” I asked.

“Nothing. But since I did not want him to give her to copy, he should’ve not,” she said, looking at me with her shining eyes. Black eyes with white protein- on the lovely swarthy face.

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“Why?”

Esmira looked at me and replied after a short meditation:

“Cause that this Sona told the girls that she had gone to the

cinema with Zaur and that Zaur had kissed her. She is lying. Zaur swore to me that there was no such thing.” “Esmira, would you be quiet?” Rena got angry.

“Sure,” Esmira said. She said nothing for half a second. But no more.

“Something is wrong with our phone,” she announced. “Yesterday I spoke with my girlfriend, but we hardly understood each other.”

“Did not you try to speak in turn?” Rena asked, looking at her sister with laughter in her eyes.

Esmira looked at her, but her thoughts were somewhere else at the moment.

“Zaur says that I look like Sophie Marceau a lot,” she said, “But in my opinion, I look like more that top model: Monica Bellucci. Have you ever seen her?” “Seen whom? Zaur?”


“Oh, no,” Esmira laughed sweetly shaking her head. “Monica Bellucci. She is twenty-five, and these days, whole Paris and New York talk only about her, as if the most famous model.”

“I saw her. If I am not mistaken, lately her photo had been on Playboy.”

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“That is true, the new issue of the Playboy has recently come out with her photo on the cover. Do I really look like her?”

I looked at Esmira; inspired, cheerful, brightened, not knowing if that illumination was coming from the sun’s rays which had penetrated the gaps between the crowns of trees stretching to the skies, or was coming straight from the inside with extraordinary light, but also with melodious voice, bright scarlet innocent lips, slightly slanting eyes with burning fire, and with her kind of exotic beauty, she was not really inferior to black-eyed fashion model Monica Bellucci and, truly, there was a certain resemblance between them.

“Yes,” I confirmed. “Playboy is worthy to publish your photo on the cover.”

“That’s what I think.” Esmira vigorously looked at Rena and Irada, smiled with satisfaction. “Does my sister look like Merilyn Monroe?” She suddenly asked, looking at me with the same smiling eyes.

“When Merilyn Monroe was nineteen, she was like your sister, but your sister

is more charming than Merilyn Monroe in her nineteen.” Rena smiled with eyes, looked at me with a deep loving look, and with a light movement of fiery red lips secretly sent me an air kiss.


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“I think,” Esmira continued, “she is more like Brigitte Bardot.”

“Esmira!” Rena begged compulsively.

Esmira wrinkled face and made a hand gesture - as if do not interfere, I am solving important issues here.

“I put their photos side by side, and cannot see the difference between them at all-hair, eyebrows, glance, posture, hands, especially when sleeveless clothes have been weared, also, the eye color and smile, particularly the smile - well, everything is exactly the same. Everyone in our class says too they are indistinguishable. And the lips, those same erotic lips.”

“Esmira, are you gonna shut up?” Rena grew purple from anger.

“Irada, and why did we take her with us?”

“Don’t even mention” Irada agreed but smiled at the same time.

“A guy lives on the fifth floor in the neighboring building. He is a student at the Institute of Physical Education,” Esmira said thoughtfully not even being affected by their speech.

“He does not take his eyes from our balcony from morning to evening. He wears a kimono and starts jumping and does lot of physical exercises. Are you taking workouts in the gym?” She asked suddenly, turning to me.




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“Why?”

“Why? To live long.”

“Rabbit jumps all day long, running back and forth-a true sportsman, in addition, herbivore and vegetarian, but does not live more than eight to ten years. But the turtle doesn’t do physical exercises, it is lazy, slow, doesn’t hurry anywhere. One sends it for a water, getting upset after an hour noticing that it is not back yet, when one hears its voice if you keep speaking a lot, I will not go at all. So, it lives four hundred and fifty years.” Esmira laughed and said, looking with joyful eyes at Rena: “This guy that I am talking about, the one from the Institute for Physical Education. He goes crazy for my sister.”

My heart beated anxiously.

“Leo, do not listen to her,” Irada said, throwing a short glance at me with her large brown eyes. “Rena, you are right, we took her with us in vain.

Esmira gave to her eyes an expression of a man who is getting bored and lazily waved her hand again, as if she was trying to get rid of flies.

“By the way, my sister goes crazy about you,” she said with a graceful smile. “Have you read Kaputikyan’s verse? We’re wandering in the streets, I-with your love, you-with the other’s, we’re






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burning in the fires, I-for your love, you-for the other’s.”

She recited and licked a Melchior spoon going from strawberry ice cream to the chocolate one.

Irada laughed and shook her head, as if “a child is always a child.”

“Do you know what Zaur declared in front of the class? He said, that there is someone, who, if will command, I will get from the window out and walk along the third-floor ledge with closed eyes; the whole building from one edge to the other. There were questions from here and there - who is that someone? He said: “Esmira.” Can you imagine? Sona was dead and not buried. Do you know what she had told this Sona just a couple of minutes before that? If he is the first one you think about when you wake up, the only one - you think on during the day, and the last one you think about before falling asleep, then this is love.”

And now, after Zaur’s words she turned pale. She had turned white as the wall color.” Esmira smiled and stared at me with a bright look. “In your opinion,” she said after a while, “should I forgive Zaur?”

“Sure,” I said quickly and confidently.

“No, I won’t forgive him,” Esmira said resolutely, looking at me meaningfully and added after thinking for a bit. “Let him apologize first.”


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Her sincere benevolence and naive purity touched me: “He will. What else he can do?” I smiled.

“I think so, too,” Esmira smiled in response with obvious satisfaction. “I believe that forgiving others, one forgives himself. And humiliating others, one humiliates himself, respecting and helping others, one respects and helps himself, protecting others one protects himself. Because of that, willy-nilly, one rises in your own eyes and feels completely different, Is it so?” She asked and added without waiting for a reply: “I like here. We are like in the forest: bird chirp, a squirrel run, and then the music. Rock music is very cordial to me, but I also like ethnic, folk music. Do you know which folk song I like a lot?” “Kyuchalara su sapmyshim, yar gyalanda toz olmasin, yar gyalanda toz olmasin.”43 And she quietly sang in Azerbaijani: “Great, right? Though about love, however, there is such deep sadness and sorrow in it. Just heart is breaking, and one sees how she always waits on the road, her sight is on the road continuously, but her beloved one doesn’t come, and there is no hope that he will ever do.”

“I have never eaten such delicious ice cream,” she abruptly changed the subject.

“It’s nice to hear that,” I responded.





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Esmira looked at me with clouded eyes, wanted to say something, however, she seemed to change her mind and fell silent.

“What a flavor!” She could not stand it, and coming closer, stretched her neck to Rena.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Rena shook her head joyfully.

“Oh, oh, oh,” Esmira replied in a manner of excessive playfulness. “"Chanel ¹ 5." Our mother’s perfume, I used a little bit. I am crazy from this flavor.” She sighed slightly, leaned toward me, and stretched her neck almost to my face, covering me with awesome flavors. “Nice, right?”

The air even smells the girlish aroma.

“Unbelievable,” I said.

“You know what?” said Esmira, enjoying the ice cream. “A strange thing, when one is happy, he wants to cry, and when one is sad, he does not want to laugh... Therefore, it seems to me that it is better to be happy. And not to be jealous of anyone. Do you know what the hardest thing is for the jealous one? That is: that nobody is jealous of him. All the girls in our class are jealous of me. She said after a short pause: “In general, it seems to me that the boys are much more reliable and loyal friends than the girls. In any case, I cannot get for what they are jealous of me. No matter how I dress, whether it is good or bad, -they are jealous. I pretend to be sad when I am happy, or happy, when I am sad- they

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are still jealous of me. Tenth graders scrutinize me with their looks, or write me letters or, let’s say, accompany me, carrying my bag, and again: they are jealous. If I, for instance, cut off my hair, I am sure they will cut it too. I do not know what to do. - Allegedly worried, she shrugged. “But you know what I think,” she said cheerfully, “if people do not envy someone, means he, therefore, does not have any importance, or does not represent any interest for them. And let them be jealous of me! It is better that they envy me, than I -them, “right?”

She paused again.

“I would never attend any college of medical profile. "The Terms of Quarantine of Infectious Diseases and Persons, Who Have Interacted with Them", "Diseases of the Cardiovascular System", "Diary of Preventive Vaccinations"... I feel sick when I look at Rena’s textbooks. I will attend the Institute of Cosmetology and Beauty after school. I got informed that there is such an institute in Leningrad44. I will go there,” Esmira concluded, and suddenly added: by the way, I write poems.

“Not poems, but verses,” Rena fended.

“What’s the difference?” Esmira responded, turning her head to her sister and wrinkling her pretty nose.

“You do not comprehend the difference, that’s why you write verses,” Rena smiled.


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“And you think that people are only jealous of me in the school? Do you see?”

At this time everyone laughed, including Esmira, of course.

We walked along the same avenue to a stop, and Esmira was ahead of us again-carefree and light-legged, she was swaying slightly from side to side on her feet. I stopped the first available taxi.

“Let’s go by trolleybus,” Irada tried to argue. “Number (8) route goes straight to the Lenin Palace.”

“Is it honorary for Esmira to go to the concert by the trolleybus?”

“I think, no,” Esmira confirmed.

“After all, what will the opposite side say?” I smiled.

“They don’t think that far,” Esmira laughed and sat in the front seat, next to the driver, sat solemnly, but before she stretched out her hand again and said with squinting eyes: “I leave you with a pleasant impression.”

Rena and Irada were unable to keep back their laughter. “I wish you never be jealous of anyone,” I replied with a smile. “As jealousy is the enemy of the happy ones. I am sure that you will never have a reason to be jealous of anyone.” I also think so," Esmira said with adoring softness, and in a farewell gesture, played with her thin fingers.

Late in the evening Rena called me and shared her impressions of the concert. She complained about Esmira’s antics, without

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malice of course, and she added almost in a whisper at the end:

“They liked you very much. Esmira endlessly was speaking about you, and Irada said that you have a special masculine charm. My kid sister, who is deviated on comparisons, pointed out the resemblances to - you know whom?” “I know.”

“Whom?” Rena sweetly twittered.

“Quasimodo.”

She laughed again.

“Didn’t I tell you that you’re much more handsome than Quasimodo?”

“You did. I am very glad that you reminded me. Well, in that case - with Celentano45.”

“No-o,” Rena laughed again. “You’re more handsome than Celentano. Nowhere, neither at the institute, nor in any other place there is one, whom I could compare you with. You are the ideal male type for me, you understand that, aren’t you?”

“OK, tell me, whom did Esmira compared me with?” “With John Lennon.”

I smiled- she is Brigitte Bardot, and I am John Lennon.

Nice comparison. I said.

“John Lennon was six years younger than Bardot.” “Exactly that much you are older than me,” Rena laughed.

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She was in a good mood. She continually was admired and laughed.

“But is it hindering me to love you madly?” “Please, tell them my gratitude.”

“I will not tell,” Rena laughed again and wished me good night not forgetting, of course, to add 'tsaved tanem' in Armenian.


CHAPTER 18

The next day we went to the same open-air caf;. At this time - with Arina and Loranna. Arina finished the retyping of the former chief editor’s memoirs, and it was necessary to celebrate.

“I was released from such a burden, that we should celebrate that,” Arina said. “I can’t really believe that I’ll never see his disgusting face again. On the last day, instead of thanking me for retyping this nonsense for nothing, he said: “You made mistakes. We exiled one of our typists to

Siberia for seven years, the other-for five. And you know for what? For just a single mistake.”

“Didn’t he say for what mistake?” Loranna interested.

“He said. In the text that refers to Stalin, she had typed instead of Polkovodets- (the chief of the soldiers), volkovodets (the chief of the wolves). So, the typist of the editorial staff of the Russian programs had made a mistake.

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And the Armenian typist in the sentence Hero of Socialist Labor Basti Bagirova instead of the sixty kilograms according to the plan, had cropped from three hundred to four hundred kilograms of cotton, did something wrong in the word cropped, changing its meaning into negative direction. And the authorities exiled her for five years for that. Imagine: for one letter typo! When I asked who informed the authorities about these typos, he replied without a twinge of conscience: “I did.” Can you imagine? He says that both cases occurred on his duty, even though on different dates, but he had no right not to report, as they made those mistakes intentionally. Do you want to know what else he said? You will be shocked.”

“One can expect anything from him. So, what did he say?” “He said that he had appealed to the city council so that

they remove the bell from the Armenian church, as it disturbs him in time of working.”

“And we say hello to such a person,” Loranna said with sadness. “We let him sit first, respect his old age.”

“He also spoke about old age,” Arina said. “No, he says, nothing is worse than knowing that you are already old.”

“Everyone,” he says, “recommends marrying, but how can I marry, is there mutual love now?” Arina laughed heartily. “With one foot in the grave, and he speaks about mutual love!”


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“Do you know what else he blurted out?” Arina laughed heartily again.

“Atanes Senal,” he says, “wasn’t a decent poet, but look where he is buried-right at the entrance to the Armenian cemetery. Just look at his luck” he says.

“Atanes Senal is fifteen years younger than him. He went to the war46 as a volunteer. He is a thousand fold

better poet than him. What kind of spoiled person he should be to envy the dead?” Loranna turned to Arina. “Arina, you are lucky to get rid of him.”

“I invite you to go out for an ice cream. My poems had published in the last issue of 'Grakan Adrbejan'. The editor says that this year the periodical’s print run is twelve thousand. However,” he says, “I have no doubt that after this cycle of my poems, it will rise to fifteen thousand next year.” She laughed and added: “Arina, in a word, I have got an extra fee and I will go to pay. For your sake, Arina.” “No, no, I will pay,” Arina protested.

“Don’t argue, I’ll pay,” I said. “What are a few tugriks47, if we are talking about Arina! Let’s go.”

“No, I have to pay the bill,” Arina insisted.

The door was opened, and Telman Karabaghly-Chakhalyan-Salvador Dali came in, in a yellow tie, and an unlit cigarette in between of his fingers, that he had got from somewhere, and with snaggy hair. Always stuck in the

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corridor-to ask someone for a cigarette, always ready to smile falsely with wry lips, and bend his back in the bow, and shake his head reproachfully, defaming the people coming forward: “Oh, if only you knew what a dirty person he is,” and pleasingly greet the same "dirty person”: “Nejasan, azizim”48 and finally, when he leaves: “Wow, poisonous gyurza.”

“What is the matter?” He asked, looking around the office with deep-set, running eyes. He was smiling so reluctantly that it was impossible to understand, he was really smiling, or was about to burst into tears.

“We were just arguing, Telman Hayrapetovich” Loranna said, and suddenly brightened by some idea, she added: “We got an article and this debate was on it. And you, as a former judge and prosecutor, are obliged to state your authoritative opinion on whether we need to broadcast it.”

“I am ready,” Telman said with an obligatory pose and thoughtful expression on his face.

Loranna took some typewritten sheets from the table, held them for a second or two before her eyes.

“As a matter of fact, this is not an article as such, but a chapter from a doctoral dissertation devoted to the friendship of nations. The author is a famous figure, associate professor.” “Well, it does not matter, go ahead, read.”


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“I am reading, listen carefully and pay attention to the beginning.”

Telman was listening attentively.

“During the war of Vardanids49 the capture of the Yerevan fortress50 was made by the blood of brave fighters of the Russian army, the Armenian volunteer units, and the Georgian police.” Loranna read slowly, clearly pronouncing every word and looked at Telman, raising her eyes: “Should I continue?”

“What kind of a question is that!” Telman answered without hesitation. “It is about friendship of the nations, keep going!”

“In my opinion,” Loranna said, and I was really amazed how calmly she pretended to be reading some material, “one should have said about the heroism of the Azerbaijani police as well while speaking about the Georgian police.”

“That’s right,” Telman nodded. “Good for you, your head is really working smoothly!”

“Listen further. At that time, that is, in the four hundred and fifty-first year, when Russian, Armenian volunteers, Georgian soldiers... let’s add here: and the Azerbaijani police were fighting heroically at the walls of the fortress, Armenia was still under the rule of Persia and Turkey.”

“Something is wrong here,” said Telman thoughtfully like a philosopher, dropping his eyes on the ceiling.

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“Thank God, he finally got it,” I thought.

“Especially what?” Loranna asked hesitantly- the passionate mouth is ajar, laughter in her bluish-green eyes. “It must be under the heavy yoke,” Telman said.

“Well said!” Loranna praised him. “I’ll fix it. Anything else, I can broadcast? The whole article is written at the same level.

“Sure,” Telman expressed his authoritative opinion. “Three nations were fighting together, shoulder to shoulder. An intelligent article, the author should get an extra honorarium,” he added, putting his hand on the bald skull: “I am tired, very tired, I did not sleep whole night. I am writing a book for children. I already wrote two hundred sixty-six pages, one hundred and twelve still remains.”

Loranna looked at him curiously.

“What kind of book?” She asked after all.

“About the war, about the battles,” he barely muttered, closing his eyes dreamily. “Two troops firing at each other fiercely... cornel berry kernels.”

Loranna laughed loudly and said.

“Sorry, Telman, I want to ask you something.”

“You don’t look at me with your beautiful eyes,” Telman said, returning from the bloody battlefield to everyday life. “I’m afraid of beautiful eyes. Who once made a mistake, becomes overly cautious. Well, what have you got there?”

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“Tell me the truth, Telman, did you go to university after school or just from kindergarten?”

“Uh,” Telman got angry. “Are you completely stupid? What kind of kindergarten are you talking about? During the war? There was no such thing in the years of hunger”.

He said and went to the door, then turned at the door. I have a headache and a stomachache. I went early in the morning to see the doctor. A good doctor, we are old friends. He broke a tablet in half and gave the pieces to me, this one, he says, for the headache, and this one for your stomachache, only, be careful, so not to be confused. I drank, and nothing had happened, it hurts as was before.” He spoke, shook his head sadly and left, forgetting why he had come in for. Coming out into the corridor, we moved to the elevator.

“Do you know why they released this mad mankurt51 from the prosecutor’s office?” Loranna asked with laughter. “He got drunk at a restaurant, —the one, who is already a tomfool without alcohol influence, - he demanded his hat from the wardrobe attendant, threatening that he would call the police to arrest all the employees at the workers. And guess what: his hat all the time was on his head. He was summoned by the first secretary of the District Committee and ordered to leave the region tomorrow.”

We did not wait for the elevator and started to go down by


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the stairs. In the half-dark corridor of the third floor two people were talking behind the column. For some reason, Loranna slowed her pace, looking at this pair carefully.

I inevitably looked back too; one turned out to be our

employee Gevorg Atajanyan, and the other person was

standing with his rear to us. Gevorg - it was clearly visible -

wanted to hide behind the column, but perhaps

understood that we noticed him and in order to hide his

confusion, started with an enthusiasm.

“Where are you going with making a crew?

Maybe you’ll have in your group me, too.”

“There is no place for you, where we are going” Loranna gave him a cold tone for no apparent reason.

“Why?” Atajanyan turned his head with a spurious astonishment.

“You better think yourself - why.”

“You are upsetting me, Lorik. I beg you do not break the heart where you reign, - he continued, as if really offended, but with the same fake smile. “Do not you know that for me everything in the world is blooming and smelling thanks to you, the night is sleepless without you, the day is full of sadness? Gevorg is telling this to you, believe me, without calling your wonderful name, since even the sun loses its charm.”


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Loranna silently looked at him with a mysterious half-smile.

“Do not sing Ovsanna to me,” she said finally, “sing to Nora Baghdasaryan, she might understand you, but I’m a married woman...”

“Ah, do not want me you to bother, you’re married, you’re the beloved of the other, -Atajanyan continued in the same way, “but I’m alone and forgotten, oh, my dream that was lost, oh, the faded light of hope has faded...”

The elevator unexpectedly stopped on the third floor, a lady came out and we quickly entered in.

“I hate lustful and corrupted bastards. Do you know who was standing with him?

“Who?” Arina became interested. “Telman’s wife’s lover Safar Aliyev.”

“Whom did they plan something against this time?” Arina responded with disappointment.

We went out to the street, crossed a wide avenue, found ourselves in the park and reached a caf; to have some ice cream talking to each other. And we agreed that the best way to get rid of the burning memories of our former, also the intriguer Gevorg Atajanyan and the witless Telman Karabakhly-Chakhalyan is the cold ice cream: the most consoling remedy at the time. That was the way.


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CHAPTER 19

The days were not simply passing, no, they were flying like my heart full of love was flying uncontrollably to my delightful Rena.

The whole world-people who were swimming in the sea, cheering each other, laughing, diving into the cool waters, and spraying it, a flock of the cranes with dreary clicks that were passing above in a clear high sky flying from south to north, the lonely silent poplar on the top of the cliff which was swaying and slightly was bending with its incessantly trembling crown under the gentle breeze-all these: everything was acquiring new meaning in Rena’s presence. Before her, all this was incomprehensible to me, but, now... I am so happy that I could not even think that this happiness could’ve not been.

Bilgia is the only place in Apsheron with a rocky beach, and we came here to swim and admire coastal cliffs outside the city with the cleanest, boundless and calm sea where on its azure radiant surface here and there seemingly appeared white and disappeared transparent, sun-rinsed soft waves were crushing. These silvery waves were licking coastal stones with kiss smacking noise.

We were swimming near by the rocks, away from anyone’s sight — I didn’t want someone else to look at Rena. In a colorful swimsuit and chic sunglasses "McNamara", sprinkled

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with sequins of still not dried spray on her tight, from sunburn chocolate color like body, with beautiful pockmark from chickenpox vaccine on her delectable hands - she was really charming. Long slender legs, gentle shoulders, a lovely tight chest from under a bathing suit, an incredibly thin waist, a graceful mouth with contoured purple lips — it seemed the whole beach turned to us as soon as we appear there. Her shadow was even beautiful.

“Let’s go to the rocks, there’s nobody there,” I said. My incomparable Rena instantly understood what was going on in my heart, and with charming meekness and gentleness on her face, smiled.”

“Let’s go.” And I was really grateful to her. I caught those hidden glances in a kebab house that immediately made me crazy, “If I find out” I said quietly in some hoarse, changed voice, choked by the all-consuming confusion of passion and jealousy which was little by little flooding my soul, “if I suddenly find out that someone has touched you somewhere, I will cut that part with the knife.”

Rena took my hand and whispered, “Since I’m with you, I don’t need anyone else. Happy is not the one who has a lot of fans, but the one who has the one, except whom she does not need anyone else. Do not be jealous of me, Leo, I will never, never make an action that may hurt you.”

That is what Rena told me at the time.

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We were talking about everything, about the important and unimportant things, constantly jumping from one topic to another and laughing carelessly, were spraying each other with water, were running hand in hand over the hot sand, were throwing ourselves into the water, were swimming back and forth again, competing-who first would reach the shore.

After we discussed the doctrine of Sigmund Freud about psychoanalysis. I agreed with the opinion of Freud that prehistoric human still lives in our subconsciousness, and each of us from birth is endowed with aggressive instincts and tendency to destruction.

Rena objected me. She was weening to her that I thereby justify the violence, aggression, animal instincts to destroy and kill. She cited Raskolnikov as an example, asking “where are the primitive and unconscious phenomena in his actions? He made an assassination, did kill two women, but then declares that he killed not them but himself. But after the murder he is not able to live like a full-fledged man. And we are also unable to live, like before.”

Then we were talking and talking. Rena’s voice was a delightful melody for me. Later, we moved to a new topic - to music. According to Rena, she may listen to Ravel and Bach for days; we mentioned in regret– that Beethoven’s tenth symphony based on “Faust” would ’ve be inimitable, if


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was able to bring it to its end. Then there was a talk about painting and sculpture; I asked whether Rena was aware that Heine52 was going to the Louvre and in front of the Venus de Milo53 for hours was mourning for the desecrated human perfection.

Rena said that she had never been to the Hermitage54 and one day, really wanted to go on vacation to Leningrad, to be in the Hermitage, the Russian Museum and, of course, to visit the house on the Moyka bank where Pushkin spent last hours of his life.

We will go together. I told her in my mind, and this thought made my heart to beat faster.

“Did you read Pushkin’s letters to Natalia Goncharova’s mother?”

I was familiar with those letters, but which one of them was the subject letter I didn’t know.

“He writes her that he is ready to die for Natalia. But in my opinion, the most grandiose love is - swans’. If one of them dies, the other being unable to bear it, throws itself into the sea from the cliff...Would you sacrifice your life for your beloved one?” Rena asked suddenly, staring at me with her blue eyes.

“Rena,” I said, caressing and kissing her wonderful shoulders gilded by the sun. “I will give life for you without hesitation...”

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“I love you.” Her fiery lips glittered over my face and stopped at my dried lips. “I love you, and in that my whole life is,” she barely whispered.

I was kissing the lips that uttered those words, and my soul was rejoicing from happiness.

Another crane flock was flying high in the sky - lined up in the same angled wedge and with the same sad cliques - kurlu, kurlu...

And totally unexpected Rena read me Teryan’s line. You never understand with your lazy, strange soul; Our homeland is a temple with every sacred stone. Surprised and admired, I did not take my eyes off Rena. I

remembered Esmira’s playful smile and her phrase: She studies Armenian literature now, and I smiled full of tenderness and gratitude towards her.

“The Armenian nation has thousands of years history of culture,” Rena said. “To tell the truth, I didn’t know that before.”

“Yes, we have a millennial culture,” I confirmed, “and we were the first civilized nation who adopted Christianity. And that is the origin of all our misfortunes.”

“But why, why?” Rena said suddenly, blushing with a kind of sadness and with disarming sincerity. In all likelihood, they have a lot of talk about it in their home, I thought with pain. She just doesn’t want to tell.

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We were silent, and Rena said, trying to hide her sadness. “Leo, God forbid, if something happens to you - I cannot live even a minute.”

And she added after a short pause, “now, that I have found you, I have everything. Having lost you, I will lose everything.”

I hugged her, pulled her warm body to me and found nothing to say. And Rena said:

“I would like to be with you in such a place where would be a sea, but there were also forests, dense forests, and that the sea won’t be far, and we’ll be able to hear its roar every time.” And suddenly added naughtily, “I already know Armenian. Es si-ru-mem kez... Eu shat si-rum em kez ... Es mer-nu-mem kez hamar... ”53
I laughed.

“Do not laugh!” She drummed my chest as if she was knocking on a leather-upholstered door, and a smile played on her reddened cheeks. “Am I pronouncing wrong? Say it.” And then, as if having been offended, with moist eyes, through gilding laughter, “I will do, I will do that, you will see, I will go and not return, if you want to...” Oh My God, she gives me the reason to love her endlessly, not having the slightest idea about it! I hugged her tightly and said with faltering voice. “You don't even know how sweet you are ...”


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CHAPTER 20


Our next meeting with Rena also took place at the beach, in the small resort-village of Nabran, two hundred and twenty kilometers north of Baku, at the very border of Azerbaijan with Dagestan, next to the forests. These forests stretch from the foothills of the distant Caucasus Mountains and down to the Caspian Sea. Dense virgin forests with gigantic, sky-high trees, meadows, murmuring rivulets and countless springs; they were so vast without end and edge that strangers don’t dare to go deep into those thickets being afraid of getting lost there. Dozens of pioneer camps57 were located in Nabran and beyond Nabran along the entire coast, in the Lezgin58 villages following one another — First Yalama, Second Yalama, Third Yalama, - half a dozen villages under the common name, but with a different sequence number.

We visited one of those camps for preparing the broadcast last summer. The camp was consisting from series of tents on an elevated place in a breezy forest, a hundred steps from the sea. One could’ve heard the piercing voices of children everywhere. The shouts, laughter and songs were resounding everywhere through the forest. We met there the cook Araksya. Her family was the only Armenian family in Nabran. They moved here from Sumgayit because of their sick daughter.

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Both Araksya and her husband Sargis, a man with little body and completely black, despite his age, hair, both a builder and a plasterer by profession, he knew my father.

They also came to Sumgayit by the recruit from Karabagh in the fifties. They had a house in Nabran. Those days we lived in that hospitable house. We got closer, and Araksya said at the time of our leaving, “Come, whenever you want, count that you are visiting your relatives.”

That’s about whom I remembered when Rena said that she would like to find herself again at the sea, with dense forest nearby. But I kept silence, as I wanted to

surprise Rena. I also said nothing that I was going to buy a car for which the money had already been deposited. I hoped to go to Nabran with her in that car, if, of course, her family would give permission for that.

With my close friend Robert, whom I had known from my village (his sister Maria, unusually kind, as a mother a courteous and gentle divine creation, was my teacher in the village school, and in the summers Robert was coming from Baku to the village), we went to the main railway station in Baku suburb of Balajary - to get a car. But I could not find the cars in my favorite color; all "Volgas" were black, and I didn’t want black car; so, we agreed to wait, since soon a new party of




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the vehicles were going to arrive. I was worried, because the summer was coming to its end, - soon classes would start at the institute, and then Rena would not be able to come with me to Nabran.

“Bro”, Robert exclaimed with heartfelt enthusiasm. “I will take you there on my beast- “Zhiguli” in two, maximum two and a half hours.

“Well, and I promise you four kinds of barbecue,” I was delighted, “made of pork, lamb, sturgeon and starry sturgeon.”

“I’m interested in drinks much more.” “What do you prefer? I will buy you any.” Active, agile as mercury, Robert got agitated.

“So, let’s go,” he gave a serious expression to his face,” we are humble people and lamb and starry-sturgeon barbecue will be enough. Sturgeon is too fat, and the pork barbecue in the summer is not the thing we need. In short, bro, I am waiting for your call.”

Rena managed to persuade her cousin Dilar (she was living in Binaghady, one of the remote suburbs of the city, and fortunately without a telephone, so it was impossible to check) to call Rena’s mom at work and ask for Rena to stay with her for a day. Rena’s mom, although with displeasure, agreed, setting a condition -Rena must be home no later than 8 PM on Sunday.

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Robert kept his word - we reached Nabran in two and a half hours.

Thin, with hair tucked at the back of her head and crossed arms, Araksya was standing on the street under the shade of a branched walnut tree growing in their yard, as if she was waiting for us. But she was caught by surprise when Robert’s car stopped at her. For a second or two she could not hide her surprise and confusion, but then she came to her senses, and her dry face received the impression of kindness and hospitality.

“Welcome!” She said with placable smile. “Make yourself at home.”

She really liked Rena.

“What a pretty girl! Like a rose just from the bush,” she said with a smile, showing her golden teeth. She'll lighten all around, if standing in the dark,” and looking at Rena, she added in her broken Russian, “Ochen krasivi devushka-A very beautiful girl.”

Rena gave her a bright smile in response.

“What about the fish?”

Coming out of the car and examining her from right to left, Robert asked.

He was in his element.

“This is a Fishland, what else to say?” Araksya replied with


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the same golden-toothed smile. “What do you want-Sturgeon, Beluga?”

“Leo and I have agreed- a starry-sturgeon, and a black, fat lamb.”

“The fish will be early in the morning. We’ll get it from the Third Yalama by car. If I would’ve known in advance, I would buy the fish earlier. And according to the lamb...My husband will come in the evening, we will slaughter.”

Robert having his head back and was laughing for a long time.

“It was worth coming here only for these words,” he said, still laughing. “Why are we going to slaughter your husband? Did he do something wrong?

“Not my husband,” Araksya laughed in her turn. “Although it would be worth to slaughter. Sheep are on the pasture; it is necessary it must be brought here.”

Beyond the house, on the other side of the garden, the forest was whispering.

With a comb carved like an oak leaf sticking out of the street, looking at its plastered with dense dust at the side of the road, a fiery red rooster was proudly adorning the feathers like a pile of hot coals. Araksya quickly set the table. The smell of warm fresh milk was spread over the courtyard. “No, it’s still worth living in the village,” Robert said.


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“Whatever you say, it is worth.”

“Just living in the village, not working,” Araksya added with a smile.

I gave Araksya some gifts we had brought. She was offended.

“Why bother? You put us in an awkward position.”

“Please give these two blocks of cigarettes to your husband.” I handed her the cigarettes.

“No way!” Araksya said with laughter, taking cigarettes. “I won’t give him a single pack. Ten cigarettes a day, and only "Pamir" or "Avrora"(Aurora),60 he is not allowed to smoke more.”

Araksya’s daughter Alvard was sitting on the veranda, gazing out from there with her large, sad, almond-shaped eyes and reacted with a smile to her mother’s words. She could not move.

“Ten cigarettes are too much,” Robert interfered. “Five is enough.”

Rena went to Alvard, they met. They were talking for a long time, and Alvard smiled gently with a beautiful sad smile, looking at her.

“Rena-jan, come, everything is ready,” Araksya called. “Leo, where did you find this drawn image of the sweet blooded beauty?”




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“And what? Leo is not good enough for her?” Robert came to my defense.

“Who did say that? He is a very good guy. They are making a good couple. If the two halves are not joined together, then there is a trouble.” Araksya looked at Rena admiringly. “Such beauties are only in the movies nowadays.”

“And he took her from the movie shoot,” Robert joked. “Not in vain, perhaps, he works on TV.” “Do you also work on TV?” Araksya asked.

“Me? I work in the Ministry of Communications of the Republic of Azerbaijan. Do you want to have a phone in your house?”

“Thank you,” Araksya smiled. “We have a phone.” And again, she looked at Rena.

“Obviously, she has a good heart,” she added as if to herself with deep sadness, looking at her daughter who was sitting motionless in the veranda.

Rena approached us, and I saw a sheen of a tear in her eyes, unnoticed for all other.

“Poor thing,” she whispered, “almost my age mate, she is nineteen.”

“How are you going to be a doctor with such heart,” I said quietly, “moreover, a pediatrician?”





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“I don’t know myself,” she whispered, leaning her head on my shoulder. “Nineteen years old...she has been paralyzed and bedridden due to improper treatment.”

“Have a seat,” coming up to us, Araksya invited to the table. “Everything is fresh: milk, eggs, cream, butter, and honey. Milk, butter, and cream are from our cows, eggs - from our chicken, honey - from our bees. Eat a little bit, take a break, then go to the sea, when you return - everything will be ready. On the way back, do not forget to buy bread from the store. And we don’t need anything else.We have all we need.” Robert remembered that we brought something, too. He grabbed from the trunk of the "Zhiguli", what we brought with us, i.e. amber-yellowish sweet Shahna type grapes, watermelon, melon, mineral water and, of course, not forgetting the bottles of my "Akhtamar" and my favorite "Gzhelka" vodka. “One day I will go crazy with this Gzhelka,” Robert said with laughter.




CHAPTER 21

From the attached garden to the house there was a gate, leading to the forest. We gently closed it behind us and followed the trampled wet path, continually jumping over




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the bubbling and murmuring rivulets. Then we went down to the sea from where a weak breeze was blowing. It was moving small bushes like caressing the leaves, one after another.

Flowers on both sides of the path reached the waist, the drones had sat on them buzzing loudly, and the flowers were drooped to the ground under their weight, barely swaying under the breeze.

Somewhere nearby the lark sang and fell silent.

From the side of a grassy footpath, a titmouse jumped noisily and immediately taking to the side, rushed through the trees. Almost from the same spot, a blackbird flew, made a wide arc with headlong and disappeared in the darkness of the canes with a loud cry. The red-headed ants were moving with great haste on the trunks of the trees, crickets were singing endlessly, and a bird chirped and kept silence.

“Leo, look,” Rena stopped, smiling with a half-open lip, “do not you see?”

Robert wasn’t looking at our direction. He got into the clingy blackberry bushes with his hands raised and was eating it up.

“Leo, look, don’t you see?” Rena was showing the sunshine through the foliage of the tree, holding my hand. “It’s




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looking at us. Look precisely!” She was admiring enthusiastically.

I did not notice it at once. A red-beaked light-brown, little birdie started to chirp, circling in the leaves. We heard cuckoo’s sad voice a little away. Its clicks resembled a heartbeat. Then suddenly the nightingale trilled, to which the canary and the wood-grouse joined in singing, and the forest from end to end was filled with the birds’ cheerful hubbub.

There were obsolete fallen trees everywhere, slimy from forest dampness with moss that looked like a brilliant emerald green-like velvet. And sharp, knobby branches were remaining under the moss.

The light was coming through the trees deviated, it was a spacious meadow banded by the warm motionless-drowsy leafy forest; cows were grazing in a bluish haze tinkling with bells. A tied horse was standing somewhere nearby, that was not visible. Only its iron fetters were jingling from time to time.

“Leo, what a wonderful place!” Rena whispered, looking around with a bliss. “I will not forget this; I will never forget this.”

The intoxicating aroma of spiraea, the primordial sharp smell of last year’s stagnant foliage, wet ground and virgin thicket,


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birch stars in the puddles formed after the rain seen through the gaps in the high crowns of the upward-looking oak trees-all these was reminding me of that far, distant day, when my dad and I went to a place beyond Kyghnakhach to see the sites of the old houses in Burdjali.

“Come here, I have picked blackberries for you,” Robert called from the front.

The sea was behind after the highway. It seemed deserted, calm, and boundless. The sea and sky have been merged together, and it was really hard to tell from afar where the sea begins and the sky ends. Framed by lavish sunlight, small waves were appearing at once, were glittering on the surface of the blue-flowing waters, disappearing and appearing again, shining with a dazzling brilliance.

Rena did not take her eyes off the amazing sight, holding my arm and leaning her cheek on my shoulder. The sea was calling us.

In obedience to this call, hand in hand we went to the seaside. What came to Rena’s changeable, playful mind was unclear at this moment. She quickly took off her shoes, smiling radiantly and sliding her fingers into her shoes, put them on her hands, crossed the highway in a hurry and ran barefoot to the beach.






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And while walking around the rare bushes beating out of the spring stones, I reached her, she had already undressed, thrown her clothes on the sand and had rushed into the sea in a bathing suit, scattering the water and moving away from the shore to the depths of the sea with a coherent movement of legs and hands.

“Don’t go far, Rena,” I shouted, “there are sharks.”

However, she could hardly hear me because of the roar coming from the depths of the sea, the swashing of the waves, the endless cry of seagulls.

There were sharks indeed. And not just one. but several ... Having formed a circle, they were sinking into the water, leaving small craters behind them for a moment then were appearing again, showing black as pitch muzzles, that were shimmering in the bright rays of the sun.

Robert was not around; most likely he was busy destroying blackberry.

In the distance, where the sky had descended and merged with the sea and for sure, it was not possible to see where the sea has ended and the sky begins, there was a snow-white ship. It was not visible from the coast; perhaps it wasn’t on stop, but slowly gliding forward. Also, it was not clear whether it was a passenger ship with boards and cabins, or a fishing vessel anchored in the distance in that bluish hazy spot, where the sea merges with the sky.

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Rena had turned around, and, like before, grooving the water with her hands, was swimming to the shore. The sun was on Rena’s back and had covered her head and hair with golden rays.

“Come” she called from afar. “Do you think that the water is cold? Absolutely not. Do not be afraid, come on!”

She was smiling with her radiant, charming smile, and it was not only a smile but also a meaningful call and invitation. I was looking at her with enthusiastic admiration, being jealous of myself that she was mine. I quickly undressed and went into the water, which, at first, seemed very cold, and swam toward Rena. When we were already quite close, she stretched out her hand to me. I pulled Rena to me, catching her fingers. I pressed her to my chest and having her hugged, we sway in the waves glistening in the sun.

“What a bliss!” Rena said joyfully and with her eyes closed for that bliss, she bent over my head and touched my cheek.

The honey aroma of her breath made me crazy. Looking at her and admiring her charming appearance, I thought with a smile that the charm of bliss one could probably feel with closed eyes only.

“Bliss  is  the  same  happiness,”  Rena  finally  said  decisively.

“Probably,” I said.

“And can you tell me where the happiness starts and end?”


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“My sweetie Ren,” touching her bare shoulders with my hot lips, I replied feeling by heart this delightful pleasure in the endless sea. “For me the happiness starts with you and ends with you.”

Rena looked at me with affection and said with tender voice:

“Tsaved tanem, but can you really love me as much as I am? Since men and women love differently. For a man, love is just a part of his life, when as for a woman, love is not just the part of her life but the whole life.”

“Therefore, woman must be idolized, especially when she does not know her own worth. You are my perfection, Ren. You are my breath, my soul and spirit. You deserve only to be worshiped. Are you listening to me?”

I continue to caress her, stroke and kiss her smooth shoulders where translucent drops of water were glittering. I get crazy from her sudden gentle touch, the instant glance under eyelashes, the impetuous hugs Rena excitedly fluttered in my arms as if trying to penetrate into my body and opening her eyes wide, framed by long lashes, suddenly asked with a smile, looking at me.

“No, just tell me you know it’s like that.” I nodded in agreement.

“Of course, I know. For a man, love is his whole life, and for a woman, only part of her life, as she has many other

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things to do. She can laugh when she really wants to cry, smiles when she’s scared of the shape of her neighbor’s an inch-long dog.”

Turning, Rena fluttered again in my arms.

“Look, how he devises, changes what I said, repeating word by word,” she laughed, “Look at this crafty one. And when it’s not in favor of him, he complains of the memory loss.” She said and added with affection, “Leo, I want to be with you all the time. Love is always perfect and beautiful in its own way. Only it must be in the heart, come from the heart. That’s what it is. I want to see you all the time. I count every second before the meeting. A single thought of parting makes me crazy, and when I’m with you, I forget everything in the world, I start believing in good things. And this so-called life seems to be something small and insignificant compared to the happiness, and enveloped with that happiness colorful butterflies are fluttering in my soul...”

I abruptly turned her to me with a violent passion kissing her persistent lips, neck, eyes, smooth neck again and again and fiery lips without saturation...

Then, holding hands and floating in the depths of the sea, we swam far up to the anchored beam, which was strictly forbidden to overpass beyond. Then we were swimming swam on back backstroke on the surface of the slowly waved sea, which was swaying us on its waves. The deep dark blue

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boundless sea gently lulled us, and high above us a no less blue sky stretched with white patches of clouds and seagulls, constantly accompanied us. They sometimes were falling back, sometimes reaching us again with their call and creep.

Then Rena was gliding along the blinding waters placing reliance in my help.

Then we were swimming in parallel fingers of my right and her left hands swiveled. Then Rena said, “My love becomes stronger day by day, hour by hour. Sometimes it seems that without you my heart will break into pieces from melancholy,” and my heart was rejoicing and starting to beat in the chest irregularly from these words.

...Then Robert called from the shore. He had picked some

blackberries for us....

We returned from the shore when the sun had sunk, had set on the forests, and the tall treetops were burning and twinkling under the light of a layered glow.

“Leo, what a wonderful place!” Rena said again, looking at me with appreciation just as before entering the sea, when we had been still on the other side of the highway. “I will never forget all this in my life... I didn’t know that we have such a picturesque place in our republic.”

“And if you were been in Belokan or Lerik, which is fifty-five kilometers from Lenkoran, closer to the mountains, you would’ve known what vistas are existing around? Simply

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miracle!”

We went to the store side to buy bread. Rena and Robert stayed at the entrance, and I went inside. There was everything here – for a mixed product shop with the smell of dampness of the walls, like every village store has. I bought the bread, looked through for other merchandise for sale and suddenly saw in the vitrine French perfume "Chanel No. 5". How long I had looked for it for Esmira. I bought "Klima" for Rena, since that was her favorite perfume. It was very difficult to get one in the city. And what a surprise- the saleswoman showed me a beautiful gold pendant with a bluish diamond in the size of the needle head in the middle. The work was very delicate. I could not hide my admiration as I had already bought a gold chain "Lucie" from a friend’s jewelry for Rena by special order long time ago, but I could not get the pendant. I went out of the shop in a good mood. Rena was waiting at the door keeping her eyes on it, and as soon as she saw me, a wide smile lit up her face as if she had not seen me for a long time.
“Was there a bread line? Robert surprised.”

“Look, Rena, what I bought for you!” I happily blurted out, opening the elegant box. “How beautiful! Beautiful, right?”

“It is beautiful” Rena praised admiringly and raised her blue eyes at me with the bright shine of the summer sun flowing out.


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“Thank you, I will keep it as an amulet.” She said and pressing the pendant in her palm, recited as a prayer, closing her eyes quietly.

My talisman, pray, be my guard,

In days of strongest agitation,

Of prosecution, lamentation:

The day, I've owned you, was hard.

Rena opened her radiant, transparent eyes and looked at me joyfully.

“Leo, it’s really wonderful,” Rena admired again and pressed the pendant to her lips.”

“It will always be with me,” she whispered with tenderness. “Everywhere, wherever I go, wherever I will be, it will be with me and save me from evil, definitely save me...for you.” She looked at me with a smile and suddenly threw herself into my arms with delight and kissed my cheek with her soft warm lips without being shy of Robert. Then she took off the chain I had given and connected the pendant to the link. I helped her to snap the bolt around her neck.

“This is for you, and this one is for Esmira,” I said cheerfully, handing Rena the boxes of perfumes. “In memory from Nabran.”

Rena looked at me excitedly and leaned her head on my shoulder.


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“Congratulations,” Robert said. “Leo, look, what a light hand I have. Let’s go. The husband of Araksya is about to come, you have to slaughter it as soon as possible.”

“Come on,” I laughed, “What do you want from that man?” Robert just realized that he had spoken like Araksya and laughed out loud.


CHAPTER 22

Araksya’s husband Sargis had already arrived and was waiting for us, standing under the shade of a walnut tree. Despite the summer heat, he had a hat with earflaps for some reason. One of the ear flaps on the hat was stuck out hilariously, the other one was hung, and the long laces were waving while he was talking.

We greeted each other. Robert went with him to choose a lamb.

“Let’s have something until barbecue is ready,” Araksya suggested. “You must be hungry after the sea. We did not want to eat, and we refused.

“Well, then I will show you rooms for you to stay.” Araksya led me and Rena to the two-story newly built building adjacent to the house. Last year when we were here, there was no such auxiliary building.

“My son had built it,” Araksya explained with undisguised pride, and then added, turning to Rena, “my son and daughter

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lives in Sverdlovsk. They stayed there after graduating from the institute. They work in the field of trade, both are married. But, only unsuccessfully,” she added with sigh.

We went up by the wooden stairs. The rooms looked like a two-bed furnished hotel room with all conveniences, with windows overlooking the garden, and synthetic carpets on the walls and floor. There were also TV and tape recorder there. Araksya turned on the TV.

“You have a rest, and I’ll go down to help Robert,” I said, looking at Rena with affection.

My God, I loved her so much, that I was ready to kneel before her and with an insatiable thirst, kiss her hands.

“Go on,” she smiled, and I went out, leaving them alone; Araksya -with her village memories, and Rena - standing at the window.

Robert and Araksya’s husband Sargis were in the midst of the conversation. They turned out to be fellow countrymen, both from the Shushi region, one from Berdadzor, and the other from Karintak. Sargis knew Robert’s father, Major of the NKVD (National Commissariat of Internal Affairs) Hambardzum Sevumov. To be more precise, he saw him many times when he was a child. That was a short one, with narrow, small Mongolian eyes, terrible foul language, and cruel temper.


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“He was a strict man,” Sargis told, “he held in his hand all the surrounding peasants. People were terrified when he was coming to Karintak.”

“And what did he do?” Robert asked. “Was he beating them?”

“What else? He was beating” Sargis said, nodding. “And not only. He was arresting everyone in the village council office. To tell the truth, the people were so afraid of him that there was no theft and /or similar things in our area.”

“He also has beat me often,” Robert laughed. “It is OK. Hold it by the leg, right here! He was a loyal soldier of the party, a campaigner. They had told him to beat the people, so he beats. That’s it.”

We hung a black lamb on the hook upside down. Robert gave him a rating glance and started to sharpen knives.

“But it doesn’t matter. I am firmly connected with my village,”- Sargis said all of a sudden, “Though they drove us to pezo in the city, but our heart had not been disconnected from our village. We miss our village. Besides, I will not stay here anyway. I will return to my native land.”

“Hey Robert!” Araksya called from afar. “I ask you to take this person to Baku and put him on a train, let him go to his village.”

Sargis turned back and smiled poorly.


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“I have heard the same words for thirty years, “I missed my village, I am going back” Araksya mocked her husband, pursing her lips and added imperiously. “Go ahead! Housework is all on me, I cultivate the garden, I water the beans, and I milk the cows. You are able to do nothing. You may pick up your things and leave just tomorrow. Let’s see who will take care of you besides me.”

Sargis chuckled, twisted his mouth and quietly replied. “My son.”

Araksya laughed maliciously, hearing that.

“The boy is not yours, but mine. Had I relied on you; he would not exist either.”

She laughed heartily and even threw her head back.

“Thank God, he is not like you-a bum that would sit near the cattle, yawning while grazing.”

“And he runs a deli market in the huge city! You better tell them how our thirteen sheep made to be stolen.”

“My patience ran out,” Sargis said quietly so that the wife would not hear him and chuckled again.

“They stole the sheep right under his nose in broad daylight, he did not notice.”

“If I had a rifle, they wouldn’t steal,” Sargis made excuses. “And they would steal the rifle too,” Araksya said

confidently. “If they stole you too,” she said, “we would count one more, fourteen sheep got lost.

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Araksya laughed out loud.

Sargis just waved his hand, as if I have nothing to do with you.

He asked Robert for a cigarette.

“Our Karintak is a heroic village”, he said proudly. “There is even a song about it.”

Karintak-deep gorge, so low

In depths are stones a lot

Tell my dear, let her know

In the war my death I got.

“My mom, I remember was singing and crying. How many Armenians died during the Patriotic War - all were killed in Kerch?” He shook his head in frustration, stopped for a moment and continued, “The village is called Karintak, as it is situated under the cliff. And Shushi is above, on that cliff. How many times the stones and burning tires were rolled on the village from the above.

Sargis became excited again. He fell silent. “But our village was never occupied in all of its history. It is rocky, but beautiful,” he said with some bliss. “Our countryman Gerasim Suleymanyan who wrote a letter to Moscow about the reunification of Karabagh with Armenia, was sent into exile. When they took him out of the village, he said in tears,




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“Oh, my parent-stones, my parent-springs, you have been orphaned.”

“Are there many springs in your village?” Robert asked. “Many. So cold, bubbling, and murmuring, I don’t remember

all.” He was inspired and grew sad. “There was also a spring called Lipa; it is made of hewn stones, and there is an arch with Armenian inscription on it. The building was dismantled before the war, the stones were shipped to Shushi in order to construct a district committee building there. There is also a good spring in Honut gorge we call it Shor Aghbyur (spring). Its construction date is available on it -1248.”

Robert was flaying the lamb quickly like a professional. He rolled the lamb's fur from the opposite side: inside-out, which was sliding and slipping out of his hands.

“You see, brother, what a guy I am,” Robert smiled, looking at me with wide eyes. “Everything comes to hand. Right?”

“Right,” Sargis agreed and continued his story. “In 1795, Agha-Mohammed-khan tried to capture Shushi for exactly four months but failed. Being furious, he moved to Tiflis and burned the whole city to the ground. And in 1826, when the Persian troops had surrounded Shushi, a young girl from our village, her name was Khatuhi from Ivet’s ancestry, mills flour in the valley and delivers it to the hungry Russian soldiers. For




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forty-seven days she brings the flour to the besieged. Later, thanks to the recommendations of the Russians, she was receiving pension until the end of her life.”

“What are you talking about like a tailless spoon, be calm!” Araksya said angrily. “Like a two-month baby in a cradle, whether is sleeping or not, all the same, a cigarette is always in his mouth like a pacifier. He was born making smoke like a Locomotive. So, move, do something, get your hat off your head, take the skewers, burn the fire”.

Sargis was confused, apparently, he felt awkward and smiled miserably, looking at me and then at Robert. He turned and walked towards the garden with head down. When he reproached his wife passing by her and without stop, he rebuked her in a low voice.

“You have no shame, even in front of the strangers you should demonstrate yourself”.

“There are no strangers here apart from you,” Araksya responded hastily and loudly without paying the slightest attention to his remark. “Thank God, they are here, otherwise, I would really demonstrate you.”

Suddenly, like a hawk, she got to her husband and hitted his head so strongly that the hat flew over the fence as a rocket. “I told you, take your hat off!” She laughed heartily pleased with herself.


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Sargis turned pale and stood rooted to the spot. Then he left the yard quietly with shaking his head, found and put the hat on his head with hanging and sticking earth leaps and slowly went behind the house probably for firewood without looking at anyone.

“So, the fire must be lit in five minutes!” Araksya ordered from behind, hands on the sides.

“And how did you manage to deprive this man with such a brave ancestry of courage?” Robert asked.

“Cause my ancestors were even braver,” she replied.


CHAPTER 23

It was not clear if the moon floated out of the dark sea or hid behind the adjacent gardens of the houses. We immediately saw its majestic gliding through the huge summer sky full of shining stars from Araksya’s courtyard. The moon was rising with slow solemnity, filling the empty streets of the village and sleeping forests with its silver rays. Tricked by the light, the birds started to sing nearby in the forest and, next to us, in the depths of the garden. They were chirping sound to sound without giving break to each other. Rena was smiling, listening to their stump and dreamily looking at the distant sky.

From here, from under a walnut tree with a thick crown, the stars flickered far away in the sky, were seeming close to

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one another, although both the glittering stars and the constellation of Ursa Major enveloped with constantly flared stars, were, in fact, millions of Parsecs far from the Earth and each other, and from those purple distant shadows they were directing their individual light.

This starlight from afar was reflected now in the shining eyes of Rena; looking at her I could not hold the indiscriminate delight from her dazzling appearance and, staring at the sky, I mentally sent to God thanksgiving prayers for the inexpressible, immeasurable happiness that was granted to me.

“What a fantastic evening!” Rena whispered, coming closer to me tightly wrapped in Araksya’s shawl; a cold wind was blowing from the sea, and therefore, Araksya had brought a shawl from her home and had thrown it on her shoulders. “In case that she’ll not catch a cold” she whispered in her way like a close relative.

“Sargis, can you sing for us?” Robert asked already drunk.

“Name a drunk person who can’t sing. You’ll find no one.

However, it seems that Robert himself wanted to sing, and was looking for a reason.

“Any song,” Robert said.

“No need for that,” Araksya protested, “he does not know how to sing.”


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Despite of his wife, Sargis suddenly stretched his neck and sang.

“It’s a pity, but my life has gone, it’s gone, It’s a pity, it’s gone just like spring, all of it. The bird of my youth appeared and gone.
I didn’t understand, or realized, or noticed it.”

Sargis was singing from heart and well. I did not expect that and looked at him with surprise - a small, unshaven, with a discolored jacket torn under his arm.

“Look, how he is singing!” Robert praised. And you said, “slaughter. Why to slaughter such a singer?” Araksya said with laughter.

“Hidden talent, take him to sing on TV. They supposedly pay for that, right?” Robert nodded.

“Well, if that is the case, I will sing too,” Araksya said and immediately started to sing, shaking her head.

Full moon night, and I can’t have a sleep,

One would’ve thought that I am homeless,

That I have no home, and I am homeless.

Araksya took a deep breath and continued with closed eyes still, shaking her head.

Oh, I have home, and dear place I have,

Only the beauty girl I do not have,

That a soulmate and love, I do not have.


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Suddenly she burst into tears, then wiped her eyes with her hand, and with a smile through tears, showed her husband, a sign of a curse.

“Damn you. I’d better marry crazy Roma from our village, rather than you.

“Would he like to marry you?” Sargis asked.

Rena was looking at them with a smile.

“I am going back”, Sargis said with drunk and hoarse voice, “I do not want to stay here anymore.”

“Hurry up, so not to miss the Moscow-Baku train in Khudat station,” Araksya laughed. “Go on, sing couple of songs, and they will take you on the train for free.”

Robert sang too, his song was also touching, and he composed the last words himself. “It’s a good day” he sang according to the tone of some song, “this day is the best one so far.”

The night was getting cooler.

“You will catch a cold, go inside,” I said to Rena with

immense tenderness. “Araksya, please take her to the room.”

“Sure,” Araksya said with cheerful simplemindedness, got

up from her seat youthfully and clinged Rena. “Let’s go!”

Robert filled the glasses again.







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Sargis sang again, but now in his sweet native dialect. “The red cloud there on the mountain slowly turned black, Our fate is red today, but the next day it turned black,” Sargis was singing, shaking his head.

“Today one is young, but tomorrow gets old, Seems like an irony like a daydream we hold, And the dream is full of pain.”

We sat for quite some time; I had a desparate need to see to see Rena but leaving Robert alone would’ve been simply unethical.

“You are still young, guys, and I am got old,” Sargis said thoughtfully. “I am indebted to my village. It gave me the birth, nursed, and raised me, and I did nothing for it.

He said and began to sing, stretching out his neck again. “Sayat Nova, forty years of your life is gone, And the death accompanies you all the time.”

He sang and cried. Then calmed down and quietly added, perhaps with some kind of compassion and forgiveness. “Powerless, unprotected, hungry, our father had disappeared in the battles of the war. So, they drove me with my brothers to foreign lands for pezo, and from that time on, I am missing our mountains and the gorges. There is no house in Sumgayit that I did not work on it, -I was a worker that was plastering, lining, and the number of those houses is huge. How many things I did built. Who appreciates? No one appreciates…”

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“Here, there are cemeteries with Armenian letters in Nabran's ruins, old sites of villages, I saw them myself ... That is next to Ghasumkend, which is very large village. A bus is coming from Baku. That is the Baku-Kasumkend route. The village does not belong to Azerbaijan, it belongs to Dagestan. Our neighbor is from that village, and we were at burial ceremony there. And one must see those fine gravestones with Armenian inscriptions in the cemetery. A very old Lezgin man told me that their ancestors were Armenians. Yeah, on one of those gravestones, that must’ve been a rich man's stone, there was some interesting writing. It says: I was before like you are now, and you’ll turn into later, like I am now. See, what a meaning. Well, we got nothing from this life, like a wind’s mouth fell dry leaf...” Sarkis sang a song again.”

Sargis and Robert were going to to share the same room. Finally, I left them under a walnut tree for conversation and headed to Rena.

The light was turned off, but Rena wasn’t asleep. Halfway down, in a glow of the TV light, in her underclothes, she was watching some program, leaning her head on her arm. I noticed that my bed in the adjacent room was ready too.

“Are not you asleep yet?” I asked with love and immeasurable care, locked the door, casually threw the


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jacket on the sofa and approached her.

The window shutter was open; the uneven dull roar of the sea was clearly heard. I knelt before Rena as if she were an icon.

My heart was beating anxiously.

“If you knew how the pendant goes to your wonderful neck...”

“Really?” Rena slightly lifted her luminous body, weightless and flexible, with a familiar movement moved aside the golden curls falling in small waves, smiled shyly, and embraced me tenderly.

“Do you know what Esmira once said? I was playing Schubert’s Serenade on piano. I felt a look at myself. I turned around. Esmira had entered silently and was looking at me like a pussycat, having seated cross-legged on the sofa. In her opinion, if I am playing Schubert, leaving the books and notes aside, it means that I think about you and miss you. She laughed. “Do not worry, let me call him, and you may have a talk.” If she knew where I was now. Leo, I don’t understand myself either. What I’m doing. I completely lost my mind. God forbid, my family will know about my escapades at two hundred twenty kilometers from the city.

Oh, if they’ll know, can you imagine what they’ll do? But I’m happy,” Rena whispered, burning my face with hot breath. “I


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am in bliss at all...I cannot believe that this is not a dream or a vision, that this is reality, that you are here, next to me, and I see you. I even doubt it, if one person can get so much happiness.”

I was looking at her stirring, hot, fiery lips over and over, and my soul was overflowing with caress and tenderness.

“My sweet, my unsurpassed one,” I murmured. “How had God created a woman, how did He put into her this unknown powerful magic ability? How can she, being so weak, also is able to touch even the strongest man with excitement, attract him with a charm? And do you know what the only completed work of the Lord is? The woman creation is so pretty, wonderful and irreproachable.” I kissed

her lips. “My sweetie, my soul, it’s like a honey is dripping from your lips.”

I could not take my thirsty lips off that attractive mouth. With a face colored with scarlet and crimson light fading, and then coming from the TV screen again, Rena was magnificent. I was kissing her insatiably, losing my mind from sweet languor and happiness. Then, the moon appeared from the rear of the house, generously lighting up both: us and the room.

Rena seemed miracle under that moonlight, like a goddess rising from it. The lacy, lustrous body outlined beneath a


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translucent blue nightgown, with elongated curves, taut breasts with raspberry like dark rosy nipples were calling and attracting. Her semi-closed eyes with long eyelashes, feverish whisper of impatient hot lips, “Come to me, hurry up,” the indecisive trembling of her thin fingers on my shirt’s buttons, accelerating rapid breathing, when excited by love I’ve hugged her feverishly and my body was feeling the intoxicating warmth of her chest full of tenderness and passion, the smooth, inverted plate sized abdomen, hips, all these seemed to be an illusion, a dream. “My dear, my dear, my dear,” with interrupted groan Rena’s pure and hot lips were whispering.

“I am yours, yours forever, love me,” she was repeating with fading whisper. My hands with an insatiable rapture were caressing her graceful slim body that was miraculously expanding on lissome thighs. I longed to love her, to merge with her my whole being, my body, love, jealousy, fiery passions, feelings and thoughts. Cheekbones, lips, my whole face were sinking into her high, tight chest. Her sticking nipples with pink frames seemed to be offended and were rebelling from the violence of my insatiable lips. “Do you hear me? I am yours,” Rena was repeating with shaking voice and her blooming aromatic hot body which seemed, was going faded with my every touch, involuntarily was moving forward, “my heart belongs to you, I am yours, yours entirely, do with me

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what you want...You kissed me first, and I am yours forever.”

“No, no, no,” I was whispering, gasping and greedily kissing

her from the tips of the silky hair to the toes and, again and

again, from the tender toes to the gorgeous eyes with golden

eyelashes and eyebrows. At the same time, I was trying to stop

the inexplicable feverish boiling of the blood in me. “Rena, no

one, no one, no one can resist your charm, no one will resist

the magic of your lips that have been opened like a rose, your

body’s sweet magic.”

“You can bear it,”

“With extreme effort, Rena, extreme effort.”

“Maybe you do not love me.” She whispered anxiously. “Do you love me?”

“I love you,” I whispered in response feverishly, “Rena, I love you very much. Therefore, I cannot touch you. Your honor is your wealth and it is the most precious thing.” With mad passion, I tirelessly was caressing and cherishing, kissing my adorable Cythera61, my Sulamith62, until she fell asleep on my chest. And I was excited all over again- the image of the sleeping Rena, her smiling coral lips in her dream like a rose bud. Calm, barely perceptible breath, the song of crickets outside the window, the tireless leaving and the approaching roar of the sea behind the house and the fence, rustling and




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whispering of walnut foliage in the light breeze, the sound of the invisible night bird owl, the rooster’s cock-a-doodle-doo at the end of the village announcing the sunrise, and its vibrating echo from here, from the Araksya’s yard...

I woke up in the early morning. The sun had not risen yet, but orange squares were playing on the walls. The multicolored carpet seemed to be burned from the red striped light. I found a piece of paper and wrote the initial words of one of Rena’s favorite songs. I won’t wake up Belle with a sad song. Then, quietly, I went out onto the glassy narrow veranda and went down to the courtyard, putting the note on the table beside the bed on the springy carpet.

Robert and Araksya drove to the nearest Yalama63 to bring fish. Secretly from Araksya, I gave money to Robert for the fish and the yesterday’s lamb. Robert did not want to take money, but I pretended to get upset and he agreed. Sargis had already driven the cattle to the pasture, and we never saw him again.

I crossed the garden and went deep to the forest. The grass was covered with the predawn shining sundew. There was not a singing red-billed, light brown bird in the foliage. Maybe, it was, but not singing. Yesterday it probably chirped specifically for Rena. The silence of the forest at the gilded sunrise is really pleasant. There is something mysterious in this inexplicable silence. I plunged into the forest, getting off the path. The


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familiar spicy smell of rotten leaves and damp earth, the murmur of the brook hiding under the foliage, the continuous song of the ouzel, the sad call of the cuckoo involuntarily lead me to another distant, fairytale-filled world.

I was walking around for a long time in a lush forest with unforgettable memories of distant childhood.

From the car long signals, I realized that Robert and Araksya had returned from Yalama and were calling me.

“Where are you lost, brother?” Cheerful, always active and busy, Robert smiled, rolling up his sleeves. “You just look what kind of fish we got.”

A huge sturgeon laid on the leaves was frantically opening and closing its mouth, trying to take a breath of air.

Rena came out from Alvard’s room to the voices and standing in the veranda, looked at me and smiled with some kind of embarrassment and fear.

I glanced at her for a moment unable to hide my admiration of her luminous look.

“Have your breakfast and go to the sea while I am preparing the fish for barbecue, so we can make it when you come back.” Araksya advised us and went to prepare breakfast. “I will help you,” Rena suggested eagerly and followed her.







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We left Nabran, when the weather already cooled down a bit. We arrived the city in the evening. The city was reminding a huge buzzing hive after quiet Nabran.


CHAPTER 24

Esmira called me on September first. Among the hundreds of voices still were impossible not to recognize her sweet voice. “Do you know why I called?” She asked. “If you don’t tell, I’ll never know,” I joked.

She laughed.

“To say thank you.”

“Well, who’s disturbing you?” I continued in the same humorous spirit. “Maybe Zaur?”

“Nooo,” she burst out laughing. “No one. I wanted to say thank You for "Chanel". I will not forget this in my whole life.”

“I will buy for you this perfume for all holidays since you like it so much. What is that noise over there?”

“I’m calling from school, now it is class break.” “Do you want me to tell you a joke?” “Go ahead”

“At that point, listen. An eighty-year-old man from Karabagh enters a clothing store in the city and asks the salesman for two suits. The salesman asks. “Why do you need two suits?


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One is enough.” “No,” says the Karabaghi man, “one is for me, and the other is for my father.” “If you’re eighty,” the salesman says, “then your father is hundred or one hundred and five, right?

“That’s right,” the man agrees.

“Why does he need a suit at such age?” The salesman wonders. “My father’s father, namely, my grandfather is going to marry, and we want to look good at his wedding.” The man explains.

The salesman almost lost his consciousness from laughter. “Listen,” he says, “if you are eighty, and your father - one hundred and five, therefore your grandfather must be at least one hundred and thirty. Does he really want to marry?” “No,” our man explains, “he does not want to, but his parents insist”.

Esmira burst out laughing. “How old are his parents then?” “Probably one hundred and sixty.” “But do people live that long?”

“Why not? Adam lived nine hundred and thirty years.” “It’s

impossible, you are making that up” Esmira laughed. “Do you

know how long Noah lived?”

“How many?”





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“Six hundred years before the Flood which lasted in one hundred and fifty days, and three hundred and fifty years after the Flood.”

“Wow!” Esmira laughed again. “It can’t be. I will never believe it.”

“The Jewish patriarch Methuselah lived nine hundred and sixty-nine years. At his six hundred he was so vigorous, energetic, and attractive, that the girls in Judea fell in love with him at first sight, and no one was giving him more than three hundred and fifty.”

“Oh-oh-oh,” Esmira laughed either in amazement, or in complete delight, and I imagined her at that moment-with half-opened red lips, with, teeth of rare whiteness, charming eyes shining with the glow and shaking head. “And so, they fell in love...You are a fairy-taler,” she laughed again. I do not believe it and will never believe. We didn’t learn such things at school, but I will check for sure. Have you heard such a joke? A person asked the Armenian radio. Is it true that Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels are husband and wife? No, the Armenian radio answers, those are four different people.”

Esmira laughed enthusiastically again, as before. “And here’s another one...Oh, no, the bell rang. What a pity. Anyway. Thank you very much.”


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She laughed and hung up.

I smiled for a long time. I was overwhelmed with an unknown bright joy.

I was meeting with Rena on Saturdays as before, driving around and outside the city. I was teaching Rena to drive a car there, behind the village of Binaghadi, on the road leading to Novkhani beach where comparatively fewer cars were available and on both sides of the route only oil towers were billowing, pumping oil through pipes. Sometimes, we were playing tennis on the fenced court of the "Dinamo" Sports Community near the sea or were attending the government building to watch special movies with a proper card. But the most memorable was New Year’s Eve at the restaurant "Gyulistan".

It was a unique, unforgettable, snowy and warm evening. We were waiting for Robert outside. It was snowing continually. Large snowflakes like millions and millions of white butterflies were flying in the air somehow, reluctantly slowly falling on the ground.

A little far away from us, behind the cypresses sprinkled with snow cover, a cable car covered with transparent snowy white and blue veil was going up to Kirov Park on a gentle ascent. A television tower lit by reddish lights had stood alone far in the dim evening sky.


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Underneath Rena's hem, I’ve clasped my arms and hugged her sensual waistband. I was stretching her out, squeezing toward me, inhaling the aroma of her slender neck, and my heart was shaking, and my soul was rejoicing from that warm affinity. She slightly threw her head back, and large snowflakes, like winged stars, incessantly were falling on her face illuminated with light. Rena excited, so young, had her hands into fur sleeves, was laughing enthusiastically like a naughty little girl and was catching the snowflakes with the tip of her tongue.

The steam was swirling from her lovely mouth in the neon glow. I pressed her closer and closer, whispering incessantly, “Tsavd tanem, tsavd tanem, tsavd tanem”, and the tears of tenderness and inexplicable love for Rena were coming to my eyes and filling my soul.

“Leo”, Rena whispered quietly and somehow carefully, “every girl or woman, doesn’t matter, dreams of a real man beside her — strong, determined, kind and understanding to feel loved and desired and protected with him. The most important thing in the life is not what that a person has. Love, faith and full devotion to love are more important. A person has only one heart, there is only one place in it, and I was not mistaken in choosing and loving you. I am jealous of myself when I think about it, and the only thing I can do in


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the world is to love and honor you, to love and admire you as the only one whom I can sacrifice my whole life for at this moment without a second thought, without the slightest hesitation.”

I looked up, and a stormy wave of tenderness, like

earlier, swept over me. In Rena’s magical blue eyes tears have been stagnated too, shining from colorful light.

“Rena, Rena, my incomparable Rena,” I said, choking from exultation and excitement, and with an unusually beating heart. But I did not have time to say anything else, as Robert’s voice interrupted me.

“Bro,” Robert exclaimed happily, exiting from the vehicle, “Joy won’t be lessening for the joyful. Let’s have some fun!” He noted enthusiastically. “Snow and frost unable to stop us from our good cause.”

We undressed in the cloakroom on the first floor and went up to the restaurant where Robert had reserved a table in advance. Robert did not come alone, but with his friend Zarmik. Mobile and active like Robert, Zarmik also was working in the Ministry of Communications before, but then he left that job and was engaged in trade transporting fruits and vegetables to Moscow.






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With his thick mustache, Zarmik was not at all look like an Armenian, a native Nakhijevani, he spoke Azeri in Nakhichevani accent naming Nakhichevan Nakhtsvan.

“I’m from Agulis,” Zarmik said. “Are you aware what for the people of Agulis famous?” He asked with laughter. “We are stingy. We put cheese in the jar, spread it to the bread and then eat.”

They both were with their girlfriends- Lia and Sima. I saw Lia many times. She was meeting Robert for a long time, but with a blue-eyed and white-skinned Sima, who lived in Zabrat, a village near Baku and had the surname of Mahmudova, I was meeting for the first time. In the spacious hall on the second floor from where the whole city with its flickering lights was at a glance, we were selflessly dancing under the songs and music, were joking endlessly, and laughing carelessly the whole evening. Zarmik told a joke of a fairy tale style.

“A man fishing by the river suddenly catches a silver fish,” he began. “Fish talks to him in human language. “Brother, let me go, and I will fulfill your desire.” The peasant was a patriot, so he shows the silver fish the map of Armenia in time of Tigran the Great and says. “I want the territory of Armenia to be from sea to sea.” The silver fish looks at the map and says after analyzing the current political and


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territorial situation in the region. “Brother, you need to catch a goldfish for that type of wish. Sorry, ask me for something else.”

For a moment, this man wants to swallow the silver fish, but then remembers something and says.

“I have three daughters at home, make them find their soulmate and marry, and I will let you free to go. The silver fish says,

“Show your daughter’s photos.”

The man takes the photo of his daughters from his pocket and gives it to the silver fish. It looks at the cards, looks, looks and says,

“No, brother, you better give me the map again, and I will see what I can do.”

We laughed loudly-the anecdote was witty; besides, Zarmik was telling it very tasty.

Then Rena and I danced the Spanish Flamenco and probably were dancing well, (especially Rena-inspired, delightful, just incarnated charm in a sparkling bright long red dress with a wide neckline) - since the other dancers soon moved off, leaving the dance floor to the two of us. They formed a circle and with rhythmic claps were encouraging energetically.

The evening was a successful, and we did not notice how time had passed.


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“May the New Year bring us all new joy,” Robert said the final toast. “May it bring happiness to all! I am sure it will be so, and the year will be favorable. Life gives the human, unique and happy moments like today. There is neither tomorrow, nor yesterday for happiness. It does not remember the past. It does not think about the future. It recognizes only the present and doesn’t last all day, but only short hours, minutes, maybe seconds, and its secret of Happiness is that these seconds, sometimes as valuable as the life itself should be repeated as often as possible. Happy New Year to all of you, my dears! We will meet here in this beautiful hall on February 23, on the day of the Soviet army, at six PM. Are you with me?”

“Yes!” All of us responded with cheerful unanimity, and our crystal glasses were collided with cheerful voice as a sign of agreement.




END OF THE PART ONE












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CHAPTER 25

We, alas, failed to meet on February 23rd at the luxurious "Gyulistan". Also, I failed to fulfill the promise given to my mother on New Year’s Eve to bring Rena to her and my father on March 8.

In general, the New Year did not start successfully, to be mentioned. Rena caught a cold. I was in low spirits, until she recovered, and finally, I got the chance to see her.

At the end of January, a wrangle occurred between Telman Karabaghly-Chakhalyan and the employee from the same department Gevorg Atajanyan. “Either me, or him,” Telman was repeating agitated, pacing the corridor with an unlit cigarette in his hand taken from someone. “That’s it. I swear by grown on my thirty three percent alimony twin sons; I will go to the chairman. A mouse is small, but as it is in a huge jug, spoils what is there at once, since it’s a dirty mouse. He destroyed me. He broke my life. He drove me into a diabetes. Who brought this whippersnapper here?”

The matter was not only that the two adult men in front of the whole team blackened each other with the very last words. They both were worth each other with their manners and habits, and their quarrels and arguments had already become ordinary phenomenon. But it was regrettable that the leadership of the committee learned about it.


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An unpleasant conversation took place in the office of the Committee chairman Elshad Guliyev. Deputy Chairmen, all chief editors, secretary of the initial Party organization, and chairman of the trade union. All together - around thirty people.

Young, but bulky, with the head stuck in the neck, the chairman read Telman’s complaint and long and annoyedly reprimanded, especially our editor-in-chief for hiring such a wily person. He was breathing heavily because of his bronchial asthma. The chairman read also Atajanyan’s wife’s letter in which she begged to help her with the alimony. There was another letter from some woman called Rita Grigoryan. This lady complained on Atajanyan, saying that he deceived her with false promises, dishonored her and ran away.

Finally, the decision was made to reprimand the chief severely, and Gevorg Atajanyan was fired.

We went up to the editor in a depressed mood. The chief was silent and extremely upset. “He is not a human,” he said already in the office. “Ungrateful animal, this is what he is. And what will they think about us now? Leo, just imagine, he was accepted by the Writers’ Union in a single day due to my and the former chief’s recommendations! People are waiting for twenty years without any hope, and this one was accepted in a day to be appointed secretary of the regional


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writers’ organization. There was an order from above- to accept him as soon as possible. Only later I found out how he got that position. And not only that. The writer Suren Kasparov at the request of Levon Voskanyan registered him at home as a proofreader in the magazine 'Grakan Adrbejan', and when was expelled from there, he begged to take him to work. Yes, and you also interceded him, right? And so, we took him...Well, what else should’ve we done, please tell me, so that he could behave himself like human being and not to disgrace us? We paid him high royalties thinking to ease his expenses on his children alimony. At least we thought so. But it turns out that he did not give a penny to the family. I cannot really understand what kind of human he is...”

Unexpectedly, Gevorg Atajanyan himself entered the office. He sat down on the sofa with a carefree look and an askew grin on his face as if nothing had happened.

“Listen, I do not understand you,” the chief couldn’t tolerate anymore “Finally you should realize that there are some steps which cannot be forgiven, some words which cannot be forgotten, and even the most valuable man can be aligned with dirt due to his actions. You behave yourself like you won a prize, or, at least got a lucky lottery ticket.”

“But what had happened?” He asked impudently looking at the chief with his arrogant glance.


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“And what else should’ve happen? You are fired by the order of the Committee chairman.”

“So what?” He shrugged his shoulders indifferently and added with a malicious smile, “I will sing for money in cemeteries, I will sweep the streets with besom, if only that will make you are happy. And what, I am not a communist anymore?”

“The first duty is to be a human, man. Why did the Karabaghi writers boycotted you?” The chief asked. “As you did nothing.” He replied himself. “You complicated everything with your rumors. That’s why. You had worked on the regional radio before. Why were you kicked out of from there? For your immorality. Let me list them all one by one. In the magazine 'Grakan Adrbejan' people welcomed you, helped to register, and you got a job. But what did you do? You answered to their kindness with black ingratitude for your vain career imaginations. You endlessly intrigued against decent people, slandered them. Those who helped you, supported in difficult times. You are sixty years old, so take control of your mind.”

“I’m sixty and still do not have even one fallen tooth.” Like a urine smelled mare, Atajanyan with open maw started to demonstrate his pressed to each other teeth from both sides. “My hair is in its place, my male dignity, my abilities and talents are intact, thanks God. Look and be envious. Except of the envy,


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what else are you able for? For nothing, of course. Well, finally, ask me whether I need your advice or not,” he threw with a grimace on his face.

“It’s like the well-known saying when one spits on the frog, and the latter says happily what a bliss! It’s raining. Do you know what I think?” The chief said angrily, rising from his seat. “I think you do it all with some intent. You intend to disgrace the Armenian intelligence, and I must admit that unfortunately you are succeeding. Otherwise, how to explain the fact that you have never kept any of your jobs long enough, after arriving from Karabagh. You were expelled from everywhere, moreover, in a fierce, disgraceful manner. We all feel ignominious because of you, but I can see that you don’t care at all.”

“That’s right. I don’t care, since I’m an honest man,” he said with steady voice. “Since it’s always has been hard for those like us to be surrounded by dishonest people.”

“Whom do you mean by saying like us? You mean yourself and Robert Arakelov?”

“Even if he. The head of the department at a research institute, Ph.D., the author of wonderful poems, wrote a doctoral thesis for the director of the institute. Is this not enough for you? As for me, yes, I am a noble person.”




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“Maybe it is that nobility that made you to Safar Aliyev ply with Telman Chakhalyan’s wife.” The chief asked, obviously losing his temper.

The more the chief got nervous, the more relaxed and impudent Gevorg Atajanyan became.

“This is my business - to introduce women who are familiar with me to the men familiar with me too, and this does not concern anyone.” A lustful smile spread across his face. “I did the right thing. One has the appetite, and the other has the food. Who is that insane Telman Chakhalyan to enjoy such a woman? Yes, I brought them together and did not regret. Do you make to wear a chastity belt, or like a medieval knight gonna hang a lock? Her goods. She gives them whomever she wants to. Who are you?”

Chief did not pay attention to those indecorous words. “All your life,” he said with disgust, “you mow in front of

judges, prosecutors, policemen like a jester, selling people.” “You do it too.”

“I am not accustomed to this; it is your craft. Yours and your drunkard friend, Robert Arakelov’s. I worked with his father Karo Arakelov in the editorial office of the "Kommunist" newspaper. This was a vile creature, too. I see that the Armenophobia son inherited much more from his father. Yes, and he has a friend like you,” one will find one


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like him” the chief added. Why did Gurgen Gabrielyan slap you in front of the people?

“It is not your business.”

“As you shamelessly tried to admire his married niece here, in Baku. You were friends with the correspondent of "Azerinform" Radik Grigoryan, and his sister wrote a complaint against you to the leadership of the committee.” “Like a dog loyal, like a dog ignored.” Atajanyan hissed.

“You seemed to be friends with Zhora, Hrant Babayan’s brother, editor of the "Komunist" newspaper, but about Hrant, meanwhile, you spread dirty rumors, you write anonymous letters on him. What type of human you are!”

“If Hrant Babayan were a decent man,” Atajanyan said, and an evil yellow glitter flashed in his eyes, “he would hire me, appoint me a head of the department, and I would not have to look for a job.”

“Apparently, Babayan knew you better than us, so, he did not hire you.”

“It doesn’t matter, he didn’t hire, and the new editor Emil Grigoryan will hire me.”

“True,” the chief ironically smiled, “he is a new man, he doesn’t know you, maybe he will hire. But only as a proofreader or distributor. Although, to tell the truth, you do not deserve those positions either.”


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“But I am an Armenian poet after all... My God, my God!” Atajanyan exclaimed as an actor and stretched his arms up. “I am surrounded with gossips, rumors, jealousy and envy.”

“What do you want from me, my poor, spiteful critics? That I fold my wings, turn off the engines of my jet, and drag along the old roads on a cart like yours’? Well, come over, hieromonk, and don’t go crazy! Do you want to drive me crazy, my wretched, miserable ones? You’ll never witness that! I am an Armenian poet, and in addition, a very good one.”

For a moment the chief looked directly at him and threw bitterly.

“Yes, what a poet you are, and in addition a very good one, if at your age you did not publish even a single poetry line in Armenia.”

“People like you had disturbed me to do that.” “You’d better listen to what Hurunts told about you.”

“Hurunts?” Atajanyan jumped from his place. “I know, I know, I heard a lot about what he had said here. Nothing wrong, soon...ha, ha, ha.” He made a sound like a neighing horse, “Hurunts will get soon, what he deserves,” he said maliciously. “Hurunts has no idea that I am a corrosive tick, if I stick to someone, will never release until I swallow all the one’s blood. Telman Karabaghly did not know that much as well, and now he knows,” he said and with some sort of


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imposing scenic step, he went to the door and left the office without looking back.

“You are a nonentity, not an Armenian poet,” the chief threw after him, “I am an Armenian poet, and a very good one,” he says. “Scary is not the fact that the person is stupid, but that he is showing it everywhere.”


XXX

Another predicament had occurred in those days, and at this time it was related to Arina. She hadn’t been in a mood all the time for the last few days; that wasn't former, funny and cheerful Arina we knew in the past.

“What’s wrong with her?” I asked Loranna.

“It’s her fault,” was the reply. However, the answer wasn’t clear to me at all.

The next day Arina brought one program to sign again gloomy, pensive, all in herself, with sad eyes.

“Why are you so sad? You’d better laugh and smile,” I said.

Arina looked at me with tearful smile.

“Seems, I always bring you bitterness,” she said, hiding her eyes. “I do not know what to do. I do not want that, but it just happens like that.”

“What exactly happens?”

“That in spite of my will, I've done you wrong again,” Arina said with a low voice. “Please forgive me.”

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“For what?” I do not understand anything”.

“Silva said to her husband that I was the one who had prevented her to get hired here.”

“But you said that her husband was against it... And I told exactly that to Sayida.”

“Yes, I said...” Arina turned red and looked at me confusedly. “She told her husband that I was...in some relationship with you...And she went and reported about this to my husband.”

At that moment the door opened and a white-skinned young guy of his twenty-five or twenty-six, with a face pale from the excitement, entered the office and furiously referred to Arina without even looking at my side.

“What are you doing here?”

Arina, who was earlier standing in front of me, turned pale, like a white linen, and didn’t just sit, but collapsed on the chair.

Of course, I realized that he was Arina's husband and said rudely.

“Listen, what’s your name?”

He turned and threw through his teeth with fury. “Karen.” “Karen, you may talk with that imperative tone at home. This

is an editorial, so, be kind enough to behave yourself.





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With the open mouth Arina still was not able to take her eyes off him, without even daring to utter a word.

“What is she doing here?” Karen asked with heavy breathing, referring to me now.

“She brought a program to sign,” I said dryly and firmly. “And if you don’t like it, we can let her go from today. Would you be satisfied?”

“No,” Karen threw. “I will now take her to Silva, you know her, and if Silva confirms that she said that in her presence, then the verdict is clear.”

Arina’s husband pulled a folding knife out of his pocket quickly, pushed the button, and a blade with a pinch was revealed from its case.

“Then the verdict is clear,” he repeated it with widespread nostrils. “With this knife I’ll kill and her, and you, and myself.”

"Listen," I said in extreme anger, “it would be better if you’ll start with yourself. Get out of here.”

Arina involuntarily jumped and ran out of the office, with head lowered.

Karen gave me a cold stare, then folded the knife slowly, put it in his pocket, at the door looked back one more time, left the office without saying a word.




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CHAPTER 26

To tell the truth, the New Year really wasn’t started successfully. The head of the Department of Culture of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Azerbaijan Azer Mustafazade called quite unexpectedly late in the evening, of on the twenty-first of February. Azer was working with us in the Russian edition of the Committee on radio and television before. Then he was a representative of the Writers’ Union in Moscow for a short time, and as the Deputy Chairman of the Republican Press Committee. And again, for a short time. Before, with him, Siyavush, and writer Seyran Sakhavat we were visited few restaurants several times. Once even we met in Moscow, in the restaurant of the Central House of Writers. So, we were quite close.

“Leo,” Azer said, “you should be in Stepanakert tomorrow. Ramiz Mehtiyev is there. You must go to the regional committee to him, and he’ll tell you what to do.”

Ramiz Mehtiyev was one of the secretaries of the Central Committee. I had a chance to deal with the high authorities before, too. I even had been twice in some areas with Heydar Aliyev himself - in Kazakh, Ismayilli, Aghdam, and Martuni; so, in my opinion, there was nothing strange about that.

“All right,” I said. “It’s too late now, I’ll go tomorrow.”


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However, his last phrase uttered casually, “Several old men had rebelled there, we should persuade them to get rid of their senile delusions" alerted me. He said exactly like that: Senile delusions.

“No, what are you talking about,” Azer protested. “It needs to be gone today. Two trains are going to Tbilisi-at eleven and half past one. You will reach Yevlakh, and from there remains nothing to the destination -sixty to seventy kilometers.”

The phrase pronounced by Azer, even was sounded casually, but bothered me. I paced back and forth thoughtfully. I didn’t want to go to Stepanakert.

I decided to call the chief, maybe he knows something. But the chief was not there. “Vladimir has just left,” his wife Geghetsik said with regret. “From the Central Committee he was sent to Hadrut.”

I started to call Azer in order to ask him to free me of this burden, but his phone was busy all the time. I tried to call other departments -but everywhere was the same thing: all the phones were either busy or no one was picked ing up the phone in the Central Committee. Maybe Siyavush knows something?

No, he was unaware of the occurrences in Stepanakert. I told him about Azer’s call, adding that I don’t want to go to Stepanakert. “Old buddy, I understand you,” Siyavush said.

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“Wait, I’ll call you back.” A few minutes later he called and explained that there are demonstrations being held in Stepanakert in front of the Regional Committee, they were demanding to unite Karabagh to Armenia. “I understand you very well, old buddy,” Siyavush said again. “The thing is that neither your going and, nor your staying, are good. It depends on from which side you look at. Azer is not there, he is at the meeting. I spoke with the sector manager Kheyrulla Aliyev, explaining him the situation, and he said that he would call you.”

And really, after a while Kheyrulla called and said that he could do nothing on the subject matter, and that I should definitely go.

I’m not going anywhere.

I firmly decided and turned off the phone.

Let them call as much as they want.

However, Kheyrulla himself came to me early in the morning. The doorbell rang, I opened it and saw him — portly fellow with gray hair and the height, taller than two meters.

“Leo, you need to go,” he announced in a non-debatable tone. “The whole Central Committee is leaving, there are some members of the Polit.Bureau. Go to the airport promptly, you must catch a ten-hour flight. My driver will take you to the Aeroflot.”

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At the Aeroflot I intentionally missed two buses to be late for the flight. I came the deputy hall with delay, just few minutes to ten o’clock.

“There is no place” I was told there. “No place at all. And it’s good.” I thought, rejoicing in luck. Right from there, from the deputy hall, I called the Central Committee, to Kheyrulla Aliyev, and said that there is no vacancy on the plane to Stepanakert.”

“What do you mean by that?” He got angry. “There will be an additional plane. Our guys will be there soon, too. Wait to fly with them.”

We were only seven or eight passengers on the plane. The instructor of the Central Committee Valery Atajanyan was sitting not far from me. He was anxious, sad. The rest of the passengers were strangers to me; they were having coffee and joking carelessly.

I was in a much better mood when the plane flew over Stepanakert and headed to Khojalu for landing. I saw from above that there was no one on the square in front of the Regional Committee. We were met at the airport. We learned from them that a huge crowd of Azerbaijanis armed with axes and knives, shovels and daggers, cudgels and stones was moving to Askeran from Aghdam. The crowd has ruined everything in its path, has beaten and tortured dozens of Armenians working in the vineyards, has burned several

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Armenian houses on the outskirts of Askeran, but the military, with about a thousand men who were training here- in mountainous conditions to be sent later to Afghanistan, had managed to stop the rebel. The most frightening thing was that two Azerbaijanis were killed. The brother of one of those killed – Hajiyev, said that an Azerbaijani policeman had shot his brother.

There was no one on the square in front of the Regional Committee. We went up to the second floor. The first secretary of the Azerbaijan Communist Party Kamran Baghirov, the member of the Polit Bureau Georgi Razumovsky, a candidate to the Polit Bureau Peter Demichev, other high-ranking officials, generals in and without uniforms. Boris Kevorkov was also there. I remembered Hurunts’s words about him. This man who had once generated fear and horror around, now was sitting in the conference room, looking around scared and miserable, constantly pushing his thick glasses up with the forefinger, and with eyes begging for help from the speakers.

But no one felt sorry for him or anyone else. Speakers were throwing thunder and lightning.

“You have sown enmity against my people for years, hiding it under the false cover of the friendship of the People.” Poet Vardan Hakobyan threw at Kamran Bagirov’s face.




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“For years the region’s population is subjected to social oppression and national persecution by you. This anti-Armenian policy pursue only one goal-to empty Karabagh from Armenians, like in Nakhijevan in its time? And what is our fault: that for centuries we have been faithful to our ancient land and water, our native language, and our faith. Do you want the second Nakhijevan? That will never happen again!”

- All this is the work created by Heydar Aliyev, - someone in the last rows fiercely exclaimed.

Razumovsky, and then Demichev gave a speech; but they were so helpless, shedding no light on the subject matter, that I was horrified for a moment. Do these and the persons like them, control the fates of people and nations? - And I understood with pain that this dough is going to carry a lot of water and there are big disasters ahead of us that would happen soon.
When we left the meeting hall, the square was “storming”,

tens of thousands of people were kneeling on the ground and were begging “Lenin, Party, Gorbachev.”

Four days and nights I was hearing this unceasing begging addressed to the stone-made Lenin, the deaf-mute party and the chameleon Gorbachev.

“If one will trust Gorbachev, that means the one understands nothing of his policy,” the editor of the regional


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paper Maxim Hovhannisyan said, a taciturn and very nice generous person, one of the thirteen apostles who had signed under the well-known letter sent to Moscow in distant 1965, suffered many deprivations for that signature.

“One may listen to him attentively sometimes, and yet, never understand what exactly he means. I am sure that he will deliberately lead the possible solution of the Karabagh issue to a dead end in order to link the collapse of the senseless idea of Perestroika65 with this movement and incite both the authorities and the press against us.”

The crowded square was visible from the editorial office of the "Soviet Karabagh" paper.

“To trust Moscow, one must be either an illiterate, or a thoughtless optimist,” the head of the newspaper’s department Nvard Avagian stated her opinion. “Moscow is against the just demand of the Armenians of Artsakh. It will do everything to defeat and discredit this movement. After all, when did Moscow appreciate the centuries-long loyalty and dedication of the Armenians to suddenly appreciate it now? Just look, there are tens of thousands of people in the square, there are Azerbaijanis among them, too, but nobody says and will not say any dirty word that’ll insult or offend them, but yesterday, Moscow had broadcasted a program calling them in the square extremists. Is that fair?”


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“Today, Alexander Vasilevsky, an employee of the

Leningrad journal "Aurora" was here,” Maxim Hovhannisyan said keeping his eyes on the people’s multi thousand crowd in the square. “He met with the brother of Ali Hajiyev Arif, who was murdered at Askeran. Hajiyev claims that his brother was actually killed by an Azerbaijani policeman. This happened in front of the eyes of Arif’’s comrade - Ulvi Bahramov. A quarrel broke out between the brother and the policeman. The policeman pulled out his gun and shot at his brother’s chest who was twenty-two years old. Ulvi says that he does not know this policeman, but he knows the Aghdam policeman who managed to take the killer away by car very well.”

“This murder has only one goal, Gurgen Gabrielyan intervened in the conversation. “Just remember, they will report on television that the Armenians killed two Azerbaijanis in response to our peaceful demonstrations. They will not mention about the dozens of our wounded people in the regional hospital, and yet, not even a word will be said about our destroyed houses, smashed buses and burned cars, but the people will know about the murder. The goal is clear-to create a conflict between our two nations and then turn that conflict into interethnic fights.”

“And then Baku and Moscow united, will start deporting Armenians,” teacher Vagharshak Gabrielyan from Kolotak


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village unexpectedly said. A tall and thin guy who was silently standing in the corner of the office before that.

“And we will have to organize self-defense,” he added firmly, leaned forward slightly as if ready to butt, and bent his head, staring searchingly through his eyebrows. “There is no other way. We must protect our land.”

I remembered this conversation two days later, already in Baku, when I was going home from the train station and the Azerbaijani taxi driver said, “Yesterday late in the evening, from Moscow was reported that two young Azerbaijanis were killed in Stepanakert.”

As soon as I entered home and closed the door behind me, I called my parents in Sumgayit.

“We’re fine,” my mom said. “A few dozen people are gathered in front of the City Council, one can see from the window, but we are unable to hear what they say. And what about there, no meetings or protests?” “No, no changes. Everything is quiet here”.

“When will you come?”

I called from Stepanakert, and they knew I had not been at home. “I have just arrived, and so not able to come this week, but will certainly come next week,” I said.

There was no change in the editorial either: same water, same watermill.


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“Did you see the chief?” Loranna asked with laughter. “Go ahead.”

I opened the door of the office and was stunned. With the bandaged head the chief looked funny.

“What had happened?”

“Leo, and don’t even ask, I escaped from death,” he stood up from his place with laughter and stepped toward me. “Consider me being born again. Sit down.”

The chief sat on his place, and I ensconced myself in front of him.

His eye was also damaged. It seemed he was looking not at me, but somewhere above, over my head.

“I set on bus to Hadrut in Yevlakh,” the chief began, “we reached Aghdam peacefully. Then, out of nowhere about twenty, twenty-five teenagers had appeared who started to throw stones at us. The glass on the bus windows was broken, but the driver, long years of life to him, didn’t stop the bus, added gas without hesitation, and we got rid of them. Along the whole road there were other stone throwers on both sides until we left the city. Many were wounded and me too, my head was injured in two places. We reached Martuni. They bandaged my head at the hospital and let me go. Few people were in ambulatory condition, they were hospitalized. How did you get here? What did you do?”


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“Well, within the governmental delegation” I laughed. We were drimking coffee on the way. I should have seen Ramiz Mehtiyev, but what kind of Mehtiyev we are talking about? Everywhere was commotion: hurly-burly. Trouble, doomsday.”

“To tell the truth, I am even happy that I am in this condition,” the chief said quietly.

“Why?” I did not understand.

“Why did they send us to Karabagh according to you? So that we come and on television bring to light the Karabaghi people who lost their senses, qualify their movement as something organized by extremists and nationalists, confirming the anti-Armenian resolution of the Polit Bureau. Tell me, can I appear on television in such condition?” The chief concluded with a victorious smile.

“If not on television,” I laughed, “but you can do it on the radio for sure.”

He looked at me in fear.

“Say something right and don’t break my heart. Listen carefully what I’ll tell you. Go home, turn off the phone, until we see what is happening. If they’ll ask for you, I’ll say that you haven’t come yet. Did you watch the nighttime report?”

“I was on the train at night, how I supposed to see anything...”

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“The Deputy Prosecutor General Alexander Katusev spoke. Was it really necessary to spread false information about the death of these two young people from Agdam in such an explosive moment? Yes, even tell their names, surnames, dates of birth. Do not you see the purpose? I see personally.” “Me too,” I agreed with the chief.


CHAPTER 27

I went home, following the chief’s advice. Most likely Rena has not returned from the institute yet. I turned off the phone. I turned it back on only at half past three thinking that she was already home.

“Hello.” Rena picked up the phone.

“Hello, Ren,” I said with anxiety. “It’s me. How are you?” “Hello,” Rena did not reply at once. “I have just come in.

Did you pass the test? See you at the institute the day after tomorrow.” She quickly hung up the phone.

I smiled at Rena’s ingenuity. Clearly, she could not speak. “Her brother was probably standing nearby”, I thought. I have not seen her for several days and missed her so much. “The day after tomorrow, after class, I will be waiting for you near the park,” I said in my mind once again, turning off the phone.

Every time she sees the car near the park at the Medical institute, she stops for a moment, smiles, and approaches,

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hurriedly crossing the tramway with a wonderful smile on her attractive face.



There was nothing about Karabagh on local television.

Two pensioners from Baku, one war invalid Sergey Khachaturov and the second was a former employee of the Armenian language paper "Komunist" Karo Arakelov, were talking about friendship among nations, interrupting each other and telling how happy they are that they live in Azerbaijan. A parade concert was broadcast in which Armenian singers performed Azerbaijani songs, Azerbaijani singers -Armenian.

Zeynab Khanlarova sang a funny song Nune.

“Nune, Nune, Nune,

Come to me, come and love me”.


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It was strange, but the Armenian concert was again broadcasted on the next day. Zeynab Khanlarova sang the same song once more.

"I met girls so many,

But I love my Nune only,

My Nune was abducted and taken away, Without her I am lonely all day."

I went to bed late since had carried away by reading. The next morning, I woke up from the doorbell sound. “Is that Kheyrulla again?” It flashed into my mind. If that is him, then I will tell him that I have just arrived. Fortunately, that was Siyavush. I opened the door happily.

“Old buddy, well, how long do you sleep usually?” “Why? What time is it now?” I surprised.

“It is already afternoon. By the way, do you have something to drink?”

“Why do you need a drink early in the morning? Would you like to drink cognac?”

“I’ll have some. Did you see the latest issue of "Literary Azerbaijan"?”

“No. And what’s there?”

“A selection of my poems dedicated to you.” “Thanks! Sorry, I did not read yet.”

“I took a copy for you. I will bring it later.”


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I made coffee, put a partially empty bottle of brandy on the table.

“Just one shot,” Siyavush said. “I do not want to drink much.”

We drank one.

“Old buddy, when will you teach me to make coffee? Your prepared ones are always so tasty. At the writer Hovhannes Ghukasyan’s home excellent coffee was made too. Do you know that in Yerevan they prepare it in ashes or in the hot sand? By the way, I wrote a big Armenian cycle. When I participated to the Feast of the Holy Translators, I was in Garni, Geghard, and Zvartnots. The impression was amazing. I wrote poems dedicating to all that. And I am working on a poem about Komitas now, but not sure how it will turn out. Listen to this,” suddenly Siyavush said, remembering something. “Is something wrong with your phone?”

“It’s OK. I just turned it off, so that someone does not call me for speech.”

“At least you could’ve told me. Do you know how much I tried to reach you? I called all night. Did you see what that floozie Katusev had done?”

“I did not see it, but I heard it. There was no need to do this.”





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“In words, all people are the same, the differences between them are only in actions. His conscience is drenched by the blood of innocent victims, if only such a dirty son of a bitch has conscience.”

“What kind of victims?” I was alerted.

“They say there was a conflict in one of the dormitories,” Siyavush said carefully. “There are some victims.” “Here in Baku?”

“No... In Sumgayit.”

“What are you talking about?” I urgently turned on the phone, dialing my parents’ number. No one answered. “No one’s at home,” I said alarmed. “I wonder where they went.”

“Do you want to go to Sumgayit?” Siyavush offered suddenly. “I have a friend there, Zulfugar Aliyev, the director of the local music school. He invites me all the time.” “Let’s go,” I said. “Thank God, the car in the yard.”

“We will not go by your car,” Siyavush said resolutely, went to the phone and turned it on again.

“Wait, I need to call somewhere.” He dialed the number, waited a bit.

“Aydin, this is Siyavush. Please let me know if we can go to Sumgayit again? Honestly, if it were possible, I would not bother you. Thanks. Vagif Street, 30. Excellent...We will go by




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another car,” Siyavush said, turning to me. “He will arrive soon.”

“Do I know this Aydin?”

“No, we have met recently. He wrote a book about Chekists66, and I am translating it into Russian. It has to be published in Moscow, it is in the thematic plan, documentary stories and a novel. He is a high ranking official, but he is a very nice guy.”

We had another cup of coffee in time of waiting for Aydin. Soon we heard a car signal from the street, and we realized that it was him.

“He arrived. Let’s go.”

Aydin, who was a tall, dark-skinned, with pleasant features guy, got out of the car quickly towards us. We met. When I got into the car, I noticed a gun that Aydin was carrying on the left side above the belt.

After Balajar, behind Khrdalan and right up to the place from where a road from the Baku – Rostov highway starts and turns to Sumgayit, we saw military units, tanks, armored vehicles, trucks with khaki-coated canvas and the soldiers sitting on the right and left sides of the bodies.

“Why are they here?” I asked. “Is it a military training or something like that?”

“Leo,” suddenly Siyavush said in a changed voice, hugging my shoulders, and I realized from his tone that he would say

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something heavy and terrible now. I felt it intuitively, and a cold shiver ran through my body. “Something bad is going on in Sumgayit.”

“What bad things?” I asked, not even hearing my own voice.

“There are riots. There are victims. But everything is OK with your parents, -tried to console me Siyavush, “I could not find you... I thought you were also in Sumgayit. I took a taxi to Jeyranbatan, but wasn’t allowed to go further, all civilian cars had been turned back. I found Aydin and went with him. His car is inviolable. I wanted to bring your parents to the city, but your mother did not agree...”

“Where are they now?” The words Siyavush was saying, were not reaching to me. “Have you been in my parents’ home?”

Siyavush and I visited our home before. He knew that my parents live near by the City Committee building.

“I have been there, but... all Armenians are now in tenement guesthouses, some are in the City Committee building, and some are near it, at the club of the rubber factory...”

We drove into the city. Crashed cars caught the eye here and there. Many were burned, some were still smoking. There were many fallen, completely black buses, and overturned kiosks with broken glass windows near the bus


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station.

We went down to the Peace Street; the windows of some houses were also broken. There were remains of burned furniture scattered in the street, televisions, smoking mattresses, clothes for children, refrigerators, apparently thrown from the upper floors outside.

“What had happened here?” I said in a barely heard voice, shocked and terrified.

Armored vehicles were passing by one after another

“I can’t imagine how this could happen,” Aydin said finally, who was silent all the way. “Primitive barbarism at the end of the twentieth century. It is impossible to believe to this!” There were armored vehicles at the crossroad of the Peace and the Friendship streets. In the depths of the courtyards I saw

that the crowd was burning a pile of some things.

Turning to the right, we passed by the central post office, crossed the tramline, and found ourselves in the square near the City Committee surrounded by hundreds of soldiers and a dozen of armored vehicles.

It was forbidden to enter here by unauthorized cars, but no one stopped Aydin.

“Leo, you, go to the City Committee, and we will join you soon,” Siyavush said, when the car stopped in front of the City Committee building.


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CHAPTER 28

I got out of the car believing that my parents are most likely here, in the City Committee.

The air was not enough. I went inside, stayed at the door; the noise and uproar were coming from everywhere. There were people everywhere, too: on the floor, on the stone stairs leading to upstairs, on the windowsills -wounded, beaten, with bloody, bloated faces. Some were sitting, some - half lying, half-dressed. But many of them were in home slippers and nightgowns, or even on barefoot.

I stood for a long time stunned by this hell. A young girl was crying and shaking with whole body. I was looking for my parents by slowly moving forward. I went up to the fourth floor, somehow making my way through hundreds of people. But I did not find them.

“Go down to the second floor,” a Russian woman with black bruises on her face advised me. “The lists are ready, maybe you will find your relatives.”

The office of the first secretary of the City Committee Jhangir Muslimzade was also located on the second floor. The reception room was jam-packed, too. Some were crying, some were hardly standing on their feet. All of them were waiting for their turn. I also stood in the line.

The police standing at the door of the office was demanding to keep silence, threatening to withdraw those

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from the reception room. When the door opened, I noticed a long table through the open door. At the end of that table I saw the head of the Chairman of the Council of Ministers of Azerbaijan Hasan Seyidov. I knew him by sight. There were others in the office, too.

“Not a single child was thrown out of the maternity hospital,” Seyidov was explaining to someone by phone, “those were the children’s toys. It wasn’t clear though, what were the children’s toys doing in the maternity hospital.

“I built this city with my own hands,” a little later a man in his early fifties said to Seyidov standing in front of him. “I work since I was seventeen, and now I’m fifty-two, so how many years all together? Thirty-five years. For that long, I have built houses for you, and I have only one request for it: to let me go by my car to Stavropol, be away from these beasts, be close to people. Help me to leave, help me to go.” “Are not you a man?” Seyidov raised his voice. “Are not you able to leave by your car without our help? You must have a man’s heart. There are twenty thousand Armenians in Sumgayit. Should I accompany every single one of you? There will be no help, go as you please.”

“You are not a minister, but a mountain shepherd!” The man shouted and fell unconscious to the floor.

Two policemen rapidly ran into the office, carried him to the waiting room, and then to the corridor. He came to

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himself after a minute or two then sat down on the floor and wept discreetly, leaning against the wall. His face was completely ravaged, disfigured, dark bruises surrounded the eyelids in circles. One eye was almost invisible. The forehead was cut in two places. There was black dried blood on his clothes and head. There were brown bruises from the forehead to the cheekbone.

“I can’t believe my eyes! This is Barman,” a man of thirty was surprised, bending to him and looking carefully. “Who else, but Barman? Barman Bedyan. We worked together. Barman, is that you?” He asked, bending even lower to him.

“Yes, that is I” Barman turned his bruised face to the voice; evidently could not see. “Kostya, is that you, or someone else?” He said and burst into tears. “Do you see what they did to the Armenians?” He shook his head. “They are not humans, but animals, wild animals, worse than them. What did they do to our people, poor and rough working people?-They slaughtered us like a sheep, dishonored our fathers, mothers, sons, daughters, burned many alive...You are Georgian, Kostya, maybe they’ll do nothing to you, but you have an Armenian wife.”

“Barman, my condition is not good either. The massacres in the city continue, and the police rob and kill along with the gangsters, the army doesn’t intervene, “there’s no order to interfere,” they say.

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“The order will be after exterminating all of us,” someone said. “All this was planned in advance with the Moscow and Baku permission. I escaped somehow from the hands of the mob. I saw a police car. I was very glad that the car stopped. I ran to it and when I stretched my hand to the door, it moved from its place. And my neighbor Vagif and his sister Sabirgyul were shouting from the window of the first floor, “Get them, and kill them.”

“As for me, the police caught me and handed to the mob,” Barman said. “I saw that rag-tag ran into the courtyard from the first floor. We have a basement with the door on floor under our apartment. I quickly helped all of our people to go down to the basement and covered the entrance with an old rug. It was in time, as the front door had broken, and they came in; about 10-15 people. They attacked me at once like a volt of vultures... they began beating me furiously, pressing me against the wall of the hallway, but I did not make a sound. Most of all I was afraid that my son will hear my voice, will come out from the lurking place, and fall into the clutches of these animals, thus endangering the lives of others. I endured it, clenching my teeth and thought that they will kill me now. I only wanted one thing, if they’ll kill me, let it be on the street, so my home people will hear nothing. I somehow got out into the yard, escaping from the beating of these monsters and started to run, making the

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mob follow me... Beaten, with bloody eye, I was running, and the crowd was shouting, “Get that Armenian coward, beat him!” Two cops caught me and handed me to the crowd with laughter. I probably lost a bucket of blood over there. The monsters left me, thinking I had already died. An old Russian woman helped me, though with some caution. I stood, dragged myself to the hospital. No matter how much I begged the nurse to let me call home to find out if my family was still alive or not, she did not allow... Everything is specially organized.”

“Precisely, everything was organized,” Kostya confirmed. “Even one of my colleagues Ilham Hummatov said that a big demonstration would be held against the Armenians at the end of the month on the twenty-first of February. They have been prepared in advance. They’ve made knives, axes, metal rods by special orders in our factory. They’ve brought cobblestones to the districts from somewhere and handed out petrol by tons. The Azerbaijani drivers signal and stretch their hands out of the cab, passing through the crowd. It means they are not Armenians. Moreover, in the evenings, all Azerbaijanis were supposed to turn off the light at home. Isn’t this proof that everything was organized? I saw the first victim,” Kostya continued. “I was here in the square. The second secretary of the City Committee Malak Bayramova gave a speech. “It is not necessary,” she said, “to kill the

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Armenians. Let them go and you will own their houses and property, just let them leave. Before her, someone, as if from Kapan, spoke. He was giving the speech by heart, like an actor. He said, that the Armenians had slaughtered his mother and his wife’s parents, taking away their apartments and everything that they had in Kapan. He had dark glasses and raincoat, with an oblong face, a small beard, and a thin mustache. Then, the very next day, Muslimzade came. The person from Kapan again spoke, telling the same story. But he added that the Azerbaijanis had a dormitory back in Kapan, and as if the Armenians intruded to the hostel, raped women and cut their breasts. At the end he thundered out “Let’s kick the Armenians off the land of Azerbaijan! Glory to Turkey!” But what had Turkey to do with it, that was unclear? Muslimzade almost word by word repeated what Bayramova said only adding that Gorbachev is on the side of the Azerbaijanis. “I ask you as a Muslim,” he said, “please, let the Armenians leave our city.” The square rejoiced, as they were afraid of the authorities before that, and here it was clear that the authorities encouraged them, and no punishment would follow for their actions. The first secretary of the City Committee does not threaten, but on the contrary, persuades them. That is why the square was rejoicing. Someone in the crowd screamed, “Mikhayil Mehmed oghlu Gorbachev Eshg Olsun!”67 I don’t


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know why Muslimzade also spoke about the massacres of 1915. He told that during all the Russian-Turkish wars Armenians always betrayed the Turks, fighting on the Russian side and helping them with hundreds of armed detachments. And for all this, he said, in 1915 they got the retribution they deserved.

Going down of the podium, Muslimzade took the

Azerbaijani flag and walked in front of the crowd. Just there, at the square side, the first Armenian was killed. There were two of them - a boy of eighteen or twenty, who ran to the side of the fourth block toward the Narimanov Street and disappeared, and the old one, who remained lying on the ground.”

Kostya kept silence for a short while and spoke again.

“I saw that man from Kapan again. It turned out that he was not from Kapan, but he was Kurd from Armenia, the director of the middle school. His name was Khydyr Aloyev. The rioters led by him crushed the stalls, demolished shops and killed Armenians, breaking into houses.

I called the City Committee. “What to do?” I asked. They decided I am Armenian. “Leave the city”, they say. “But how?” I ask. “Help.”

“It’s your business,” they say, “just hang up and don’t poison the air.”





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I took my family to a friend Adil Alizade whose house was a shelter for another Armenian family. Later, either they had suspected Adil, or somehow had got information about us, that is unknown, but they threatened to kill Adil. In short, Adil and I, armed with cold weapons, went to the factory to get a permit for our absence. We saw over there two burned "Ikarus" buses, and a burned minivan at the old railway station, and then we saw a "Zhiguli"-the car burned out from inside and outside with the man in the cab. A little further away - again burned "Zhiguli".”

“In the courtyard of the ambulance I saw with my own eyes,” Barman said. “The family was going to run on it, but they’ve been captured and burned. The car I saw was black, you would not understand it was "Moskvich" or "Zhiguli", and there were five burnt bodies inside. I saw it with my own eyes.”

“We were returning from the factory and visited our friends,” Kostya continued. “The name of the first one is Igor, the others’-Ruslan. Ruslan said that there is an Evacuation Point in the club of the Rubber plant, opposite the City Committee, and that all Armenians were brought there. The four of us brought two families to this Evacuation Center-mine and Adil’s neighbors. We saw two soldiers leading a girl to the Evacuation Point on the way back in the first micro-district. I will not forget that until death. A girl of about twelve or thirteen, legs

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and knees completely in the blood, consciousness almost lost. One soldier was carrying her holding her arm, and a woman of about fifty was following them in about a dozen steps afar, crying hysterically, lamenting, and tearing her hair out. She was really tearing hair, as it was flowing in clogs.

“The soldiers took the rioters, handing them over to the police, but they let them go again.” Barman said.


CHAPTER 29

Someone pulled me by the sleeve gently, I instantly turned back. That was Siyavush.

“Let’s go,” he hinted with a look. I followed him and on the first floor I saw my mother — her appearance was pathetic: her hair had turned to totally white, and she looked much older, as if had grown old at once.

She looked exhausted, suffered, and thoughtful, with redden eyes.

My mouth dried up, my legs got weakened, and I didn’t remember how I approached my mom, how I embraced her. Mom was shaking in my arms. Then she was crying, having leaned her head to my chest, and unable to say a word. I wanted to ask about my dad, where is he?

“Leo, your dad, he is not with us anymore,” she said suddenly with distorted face. “They burned him in the car,


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they burned your dad....my half is dead...we buried him...” I

had grabbed my mom pressing her to my chest and being unable to hold my tears. I was suffocating. We were standing for a long time like that, embracing each other, mother and son. Finally, Siyavush took my arm and whispered, “Leo, be a man, you have to support your mother at this time.”

We left the City Committee building.

The square was still full of soldiers and armored vehicles. “If it is possible, let’s enter home for a minute,” my mother said poorly, without raising her head.

Several policemen were assigned to us by Aydin’s order. Siyavush went with us. All the windows were broken, our sofa on which my father liked to lie down with a book in his hands, was burned in the yard. There were also books and furniture that were mostly burned out. We went up home. They broke the door and torn down everything inside. There were fragments of dishes here and there, a broken chandelier hung from a wire. Our TV set, mother’s sewing machine, tape recorder, floor, and wall handmade carpets were disappearred. We lost everything.

“See what they’ve done?” Mom burst into tears. “What we have made for thirty years, they destroyed in thirty minutes. They even burned his books and copybooks.” Mom bent down and took a piece of paper from the floor with tears.


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“Look, this is your father’s handwriting. He wrote some poems in these copybooks, but nothing is remained.” I took the sheet from my mother. It was a poem. I shed a tear again, seeing my father’s handwriting. And with blurred eyes, I read his poem.

Hey, Kinkhnach,

Paradise country, cool breeze and the blossoming sea

...somewhere near,

The whistle of grass, chirp of the bird, and call of the cuckoo comes to my ear.

And also, bell’s chime, dog’s bark, and a laugh one can feel,

Light rain, and colorful rainbow arched from hill, and to hill.

The horse is neighing, the bee is buzzing,

And the lamb is making its sound.

And the wind is blowing a voice that so sweet,

Oh, my mom’s voice is somewhere around.

She calls me, my favorite son, my dear,

Come home, we’re waiting for you here.

I was standing and silently swallowing my tears. I was stifled by the pang of brutal loss and despair. I put the verse sheet in my pocket. That was the only remainder in memory of my father. I remembered Armen’s phrase about criminals released from prisons and his strange toast in the restaurant




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with bitterness. Let people not be left homeless and let nobody hears the crying and mourning over untimely losses.

“Let’s go,” I said, hugging my mother shoulders. At the door we looked back at our ruined home for the last time. My mom shook her head sadly and unable to restrain herself, burst into tears again.

“Siyavush,” I said, “ask Aydin if it is possible us to stop at the cemetery.”

“Of course, we’ll stop,” Siyavush said. “No problem.”

“My husband passed away, so, my half passed away,” my mom repeated through tears. “Let’s go see, maybe we will not be able to visit his grave anymore.”

The police car provided us up to the cemetery.

I fell on my father’s fresh grave and cried bitterly. Mom sobbed, telling that now her life had lost its meaning, reproached my father that he didn’t listen to her and went out of the apartment, otherwise, he could have survived.

“Oh, he did not listen to me, he did not listen,” mom repeated with inexhaustible bitterness; she calmed down a bit when the car drove onto the highway and rushed to Baku. After all, he saw what was happening in the square. There, with flags in their hands, the crowd was screaming, “Death to Armenians.”




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Their leader was a man of about forty-forty-five in a gray coat. He was saying something, and everyone, mostly young guys, were repeating after him. “We will not give Karabagh,” “Slaughter the Armenians,” “Long live Turkey,” then were shouting “Hurra.”

And the people were still coming from some factories, plants and colleges; and there were women in the crowd, too. One of them, we later learned that she is an artist of the local theater, and so she was speaking, to be exact: she was shouting. “Our people are undressed there, raped, killed, and you are not men, our people are killed, and you keep silence.” In a word, the people were being agitated, I was thinking only of one thing at that time, if only my son, my Leo, would not come from Baku, even though he had said that he would not come this week, I was still afraid that he would learn and come. In a word, brother Siyavush, people were continuing to come, and I was frightened rushing to and fro.

I went out to the balcony, and on the other balcony our neighbor, an Azerbaijani woman was standing. I asked, “What had happened?”

And she replied,

“I do not understand myself.”

She was pale and excited like me. There was something brilliant in the hands of those guys all in the same size, we


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later found out that those were iron bars, about the thickness of a finger, honed, made by special order; almost everyone had these pieces of iron. They were walking, waving rods and were shouting. The one that went ahead who seemed to be their leader was also with a rod. My husband came shortly after. As soon as he entered, I said, “I am afraid, they will kill us.”

He said, “You should not be afraid. These are the boys from vocational colleges. There is nothing to be afraid of.”

He didn’t even dine, just took a book and laid down on the sofa. The one that was thrown later away, and we saw in the yard. At that time, it was broadcast on TV that in Karabagh, near Askeran, Armenians killed two Azerbaijanis, one was twenty-two years old, the other-sixteen.

My husband became nervous, putting the book aside. He might realize that this program had specially prepared. He did not say a word to me, but I see he turned pale. I was completely lost. “They will kill us,” I say, but he says the same, “Nothing would happen, do not be afraid.”

The women in the square started to scream after that TV program. I did not know what exactly they say, since my husband closed the window, and nothing could be heard. Later everything seemed to be calmed down, but I could not sleep. I had been standing at the window until three AM. Hundred different things were passing through my mind.


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The phones had been disconnected, disabling the possibility to call anywhere. Mom caught her breath.

Siyavush was keeping silence and listening to my mom, litting cigarettes one after another, releasing smoke through the window, over the glass. I kept thinking about my father and with my eyes closed. I was seeing him — trustful, with a gentle smile — and my heart was whining from my powerlessness and the feeling of missing him.

“Brother Siyavush, the next day, my husband got up, drank a tea and wanted to go out. I asked him to stay home, but he did not listen to me.

“There is something to do,” he said, “I must go.”

“Don’t be stubborn,” I say, “at least for one thing listen to me, don’t take the car out of the garage, don’t go by car.” And he said, “Lock the door.”

He also said something on the stairs, I guess, he called me coward or something else. And that was it. He went and ...was gone- mom burst into tears, “It seemed to be quiet until one PM; the neighbor said that last night many houses had been destroyed and is ongoing now. “The cars are being burned,” I asked, “And ours too?”

“No, no, no,” he said, “only the state vehicles, the buses.” But my husband is not around. It’s five o’clock, it’s six. It was already seven, but he didn’t show up. “Well,” I thought “they killed him”.

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The riot was burning the vehicle tires in the city. The black smoke had covered the sky. I was standing on the balcony shaking, trembling through all over my body. “God,” I thought, “they had killed my husband. They had killed him for sure.”

I do not remember what time it was, but I saw how they threw everything out of the window from the second

floor in of the house opposite. And down below, they set all on fire. And the policemen, somewhere about ten or more, were just standing there and laughing. And the strange thing was that all those guys were in black. All their clothes were black or dark colored. Maybe they wear like that, not to be confused with strangers. Or maybe they were perceived as a black, kind of malicious mass impossible to isolate and remember each one individually, I do not

know. They threw the TV which exploded like a bomb. Our neighbor from the third floor Khanum Ismayilova went out onto the balcony and shouted, “What are you doing? Why do you burn these things? People had saved every penny to furnish their homes!”

And they shout from below,

“You better tell us if someone of those lives there.” They meant Armenians by telling those.

“No, no one of those live here, no!” Then she ran to me and said,

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“Give me the keys and hide in our place. If they come, I will say, that this is my sister’s apartment, and they are away now.”

I gave her the keys, went to her apartment. In the meantime, two brothers were killed together in the courtyard. Leo knows them-Alik and Valera. I could not stand it; I went down into the courtyard. I see the neighbor’s son, an Azerbaijani.

“Let’s go,” I say, “let’s go to the garage and see, maybe my husband is there dead.”

But he did not let me in, he went himself and said on his way back, “There is nobody there, the garage is locked; they killed Alik, and Valera is about to die.” They’ve grown fatherless and were good boys. He wanted to help Valera, since they were friends, but was not allowed.

And the policemen were watching and nickering. I went up to Khanum. And then the bandits ran into our floor. Our neighbor Lena Avanesyan’s home door was broken. We heard the dishes were being broken, also the yelling and screaming, as if the whole building was shaking. They dragged Lena and her husband Sashik out into the street and beaten with batons and iron rods. Then we felt like a destruction was going on downstairs. The damsel Ira; that day was her birthday, all tattered and confounded, jumped out onto the balcony with a knife in her hand.

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“Do not approach me” she was shouting, “do not approach!” And the people were standing, as if nothing had happened, like watching a movie, and none of the men said, “What are you doing, shame on you! What is the difference between you and beasts?”

Then we learned that Ira and her two sisters were raped by ten-twenty men. Then they dragged them naked to the street. The girls had guests from Baku. They could not return home, as the bus station was shut. They also raped the guest called Aida, stabbed her in the stomach with a knife, rended ears to get the rings.

And all that was happening in front of her father. All of those guys were men, some of them in their forties-fifties, including the director of the twenty-fifth school Khydyr Aloyev. They did not kill Aida’s father, “That’s enough for him, let him suffer.”

“Later, military saved all of them. One soldier lost his consciousness, seeing the condition of the people”.

My mom cried. I also cried from powerlessness and pity. “Don’t tell anymore, mom, that’s enough,” I asked. But she did not hear me and continued.

“God bless Khanumka, Khanum Ismayilova from the forty-sixth apartment. Neighbors, hefty men, did not come to their aid, they did not help. But this single, thirty-five –year-old lady was ready to sacrifice herself to save us. They removed the

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golden thing, a wedding ring from her, too. They hit her several times and even threatened her with a knife. We heard it.

Despite all that, she hid the Avanesyans’ and Grigoryans’ families in the forty-first apartment on the second floor, in the apartment of Sveta Mamedova. Sveta was not at home that day, she left to Lenkoran for funeral and left the key to Khanumka to water flowers at home. And so, she hid many in that apartment. Endangering her own life, she was collecting beaten Armenians from their apartments and the yard and placing them in her apartment.

The bandits came a few times. One hit Khanumka in the face, but she was afraid of them. She cut her vein, “Do you want blood,” she said, “here it is, my blood.”

Igor Aghayev was helping her, Leo knows him, they’ve went same school. And one of the Gabrielyans’ daughters’ boss Mamedov saved the Gabrielyans’ family, hiding them in the club. Urshan Mamedov, he is from Lenkoran. Before that, already brutally raped, they found shelter in their neighbors Kyaramov’s, Salima’s and Sabir’s apartments. But nobody defended Melkumyans’ family from the second building. They tortured and killed all six of them along with their guest. You must’ve known how badly they got tortured. They have been thrown into the fire alive. Their son Edik, a nice, kind-hearted boy, was trying to get out of the fire, but

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was unable to do so, since was pushed back him in there again. They also burned his sister Irina, a real beauty, working at the pharmacy here. The poor girl moved to her neighbors through the balcony for help, but those - Sevil and her two minor sons, pushed her out of the apartment, throwing her into the maws of these furious wolves. And the brother of this Sevil was shouting from the balcony,

“It’s not enough to beat her, kill her, burn her!” They devoured poor Irina, threw the girl alive into the fire, roasted and ate her.

Prior to that, these poor victims had resisted with the items that they had at home-an ax, a knife, legs from chairs, when a group of beasts of fifteen or twenty broke into the house. And you name the ugly things they did to them. Their daughter-in-law Karine who miraculously had survived, told crying at the club, what that damned Khydyr Aloev had said to her mother-in-law Raisa, playing with a sharpened metal bar, “I’ll spare life of one of your sons, choose who is the victim...”

The sister-in-law says, “the mother-in-law was pale, like a caught fish, was fluttering with her lips without sound, unable to say a word. At Aloyev’s order they killed her tortured sons with the knife just before the eyes of their mother. They beaten and brought the unconscious mother and the rest of her family members into the yard. Petrified, we saw it all from

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above. The whole family was lying in the courtyard a few meters from each other, and the ten-twelve-year-old underage bastards had been beating them with shovels and sharpened rods mercilessly until they had thrown into the fire. Six people from the same family and ...the neighbors were looking through the windows and the balconies and laughing at them.

We saw all this unhuman banditry through the curtains. That Khydyr Aloev from the twenty-fifth school went out on their balcony and from there was shouting like Lenin with outstretched hand, “Gyryn, gyryn!”69 And he was a school principal, can you imagine that? But the Azerbaijani neighbors from the opposite house, from that twelve-story building, they went downstairs and did not let the bandits enter their porch. Thus, two Armenian families were saved in that building. One young Azerbaijani woman from one of the neighboring houses, I don’t know her name, also did the same. At first, she cursed the mob, then went down and stood in the entrance doorway,

“You will only come in over my dead body,” she said. And two Armenian families were living in that portal, too. Thank you, strange girl, and you, Khanum, thank you, we owe you our lives.

Khanum sat with us until the last moment, saved everyone, fed us and sent to the evacuation center.

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Meanwhile, those manlike monsters had burned in the courtyard our apartment and all the books, total two thousand pieces, in the courtyard. They had lists of Armenians and were finding our apartments according to those lists. You should have seen how they tortured and killed that sixty-year-old lady Emma Grigoryan. They brought her down to the yard naked beating her on the back. She was covering her breasts with her hands. What was the guilt of this cleaning lady?

And Hersiliya Movsesova! O, my God, my God, what did they do to that poor woman! An old lady, eighty-six years old, she was visiting her relatives from Baku. The doctor counted thirty-six stabs on her body in the hospital. Would the beast with its beast essence do that? No. The beast would not do that, but the so-called human did. The Soviet man.”

My mom kept silence. Siyavush turned back and held my arm, as if suggested me to be valiant. I noticed tears in his eyes.

“God created man in His Own Image,” my mom spoke again. “It turns out, when they kill people, when they slaughter them pitilessly, they kill God. How’s that supposed to be?”

After a pause she spoke again with hardship, as if she was referring to herself.


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“Strange thing is that all killed and injured people were Armenians. And only Armenians-either those who came here by recruitment like us, or their innocent children. I do not understand what is going on. Three policemen came to the club with a nurse from the emergency hospital at seven AM. I had worked in that hospital for many years. They brought the nurse to find me among five thousand men. You saw for yourself, how those five thousand: adult, youngster, all of them were beaten, wounded. People were lying side by side on the floor, on and under the benches in the club that is able to accommodate barely four hundred people. No water, no light, anti-sanitization. Three rows of soldiers with tanks were protecting us so that the bandits did not intrude on. Well, you saw that too. They took me to the hospital. On our way, I saw that they were rapidly restoring the ruined apartments.

They brought me to the hospital, and I realized that my husband had passed away already.

“Sarah badji,” I asked the nurse, “was my husband among the dead?”

“No,” she shook her head, “what are you talking about?” She knew my husband, of course; it’s hard to remember how many times he had helped in the hospital reconstruction and repairs.




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I appealed to the head physician, “Tell me, doctor, I beg you, is my husband dead?”

“What are you talking about? He’s dead and dead.” “I beg you,” I said, “tell the truth.”

And he told.

I cried, screamed right in his office.

He said, “Go and get some rest.”

Then they took me to the morgue. There were burned people there, among them women, and a child. He was probably ten years old. As I saw these all, I was going to lose my mind.

“I can’t look at that.” I said.

The investigator asked, “Does your husband have any type of birthmark or proper something that indicates his affiliation?” I said, “He does not have half a thumb on his hand. He lost it at work. Give me,” I said, “clothes, shoes or socks I will see if I’ll recognize them.”

They brought a sleeve from the shirt and a sweater, which was on him...completely burnt...

As I saw and realized what had happened. I cried, “Alas, beasts, they burned him.”

I was shouting, I was crying, I don’t even remember whether I fell on the floor or sat there...

The investigator said, “Well, okay, then it means that we have identified him, he does not have half a thumb”.

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And the head physician suggested to bury the body early, as the situation was uncertain, and it was not clear what would happen next.

I said, “how come? My son is not here, my daughters are not here either. One is in Charentsavan, the other is in Stavropol. He has sisters, brother. We buried such an honorary person without any distinction. We were afraid that someone might attack the cemetery too, so, we buried him in hurry, and the doctor helped us a lot. God bless his children. And God save you too, on such a difficult day you have come here twice and have supported my son. Thanks to Heaven” “What about uncle Abbas?” I asked after a long silence.

“Uncle Abbas is in the hospital. He is in intensive care. The mob attacked the trolleybus at the "Bahar" restaurant, demanding the Armenians come out from the vehicle on the very first evening. He got into the fight, defending the Armenians. He was hit several times with an iron bar. He had not come to consciousness for couple of days. And his arm is broken too. Would’ve he leave your father alone... So here it is

- the good people were suffering, the bastards were enjoying. God is blind, He does not see who is who, and what is what, to pay back people based on their conscience revealed: good for good and bad for bad. And yet, we see that He does exactly the opposite.”


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“Leo, accept my condolences, please,” said Siyavush, leaving. “And just know that this monstrous crime was committed not by the Azerbaijani people, but by the Azerbaijani party and government mafia relying on the mob. Behind this nationalistic party mafia is the central, all-union mafia standing. By all means, this massacre is carefully planned.” Siyavush sighed heavily. “That’s right. The mafia organized the genocide encouraged by the Kremlin opponents of "Perestroika" and "Publicity". Moscow will not solve the Karabagh Issue,” Siyavush continued, “The Kremlin is creating points of interethnic tension not for or against any republic, but to preserve the empire. Leo, do you know, what is most terrible for us? The most terrible for us is that in the wave of nationalist and chauvinistic sentiments a new generation will come and never know, never know that there were people before them, quite a people for whom does not exist the distinction of tribes, nationalities or any other kind of qualification, brand, or kind, since they were above it. The new generation will not know how we were connected to each other and how we loved each other. That’s the worst thing of all.” He looked at me with sympathy and sadness. “Please, once again accept my condolences. I will call you later.”






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CHAPTER 30

My mom did not want to stay in Baku.

“No, I won’t stay here, I can’t,” she said, “send me to your sisters either to Stavropol or to Charentsavan. Sumgayit no longer exists for me as a habitat place.”

I tried to call my sister in Charentsavan but could not manage. However, I contacted with my sister in Stavropol without any problem. She was crying for a long time, and I wasn’t able to console her. Finally, I gave the phone to my mom. At first, she was speaking calmly, but then could not withstand, and started to cry telling her about the tragic demise of our father, crying and mourning. “I do not have meaning in my life anymore, my life has no purpose after your father” she said. I succeeded to call my sister in Charentsavan at last, but rather late, almost at midnight.

The chief called in the morning, expressed his condolences, and said that he was extremely upset. And then he wondered if I was going somewhere.

“No, I’m home.”

He came with Loranna and Arina. All three of them were looking depressed. The chief was already without a bandage, but there was large edema under his eye. He hugged me and said in a slightly changed voice, “man yourself, take courage.” Loranna weakly shook my hand and said quietly, “my condolences”, while Arina stood with a bewildered look in the
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hallway, staring at her front without daring entering the room.

“Arina, come in, why are you standing there,” I said, trying to smile and stretched my hand to her.

She shook it with her cold fingers and stepped into the room. Tears sparkled in her black eyes, and I deeply felt her deepest compassion and desire to share my grief. Maybe because Arina had lost her mother in early childhood and knows what it is like to lose a parent. They expressed their condolences to my mother.

“Sumgayit no longer exists for me,” my mom repeated. “This city is defiled by our: Armenians’ blood. Innocent people’s blood.”

“Was it all really organized?” The chief asked to say something.

“It was organized,” my mom said calmly. “They agitated people by deceptive rumors and brought them to the streets. Of course, it was organized, well organized beforehand, but had known nothing. They sent all Armenians home from their workplaces. For what reason? Why have the phones been disconnected? How did they get the checklists of Armenians? Why did the police and ambulance have no response to our calls?

Armored cars were patrolling in the city. The killing people at a hundred meters from them was occurring quite often,

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and yet, the military wasn’t interfering, as if there was no order. Why was it like that? Probably, they will conduct an investigation, find out the truth.”

“It is sad, really sad, that in our country, where the friendship of nations is at the rank of absolute holiness, someone can kill a person in broad daylight because of his nationality,” the chief said with a sigh. “Sumgayit pushed us back for a thousand years from civilization to wildness. “Were the people been roasted and eaten a thousand years ago?” My mother asked naively, and the chief had nothing to say in reply.

“Did someone sympathize Armenians among the

Azerbaijanis, did some help them with anything?” Loranna asked.

“Of course, there were, they helped,” my mom replied. “Lezgins, Talishs and even Azerbaijanis. Without that help, there would be more losses..., much more... But they were few. Basically, the main mass was on the side of the rioters, killing and robbing with them or standing on their balconies and at their windows, like the spectaculars in the theater on the free performance. They were watching the people burning. Lord should’ve put the conscience in the man-beast only, since there is no need for conscience to poor. How does the Lord look at such horrors and endure? Oh, and maybe He is not existing either, maybe that is lie, too... Oh, why have I sat down here?”

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My mom went to the kitchen to set the table. Loranna and Arina immediately followed her to help her.

“Hold on, brother, this is life,” the chief encouraged me. “All of our people wanted to come - Misha Hajyan. Nora, Mnacakan, Bojikyan, Hakhumyan, Youri Poghosyan, and the others. But I decided it won’t be convenient.”

He was silent for a bit, then said:

“I also lost my parents when I was a child. Oh, how many years have passed, but I still remember. We always remember them. It’s impossible to forget the parents.”

We were silent for a long time, both of us, and then the chief said:

“Leo, your mother says, that these tragic incidents will be investigated, and the truth will be revealed. She believes in that. But I do not believe. It will never happen. No one will ever expose the whole truth about the Sumgayit massacre. In order to disclose the truth, we need to understand who the beneficiary one in all that is. A real genocide was committed in Sumgayit - the most serious crime against humanity. Leo, there is something else behind this, which is no less terrible. It seems to me that we have only the visible part of a gigantic iceberg. The political part is to terrify the Armenians to restrict their activities with the prospect of new bloody atrocities, to force the same people to retreat from the


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Karabagh movement. But, I repeat, this is only the visible part of the iceberg.

The chief smiled meaningfully.

“And here is what is on the invisible side of it? Keep in your mind, that this is an action prepared in advance by Gorbachev and his surroundings. In essence, Karabagh is a proper apple of discord in order to make two neighboring nations fight against each other. In 1905 Nicholas the Second acted exactly in the same way. Nothing is surprising here. In one of his letters, Levon Shant notes that lies, deception, fraud are intertwined in politics. That’s the way. Politics is a dirty thing, and politicians are people without shame and mercy. In a word, it is very possible that Gorbachev with the sponsorship of the Western states, has a long-term goal - to destroy and divide the mighty Soviet power.

He attentively looked at my side.

“Don’t you agree with this point of view?” he said and continued without waiting for the answer. “Two months ago an investigation team headed by Assistant Attorney General for special assignments Aslakhanov had arrived here from Moscow to check Heydar Aliyev’s activities, i.e. mass distortions, unjustified imprisonments, murders, including the first secretary of the Kurdamir District Committee Mamedov, variety of state-scale fraud, a large scale corruption, and so on. Clearly, the matter concerns to the period when Aliyev was

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leading the Azerbaijan Communist party and was the leader of the republic. Three hotels - "Azerbaijan", "Apsheron", "Yuzhnaya"(South) –were filled with Moscow investigators.” He paused a bit, and then continued.

“In a word, kind of the Azerbaijani version of the Gdlyan’s and Ivanov’s Uzbekian investigation group. However, if corruption in Uzbekistan was counted by digits in millions, then here we are talking about billions. Dozens, if not hundreds of heads will roll, and what kind of heads! The prisons will be filled by those who were robbing the republic for many years and continues to do so without punishment. Hasn't all this been organized to hinder the Investigative Committee’s work? The protestors have been strictly demanded the Committee leave Azerbaijan immediately, as its presence allegedly misinforms the situation in the republic. Cool, right?

Another point of view. You know, Heydar Aliyev is not that man who is able to forgive the perpetrators of his political defeat. Gorbachev is his number one enemy in that list. Therefore, it was Gorbachev who drove him out of the Politburo in disgrace. Aliyev had a severe heart attack after that. It was precisely under the authority of Gorbachev that the Soviet press, including "Pravda", reflected to Aliyev’s fake medical documents unfitted for military service in 1941,


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thereby avoiding participation to the war. Will Aliyev forgive him? Never!

He organized these riots together with like-minded officials in the State Security entities – first: to overthrow Gorbachev, and, second: to pave the returning way for himself to power. I heard this from a trustful person, who claims that even before the events in Sumgayit, three members of the National Front administration: Nemat Panahov, Etibar Mamedov and Elchibey, leading by the latter, went to Moscow to meet Aliyev. Remember, nothing is being done without him, and everything is organized for his return to the Power. Leo, he will return to Baku, remember what I am telling, he will return, and his triumphal return will start from his native Nakhijevan.”

My colleagues stayed with me pretty late. I went out to see them off.

Loranna said quietly.

“Rena came, she asked for you. She says something is wrong with your phone. Is it true?” “It’s OK now,” I replied.


“I told her your father had been killed. I learned this from Siyavush. She did not know. Leo, she became very pale, looking at me somehow confused as if she did not understand a thing.”

“Did she cry?”

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“Yes...she did, how did you know?” “My heart was aching.”

Loranna looked at me indecisively, shook her head.

“I cannot imagine what will happen to you both after all this.”

We were silent.

“Leo, I am sorry, I have a feeling that hard and difficult days are waiting for you,” Loranna finally broke the long pause; her voice was full of despair. “I am ready to kneel down before you for those inevitable sufferings you’ll go to have.”

“Listen, Loranna”, I became angry for some reason, “you are not the elderly Zosima, and I am not Mitya Karamazov.”

“What about Sonya Marmeladova?”69 She asked coquettishly.

“And not Sonechka Marmeladova.”

“But she foresaw Raskolnikov’s impending convicting tragedy.”

“Sonya wasn’t a woman of this world, otherwise, she would not voluntarily go to Siberia to share Raskolnikov’s sufferings with him for eight long years.”

“Alas, I cannot share your sufferings with you,” Loranna looked at me bitterly. “But you know, I am ready to help you with the greatest pleasure. That is why I want - I know you well, I understand that I am saying the completely

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unfulfilled things -but, I repeat, I want you to leave your Azerbaijani girl. After all, you for yourself see what a gap forms between our two nations, as the situation is getting worse day by day and hour by hour. Is it so hard for you to leave her?” Loranna looked straight into my eyes.

“It’s hard to leave and impossible to forget. Romeo would say, “My love is amazing and stunning; show me the way how to forget her.”

Loranna with wrinkled forehead looked into my eyes, either with sadness, or with forgiveness. In fact, her looks were rather strange - she was squinting, as if reading in your eyes a line typed in extremely small size. She hesitated for a minute as if weighing her words, she was going to say and spoke with hopeless tenderness.

“Dear, how can I show you the way? Do not you see the organized nature and purpose of what is happening? They are pushing us to war intriguing machination. You are Armenian, she is Azerbaijani, and your love is doomed. Leo, what way I can show you? Yes, she is amazing and wonderful, yes, her beauty is rare, and you surely lose yourself, looking at her. That is why I understand that you will miss her, and the fire of the longing inside will burn you all your life. But Leo, nevertheless, leave her, listen to me, leave. Aren’t there other girls around?”


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“No, there is not,” I said with indefinite persistence.

“Besides  her,  nobody  exists  for  me.  Vanga  believes  that

whatever is written on our foreheads, will happen. What is

written in the Holy Bible? “Man proposes, and God disposes.

Lord is merciful.”

“Merciful, but not to us.”

“Do not sin, Loranna, and do not inflame the heart. Believe, that all good is created by Lord’s will once and forever. God is great in his divine power and blessed now, ever and forever. God’s glory is great.”

“God’s glory is great, but the pit is deep.” “You sin again. God is truly almighty.”

“God is truly almighty... Lord, let thy kingdom come,”

Loranna muttered and added with some sort of gloating despair.

“A voice is heard in Ramah, lamentation, bitter weeping, Rachel

is weeping for her children; she will not be comforted for her

children because they are absent. If God is really almighty, why

does not He destroy grief and sorrow? He can do so. Why hasn’t

He done it yet? And why doesn’t He do it now? He is more

powerful than God.”

“Who?”

“The Beast,” Loranna said. “The human-beast. The man-eater beast with his bloodied maw, who has somehow become a murderer over the millennia, and hands in blood, walks heavily along the long road that leads him to a man.

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The path is very far and long,” she concluded. “I do not know about you, but I will not stay here.”


CHAPTER 31

Rena was at home, but seemingly not alone again. She spoke quietly as if covering the membrane with her hand. “It’s me, Rena.”

“Hello,” she echoed in a dull, fading voice. “Your phone was not working, I called...I called you many times...I am so sorry for what happened...I really want to see you...Do you hear me?” Rena said in a very low voice. “I love you; I love you stronger than before... I can’t live without you...”

She said almost the same in the editorial office with tears in her eyes, admitting that everywhere -at home, on the street, in time of the classes at the institute, in transport -she is always thinking about me.

“The human heart beats a hundred thousand times a day,” she said after a pause. “Leo, my heart beats for you a hundred thousand times a day. I’m afraid of losing you.”

I just smiled leniently in response; what actually could I say? Nothing. Almost nothing.

“If we would have a chance to go to another planet and live there,” said Rena, crying and smiling at the same time. “All are against the fact that I love you, no one understands, that one loves more, one suffers more. They are unable to realize that

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the barriers only strengthen love. The whole world is against me and my feeling, but I can’t do anything with myself, it is beyond my power and will, and me, no one can understand that. No one wants to understand.”

And a luminous tear slipped down her cheek.

And again, after a pause.

“Do you know that Shakespeare did not compose anything? Romeo and Juliet really have existed. Their love story is a true story. Juliet’s balcony is still preserved in Verona. Thousands of tourists come from all over the world to see it. And the fact that their parents were belonging to two conflicting clans and there was an ancestral hostility between them that sometimes was inflamed by various provocations was also true. Her eyes were covered with tears, and she desperately added. “Nothing has been changed...Nothing is changing...”
And another time.

“Leo, why it’s like that? Now I look at life differently. Before, I did not pay attention to such things. In our course group, many already know where they will work after the graduation. One -the head of the department, the other-the head doctor, and the third -the deputy minister of health. Their parents occupy high posts in the Central Committee and the Council of Ministers, while they don’t attend the classes for days, and the lecturers are even afraid on reprimanding


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them. I have recently read Aitmatov’s book "The White Steamer". The young hero throws himself into the river as his adolescent soul unaccustomed to dirt and evil is not able to withstand the surrounding lies, false, and injustice.” “Truly, why is it like that?”

Rena looked at me but did not expect an answer.

“There will be times when all people will become brothers to each other,” she said with a bitter smile. “Language, faith, skin color, all these prejudices which were the reason for conflicts between people for centuries- will disappear... Leo, but when, when will it occur, when will the Golden Age start again? When we’ll not exist...”

xxx

I sent my mother by train to my sister in Stavropol, yielding to her persuasion. It was raining. The dim lights of the station houses and the ground floor of the tourist hotel standing alone on a hill behind the train station, were barely visible in the grayish nightfall. Only two minutes left for the departure of the train, and my mother spoke about Rena unexpectedly. She had never started conversation about her or had mentioned her name after my father’s murder.

“So, I didn’t have chance to see Rena,” she said with sincere regret, shaking her head sadly. “Your dad really wanted to see





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her... It might be uncomfortable for him to tell you personally, but he made me talk to you so that you brought her to Sumgayit. And when he knew that you would come on the eighth of March, he was delighted and got excited like a child...Oh, but everything has changed, and all those wishes had remained in our hearts.”

“Rena was also very worried,” I said after a short silence, and although I never told anyone about my all-consuming love except Loranna, I suddenly wanted to talk to my mother about it. Even more, this thought gave me incredible pleasure, and I was amazed myself. Where did I get an inexplicable touching feeling of a kind of joyful sentimentality?

“Dad would like her very much,” I whispered with tenderness, “and you, mom, would’ve love her too, as she is so pretty...”

My mom squinted at me and smiled through tears. “I can see it from the photo, son.”

“She is better in real life than in the photo.” I said, and my heart quickly began to beat with the sweet and deep longing that my words had awakened. “If you knew, mom, what kind of golden character she has; as if not of this world - sincere, the heart is pure, like a saint...”

“Son, spiritual beauty is more valuable than the facial beauty. That is visible from the photo, too.” With tears in

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her eyes and a smile on her face, my mother gently pressed her cheek to my shoulder. “You look at her image, but it’s not just enough. You want to look at her continuously...Your sister asked me to bring a photo to look at, too.”

My mom paused and added with a sigh,

“What can I say my son? May God grants you your heart’s desire...Here, in Baku, it seems to be quiet,” she said already in the closed carriageway “but anyway, sell the car, do not go anywhere on it.” Mom used to say the same thing several times before. But she found it necessary to remind me again about that at the last minute, “I’ll call you from there. If you do not sell that car, I will be offended.”

Robert helped me with this. He found a buyer - a thin guy named Gadir from Bayilov. We went to the bank together, and Gadir deposited twenty-seven thousand rubles to my account. I already had the money on my saving book set aside from the fees: forty thousand in total.

“You are a rich man, brother. Soon we’ll be unable to converse with you,” Robert laughed.

I called my mother in the evening so that she would not worry anymore.

“Most likely I will not stay here,” Robert announced. “Zarmik invites me to Moscow. I can move to America, too. Many are going to leave. If I’ll go, I will take questionnaires


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and blank forms at the American Embassy in Moscow for you, too.”


CHAPTER 32

After Sumgayit the life seems turned upside down for us. There were broadcasts on television as if everything that had happened passed like a mudflow, and as for the guilty ones, they will certainly get their deserved punishment.

Then it was quiet for a while-a sort of waiting situation. Neither broadcasts were aired, nor articles were published about Sumgayit except some brief official reports. The Bureau of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Azerbaijan severely reprimanded Muslimzade and released him from his post. To the director of the Pipe-Building plant named after Lenin Abdullayev was announced a warning for manufacturing metal rods, knives, daggers, axes, etc., in the machine shop by special order. Sumgayit City Party Bureau issued a strict warning to the First Deputy Chairman of the City Executive Committee Hasanov and the Deputy Chairman Taghiyev. It was announced also, that ninety-four young men, who participated in the riots, were arrested and, that the General Prosecutor’s Office has created an investigation commission, which is headed by...Alexander Katusev. That was the same Katusev through whose fault


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many absolutely innocent people had fallen victim to this villainy.

“They will do everything to hide the purpose of this unheard crime and its organized nature,” Saghumyan concluded.

Saghumyan was not mistaken; the criminal cases were

broken into fragments and sent for investigation to the

country’s different cities. Thus, they made clear that no one

will be punished in any way. The organizers and inspirers of

the genocide in Sumgayit came out from their shelters and

started to act...

xxx

In the editorial, all the talks and conversations were continuously about Sumgait and Karabakh.

"We Armenians have always had good diplomats, but never good diplomacy," said Saghumyan as always, calmly. - Have we ever pursued the policy of solving big issues in the chain of winning small victories, instead of preferring the form of confrontation with the motto of being martyred until extinction, if not winning? No. Today we make the same mistakes in the Karabakh issue,” Saghumyan continued. “We had to wait a little bit, because the issue was raised hastily, spontaneously, without the elaboration of long-term plan in achieving that noble and difficult goal, without scrutinizing the possible ways of solving the existing


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problem. What should be the situation of the more than half a million Armenians living in Baku, Kirovabad, North Karabakh and other regions? Has anyone thought about that? It's like protruding your army onto the battlefield, and only after starting to explore the area.

He looked around, adding in a firmer tone.

- After all, in such a short-sighted way we can lose a lot. Commander Lucullus, in year sixty-one shamefully defeated

our king Tigran the Great's70 army and continued his invasion to Artashat with eagerness. However," Saghumyan got his breath and continued, "he reached the outskirts of the city in a condition that he retreated from the decision to attack the city. No Armenian regiment had encountered him all along the way to the capital, but there had been unexpected losses every night when his troops were passing through the narrow ravines. Those losses, of course, were not big, but together they led to the loss of the entire powerful army. At the outskirts of Artashat, Lucullus has decided to return back, which has turned into a panic-stricken escape, like Napoleon's runaway from Russia. We are always proud of our moral victory at the battle of Avarayr, proud of our brave commander Vardan Mamikonyan, who heroically has been killed at the Tghmut river, along with a thousand and thirty martyrs, while it is much more instructive Lucullus’s

story, when by correctly

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estimating time and power ratio we could’ve achieve small victories, which in its turn could’ve result to a big victory. xxx

Loranna kept her word. She was the first in our editorial office, who left Baku. Her husband worked in the city’s State-Auto Inspection, and the head of the Auto-Inspection bought their apartment.

“Leo, sorry, I didn’t manage to see you for the last time,” she said on the phone. “I was thinking of coming and saying farewell to everyone, especially you, but it didn’t work out, sorry, please... Leo, our whole life, is a long series of casual meetings and mutually exclusive circumstances, a long chain of sudden turns full of many unfortunate, and sometimes happy incidents, full of troubles, sorrows, short pleasures of immeasurable love and immense hatred... Leo, you may say what you want, but this is the real life, which carries us like a stormy high-water river, and it is really full of contradictory truths. And it is very hard to perceive, which of those truths is the truest of all the others. It’s only clear, my dear, that there is an impenetrable darkness in front of us, and there is no longer hope or faith that someday life will again turn into a shining Eden for us...Maybe we will never meet again... “She was silent for a moment and then hastily added. “I wish you good luck on your hard path...We are


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going to Yerevan for now, and where we will go from there, only God knows. Goodbye, Leo. Do you remember Irasek’s tanka? We read it together. “They stop on their sorrowful path and look back with eyes full of tears at that beloved, fertile land, where their home and homeland were.” Who would have thought the same thing would happen to us? Goodbye, my dear, I will always remember you...”

She quickly hung up, and I felt an unspeakable bitterness and emptiness, life seemed to really stop and lost its meaning.

The next was Robert. His leaving, however, had no effect on me. It’s because he simply took a vacation and had to return. Once he called and advised to take a vacation too and go to him. “Come, you will not regret it” he said, “Moscow’s charm is something else.”

The next day, Esmira came to my office. Her face was distressed, eyes were fiery. Slim and slender like a young poplar, she stood in front of me.

“Esmira, what had happened?” I asked frightened. “Where is Rena?”

“Rena is at home,” Esmira said, hiding her eyes. “I came to ask you something,” she blurted out.

“I’m listening to you,” I calmed down a little bit, “what should I do for you?”

“On the condition that Rena shouldn’t know this.”


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“What shouldn’t she know?”

“The fact that...that I came here, to you...Just promise that she will never know about this, never.” “I promise.”


“No, swear,” she insisted, blushing even more.

“I swear.”

“Not this way. You swear by the holiest thing for you. I beg you...What I am going to tell you, you must not tell Rena for the sake of your feeling toward her.” “Tell me, Esmira, you make me crazy.”

“Irada is waiting downstairs. At first, she promised that we would go up together, but at the last minute she couldn’t, and she sent me. You don’t have to call Rena anymore,” she said and took a deep breath as if got freed of a heavy burden.

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” Esmira said, hiding her eyes again. “I can’t tell you...My sister probably doesn’t say anything to you, but it is very difficult for her...My brother may kill her. Do you understand that? You have no idea what’s going on at home, I cannot tell you everything... her every step will be under control ... Do not call her, your call means death for her, I beg you. Just swear not to call.”

“I won’t call,” I said with a big effort. “I swear.”

“Thank you,” Esmira whispered. “I... We will never forget you. Never, never,” she added, turning suddenly red even more

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and quickly left the office, wiping with her fingers the tears flowing down her cheeks.

Then the sound of her footsteps, as the last echoes of despair, extinguished in the far. There was a noise of the elevator and a heavy slam of iron doors at the far end of the corridor. Then there was silence. An utter and long silence.


CHAPTER 33

In the editorial office all the conversations were again and again about Sumgayit and Karabagh. In one of the TV programs, the poet Sabir Rustamkhanly quite seriously was explaining that there were no historical and architectural monuments in Karabagh at all, and all these were brought from Armenia by airplanes and helicopters and dropped into Karabagh forests. “There is nothing strange,” the chief gave his comment on that program. “Based on one of the Goebbels’ theory that even the dirtiest and disgusting lie is perceived by the people as a truth, if it is repeated many times. This is the motto of Zia Buniatov.”71 In those days Mukhtar Bakhshaliyev came to the editorial office. He was a tall thin man in his sixties, always with an old briefcase in hand and a cap with a long visor on his small head. He had a scientific degree: Ph.D. either in philology, or in history. He was working as a head teacher in one of the Kapan




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or neighboring regions schools. He was preparing his doctoral thesis and therefore often was visiting Baku.

“Mukhtar-Muallim, tell me honestly, I beg you,” I turned to him. “Is it true that there were clashes between Armenians and Azerbaijanis in Kapan72, as we don’t know whom to believe? Many Azerbaijanis were killed there according to the rumors about Sumgayit and the article by Oruj Idiyatov. Is this true?”

“Can you give me a piece of bread?” He suddenly asked.

“What kind of bread?” I did not understand.

“Just bread. A usual bread.”

“I’ll bring it now,” Arina said and brought a piece of bread from her room.

Bakhshaliyev took it, kissed, and then said.

“Bread is a sacred thing for me, and I swear by this sacred bread, I am ready to swear on the Koran seven times and make a pilgrimage to all three of our holy places - Medina, Mecca, and El-Quds (Jerusalem) that there was neither murder, nor violence against Azerbaijanis. Vallah-billah73 that is a lie. They say that there was a hostel for Azerbaijani women in Kapan, this is also a lie. Do Armenian girls have a special hostel in Baku? So, there was no such thing. Our wise ancestors used to say, “it is from the same flower that bee makes honey, and snake-poison.” This is a real shame for us, elderly Azerbaijanis from Kapan, that they committed monstrous atrocities in

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Sumgayit, using our name. I am telling you that even after the Sumgayit nightmare there wasn’t any type of violence against us. They say only that some scoundrels have called some of us and have threatened. I do not know if this is true, for instance, nobody has called me. And that was after Sumgayit. Well, “There is one that is always on the lookout. There was no such thing”, Bakhshaliyev shook his head, “A person is initially born mentally healthy, but if he doesn’t stand the challenges, sometimes because of weak will, is being exposed to moral-psychological mutilations.

“Innumerable mutilations,” Saghumyan said.

“That’s right, innumerable mutilations,” Bakhshaliyev agreed leniently, turning to Saghumyan.

“They sowed the antagonism between the two neighboring nations. Throughout the Soviet Union no nation was as dear and close to one another as our two nations were; there was no Armenian or Azeri without dost and kirwa. Every Armenian had an Azerbaijani sister and vice versa. What a pity, that it happened, that the alchakh people74, villains who incited us against each other, as always, won’t be punished but, on the contrary, will get higher positions. I should not have said this, but I still say, since I am afraid of no one, as my conscience is clear. The first secretary of the Apsheron district committee Zohrab Mamedov, who is from our region, he too is guilty of this.

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And the terrible blame for the Sumgayit massacres lies on the artists of the Azerbaijani Theater in Yerevan. According to the scenario of Oruj Idayatov and Khydyr Alovly, they’ve acted like victims from Kapan, telling the people terrible things, irritating them. Nahlat75 them, villains! May Allah bring upon their heads the same troubles that they have brought to the others’ heads. And beyond that, I will not say anything.”

Bakhshaliyev paused in deep thoughts and added with a faint smile on his pale face.

“Time heals everything, everything is being forgotten. It will take many years, many, many years, Armenians with Azerbaijanis will reconcile again, will establish a friendship again, there is no way for otherwise. Blood is not washed with blood; blood is washed with water. It was the same situation after the 1905-1906 or after the 1918-1920, but as time went on, hostility gradually had faded, little by little got reconciled and started to live again side by side in harmony as before. As for the year 1905, it was staged by the Russians, everything was done by the order of Tsar Nicholas II. He decided to punish the Caucasian Armenians that they had protested against the closure of their national schools and the seizure of the Church property. But in any case, this should not be in that way. In the free Soviet country...No one expected that such thing could’ve happened.”


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“According to him, time heals everything, everything is been forgotten...” Saghumyan spoke after his leaving. “Both: time and wisdom, are powerless to heal the wounds of the soul. Several of my relatives have been killed during the massacre in February 1905. In 1918, I was a seven-year-old boy, and I remember how they were gathering the men, whether young or old, doesn't matter, from all over the city into the square at the Sabunchi Train Station, which was enclosed by thick ropes. They were loading them into freight trains and taking to Alyat to slaughter. This very Alyat is perfectly visible to me from my balcony at Musabekov neighborhood. Probably, God wishes me to look at the place every day, where my father and two older brothers were brutally murdered and suffer. Just come and try to forget it.”


CHAPTER 34

With its refracted flickering red-green lights, the tape recorder was playing softly in the dark. Rena was probably asleep already... I glanced at my watch -it was after midnight. Of course, she is asleep...She is probably smiling with her sweet, honey lips in her dream. Something incomprehensible, and strange; why is that? And in general, how does it happen that there is one in the world, a complete stranger quite unexpectedly appears and enters your heart, filling your soul with unlimited bliss, and you forgetting about yourself, think

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about her continuously, day and night dream about her. Suddenly the phone rang. Strange, who’ll be this late? I lazily

picked up the phone. No sound at the other end of the line. There was something meaningful in that silence, I felt it, and the thought that had flashed across my mind, suddenly caused a rapid heartbeat. My heart said -that is she.

“Did you call me so that I could hear your angelic voice before going to bed?” I said with an enthusiastic whisper. “Let’s talk then.”

Rena laughed softly on the other side of the phone line, and said with a low voice:

“Exactly the opposite, I have called in order to hear your voice, not mine. I heard it, and my soul filled with sacred affection.”

“And how did you know that I have turned off the lights, and was thinking about you at that this moment?

The tape recorder was quietly playing by my side, and that delightful melody made me yearn in my dreams. Rena, I really thought about you. It is great that you called. Do you read my heart?”

“Yes,” she whispered gently.

She must have smiled.

“And you feel, of course, that it beats only for you.” “I would like it to be so.”


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“Rena, it is so, it beats only for you. And this is not only up to you or me. It’s up to Lord. He wanted to be it this way. I love you.” My eyes filled with tears from the tenderhearted wave that involuntarily swept over me from the inside. “I love you; I love you.”

“Sleep, it’s too late now. I can’t talk long. I heard your voice, and now I am so pleased...Probably, the greatest happiness in life is to be sure that the one whom you love madly, loves you madly in his own turn...The day after tomorrow I will come to you. I wanted to come at the end of the week, but no, I can't wait that long. Caved tanem, good night.”


xxx

I left the chief’s office and immediately saw Rena. In a yellowish-brown unbuttoned cloak, in a brilliant light pink silk blouse and a dark pleated skirt, long-legged, elegant and beauteous, she quickly was walking along a light corridor, without paying to those passing by. The latter unwittingly were slowing down their steps, were turning and looking at her. I looked at her with great admiration and warm feeling, thinking that beauty is pleasant both to man and God and that there is nothing more beautiful in the world, than the pretty girl’s beauty in the world. Rena reached my office, opened the door with a smile and froze in confusion, thinking that there was no one inside. I immediately went over and greeted her

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excitement, in order not to give her a reason for concern.

“Hi,” I said a little bit excited.

Rena turned, her smile blossomed again, blossomed on her wondrous face and radiant blue eyes.

“Hi, I went up for a minute,” she said a little breathless from the quick walk and entered the office.

“Just for a moment, since I promised. I wanted to see you, but I cannot stay long. How are you?” She asked involuntarily, moving closer to me.

I embraced Rena with affection that showed how I missed the dearest person to me in this huge city. My face touched her fragrant hair, not having courage to kiss her for some reason.

“Fine,” I said still excited, “how are you?” I added. As it was for the first time, I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

“I am okay, too... All right, I have to go.” Rena sighed lightly. “I cannot stay longer; I am preparing for the test.

Of course, she invented about the test, I had no doubt here.

“Stay a little bit,” I begged holding her hand.

“No, no, no, I cannot. But I will come more often.” Rena backed toward the door, releasing her hand carefully and added with a smile. “I will come in two days at the same time. Look, don’t go anywhere at that time,” she urged with the same smile. “You’ll wait for me, aren’t you?”


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“Of course,” I said. “Not only two days, I’ll wait for you for two years,” I tried to joke.

“Two years?” She asked, looking askance at me with radiant blue eyes. “So little?”

“Well, then not two, but twenty years,” I conceded with a smile. “Odysseus had been waiting for Penelope for twenty years.”

“No, no!” Rena disagreed honestly. “That was Penelope from Ithaca that had waited twenty years for Odyssey, and not vice versa. You’re a liar!”

I laughed, embracing Rena at the door and asked affectionately.

“And how about you? Will you wait for me for so much? “Me?” She stepped back as if hesitating over the answer, and

my heart struck anxiously. “If there is a need, I will,” Rena said clearly. “But no,” she said after a short pause, shaking her head hurriedly, “I can’t wait two whole years,” she said with a coquettish smile, put her hand on my chest and slowly ran the tip of her tongue from left to right and from right to left on the upper lip, put her fingers under my tie, slipped under my shirt and tickled me, laughing silently. My breath stopped immediately.

“I will die from missing you in two years,” she said playfully, and suddenly leaning forward and smelling with the aroma of "Klimat", she firmly pressed herself against my chest with her

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frail, trembling body. “What two years! Living without you for two months is a torture for me.” Red from excitement, Rena touched my lips with her hot lips.

It lasted a very short second. She backed away with tears in her eyes and jumping out of the office, ran down the corridor to the elevator.

xxx

I was upset with Robert’s next call. According to him, Zarmik advises him not to return to Baku, but stay in Moscow and engage in trade. “This is the most profitable business in nowadays,” Robert said. “All intellectuals have switched to it.” And he asked, “Tomorrow I will go to the US Embassy, should I take questionnaires for you?”

“Take it,” I said indifferently, and a thought struck me immediately - to leave to the USA with Rena. “Take it,” I repeated hastily, “take it without hesitation. If there is a need, I will come to get them from you.”

Two days later I cautiously hinted about my idea to Rena, unaware how she would react to the new perspective, and was extremely happy, seeing delight in her eyes.

“America?” She whispered excitedly. “Is it possible? I thought day and night, I did not see a way out and came to the conclusion “there is no greater tragedy in life than the absolute impossibility to change what is beyond our power. Oh, my God, is it really possible?”

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“So, will you leave with me?” I asked happily.

Rena suddenly became sad and looked at me bitterly.

“Yes, but... can you imagine what a blow I can put on ours?” She said preoccupied. “But why am I to be blamed?” She added with a guilty half-smile, as if encouraging herself. “Anyway, I’ll go with you anywhere,” she concluded, hastily hugging me.

“It is obvious, that ours will not forgive me. They will not forgive me at first, but will forgive eventually later... My God, I will not tell this to anyone, no one will know about it, including Irada and Esmira. I’ll call right before leaving, but I’ll keep secret my whereabouts. Do you agree with me, Leo? And then we will be together forever. Oh! My God, is it possible?”

She repeated excitedly.

“Leo, I will dedicate all my life to you, every minute of my life, I will be gentle and faithful and never, never, I have already told you, I will not do anything that would hurt you. I will sacrifice my life, everything I have to you, and I will demand only one thing in return - love. I am very jealous of you, I always think about it, but I don’t tell you and I’ll never tell you. I want you to love only me, and no one except me, you hear, no one except... Did you ever love anyone?” She suddenly asked, staring at me with wide eyes

and with some timidity, waiting for an answer.

“Yes.”

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“Really?” Rena stepped back anxiously, looking at me. “It was a long time ago; I was still in school.”

“Where, in Sumgayit?” She asked disappointed and confused. “Yes, no... In our village. I studied in the village from the first to the sixth grade. There.”

Rena took a breath and asked belatedly.

“What was her name?”

“Lyudmila.”

“Was she pretty?” Rena asked belatedly again.

“Pretty.”

“And you remember her?” Rena asked quietly.

“I remember,” I said, “occasionally. Her smile was starting in her eyes and then was spreading over her face. I remember that... But it was a long time ago.”

I was studying in the sixth grade at that time. In early September the entire school from the sixth to the tenth grade was taken by trucks to the fields of Nerkin Horatagh for cotton picking. It was then, late in the evening, under the stars and moon, in the shadow of the broken tractors and threshers we kissed with Lyudik. Then tenderly and so friendly she put her head on my chest... I could not sleep until sunrise because of this love fever. This secret date and the first kiss in my life had excited me...

Rena was silent for a long time, standing in front of the window in fashionable tight jeans. She stared intently into

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the distance, on the calm sea.

“Love is mental substance,” she said, “after losing what, we have nothing else to lose.”

After a while she asked in a extinguishing whisper.

“We will go to the USA, and no one will prevent us from being together always?”

“No one will disturb us, no one. We will always be together and always inseparable,” I muttered in the same dying whisper.

“Lord, when will that day come?”

I gently embraced Rena’s shoulders, inhaling the aroma of her sweet felt body.

“Leo, dear, I’d only come for a minute,” she said, turning, “I...”

I put my fingers on her lips.

“I love you,” I said with a little bashfulness not letting her to complete the sentence “You know that?”

My face must have distorted, as Rena looked a little frightened. She automatically retracted pressing her round butt on my desk. However, she was smiling.

“No, please answer me, do you know that I love you?

Rena nodded, still smiling, which meant - yes, she knows that I love her.

A bright sunlight fell on her face. Rena glanced at me, squinting, moving her head carelessly to turn back her

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golden hair on a marble white, Nefertiti wise neck. The necklace and the pendant with a bluish-white diamond flashed at her neck. I gently took her by the chin fascinated by her dazzling beauty. Rena threw back her head slightly, looking at me with a tender, flickering look.

“And that I am in love with you like a crazy,” I whispered in a quivering voice, “do you know that, too?”

Rena nodded again, smiling wider than before.

As if in an unconscious motion, I turned around and locked the door, saying:

“I won’t let you go.”

Rena looked at me, putting her hands on her chest with white fingers, as if asking something silently. But she did not reproach or say anything. She was aware of the power of her charms, self-confidence and sly enthusiasm shone in her clear eyes. She looked at me with a sunny smile, sliding the tip of her tongue over her upper lip again as if enjoying my confusion. And I... I could not take my eyes off her fiery lips...

My God, how good she is when she fills with a murmur of laughter, with her head slightly thrown back, and the pearly row of her teeth glitters like fresh snow in the morning sun. When as if offended, she gives you a sharp and passing glance with a squint like Mona Lisa in the Louvre, and a forgiving mysterious smile plays in a uniquely radiant blue-blue eyes.

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When she throws back the golden strand from her forehead with a charming, habitual movement. When suddenly blushing from the impulse that has seized her, she rushes into arms, covering with the aroma of the young body, and presses herself against the chest as if she is eager to dissolve in me and penetrate my soul, when... My God, my God, how desirable and delightful she is. She really makes me crazy with her wondrous look, her beautiful head, her slight gait, and her honey-velvety voice.

I wanted one thing with some sudden, overwhelming, and crazy passion at that moment - to kiss the tip of her pink tongue that slid across the swollen lip. I felt dizzy somehow from this crazy thought. I somehow involuntarily grabbed Rena above the elbow and pulled to me impetuously.

“Rena, no one has ever loved anyone as much as I love you in this world.” - My greedy lips touched her sweet mouth. Rena’s lips seemed, burned with fire bursting from inside. I felt this heat, and the heat of her virgin body, soft, full breasts. She raised her hands, gently embraced my shoulders and tangled my hair with her fingers. I was kissing Rena extremely gently at first, but then my kisses turned to be madder, and passionate. And her juicy lips gradually opened, and she bit me. Yielding to this frenzy; overwhelmed with happiness, I completely lost myself, spun her around, holding her and


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shutting her on the desk without taking my lips away from her mouth.

“The whole world knows that you are mine, you are my life, my faith, and my heart’s pillar, my hope and the light of my eyes, I am a bird, and you are my nest.” I muttered almost incoherently and wanted this minute to last forever. I was eager to feel forever the trembling of her body and the heat that was going with a wave of delight and a faint moan from her open lips. I was eager to hold her in my arms, love, and caress, lick her from head to toe. I didn’t want to let her go; I couldn’t get enough of her as it was a pleasure to look at her constantly. Finally, Rena came to her senses and said:

“I need to go... I must not be late,” zipping her coat with a fringe, she whispered and slipped out of my arms.

She turned around once more at the doorway, blushing and confused smiled at me with her shimmering gleaming smile and said, - Tsaved tanem.


CHAPTER 35

Robert called at the end of the week.

“I took the questionnaires,” he said. “You have to fill them yourself, with your own hand, and you must hand over to the embassy yourself. You pass them the papers and wait for the interview. In a word, we are going to the Lansing, capital of the Michigan state.”

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I had to convince the chief for a long time before he signed my application.

“I know, I understand that you haven’t use your vacation time for two years. But, in that case, I’m staying alone,” he said musingly, stepping around the spacious office. “All of you are leaving. So, Arina also has written the application, and if I am not mistaken, wrote a statement, they exchange their apartment.”

“How come?” I was surprised.

“I have just signed her request of quitting the job. She took it to the human resource department.”

From Arina’s small, sunny side, cornerly room, there were two doors that were leading to the other premises: one - to the General department, and the other - to the office of the chief editor. The door wasn’t locked, and I went directly to Arina’s room. She was standing in the evening gleaming sun, which was penetrating through the window, and was looking out.

“Are you leaving without letting me know?” I said with a slight offense, entering her room.

She quickly turned to me. Her black tender eyes were in tears.

“Did the chief inform you of my leaving?” Arina asked quietly, smiling through tears.

“Yes.”

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“If you knew, Leo, how hard it is for me,” Arina said sadly, sitting down at the table and putting her small hands on the tabletop. “Can you imagine that? You cannot.”

Arina turned to the window again and stared somewhere outside. She did not want me to see her tears. After a pause she said.

“We come to this world from unknown, going to unknown again. And on our way, we lose those, whose longing will further burn our souls. People do not know that the one, who cheerfully smiles to all, cries at nights secretly. When one writhes and wraps himself in the blanket sometimes and is still unable to warm up, since this cold is not from outside really, but from inside, from somewhere to the depths of the heart...” Arina paused and said thoughtfully. “I came to the conclusion that there are two ways of living. One may live and assume that miracles do not happen. And one may believe that life itself is a miracle. I felt it only here. And I think that, in general, there are no incidental phenomena at all, everything in the world is either a test or a punishment or a gift or an omen. And which one of those is mine, I do not know, have no idea. I only know that in everyone’s life, occasionally, but someone surely appears, changing him completely. And it doesn’t matter at all, whether this is complete happiness, or unbearable pain. You just feel and become aware you are no longer the one that you were before, and you will never be the

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same again.” She again made a short pause. “Leo, by fate and thanks to you, I appeared here. Almost three years I was coming to work as to the celebration. I will always remember our cheerful Community workdays on Saturdays, when we planted trees in the park adjacent to Shikhov Beach. I will not forget the endless laughter and funny stories when we sat in the cafes after every Community workday or Labor Day-First of May demonstrations and parades. Life does not consist from the days that have passed, but also those, that are remembered. My Lord, is it possible to forget all this, will I ever forget it?

The charm of these three years was imprinted in me forever, and wherever I find myself, and whatever happens to me, it will give the warmth to the remainder of my whole life...”

Arina looked straight at me and flashes of blinking light shone on her wet eyes.

It was also difficult for me to imagine that I wouldn’t see her, for these three years I also got used to her.

“Are you going to Yerevan?” I asked. “According to the chief, you are changing the apartment.”

“We are giving spacious three-room apartment totally furnished, built at Stalin Era, and additionally a lot of money, and in return we are getting only a two-room apartment, somewhere on the outskirts of Yerevan. But my father-in-law agreed immediately, because then even that type apartment would’ve’ been hard to obtain. There are only few

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Azerbaijanis living there, but here are hundreds of thousands of Armenians...”

“This is temporary, everything will be OK,” I said.

“I guess, but ... life is also temporary,” Arina smiled sadly and added thinking deeply. “My father-in-law has a different opinion. What are you going to do?”

“I will stay here” I just said that. “Well, not all of us should leave.”

“The Parents of my husband will live in Yerevan, and we will go to Hungary. The brother of my father -in-law serves there, in the town of Velentse, he is serving as a military officer in our army. He lives, according to him, on the very shore of the lake. So, he invites us. I will call you from there, at least I will hear your voice,” Arina smiled sadly. “Leo, I often made you upset, please forgive me. Forgive my husband too, he is short-tempered, but he has a kind heart, he is really repented. By the way, his father almost sent him away from home for that visit.”

“I have already forgotten about it.”

“It all had happened because of me. I told Silva all sorts of nonsense I should not tell. Later my husband and I went to them, so she didn’t look at me from shame. My husband decided- she made up everything. I am guilty myself; I should’ve not told.”


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“And what did you actually tell?” I asked, sitting down in front of her.

“To tell... I told her what I wanted it to be in reality”.

Arina looked at me as if thinking about whether to speak or not, and then said with a sigh at once.

“I told her that I was in love with you and that you, too, were not indifferent to me. I did not want her to have illusions and lay eye on you after hiring.” Arina threw her hair back from the forehead while closely watching how I react.

“So, what is then?” I asked with laughter.

“What’s then? She said everything to her husband. She

presented the case like I prevented her from getting the job.”

“It turns out that her husband was not against?”

“Of course not. I made her not come here. I did not want, and that’s it. It seems like I was jealous of you.” Arina smiled, looked straight into my eyes and said, “I will tell you something else anyway, since this is the last day for me at work, so you must forgive me. How many girls were calling you... Especially one, very cute, with golden hair, wore a hat in Merlin Monroe’s style, with a smile and very beautiful lips, and her eyes were also very beautiful, gray, like a tigress. Silva Asryan from the first or second course year at the Construction Institute, I have seen her here twice or so with you, she has not appeared lately... So, she especially called

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insistently. In a word, I was telling everyone that you are not

here - either on vacation, or left the office, well, something

like that. It must be from jealousy too. I was jealous of you

because of Loranna too, I could hardly breathe with rage,” she

said suddenly, getting angry and looking at me reddened.

“Especially when she was coming and sitting by your side for

hours. Are you mad on me?”

“No.” I shook my head with a smile.

I was not angry for some reason. Something was braking in me. I felt that I was losing something very precious, very dear to me that day.

Arina was silent for a few moments. I could notice an internal struggle in her. She was biting her lips and her eyes were still out of the window. Then, suddenly, she turned and looked at me with a sharp glance. A half-smile lit her face.

“Leo, there were two blind men in this world. You are the one of them, because you have not noticed how dear you are for me, and the second one is me, because I did not notice anyone but you. ...There are many lonely people in this life,” she added. “You can have a lot of relatives, friends ... You can have one who loves you and who is always beside you, and still be lonely, feel lonely. Lonely and overwhelmed with a feeling you've been searching your only one for all your life and haven't found. I did not find someone. Haven’t found the one, to whose will, you dedicate yourself entirely, and be jealous from that

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happy thought. Do you understand me?” She asked and without waiting for an answer, she continued, “Time is the only thing that cannot be reversed. It seems that it is ours, but it does not belong to us. To hold it, is above our strength. It escapes, runs away from us, like a friable sand between our fingers. This day will not be reoccurred for the second time. This blissful moment, the one, that is now here, will not return either...” Arina turned and looked out of the window, pressing with her palms the cheeks; finally, uttered without turning. “One realizes the value of the merchandise when loses it. Leo, all these three years, I have always felt your closeness, you were always adorable, and you will remain like that in my memory... There was nothing between us,” she continued with touching sincerity, “but I was so passionate about you that I lost my head and no matter whenever you called me, I would follow you, wherever you invite, I would run after. Meyerhold was terribly jealous of his wife, Zinaida Reich, for Yesenin; it seemed to him that it was enough for Yesenin to call her with a finger-she would run after him through the rain and the hail without looking back. As if it is about me...

But you didn’t call me, haven’t invite me anywhere, although you knew and saw how I was selflessly passionate about you. Yes, you knew it, it is impossible not to know, not to feel. There is no possibility to hide fire and love, but you, nevertheless, did not take advantage of my weakness.”

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“Arina, but we are relatives, right?”

“Yes, and I am grateful to you for that as my feeling is even deeper. Do you know what I thought once?” She said with a smooth movement of her hand, removing a disobedient strand from her forehead once again. “I thought that the soul is beautiful in its purity, and when you love, but your love is unresponsive, there is no need to be sad, the victory is still yours, as your love is so great that it does not fit in the heart of the other. And do not be humiliated and run after those who are already happy without you. Honestly, for a moment I wanted you to fall in love with me, only for I would refuse you and see you would be suffering.”

Arina turned, looked at me intently and added. “But... when you love madly and entirely unselfishly, you only want one thing for him-that he’ll be happy. And I want to do everything for that, no matter if that one is yours or not... Yes, you only want that one’s welfare, so that he is happy. However, the heart breaks when you see how the one is happy with someone else, rather than with you.” She paused slightly. “Maybe everything has an end in the world- love, tears, and agony, only memory is endless, it has neither end, nor the limits. Leo, I will remember you, as my brother, as my loved one until the very end, until the last breath... Believe me, this memory will stay with me forever, this is my Firebird and nobody can take it away from me...”

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I did not know what to say, I could not find the words, and the thought that we really wouldn’t see each other, was causing pain and despair in my soul. But I had to say something. And I started to do so, holding her dark, thin fingered palm in my hand, hardly believing what was said.

“We will meet again... We will meet again in many years and look at each other with misty eyes and kindness.”

She smiled soundlessly. She smiled tiredly. She shook her head.

“No,” she said sadly, “this will not happen again, will not happen again... I know, I feel that I am seeing you for the last time, looking in your eyes which are so dear to me, and I also know that I’ll see you and this moment - our last encounter in this sunny room - a thousand times in my dreams.”

Arina’s eyes became moist, she smiled again with her eyes glittering from tears and said.

“But I am happy that at least I am telling you all this and that you are listening to me. As it is hard to bear the pain of unspoken words. Look, I am not crying for the fact that everything is already in the past. No, I am smiling because of all this really had happened. She was silent for a while. “Last year, you gave me a disc for a gift on March 8. I often listen to it. Patricia Kaas sings a sad song; I listen to it and remember you. She sings about this, “When I see old people in the street, I am horrified for a moment, as our last spring will come too, and where the fire of our youth

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was burning once, we will only find ashes there, as the life is like a rose: its petals-illusion, and thorns-reality...” And you say, “We will meet and look at each other with tender eyes...”

She quickly turned to look out of the window again where the sunny day was burning out and the golden and orange glare of the setting sun were flickering on the walls with a shaky fan.

“Leo, why? Why does happiness end so quickly?” Arina said. “And in general, what is the happiness? A wonderful rainbow, an instantly fading ray of sun refracted in a tear. ”

That’s how I parted with Arina. She remained in my memory so - sitting at the shining polished table in the room lit with golden sunset sun, smiling and looking at me sadly with her friendly, dear eyes, and the tears that were frozen in her beautiful black eyes.

The next morning Arina did not come to work and alas, I never saw her again.


CHAPTER 36

Two days later, close to the evening, I flew to Moscow to Robert.

“Do not stay there too long,” the chief addressed me with a smile. “Don’t leave me alone.”

Rena came to say goodbye. It was unexpected: in the editorial office we agreed that she would not come to see off.

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I told her that I will be away for a short time and there is no need for that. However, I was stunned by excitement, seeing her at the airport.

I was already on the airfield, near the airplane ramp, when I suddenly saw her standing behind the thick glasses of the waiting room filled with the late autumn sun. It seemed to me that she was in the same white dress in which I had seen her for the first time. With her hair falling on her shoulders flying to the sides, she was waving her hand incessantly as a sign of goodbye. It was not seen from afar, but it seemed to me that she was continuously smiling at me with that irresistible, inviting smile of her transparent blue eyes.


xxx

I really was of such an opinion that I would not stay in Moscow for long. I had to call mom from Stavropol to come and fill out the questionnaire. With Robert’s help we rented a room in a communal apartment and almost every day were going to the US Embassy to hand over papers. There were huge lines. Some people were coming to the embassy from midnight in order to catch the turn in the line. Those who wanted to go to the USA, were mainly people from Sumgayit, but the number of Armenian refugees from Baku and various regions of Azerbaijan was growing day by day. Having left their homes, defenseless and helpless, they were telling each other about the

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calamity that had happened to them, one worse than the other, and expressing these stories might have brought them some relief.

“All your life you suffer and work for this country, experiencing endless harassment to stay without shelter, naked and defenseless in the end,” the queue murmured. “Look, what the ones who left already to the USA are writing. The US Government immediately provides housing and everything in need. A pension has been each is prescribed to each one of them for the amount of six hundred thirty dollars monthly and a hundred and thirty dollars a month from somewhere else. The hospitals, and the medications are free of charge. Higher education for children is free. People were really crying. “If there is such paradise, where one can see such an attitude, such care, why were we ruining our lives in that hell? And they feel shy that they haven’t done anything for this country but have received so many benefits and privileges. Not like here... The boundless country with thousands of deserted villages, but there is no place for us, no address registration, and no work of any type. All we‘ve seen, are all kinds of bans at every single step. And wherever one goes – only bribes, beatings, humiliation, without any simple care or support. Why had our fathers and brothers shed their blood and died in the Great Patriotic War, if the USA is the one which helps us today? Shame on such a state!

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I was upset that I could not call Rena and my heart was aching from melancholy, but I could not break the word of honor given to Esmira, but what was more important, I could not put her in danger.

I called the chief, he was really overjoyed at my call, but he upset me greatly, announcing that the situation in the city is not so good. “The radio, television, and papers are crawled with anti-Armenian aspersions,” he said quietly, “but we do not interfere and broadcast only official materials. But that ignoble Gevorg Atajanyan” he almost whispered, “together with a scoundrel Robert Arakelov, Karo Arakelov’s son, having the list of the names, were collecting money from the employees of the "Komunist" paper, as if to prepare telegrams to be sent to Moscow. Can you imagine what does it mean to collect money demonstratively in a multi-story publishing building where besides the Armenian-language "Komunist" paper, dozens of other editorial offices are located? No doubt, that this whole story of the money collection had been planned in detail. So, the next day during the demonstration at the Government house, some talks have been started that Armenians of Baku are raising funds for Karabagh.

There was nothing like that, it was an obvious lie, but the attitude towards the Armenians changed dramatically in the city.


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“Leo, I am also to blame. I told you that I had given a recommendation to the Writers’ Union for Gevorg. In a word, Leo jan,” he added at the end, “there is no need you to return yet. My advice is to stay there for now. Let’s see what’s going on, I’ll make arrangements here for myself somehow.

At the end of the second month I called the chief again, but his phones-either work or home-were unreachable. Other editorial phones were also cut off. I called Siyavush, I noticed that he wasn’t in a bad mood, so I asked, “How are the things in Baku?”

“So, so,” Siyavush said and joked, “If I find something to drink, everything seems good and well.”

At the end of the week the Central TV broadcasted a program that life in Baku is in a normal course, all factories, companies and institutions are working, classes in educational entities have been restarted.

I decided for sure not to tell my mother that I was going to Baku after another meeting with Robert. Zarmik and I agreed to go there together. He had a passport with an Azeri name and surname, was speaking Azerbaijani fluently, and leaving for Baku was no problem for him. Having agreed on everything, we went to the air ticket office the next day and bought tickets for the twelfth of January. Robert eventually prevailed upon me.

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“You are unlikely to find a job here with your specialty. You remember my job was writing some stupid reports there in Baku as you have come to the Ministry of Communications many times. Now what do I do? I am a seller in a kiosk- take, give and, take. The work is easy, and you see I am not dissatisfied at all, on the contrary, I am quite satisfied. If it continues this way, I do not care about US, or Michigan, and Lansing. Go and take off your money, and we will look for some place for you too at the Subway station. Simply said, without money, nothing is possible to do you need at least eight to ten thousand dollars. Do you call Rena, or you have already forgotten about her?”

“I have forgotten.” I replied on his rhyme.

“Oh, really?” Robert looked at me doubtfully and smiled. “Leo, I have seen her looking at you twice. When the woman looks at someone with such a fascinated look, then the other three billion men on the globe do not exist for her at all. The love like that, brother, is God’s gift, and you are joking — you forgot. Is it possible? Okay, you do not want - do not tell. In short, I will make arrangements with the subway leadership until you return. Count me on that.”

I told my mom about my decision couple hours earlier of the departure.

“I am going to Baku, mom.”


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“Baku?” She asked frightened, as if speaking about going there for the first time.

“When?” I felt some alarm in her voice. “But what do they say, what’s the situation there?”

“Everything is OK,” I said calmly. “As you can see there is nothing in the papers, and nothing on TV on our case.” “But can we trust our press? They did not write or show anything during the Sumgayit events either.

“Situation was different back then. Everything is changed now,” I tried to encourage her. “I don’t think that they will repeat the old mistakes again.”

I was remembering Robert’s words about Rena over and over. “Are you kidding? Is it possible to forget her?” The idea that I’ll see Rena soon made my head to spin from the happiness.

“For God’s sake, be careful” my mother warned me again at the last moment. “Once you finish your business, come back immediately, there is no need to stay there.


xxx

And now the plane is incessantly and monotonously revving, sometimes shaking heavily, splitting the endless sky with the droning rumble of its engines.

Was I right that I didn’t listen to my mom at this time and ignored her warning to wait a little bit more? But it was no

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longer possible to wait, she was repeating the same thing for almost three months, and I was delaying my going from day to day, knuckling under her torments. But finally, it was impossible to postpone my departure anymore, because the need in money for the room rental and just for living. The reason for prolonged delays was not only because of my mother’s warnings and job searches, but also because of the uncertain situation that prevailed in Baku; In addition, we have already handed over the papers for asylum in USA to the embassy. That was a long time ago, and so, we were waiting from them for some kind of response. Almost every second day, as before the submission of the questionnaires, I was visiting the embassy where hundreds of former citizens of Baku like me, were gathering to find out when they will be called for an interview which has been continuously postponed for some reason.

I was looking out of the window below, under the white-winged rags of clouds that were sliding back, below the Alpine meadows and mountain slopes, where I noticed rivers that have been stretched like silver threads. Here and there one could’ve seen some lonely villages lost in the mist, and seemingly abandoned.

“Is the seat beside you free?” A feminine tender voice asked. A well-built young lady in her twenties with shiny brown hair was smiling kindly. The corrugated blue silk suit was emphasizing her grace and dark skin.

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I looked back. Zarmik enthusiastically was talking with someone in one of the back rows.

“Have a seat” I nodded.

“Thanks.” There was something attractive in her slowly opening lips while smiling.

“It’s very noisy in the front aircraft cabin,” the lady said melodiously, fitting into the soft armchair, “It’s calm here, away from the engines’ noise.”

She gave a short pause and a bit later she recited with a sad, quiet voice.

Farewell Baku, I’ll not see you anymore, only in my dreams you ‘ll appear,

What can find in my soul is now sadness, all that can feel my soul is now fear.

“Are you from Baku?” I asked.

“I have lived there before.” She said regretfully with a shy half-smile; “I am going to make an exchange. It’s an appropriate version. We have a four-room apartment in a new cooperative building, in the very center of the city.” “Where exactly?”

“On the April 28 Street.” In the nine-story building of the airline ticket office, on the sixth floor76. We have overhauled it recently. We had to change it for two rooms rather far from Moscow, in small Obninsk - ground level, no balcony, concrete floor. Can you imagine? What can we do? Others unable to

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find even one like that. We are changing it with an Azerbaijani, but his wife is Russian. We must meet with this Azerbaijani’s younger brother to draw up the contract. The owner gave a warrant to his brother. Are you from Baku, too?”

“Yes. I work for the Radio and Television Committee. “Really? Our neighbor also works there. What editorial office do you work in?”

“Armenian Broadcasts’.”

“So, you should know my mother, Rosa Grigoryan. She worked at the Supreme Court and she was a member of the board. Before my mother there were three Armenians: the first was Arutyunov, then Arushanov, and finally Vasily Ananyan. Later, when Ananyan was killed, my mother took his place and became a member of the board.”

“Of course, I know,” I said. “We even had a program about her. Her parents from the Karaghshlagh village in Karabagh, but later fled to the Zardakhach in Martakert Region.”

“Right, my mother was born there, in Zardakhach. It turns out we know each other. My name is Karina.”

I also introduced myself and added.

“Let’s go from the airport together, we will take you home.” “Fine,” Karina was delighted. Her white teeth shined for a

moment. “My husband was very worried. He could not come as he just got a job. They say there is a secret instruction that

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the refugees should not be registered and hired. Just awful. Will you stay or return to Moscow?”

“I’ll be back,” I replied. “I am going to stay for a short period of time.”

“I know almost all the girls at the ticket offices. If you need, I will help with tickets,” she suggested with childlike readiness and friendly manner. “You do not worry.”

I was wondering for a long time whether to tell her about Rena or not. Finally, I decided to tell and ask her for help.

“I will help you,” she said, putting her palm on my hand friendly. “I will call and invite her to our house. “No,” she said quickly, changing her mind and casting a kind glance at me. “I’ll give her my phone number and tell her to call me from somewhere. So, it’s safer. I’ll explain everything to her. Tomorrow at what time do you want to come to my place. I will tell her, and she will come at that time, too. Write down my phone number- 93-81-44. You know the house, the second entrance, the sixth floor, the door to the left, apartment forty-three. What about four o’clock. Is it Ok with you?

“Sure”

“She will be at us at four, you may not doubt it.”

“My God, will I see Rena tomorrow?” I thought with delight feeling, and my heart started beating in my chest.


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The runway marked with red lights spread out under the plane, the landing gear rumbled, and the concrete rushed backward.

We took a taxi on the square in front of the airport. Zarmik sat down next to the driver, Karina and I were in the back seat.

“We’ll drop you off home,” I told her. “See you tomorrow at four.”

Karina nodded with a smile, and I remarked again to myself that her lips slowly opening in a smile, were really attractive. “Men Nakhtsvan balasy adym Zakir, san haralysan”77 Zarmik asked the driver in Azerbaijani.

The driver was an elderly man, halfly bald; he was holding the steering wheel firmly with both hands, without taking his wide-open eyes off the road.

“I am from the Sabirabad,” he replied, looking askance at Zarmik.“From the hot Sabirabad, the land of sweet pomegranates and watermelons.”

“What do you think?” Zarmik asked secretly, winking at me. “What do these Armenians want from us?”

“Eh,” the driver replied with pain in his voice. “I feel sorry and for them and for us. Some are constantly stirring in us. Apsheron secretary Zohrab Mamedov was filling buses with refugees from Armenia every morning and was sending to Sumgait for demonstrations. For a special reason, of course. I

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have seen those caravans of buses and trucks packed with people with my own eyes several times. It was said on television and in the newspapers that the secretary of the Central Committee Hasan Hasanov knelt before the Azeris in Aghdam begging them not to attack the Armenians of Stepanakert as if the Armenians in Stepanakert were lambs, and they were wolves. Khuraman Abbasova to whom na;ve Russian poet Yevtushenko dedicated a poem, allegedly removed her kerchief, threw it at the feet of the people, and they stopped, not gone farther. It’s a lie. Then it turned out that a few thousand people had gone to Askeran, beating and disabling Armenians, devastating and burning everything on their way. I think with my short mind that if they continued moving on, then Hasanov and Abbasova haven’t stop them but vice versa, exhorted them to go. This conclusion is the most correct as the massacre in Sumgayit due to which we were discredited to the whole world started with that campaign.” He took a breath.

“Ay kishi78, for the working men, what is the difference what you are by nationality: Armenian, Russian or Georgian. I don’t care whom. What is the difference for me whom I’ll take to the airport or return from there to the city? If they pay, then Allaha Shukyur.79 I am grateful. Look, the city is full of Azerbaijanis from Armenia. I’ll tell you what. Who is leaving Baku? Famous doctors, university professors, scientists and artists, teachers, musicians, people with a name, artisans with

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golden hands are leaving their well-equipped apartments. Well, who comes here from Armenia instead? Speculators who sell edible greenery in the markets and uneducated peasants from distant villages who only deal with the sheep and cows. Who knows they haven’t seen bath in their whole life? Agree, or not, but they are strangers for us. With their tall Caucasian hats, unshaven, with the sheep scent that blows from them. On the other hand, the local Armenians from here are not welcomed well in Yerevan too. They are being called "Shur tvats - turned over ones". Sometimes they don’t sell bread to them in the store there, they demand to speak Armenian. If one doesn’t know the language, then he’ll stay hungry. For that reason, they go to Russia, to USA. It’s not human.”

“Not human,” Zarmik said seriously. “They say, Gorbachev went to Stalin to discuss Karabagh issue - help for God’s sake. Stalin without hesitation proposes to unite Azerbaijan with Armenia and make Magadan their capital.”

The driver laughed.

“Ada vallah”, well said. Very good, it should be that way for us, that we’ll grow wiser. Listen to this: there were days like the present in the distant past. Two men with a Mauser in the belt met a peasant in the forest. “Bolshevik or Menshevik80?” They ask. The peasant thinks, if I say Menshevik, and those are Bolsheviks they will shoot me, if I say Bolshevik, and those are

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Mensheviks, they will shoot me, too. He says, “Neither

Bolshevik, nor Menshevik. I am a puppy tied to your door.

Those two laughed and rode away, spurring their horses.

Nowadays are the same worrisome times.”

Near the village of Ramana, the car turned left and with a slight rumbling rushed to the city, overcoming the ascension.

“You must’ve seen what was going on this road when Brezhnev arrived in Baku last time!” The driver said. “There should be boundaries for flattery. Brejhnev got a ring from Aliev as a gift. He put the ring how they would put it on the girlfriend’s or wife’s finger. And that was the leader of the huge country. The ring had a diamond on it at the cost of twenty-six thousand rubles. The ring was made, but no word on payment.

The director of the jewelry factory, they say, was attached to the doors of the Central Committee. After a while he was found hanged in his office. No, whatever you say, everything in the world should have boundaries. Aliyev had promised to meet Brezhnev with a million people. For what? Who needed all these passing red banners, that fake orders and titles given by him when the people have nothing to eat, and the stores are empty! I counted the following in the paper. During the plenum Aliyev called Brezhnev’s name a hundred and seventy times- Aliyev named him “...the most prominent figure of the twentieth century, who does a lot with his paternal solicitude

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in respect of Azerbaijan.He named Brejhnev the "new Ilyich" like Akhundov who named Khrushchev "new Lenin". Maybe, because both of them were bald,” the driver laughed. “Vallah, all evening and all night from the city and areas that were closer, we were transporting people there by buses, trucks, our taxis. Can you imagine what does it mean one million people standing on both sides of the road from the airport to the city? Unfortunately, it was raining heavily from the morning, a real flood, that impossible to describe. And on the whole road - you could see for yourself - there is no place at all, no trees or bushes, nowhere to hide. Brezhnev with huge delay arrived with his squad at about ten o'clock in the morning and rushed by the people. And no one no longer was thinking about those poor on the road. There was neither drinking water, nor toilets. And all that people should’ve walk home on foot, and pass twenty-five kilometers, or so. One would not know whether to laugh, or cry.

Zarmik and I agreed to meet with Karina the next day at four. Getting off the car, I did not meet a soul in the yard and went up to my home.









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CHAPTER 37

A musty smell of a long time not ventilated room struck in my face. I wanted to call Siyavush, the chief, other guys and at least hear Rena’s voice. But the phone wasn’t working. I was walking around the room having no idea what to do. The rays of the setting sun were penetrating through the window glass. These rays were lightening the sofa, the bookcase, and the desk, where the dust was as thick as a finger. From the government building side, one could’ve distinctly heard noise and loud voices, interrupted by the applause from time to time. I was looking out from the window for a long time; once beloved and native city seemed alienated to me.

The sea was visible, where Rena and I had a boat tour, and the Kirov Park, where the 'Azerinform' correspondent Yashar Khalilov took a photo of us on the hill. Before that, we ‘ve got caught in the heavy rain. The day was sunny, and totally unexpectedly the sky thundered, and the downpour started. We did not even have time to hide from the showers and run to the closest alley. We had got wet enough until we reached a tree which turned out to be an olive tree bent to the ground. It was not protecting us from the rain. I was afraid that Rena would catch a cold, but she was incessantly bursting out laughing, occasionally pushing me under the rainfall with her shoulder.
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In those moments she was extremely charming and desirable. I hugged her, but she slipped out of my arms, suddenly corrugated and in a second appeared under the drencher. Having spread her arms Rena was spinning around, laughing carelessly and looking up; her sensitive nose was wrinkled, and parted lips revealed the brilliant shine of her whiter teeth. She wanted me to admire her, and I was admiring. “Rena, come here, you will catch a cold!” I brought her back to the tree again, rainwater was flowing from her, the wet dress stuck to the body, emphasizing the delightful hips, elastic body and marvelous roundness of the breasts. Rena tightly pressed herself against me and moving her hair back slowly, she looked at me with happy, mysterious eyes. Her body was hot, her chest soft like fresh sourdough was also hot. It continued raining. I took Rena’s face in my palms, my lips easily slid over her lips. That was extremely pleasant feeling: to be under the cool breeze and the severe rain; and it looked to be that Rena liked the game as well. Our lips were barely touching and constantly sliding over the top, our breathing gradually becoming merged more frequently, but I wasn’t kissing her, and with great effort trying to prolong that sweet moment. Driven by waves of passion, my lips sustained for some more moments; finally, I could not stand it anymore and my inflamed lips eagerly dug into Rena’s passionate lips... I kissed her with insatiable aspiration; even rudely biting her bulging

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lips perhaps, since unable to say a word, with her pleading eyes, she rebelled against my obsession. I began to kiss her gently, with pauses and looked at her with dozed off gaze, as I could not believe my eyes, simply could not believe that now, at this very second my lips were merged with her trembling rosy-pink lips. My tongue was getting numb from that idea, my eyes were turning dim, my ears were stunning by the extraordinary warmth. That warmth was inflowing or penetrating my skin, expanding through the veins in my whole body, and I completely fell under the charm of the sweet dreams.

I was kissing Rena tirelessly, with selfless gentleness, leaning forward and firmly pressing her toward me. God, what an unspeakable bliss that was, what a fascinating heavenly gift, under that warm, continuous rainfall.

Then, suddenly, the rain stopped, as it was started before. A bright sunbeam fell upon Rena’s face through the tiny olive leaves. She squinted and burst into wonderful sunny laughter. I hugged her warm-smelling bare shoulders, and we left the park. Here, I accidentally noticed Yashar with a camera on his chest on an upland at the "Moscow" hotel. He had left the press conference. I asked him to take a photo of us.

At first, Rena stood on my right side then quickly changed her place standing on my left side ready to be photographed once


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more, and said with laughter, “So I am closer to your heart.” She said quietly, but Yashar heard that apparently, since he smiled and took another picture.

Two days later, when I showed Rena our color photos, she was looking at them at first with admiration, but then suddenly reprimanded.

“How come?” She reproached me. “I smile like a careless girl, and you are so serious in both pictures as if you are not happy at all to be photographed together. You could’ve hinted me to have a serious behavior at the shooting. And now, what will people say?”

“What will they say?” I laughed, pressing her to my chest. “Only one thing. What a pretty girl is there. Look at her gorgeous hair, beautiful eyes, elegant smile, and attractive talisman!”

“You’re right.” Rena was sincerely glad. “The talisman is visible very clearly. That’s the main thing.” She smiled happily.

“Look,” I said. “The whole city is in full view- the seaside park, the Maiden’s Tower, our Television and Radio Committee, "Nor Intourist" hotel, the sea. Years later, we’ll see and remember how close and dear all these were to us.” That’s what I said to Rena then.




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There were still remaining those dark shady alleys where we kissed, away from curious eyes. The overwhelming nostalgia for those long-time familiar and native places was making my heart creeping and my soul to turn upside down.

“My God, did all this really happened, and will I meet my wonderful beloved Rena tomorrow? “

I turned on symphonic music. The dead apartment like instantly came to life and started to breathe. Overflows and murmurs of melodies carried me to another, amazing and fantastic world with its sudden thunder and warm heavy rains, star-winged snowflakes softly descending onto Rena’s sweet face, the neigh of a tied horse was ringing in the fog, the ringing of the neck bells of the grazing cows when they were moving slowly on the glade... Countless visions followed each other- Either Rena and I were on the beach in Bilgia or in Nabran or we were walking around the seaside park, and I was whispering her the words of love quietly. Sometimes the melody gradually was weakening, fading in the rustling of foliage. It was falling like a waterfall, and then was soaring upward easily and cheerfully sometimes, was running through a forest with a breeze. And Rena and I were walking through this forest, and the red-beaked little bird was trilling especially for Rena, and the trees were swaying under the light rustle of the breeze. Orchestra was moaning like a string, and this whole stream of sounds was not in another place, but inside me, deep

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inside my soul... I went to bed late and woke up in the morning by some strange voices. A dense crowd of demonstrators with threatening calls was going to the sea, towards the Government House.


CHAPTER 38

After putting my clothes on and having a cup of coffee I headed to the savings bank. I handed my savings book and waited for the service. The administering lady with my book in her hand, went up by the wooden stairs to the second floor and returned after a while. There was an underlined politeness in her behavior towards me. She found my card, wrote down the amount - 40917 rubles – on a piece of paper and handed it over.

“Fill in the expenditure order,” she said with the same highlighted flattering politeness, “and come after the break at three PM.”

“I’ll get the money, will buy white roses and go straight to Karina,” I thought with thrill and enthusiasm inspired by the sweet dream of the upcoming meeting with Rena. I wanted to say thank you to this kind woman for the thought that I would see Rena very soon. I decided certainly to leave her some money, two hundred rubles to be exact.

I was already at the savings bank at few minutes to three PM. Above, from Armenikend, a crowd was passing by the Lenin


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Avenue, resembling a turbid black river coming, that was out from its banks. One could’ve heard the savage cries of the people from the crowd. "Karabagh is ours, Karabagh is ours", "Allah Akbar, Allah Akbar, ordumuz dakhima olsun muzafar"82, "Long Live Turkey!", "Return Aliyev". "Glory to the heroes of Sumgayit!" There were women and school-age children among them.

I quickly crossed the street and saw the same woman who had treated me so kindly earlier. She was standing on the stairs at the entrance to the savings bank. She did not take her eyes off the crowd, and suddenly I noticed that she was pointing at me with her eyes. It lasted some half a second or so. But that was enough for several people to be separated from the crowd and at the next moment to be rushed towards me.

All this had happened so quickly, that I did not even have chance to look at that woman again. The first blow was inflicted on the head and felt warmth of the blood on my face. Jostling each other the attackers were eager to hit me personally. The next blow was on my face, and a strange thing was, that my mind was acting explicitly and distinctly. “They will kill me now”, I thought.

I didn’t sense fright or fear. The strange thing was that I didn’t feel pain either. The strikes were coming from all sides. Shoving me down, falling and rising with me along, they were

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pushing me to the middle of the street. The other blow hit my left eye with something hard. It seemed, that the eye had exploded. I was trying to open my eye but couldn’t succeed it. They were shouting, scolding. However, I did not understand anything. They were beating me on all sides, and I felt that my mouth was getting filled with salty blood. Once again, I felt a warm stream of blood, but at this time – on my body. Someone rose an iron bar above my head, I managed to fix this creature in a half-second - lanky, with a drooling mouth and a face distorted with rage; “Ermeni syan-olmyali syan”83 he said angrily, vigorously lowering the metal rod on me. I dodged, and the rod fell on someone’s head. He fell on the ground with wild scream. Another hit fell on my arm. The strike wasn’t with the rod. The blow was on my hand. There was a ring on my finger. It flew aside, and few of those ran after, in order to catch it. I wanted to seize the opportunity, but it didn't work out. Three of them were holding and beating me at the same time. I turned quickly and saw the woman from the savings bank in a moment, who was still standing on the stairs and was smiling watching the scene.

They knew everything about this. It flashed through my mind. They knew everything in advance. The rage gave me some kind of a strength, and I shook myself and two of those came off for a moment, but the third one remained firmly clutched, so, I could


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not escape. I was in the unbuttoned imported coat, and I simply slipped out of it and at the same time out of the jacket, they remained in the hands of the guy who had been holding me. Taking advantage of instant confusion - three of them were searching the pockets of my clothes, others were helping their friend covered with blood, the rest were looking for the ring - I rushed to the nearest gateway. Realizing what was going on, the crowd rushed after me with a hoot, and those who had been looking for the ring, joined it, but stood at the gate shouting, not daring to come into a strange courtyard. They might’ve been unfamiliar to these places; they had no idea that the courtyard had an exit way onto Lenin Avenue.

I ran to the opposite side, wiping the blood from my face and rushed in panic stricken toward the eighth police station at the entrance of which a policeman was standing, and looking unconcerned at what was happening. It became clear to me, that the only way to escape was to deny my Armenian identity.

“I am not an Armenian, I am a Jew,” I blurted out, running up to the policeman. “They think I am an Armenian.”

“Everything is possible in nowadays,” the policeman said, pushed me to the next entrance and closed the door behind me.

I heard how my pursuers ran up to him and asked.

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“Have you seen an Armenian here?” “No,” the policeman replied. “He ran somewhere here.”

“There are no Armenians here,” the policeman’s reply was curt.

At that very moment, a few steps from the entrance the crowd found a new victim. I saw a dozen feet trampling a man on the ground through the door slit. As for my pursuers, they ran after another victim. I barely was staying on my feet, leaning on the cold wall of the portal. My knees were shaking, I knew - if I sat down or fell, I could not stand anymore. I knew that if I’ll sit or fall to the ground, I will never be able to stand on my feet.

I was trembling all over my body, my teeth were gnashing, either from the cold, or the wounds.

“Are you still alive?” The policeman asked, entering inside quickly.

“Yeah,” I nodded, “alive.”

“I will call an ambulance now. As the vehicle approaches, I will open the door immediately and you have to manage in that moment to throw yourself into the car. You got it?” “I got it.”

The policeman went out in a hurry. I stayed in the same position. A new crowd was coming along Lenin Avenue, shaking white metal rods above their heads. That was a bunch

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of roaring beasts, and their end not to be seen. The walls were shaking from their shouting and screaming, "Long live Turkey", "Gorbachev is with us", "Gyryn Ermanilari”, "Ermanilar rad olsun"84, "Glory to the hero-city Sumgayit!"

Someone was knocked to the ground, and then he appeared above the crowd, as if was swimming in the air with his buggy eyes and mouth wide open. For a brief moment only, I noticed that was a young boy. The crowd threw him down. For another moment he was surrounded by the mob. And finally, the crowd drew back. He was concentrated, stopped, and for a moment the boy was lying on the ground and his head was in the puddle of blood.

In front of the police station building, a piano was thrown from the house adjacent to the “Shaf cinema. Next, after piano, was thrown a gray-haired lady. The woman fell on the asphalt, two steps away from the armchair, in the blood, but was moving. I noticed how she was crawling a little further. Probably in a state of shock, she was trying to ascend.

Two guys caught her by the hair, dragged her to the piano, and tied to it with boisterous guffaw. One could’ve clearly seen and hear all these horrorous things. Someone splashed petrol, and the woman along with piano, were ignited at once. They threw various items of the household, and also books into the fire from the second-floor balcony. From time to time I heard desperate,


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heart-rending screams from the street and the surrounding nearby houses.

A group of guys surrounded the old woman at the cinema Shafag. It seemed they were talking quietly, but after a minute or two the guys walked away, and the old woman stayed on the sidewalk. I saw it. Again, I heard a heart-rending female screams, inconsolable baby cry, and the gunshots.

I could see the ambulance car through the door gap, the driver quickly opened the back door, and the policeman just as quickly opened the door of the portal, and I pounced somehow into the car. The ambulance driver moved and drove the car in the opposite lane without closing the back door.

Later I was wondering, and now I wonder, from where did this unnatural force in an exhausted and drained of blood man come from?

“Those are animals,” the ambulance doctor said in Russian, “animals in human form, the human beasts.”

She turned to me and shook her head sympathetically. “Be patient, we’ll get there soon.

But I was feeling that my strength was leaving me, as if I was bleeding. I heard a heart slicing scream of a boy at the Nasimi District Party Committee building.




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The car abruptly turned from Lenin Avenue onto Suren Hovsepyan Street and rushed up. And again, the noise and screams, and shouts. I pressed myself against the window and immediately recoiled in horror. At the intersection of Hovsepyan and Bakikhanov streets, a one-legged disabled person was thrown from the top floor, I saw him flying upside down with the crutch in his hand. Another man was lying in the Yerevan Alley by the restaurant "Mughan". Slowly, on all fours, he moved from his place, rose, stood for a moment covered in blood and like a cut tree collapsed stretching his arms forward.

The car turned left Near the Shahumyan Culture House and along Chorord (Fourth) Nagornaya Street rushed straight along the tram rails to the Semashko hospital. Some teenagers were carrying a TV in between the houses, and the people were lying motionless here and there. I saw that someone was throwing various things from the balcony and windows of the fourth floor, and the crowd below, young and old, and even women with dyed hair, were grabbing thrown suitcases, carpets and running away with their loot at the intersection of Samad Vurghun Street near the executive Committee of the Nasimi District. It didn't seem like it was happening in real life, it was a dream, a total nightmare.




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I was thinking all the time how to introduce myself to the hospital staff. It was not safe to introduce myself with an Armenian surname, but I didn’t want to present myself by another last name. It’s amazing but I was threatened not so much by death, as by death in obscurity with a false name. Finally, I decided to modify my last name so that anyone who knows me, will be able immediately realize who really is under that name.

“Nationality? - That was the first question I was asked in the waiting room of the Semashko hospital.

“Jew,” I replied. “Aduntsman Leo.” “And the father’s85 name?”
“Leonid,” I said confidently, “Leo Leonidovich”

The doctor, who was a portly lady with henna dyed hair, looked at me with a little faith.

“Good,” she said and ordered, turning to someone. “Call a

Jewish doctor.”

“Why?” asked another.

“Let them talk in Hebrew,” was the answer.

It was clear that this was about European Jews who speak Yiddish based on some German dialect. I wasn’t suppressed at all. I once intended to read "Faust" in original. I had seriously studied German for several months, even I knew "Marienbad Elegy" in German by heart. The Jews are smart nation, I encouraged myself, if I will say a few words in German, it will

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be clear what the matter is, and hopefully I will get some help.

The nurse who was sent to call a Jewish doctor, returned with nobody.

“All Jews have gone home,” she said.

“Everyone?” the doctor strictly asked.

“Everyone,” she confirmed.

“Okay,” after thinking a little bit the doctor conceded. “We’ll find that out on Monday. They come to work anyway.”

They took off all my blood-soaked clothes but gave nothing in return. I stayed in shorts and barefoot. I’ve stood in the cold reception room, and my head and sides were still bleeding. There was noise, crying, and moans around.

“Bu Ermanidi -This is Armenian” suddenly one of the nurses screamed, pointing at me, “Armenian”

The thin face and sharp look of the nurse seemed familiar to me too, but where I have seen her, I couldn’t recall.

“This is an Armenian,” she said with a furious outburst, “I am telling you, Armenian.”

“Maybe you are mistaken?” another woman said to her. “His face is completely swollen. There is no single place alive on his body. How did you recognize him?”

“She confuses me with someone else,” I tried to defend myself with the last strength.


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“No, he is an Armenian, Ermanidi,” she repeated with hatred.

But since my affiliation with the Jews was still impossible to exclude despite the protests of the nurse, they sent me to the surgical department.

The surgeon was a highlander Jew. He immediately began to treat the wound on my head. It was then that the stubborn nurse went into his office.

“This is an Armenian,” she screamed again, “there’s no need to bandage his head.”

“It is your business whom should I help and whom – not. You were the one sending him here,” the surgeon calmly objected, treating the wound as if nothing had happened. “And since the man is already here, even if he is from Africa, I will do everything necessary.”

“A dog is born of a dog, a man is born of a man, - the doctor said with a deep sigh when the nurse left. “Of these, the beast can only be born -the two-legged beast. The streets of Baku are full of them today. The ones like her have whelped them...

The main thing is to treat the wounds on the head,” he explained rather late, “but I don’t have time to treat a wound on your side, you see how many people there are outside waiting for medical assistance?”




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The corridor’s scene was really terrible -bloody, crazy people with faces of traces of beatings, humiliation, and torture, moans, tears, sobbing.

“Mostly these are your compatriots,” the doctor said. “They hide their nationality from fear, but still, they are your compatriots,” and he muttered as if to himself after a pause, “Why does God put such a severe test on his subjects, for what sin?”

The surgeon put six stitches on my wound on my head, a few more under my eye and on my chin.

Still naked, barefoot, I somehow slammed the door into the corridor and slowly pulled to the side with my back to the wall.

It was cold, my whole body was shaking. It seemed, that either the desire to sleep was overcoming, or the nightmare was wrapping me up, and with an irresistible temptation the floor attracting me and pulling to the ground, but I still continue standing on my feet. Little by little my strength was gone, my knees buckled themselves, and tired and weakened, I sat on the floor naked and barefoot immediately feeling the chill of it. My whole body was aching, my mouth was getting dry frequently. But nobody cared about me. I heard some disconnected conversations about a ship full of Armenians that has crashed, children who were slaughtered in Pervomaysky lane, a dozen of very young pretty Armenian women that were

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kidnapped to be transported to Turkey in order to be sold to the night clubs.

I was tired to death and exhausted from these endless tortures, incessant cries, heavy moans, and exclamations. Gradually all those cries, lamentations, and groans merged into a distant and indistinguishable hum.

I’ve clearly understood that sometimes I’ve lost my consciousness. I felt that blood was seeping from the wound and I also felt the warmth of that blood on my body all the time. I also felt that someone called my name. I was stunned as I hadn’t told my name the doctors. Later I felt nauseous, my head got warm and stiffened. In that soft felt slumber and drowsiness with extreme clarity I saw again that woman from the Savings bank, standing on the stairs smiling, then the curtain barely moved, then the features of their faces have been mixed, and I was unable to distinguish, who is that respectful bank lady and who is the hostile nurse. I was in a feverish, delusional, semi-conscious state, sometimes was forgetting where I was in fact and what kind of noise was around; it seemed to me that I had been here for a long time, but on the contrary, it was also felt like always the same day.

Then the day got dark, then light, then dark again, or maybe, they were just turning the lights on and off in the room. Sometimes it seemed to me that they were going to take me


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somewhere, and that they were arguing, and because of me. Through the veil of the total slumber, I noticed a group of young men and ladies in doctors’ white coats. I did not doubt for some reason - those were the students of the Medical Institute and Rena was among them... Exactly, she was among them, I saw her... if only she wouldn’t notice me and not come, not see... After a while, it seemed to me I clearly heard Rena’s voice. My God, I didn’t want her to see me in this state, I didn’t want. I didn’t have enough strength to open my eyes and see her, I only was hearing her voice. “I miss you”, Rena said, her voice was more than clear, “I miss you,” she repeated, “but I can’t do anything, I can’t reach you...” Rena’s voice was going away, her voice seemed to me sad for some reason. “Come with me,” she said, “we will go to another planet where the laws and people are different, completely different from those here on the Earth...”

I was trying to open my eyes, but as if they were heavy lead plates on my lids, I was trying to stand up and approach Rena, but my legs were not obeying me, and I didn’t have strength for calling her to me either.

Then there was a white horse in the meadow with red, blood-soaked looked like tulips. Its head was tilted, and it was looking at me.

Further, it seemed that some mourning music was playing. And again, I was trying to call Rena, to keep her back, but I

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couldn’t, I couldn’t open my lips.

“My God, my God, why did you leave me?” I whispered, losing my last hope, and I felt that a tear was flowing down my cheek, big and heavy. Then everything collapsed at once and plunged into the impenetrable darkness.


CHAPTER 39

I came to my senses in the hospital room.

The air was heavy inside, full of smell of the medical alcohol and freshly washed floors, and seemingly of disgusting urine stench.

The left eye did not see at all, the right one - only through the half-open eyelashes. Yes, it was a hospital room - four beds, roughly painted walls with lime, and a lamp with a power of a hundred and fifty-watt hung from the ceiling on a torn-down electrical wire. All the beds in the room: two at the right side of the wall, and the other two on the left wall, along with their adjacent drawers, were occupied. My bed was to the right of the door. I divided all the ones in the room into digits and numbered them. To the left of the door was the number one. Closer to the window was the number two, against the number two on the right was the number three. And I was the number four.

“Hafiz, look, what did they do, what have the poor guy been brought to,” the number one said with laughter, getting out

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of bed. “Vallah, like a thousand bees attacked him at once.” “Allahverdi, Ataganyn Jany86, look, what a terrible thing is to be an Armenian in Baku. And not only to be, but even to

be look like them.” This was the number two.

“Maybe he is already dead?” The one who was called Allahverdi carefully approached and stood beside me for a short time. “No, he seems to be breathing. Young guy. They’ve beated him severely, assuming he is Armenian.”

I felt from the slippers’ sound that he went back again and sat on his bed.

“Ataghanyn Jany, terrible pogroms and robberies are going on in the city. They are some that become millionaire in a day.” I already distinguished their voices; that was Hafiz.

“Right, there are terrible pogroms and robberies in the city,” Allahverdi confirmed as if regretting that they have to be in the hospital at such an opportune time. “Karabagh – that’s where you have to exterminate them, not here. There are eleven thousand wagons of weapons in Aghdam against Iran. If there is so much in Aghdam, imagine, how many they have in the other places. We have to use this weapon not against Iran, but the Armenian rebels in Nagorno Karabagh; Zhanna Galustyan, Zori Balayan, Serzh Sargsyan, Robert Kocharyan, Maksim Mirzoyan, Manucharov, Igor Muradyan, we have to destroy and rob them all. We need to destroy all these separatists one by one secretly. Those are the ones who turbid

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the water. They came to us, and we gave them land for habitat. And now they have that idea constituting a sin, to take over those lands and unite with Armenia. Why? Are the present landlords already dead?

“That’s right,” Hafiz approved. “They bring their khachkars87 by planes and drop them in the woods, and then, they say, look, here are our historical and architectural monuments.”

“Come on, Hafiz, what kind of monuments? If it’s necessary, we will blow all of them up, level to the ground as we did in Julfa, who cares? If you are powerful, you are the master. The weak is always guilty in front of the strong. There is neither love, nor salvation, anywhere for the weak. I am not saying this, but Nekrasov88 did more than a hundred years ago. And Aristotle’s thought that the truth is above all is total stupidity. Oil, for example, is more precious than truth. It was so, it will be so. And the Karabakh issue is not just a subject of keeping Karabakh in Azerbaijan.

There is another issue of returning Zangezur to Azerbaijan, where we will finally achieve our goals of uniting with our brothers in Zangezur.” Allahverdi made a short pause. “Yes, a great future awaits us in the 21st century. Great and light. Slave-Armenians are the temporary barrier for that... our temporary neighbors.”


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“I have to blame ours,” Hafiz sighed... “Why didn’t they exterminate them at all in 1915-1920? On October 1942 Turkey must’ve enter Armenia, Ismet Imenyu’s army readily was waiting to cross the border, but Stalingrad spoiled everything...They have raised their heads again. Ataghanyn Jany, I would’ve hanged all the famous Armenians on the telegraph poles.”

“They have so many famous people that you don’t have enough telegraph poles,” the number three interfered the conversation.

“Ah, so you woke up already”, Allahverdi said. “And we thought you were sleeping.”

“If you thought I was sleeping, why were you talking so loud?” The number three reprimanded.

“Sorry, you’re right,” Hafiz agreed. “Ataghanyn Jany, Vallah, you are absolutely right.”

“My name is Mirali-Muallim.” The third one paused a second and added, “Mirali Seyidov. I work at the Academy of Sciences. What are your names?”

Hafiz and Allahverdi introduced themselves. It turned out that Hafiz works in a taxi park, and Allahverdi works as an editor at one of the publishing houses.

“When they brought me, you were sleeping,” the number three said calmly. “How long have you been here?”


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“Perhaps, two weeks. They brought Hafiz and me almost simultaneously and it seems, we will be checked out from here together too,” Allahverdi smiled broadly. “We are already tired, and the treatment comes to an end. We can take medicines home.”

“I have hypertension”, complained the number three, Mirali Muallim. “Sometimes the systolic measures are jumping over two hundred. That feels horrible. As it grabs by the neck and shakes so badly, that seems my head is teared off. But then, who is that fellow over there?” he wondered apparently about me, “obviously, his health condition is terrible, as he moans and raves all the time”.

“He seems to be a Jew. He was brought here. Within two days four people left this mortal world from that bed. All Armenians, all beaten, terribly distorted. I wrote down their names, I should give the guys.”

“I wonder what the doctors inject them that they die in a couple of hours. Ataghanyn Jany, the head physician Jhangir Huseynov should be given the title of the national hero. I’m telling you.”

“We thought this one had already died too,” Allahverdi laughed, “but no, he is breathing.”







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“Well, since he is breathing, he hasn’t died yet,” Hafiz quipped, and he cackled over his quip himself. “It seems he was terribly beaten.”

For a moment, everyone was silent. I did not see those two, but Allahverdi was standing right in front of me, I discerned him-thick-lipped, with shaggy eyebrows, protruding Adam’s apple, wide nostrils. He had sparse hair that was falling on his forehead which he was flipping back, and tedious eyes, which have the ones, who just have smoked a good portion of hashish. This hunk was about thirty-five. He was speaking slowly, and the words seemed to slip lazily from his, yellow from the smoke, mustache.

“Hafiz let’s go to smoke,” Allahverdi suggested; I heard the sound of his slippers on the floor again.

I saw Hafiz too - medium height, dry face covered with small wrinkles and with bald head glistening under the light and stretched like a melon. They went out of the room. There was a long silence. The number three might have immersed into reading, I was hearing clearly how he was turning the following page.


CHAPTER 40

“Ya Allahi Bismillahi Rakhmani Rahim88. Ataghanyn Jany, what only they don’t tell,” Hafiz said with rapturous enthusiasm, returning to the room sometime later. “There is

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a turmoil on the seashore, just like in September 1918: a huge commotion, relatives lose each other, parents lose their children, brother -his sister, spouses – each other. Whoever without the money, recklessly throw himself to the sea to reach the steamship and soon being drown in an unequal struggle with the waves.

They set the Armenians on fire and throw down from the upper floors. And the dump trucks hastily collect the killed ones from the courtyards and streets. While at the Sabunchu railway station, they say, they make a barbecue of young Armenian women and have a feast.”

“Hafiz, did you eat a barbecue of an Armenian pretty girl?” Allahverdi asked, laughing under his mustache.

“No,” Hafiz shook his head and moved to his bed. “I wonder what taste she has.” His voice came from there. “Ataganyn Jany, I never ate barbecue made of Armenian women, or the pork.” He laughed. “This is not enough to them, one should destroy them completely, leaving just one for the museum sample, as the German Kaiser Wilhelm used to say.”

“I called my brother,” Allahverdi continued. “So, he says, the memorial to twenty-six commissars has been destroyed totally; the sculptures of Merkurev have been broke. Almost for two hours they are trying to break the door to the Armenian Church, but the door is firm. So, some of the guys had climbed


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into the dome, had broken the cross on top, and penetrate inside. They have thrown out and burn everything handy: various paintings, books with crosses on the covers. Somebody has written with a piece of coal on the wall of the church “Public Toilet” with huge letters. People have been gathered and applauded, laughed. The monuments of Kirov and Lenin were dismantled and thrown aside, too. But there were magnificent monuments. Anyway, Russians are running, too.

“Why Russians?” Mirali-Muallim asked.

“Because they understand that after the Armenians, their turn will come. Lists of the Russians living in the city are ready. By special order, they have not received their pensions for the second month, and they can’t buy even bread, as it is not being sold to them, like to Armenians. So... Who does not know that the Russian is the eternal enemy of the Turk? Let them go to their country, this is our land, our land is for us but no one else. They say all the walls are full of banners - Russians, do not leave, we need serfs. Not bad, huh? My brother lives next door to a Russian family. I used to live with my brother before, I know them all. So, they’ve forced the entrance and have broken in their apartment. They’ve hit hard on that Russian’s head, isolating him and securing themselves, and then six of them have raped his wife, Galina Ilyinichna, and daughter Olga, who was only twelve years old and very pretty. They also have a four-year-old daughter, Marina. But

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while the group was breaking the entrance door, those Russians have managed to hide her under the sofa in the kitchen, so they didn’t notice her. They have raped another two or three Russian girls in different places and have expelled several families from their own apartments. They’ve killed one in the city center - Alexander Gavryushin, who was forty years old. He seemed to be trying to protect his wife and daughter with an ax, whom then raped about twenty people. The stupid Russian. Say, what could one do against twenty people? Because of this incident, they say, there is a panic among the Russians and in today’s papers poet Bakhtiyar Vahabzade has addressed them not to leave the city.

“But that is a futile undertaking” Hafiz reacted joyfully. “Let them go, that’s even better. Their houses and property will remain to us.”

“I forgot to say that they are taking photo and video cameras from Russian and foreign journalists and are breaking them. That is right thing to do. Otherwise, they will spread false news about us throughout the world. Oh, yeah,” Allahverdi laughed heartily. “They demolished the monument to Marshal Baghramyan in Kirovabad and broke down the monument to Shahumyan where they placed a dog on its pedestal.”

“Good job!” Hafiz was delighted.


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“Extraordinary Commissioner for the Caucasus, well, satisfied? Vallah, that is still not enough. We need to demolish the memorial of twenty-six commissioners, it is necessary to destroy to the ground and say that all eight Armenian commissioners were not killed but fled to India.”

From the disabled people’s building in Kirovabad, one of those groups has pulled out twelve Armenians— eleven women and a man — and have buried them alive in about forty kilometers from the city on the bank of the Kura River. In the same manner six other people were buried at Hajikend. Some say that they saw from the helicopter people, who got hung from the trees in one of the suburbs of Khanlar.

“Ah, well done, ah, great,” Hafiz was inspired and delighted again. “It is needed to be necessary to ruin and destroy the Armenian cemeteries, too. I am sure, that our government will be on it. It is necessary also immediately to substitute the names of the streets of the city and the region around that are Armenian with Azerbaijani. What are those: Zavokzalni, Kantapinski, Arushanovski, Nagorni, russki, armyanski? All of these need to be changed and erased. This is not Russian or Armenian city, but Azerbaijani. And since it is our city, the streets must be named only by our respected men. And that will be done. You’ll see.”


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“And what did they think? It is estimated that only in Baku and its suburbs ninety-two thousand houses and apartments will be freed,” Allahverdi said.

“Each and every Azerbaijani family coming from Armenia will get three apartments. Let them live and enjoy those Armenian houses. It is enough to suffer at their hands. Professor Vagif Arzumanov has broken the wall common with his Armenian neighbor and has drove them from there to the street.”

“Ataghanyn Jany, I am going home, I also need an apartment,” Hafiz exclaimed. “I’ll check out from the hospital today. The City Council has adopted a special resolution - to occupy the apartments of Armenians. I’ll get a house, too.”

“Hafiz, listen to this funny story. There are some nineteen Armenians are on the second floor. The medical personnel put them all into the six-bedded room. They’ve lost their human appearance. Imagine, nineteen distorted and wounded people in a five or six-bedded ward. A real gas chamber without any help. Azerbaijani doctors and other patients are coming from different floors, insult with the last words, and beat them unmercifully. Two men and an eighty-year-old woman died tonight. It must be either from the stuffiness or from thirst.”




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“I am telling you” Hafiz said excited. “The chief physician must receive the title of hero. Let them all be slayed. Listen to this. A Turk is dying. He calls the mullah and ask to help him to be converted into Christianity and says,

“I want to become an Armenian.”

Mullah helps to convert his faith. In his last breath this man says, “What a bliss, one more Armenian is passing away!” He said and laughed for a long time.

“Those Armenians have opposed the door with beds and so, just that the Azeris weren’t be able to enter in, as if barricaded themselves.” Allahverdi continued. “They want Karabagh, you see, miasun, miasun” he drawled. “So, go get your miasun now.”

“Not Miasun, but Miatsum-reunion” the number three corrected. “Japan too, for instance, wants "Miatsum", in other words to be united with the lost islands demanding their return. Those are Shikotan, and other islands of the Kuril Chain - Kunashir, Iturup, and Habomai. Why do the Russians not cut the Japanese people?

Russians in Crimea staged a demonstration demanding the reunion of Crimea and the Russian Federation. In Moscow very prominent figures, like Luzhkov and others support them in this matter. Why do Ukrainians not slaughter the Russians in Crimea?


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Basques in Spain require self-determination and independence, but no one touches them with a finger in Spain.

The same with the Scots in the United Kingdom.

There are plenty of examples of this kind. Everything in the civilized world is in the order of things. We respond to the peaceful demonstration in Stepanakert with the Sumgayit massacre, with bestial rape of old women and children. What do the poor Sumgait Armenians have to do with the rallies some four hundred kilometers away? No connection at all.

“But we were massacred in Kapan”, that was Allahverdi again. “If we are serious people,” Miali Mualim said with extremely calm voice, “and we speak seriously, then we should not make the topic of our conversation stupid street rumors and some deliberate scams in the papers. There are facts and there are thought-out assumptions. They are different things and we are required only to speak the language of facts. So, as a Doctor of Science, as a seventy-year-old man, who knows several languages, including Armenian, I read their press and historians, but not in translation to be deliberately distorted. In other words, I declare with all responsibility that no Azeri killings were committed in Kapan. It’ all false. My son, I ‘ll not say his workplace, but he occupies high position. I assure you that he knows the truth. All the rest of what TV broadcasts or papers mimic is pure politics far from the truth.”

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“In any case, Armenians should not have demanded Karabagh from us," Allahverdi said, leaning back on the bed and yawning again.

"I agree with you on this matter," Mirali Mualalim replied to him. “Let's say why.”

Allahverdi nodded and looked intently at the interlocutor. "First, let me say that Karabakh is just a pure area for us, meanwhile for them it is a sacred homeland, and secondly, Armenians should not have demanded Karabakh from us, as Karabakh, like Nakhichevan, was not seized from Armenia by Azerbaijan," he continued. “In 1921, according to the Moscow treaty, Mount Ararat, along with the adjacent Armenian regions, was given to Turkey, instead of receiving Batumi, which joined Georgia. Therefore, here I agree with you, Armenians should demand Karabakh not from Azerbaijan, but from Moscow, who is the author of these inter-ethnic conflicts and hostilities.”

There was silence.

Allahverdi’s furry eyebrows crawled up in surprise, his greasy wet lip drooped even more, he stood up heavily, hit his knee with his hand and burst out laughing from the heart, clutching his stomach. He was laughing for a long time, and without interruption refered to Hafiz.

“Bro, do you want to smoke?”


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“Ataganyn Jany, I want it a lot,” Hafiz said. “Let’s go to the second floor and see whether they haven’t slaughtered those coward Armenians yet. They’ve pulled out a few dozens of Armenians from the hospital departments and have taken them in an unknown direction.”

They left the room with laughter. There was silence after they closed the door.

A fly that had come from somewhere was circling in the room, buzzing monotonously; one could hear how it was continually hitting the glass. Then the humming stopped; the fly might have managed to fly away. Again, it became quiet, calm. Probably, Mirali-Muallim was plunged into reading again, as I was hearing the rustle of pages from time to time.

I tried to move. But it was hard to do so, that, the pain was breathtaking. The mattress was wet from blood, I could feel it on my back. None of the doctors was approaching me. I touched my wound with my hand, and my fingers immediately got damped from the blood drops. I did not know what will gonna happen to me. Will Zarmik realize about my location? Does he know my last name? When we took the plane tickets, he looked at my ticket, but did he









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read my last name? However, if he meets with Rena, she will tell him. I would not want Rena to come and see me in this state here. God forbid. On the other hand, even if Zarmik knows my last name, it is unlikely for him to realize that I am Aduntsman? Siyavush would understand, but he – hardly would. What if Zarmik himself fell into the hands of those killers, and who knows, if he is alive. That villain nurse managed to sow doubt among the medical personnel, otherwise at least one of them would’ve approach me. It seemed to me that if none of the doctors approached me until morning, I would simply bleed to death. I tried to move, but couldn’t succeed, as I crouched in place from severe pain. “Do you feel bad?” I heard the voice of Mirali-Muallim.

I tried to open my mouth, but in vain. He slowly stepped toward me.

He was a thick-lipped, fat, gray-haired old man with thick mustache; Muallim was looking at me, squinting his eyes. “Do you feel bad?” He repeated. “Do you see me?” I nodded “Yes, I do.”

“Does anyone of your close ones know that you are here? I shook my head “No.”

“Do you have a phone? Give me the number and I’ll call them.”





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I silently looked at him, and he probably understood everything.

“Life is like a theater, where the best places are occupied by stupid ones,” he looked at me with an attentive and compassionate gaze.

“Do you have a close friend among the Azerbaijanis? I can call him.”

A weak glimmer of hope burst into my soul, and I looked at him with gratitude. I moved my lips by effort and pronounced the name. “Siyavush.” “The actor Siyavush?”


I shook my head, “No.”

“Siyavush Sarkhanly?”

I shook my head again. “No.”

Having made incredible exertion because of a severe pain at the corners of my mouth, I barely audible pronounced Siyavush’s last name.

“Ah!” Mirali-Muallim was delighted. “Siyavush Mamedzade. A very good guy, I know him. You do not worry,” he said quietly in Armenian, and his voice sounded so friendly, “I will call him. Do you remember his number? If you do not even remember, it does not matter, I will find it myself. Do not worry, everything will be fine.”

I somehow let him know that I remember the phone number, and I drew the digits in the air with my finger.

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Mirali-Muallim wrote down them on paper following the movement of my finger carefully and showed me - 964658. “Right?”

“Yes,” I nodded as a sign of confirmation and gratefully looked at him.

“I’ve written a big book about Sayat-Nova,” he said in the same friendly tone, but in Azerbaijani and throwing jacket on his shoulders, he left the ward.


CHAPTER 41

I had lost my sense of time and space. I didn’t know where I was, and for how long was here. Life in the hospital also seemed got stopped. And where are the neighbors, why no one is there? Or is it night already and everyone is already asleep?

Someone entered – a young one, in a white robe, and a white cap of the same fabric on his head. I was looking ed at the guy in the white robe and at first didn’t notice Siyavush who had entered after him and was attentively looking at me. He had already turned back, intending to leave.

“That’s me, Siyavush, that’s me,” I tried somehow to imply who I am. “Help, please.”

“We are here just for that reason,” the guy in the white robe smiled, turning back.

Siyavush hurriedly approached and almost knelt down in front of me.

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“Leo, what did they do to you?” He said, unable to hold tears and anger. “I did not recognize you. Why did not you call me? Were you really here in the city?”

I could not reply but made him clear that I will explain everything later.

“I got home late last night, at midnight. I walked from my sister’s home. Can you imagine? No mode of any transportation. Nothing works,” Siyavush explained. “Leo, awful, terrible things are happening, you just cannot imagine. As soon as I crossed the threshold, Valya said that somebody had called from Semashko hospital, telling us to come urgently. They had left nothing: neither name, nor surname, nor even the branch or room number. I found Natig, he is a doctor at the pediatric division. We came here together and checked the patients’ reception journal, could hardly find the name Aduntsman. I realized immediately that was you,” he smiled. “Well done, man, otherwise, we would be looking for you for two days in all compartments. I remembered that Mirali-Muallim had not asked me for a name or surname, and I hadn’t guessed of telling him that. Anyway, I was very grateful to him.”

“I see the wounds on your head,” Natig said, bringing the stool closer to him. “Do you have them somewhere else?”

I threw back the blanket. He saw my wound, and shook his


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head squeezing his lips.

“F. those who called them doctors...” he said with a fury. “Their Hippocratic oath and the diploma that was bought, but not earned.” he wasn’t getting calm. “F... those, who consider these beasts human beings.”

“I was bleeding whole night,” I said.

Natig went out, brought from somewhere cotton and medication, and started to treat the wound.

Siyavush was looking at me from under his glasses and smiling sympathetically.

“You are lucky,” Natig said after checking the wound, “had they hit a few millimeters to the right, the strike could’ve reach to your kidney. In that case you would hardly have survived.”

“Should we go to them to say thank you?” Siyavush joked. Having tied up the wound, Natig went to find out the situation.

"Do you know whom I saw at the Reanimation department?" Siyavush suddenly recalled. “I would tell, and you’ll not believe it: The Central Committee section head Kheyrulla Aliyev. Remember, he called you to go to Karabakh? The Central Committee, at Vezirov's recommendation, appointed him the first secretary of the Jalilabad State Committee.

As soon as Kheyrulla has arrived, Miralim Bahramov, the head of the regional branch of the Front, formerly known for

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robbing trains leaving Armenia and selling that loot, ordered him to be driven out of the district. He also ordered Kheyrulla's head and shoulders to be smashed with an iron bar.

Two teachers, with the help of a local guy, somehow rescued him and brought him to Baku. Otherwise, he would’ve been thrown into his burning car. It has been two weeks since his consciousness is lost, and he does not recover yet. What is Central Committee here now? Nothing. The people's Front considers itself to be the master in the republic...”

Before he could finish speaking, Mirali-Muallim entered the room with a jacket on his shoulders and seeing Siyavush, joyfully greeted him.

“You have come,” he said. “Very good. I was about to call you again.”

“So, that was You Mirali-Muallim!” Siyavush said rising rapidly from his place and respectfully shook his hand. “Thanks. You did not say a name or surname. Maybe my wife did not get everything.”

“True, I forgot to ask your friend’s name, but I think I told the room number. Probably your wife misunderstood. No problem, the main thing is that you are here.”

In my turn, I thanked Mirali-Muallim, nodding. I realized that will never forget neither his kind act, nor his kind face. “And what happened to you?” Siyavush asked.


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“Siyavush, I am hypertonic,” Mirali-Muallim explained, frowning. “God forbid, they are treating me, how successful - we’ll see. I need some rest, a quiet life, however... Is it possible to think about peaceful life when there is anarchy all around...?” He paused and then added. “Chauvinists from the National Front want to gain independence, mercilessly shedding the blood of thousands of innocent and defenseless people, brutally killing, raping old women and robbing everything. Siyavush, is this a national self-consciousness and democracy, mercilessly killing people on a national basis, expelling them from their homes where their grandfathers were born, is a monstrous crime against justice and God,” Mirali-Muallim shook his head heavily.

“Someone has just told me that in the "Shafag" cinema the surviving Armenians have been brought, disabled and tortured, from different places, the police coolly take their jewelry, and even their last pennies, insult them, tear their passports and other documents. They take everything from people, leaving only the right to think and suffer feeling hopeless. Who are we, from where are we coming, where are we going, Siyavush, I don’t get it. Will God forgive us for all this? Would the others forgive us?” “

I am not sure about the others, but we do not have right to forgive ourselves. Mirali Muallim, I have an Armenian friend from Karabagh in Bayilov, His name is Sergey Petrosov. He

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was an engineer at the Air-conditioning factory, a famous rationalizer. I’ve prepared a TV program about him last year; I had been his home a couple of times. In short, he had a daughter called Lola, she was twenty years old. She was so pretty. Her mother was Latvian. In front of the "Nizami" cinema in the presence of a large audience she was raped by a group of people and hung upside down on a tree. Moreover, all this was done in front of her two cousins who were later also cruelly beaten, killed and hung on the trees growing along the street.”

Natig returned unexpectedly, indignant for some reason, but said nothing, most likely being beware of Mirali-Muallim. Siyavush wasn’t able to finish his story.

“What had happened?” He asked and introduced Mirali-Muallim, realizing the subject matter and explaining that was him who had called them.

“There is a disgusting nurse here,” Natig said without constraint. “She walks along the corridors and explains to everyone that there is a wounded Armenian in the section. The representatives of the National Front already know this. One of them even said that if the nurse is telling the truth, it would be necessary to eliminate him.”

“I will call where needed,” Siyavush interfered.

“No,”  Natig  interrupted.  “I  spoke  with  Dr.  Mamedyarov.


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Yunus is a great guy, we will take Leo to him. I would’ve taken him to me, of course, but I already shelter two Armenian families.

“And why not to my place?” Siyavush was offended somehow. “He is my friend after all, I am obliged to...” “No,” Natig interrupted him again. “Your home is not safe. It is filled with crazy poets from morning till night, so they will tell on him to the authorities. Yunus’s house is safer, I know what I’m saying.”

“But I have nothing to wear,” I said quietly, but distinctly. “They took my clothes.”

Natig went to bring my rag but returned in a depressed mood.

“They have an order not to give bloody clothes” he explained. “They are afraid that you will take it to Moscow and present as proof of the pogroms. I only managed to take somehow a pair of large size shoes.”

“Do not worry, put on my raincoat,” said Siyavush, taking off his slicker. “I’ll bring something else to wear tomorrow.” “We’ll get out of the back door,” Natig warned. “I will go first along the corridor, and you follow me, keeping some distance.” I put a raincoat on my naked body, two sizes larger shoes on my bare feet and, exhausted by pain and loss of blood, I left the room. At the last minute, I turned back and nodded with


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gratitude to Mirali Seyidov. He was standing silently, sadly, and lonely by his bedside with a parchment wise unhealthy face and with black circles beneath his eyes because of insomnia. Those two were not there.

I took Siyavush’s arm and almost hung from him. We went out into the corridor and, accompanied by sighs, painful moans and weeping of countless people, slowly followed Dr. Natig.

He drove the car to the door. I turned back and looked at the high-rise buildings behind the Medical Institute almost entirely inhabited by Armenians-the neighborhood called Khutor. Smoke was rising over it here and there, and that thick smoke had covered the sun.

It was there, in May, that the Azerbaijani pack, armed with iron rods, shouting "Let Armenians Got Lost", "Death to Armenians", invaded the village. They had attacked a small yard of Alyosha Aghabekyan beating his teenage sons, dragged women and teenage girls. Alyosha went to the roof and from there shot from the shotgun police Major Fazil Ismailov in civilian clothes. He struck the head of the scramblers, which was made to stop that furious bunch, which was screaming and retreated. They were fleeing and shouting, "Armenians are armed", "They are killing us." This prevented the bloodshed, and later no one dared to enter Khutor. It is interesting how this Alyosha's life was arranged, did he manage to survive...

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“Hurry up, man, there is no time,” Natig rushed me up.

Siyavush helped me to have a seat in the rear of the vehicle.

“Lay down on the backseat, so that no one can see you,” Natig ordered, carefully looking around. “Siyavush, get the front seat, next to me.”


CHAPTER 42

We successfully left the hospital. On the streets, as in Sumgayit in its time, burned cars were still smoking. An ambulance was burning on the tramways near the market in Armenikend district of Baku, a male arm was hanging from its open door. The bonfires were burning here and there. I noticed few overturned kiosks. All Armenikend was lost in smoke. Nearby the market, on the Fabricius Street, a crowd of young guys armed with iron rods made the group of the girls of twenty-twenty five, girls in their underwear, almost naked, walk down to the station. Natig drove the car up at high speed then turned right onto the Inglab Street and rushed towards the stadium. Right before reaching the stadium, near the tram park, two girls rapidly crossed the wide street. One of them in a red dress that was waving in the wind, was very young. The elder one stumbled on the tram rail and knelt, but quickly rose up and looked back; there was a horror in her black eyes. A group of guys was following them, screaming. Their jackal howls disappeared somewhere behind the houses.

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“Natig,” Siyavush said through his teeth with bitterness, “tell me, do we have the right to live in this world?”

“We have,” Natig replied. “But those-not. They and the others like them have no right to live. And also those, who whelped them.”

Through the streets and courtyards, groups of people were running here and there as if in a nightmare. A heart-rending female scream came from somewhere.

Doctor Yunus Mamedyarov was already home. He met us with serious worry. According to him, the bandits from the National Front were going around, and had already come to him, more than once asking whether he was hiding Armenians.

“F. ...their moms,” Yunus cursed rudely, leading me to one of the rooms.

“I have already bandaged the wound,” Natig said efficiently. “I will come to change the bandage and look at the wounds on his head in the morning.”

“I will change it myself,” Yunus objected. “What? Am I not a doctor?”

“You are a doctor, but you don’t have to do,” Natig laughed good-naturedly. “Can we trust you with your iron fingers? I will come and do all the procedures myself.”

Natig was dealing with babies and he really was bandaging with a great care. Certainly, they were joking, perhaps, trying

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to dispel their alarm and soul resentment. Karina’s phone number had remained in my jacket’s pocket. I asked Siyavush to go to the Aviation Ticket Office building, to the apartment forty-three to make inquiries.

“OK,” he promised. “I will find out everything and will come with Natig early in the morning.”

Yunus brought me something to eat, he covered the whole wall with a carpet. A stranger would hardly have guessed that there is another room behind that wall.

I appreciated the Yunus’s precaution later, when several people came to him after a while and started inquiry whether there are Armenians around.

“No,” Yunus said calmly. “You may check if you want.” “What if we check and find?” One of them threatened. “How can you find them, if there is no one?” Yunus replied firmly and a bit rudely as it seemed to me.

I was sitting behind the wall, waiting with trepidation how it would end.

Little by little, the voices got faded and die away. “Thank God,” I thought, “they’d gone away.”

Siyavush and Natig came in the morning as they had promised. But, my God, what had happened to Natig. His face, most likely, was no different from mine. It was swelled up and there was a large black bruise under his eye.


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I immediately realized - that was the nurse’s handiwork. It turned out to be so. Oh, this cruel, bloodthirsty nurse... She informed the National Front that doctor Natig Rasulzade had bandaged an Armenian and brought him out from the hospital. Several people had broken into his office, had trampled him and had crushed chairs over his head. I looked guiltily at him.

“We are still young,” Natig smiled with his swollen lips. “It will be healed before my wedding day would come.”

Siyavush informed me that he went to Karina, but the forty-third apartment had been locked and no one had responded. For some reason, it seemed to me that he hid something from me. I thought it might be he didn’t go, since there was not enough time, but Siyavush dispelled my doubts.

“You know,” he suddenly said, “Sayida lives in the same building.”

“Which one?” I asked in surprise.

“Seyidozaeva. I saw her by chance. She lives on the same

floor, in the forty-fifth apartment. She said some guy was

looking for you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. An Azerbaijani called Zakir. He says you came together with him from Moscow.”


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“Oh, right. I wonder where he is.” I was so happy that Zarmik was alive and well.

“I gave her my phone number. So, he could call, if he was there. By the way, Sayida was very worried about you. But I tell her nothing.”

For few days Natig was coming to bandage me, and I already felt relatively well.

It was time to leave Baku, as the pogroms and killings of Armenians in the city were still continued. But how to leave, since I didn’t have any documents, my passport and all the papers remained in the hands of the bandits.

“You do not worry, man, I know what to do,” Siyavush encouraged me. “The deputy head of the Civil Aviation Department is close to me; I will talk with him.”

The next day Siyavush was in a great mood, he said that he had already made arrangements, and that we would go to the "Bina" airport tomorrow at six AM.

Next day in the morning, Siyavush surprised me more. He had come with Zarmik. This made me happy. I hoped to find out something about Rena and ask him for money.

“Did you go to Karina?” I asked. “Do not you know, if she found Rena? Did she manage to call?”

“She could not,” Zarmik replied. “Do you know how long I was looking for you?” He added quickly. “I have been in all hospitals, morgues, even in Mardakyan, and there were dead,

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hundreds of dead-men, women, children-piled on top of each other like in warehouses. Yesterday, I was at the Government House building. There was a meeting there. I wanted to hear what they are talking about. Here and there were huge bonfires. The day was foggy and chilly. The cold wind was blowing from the sea. I came up the crowd to warm up. A tall guy was telling. “We stopped a car, pulled out an Armenian guy from there and started to beat. And as he stopped resisting, we threw him into the fire. He tried to get out, then one of ours pierced his chest with the sharpened rod. And so, whenever he was moving from the fire, the rod has been stuck deeper in his chest, until he got blazed up.”

And the people around the fire were laughing hearing that story. I left that group. On the Khagani street, near the Park of 26 Commissars, I saw two old women got burned- mother and daughter. That was a nightmare. At the intersection of the Basin Street and Lenin Avenue, from the corner house to the left of the pharmacy, where the "Dinamo" Sporting Goods store is, they threw out a woman with a child off the window. The same was a few dozen steps from there, in a cooperative building, opposite to the Russian church. They dragged a grey-headed, half-naked old woman from the balcony into the room. She was screaming, poor thing, calling for help. Then they threw her and an old man out of the window. The same is throughout whole city, from the center up to the outskirts.

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What is happening? Is this a Soviet country, or O;wi;cim and Buchenwald? How many days have Armenians been slaughtered without pity, robbed, raped, driven naked through the streets and burned in the fires? And where is the state? The government? Gorbachev? Does not Moscow really see all this?” "Moscow has organized it, why doesn't it see?" - Seated in their comfortable armchairs there on top, they are making plans over there to save the regime. Man is absolutely defenseless before the state. The state can organize carnage and massacre at any moment, making dust not only of individuals and groups, but also of an entire nation according to its nationality, religion, party or other character, and then qualify it as hooliganism by some. The legitimacy of the state must first of all be measured by the true security of a person or a national minority, - Siyavush sighed deeply, he said, “Truly, Ilya Ehrenburg was right when he said that a country is monstrous where Cain is and the legislator, and the gendarme, and the judge.”


CHAPTER 43

On the roads the representatives of the National Front along with police officers were checking the moving vehicles. We were stopped five times before the airport, but every time they saw a person in high ranking pilot uniform at the steering wheel of the car, they let us go through without

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checking. At the airport, the car of the deputy head of the administration facilely drove right into the airfield where farther a plane was standing on the runway, with its crew nearby the ramp.

There was no less surprise expecting us here. It became clear that the plane flying by route Moscow – Leninabad, made an emergency landing in Baku compulsorily, due to some technical malfunction. And the most important thing was that the commander of the aircraft and the Deputy Head of the Department were old friends, they had studied at the Voronezh Air Force Academy.

I heartily thanked the deputy head and embraced Siyavush. “Old buddy, everything will be fine,” he said with tears in his eyes.

I also could not hold back my tears. Siyavush shoved some money in my pocket at the last moment.

“Sorry, I took only fifty rubles from home, there was no more.”

We hugged again. With Zarmik’s help I got on the plane. “I have to say something else to you.” He said, somehow hiding his eyes.

“What?” I asked with strange anxiety and inner fear. “The Azerbaijanis killed Karina,” he said dully. “What are you talking about?”


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“Yes. They dragged her by her feet from the sixth floor down the stairs, hitting her head to the railings and stones. They threw her into the fire. Your accountant Sayida saw everything as it happened before her eyes. She tried to help but nobody listened to her, even they hit her twice. I saw it myself. I can testify, she could hardly open her eye. I went to look for you as Rena had asked me. She was crying all the time, she was sure that something bad had happened to you, as it was already five o’clock. She sent me to your apartment, but the mob had already broken in.”

“Was Rena there?” I asked in a hoarse voice.

“Yes, she was,” Zarmik confirmed and added, looking directly at me, “she was also killed.”

At first, I didn’t get what Zarmik said. Suddenly I got shocked. The life stopped, I felt shortness of breath and a cold sweat appeared on my forehead. Those few seconds were for me the edge of the abyss-between the past and the future. I lost myself.

“Zarmik, what are you saying?” Still in shock, I punched his chest with my fist. “What are you talking about?”

“I did not want to tell you this there... Sayida told me everything. It had happened on their stairway enclosure. One of the bandits, most likely their leader, suddenly had torn and grabbed a chained pendant from Rena’s neck. Rena had slapped that scum in rage, and he ordered furiously

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“Burn her alive.” They started to hit her from all sides. Sayida has screamed that the girl is not Armenian, but Azerbaijani, but nobody had listened to her, since Rena herself did not confirm that she is not an Armenian. Someone even has asked her,

“Are you Azerbaijani?

And she, covered in blood, shook her head, “Nooo.”

“Since she’s with them,” he shouted, “she is one of them. She is not an Azerbaijani! She is an Armenian! And so, in this case, she should be treated exactly that way –be tortured, raped and burned...” Sayida had seen how she had dragged to the ground floor, was beaten to the walls and then, finally... burned... I didn’t want to tell you all this, while we were there...”

I was choked by an adhesive asthma. A strange, bitter, tickling suffocation was blocking opening up my throat, my heart was aching painfully from some invisible crushing dull weight, I was getting weak, and the shuddering cold of desolation was gradually crawling into my soul...

The airport building was on the left. It was over there, behind the glass wall of the second floor in a white dress where Rena with her hair spreading over her shoulders was constantly waving her hand, as a sign of Goodbye. "Good bye forever" I thought with grief and immense pain, and suddenly recalled her gold-bell-ring like voice, “I will,


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I will do that, you will see, I will leave and will not return if you want so,” and my eyes filled with burning tears ...

Zarmik was speaking in the same dull voice, his voice was reaching to me, seemed, from distance. Finally, I heard.

“Well, it’s time me to go, the plane ladder is already being removed.”

...I heard the heavy slam of the closing door...

Shortly afterwards, the plane tremble slowly slid over the concrete ground, stopped for a moment, tremble again, rushed with rumbling over the runway and took off the ground at once.

Everything was dead below- the sea, bare forests, mountains and ravines where the transparent haze was still hung motionless, farther were successive snow-covered desert plains, and also faded sun that had the blood color.

I went to the taxi stop at the 'Domodedovo' airport in Moscow. A policeman, who most likely was on duty at the airport, approached to me and greeted.

“Your documents.”

I tried to explain to him that I miraculously escaped from the terrible Baku pogroms and I have no documents, and then I showed everything I had-those same fifty rubles that Siyavush had given to me at the last minute.

He took the money, turned it in his hand and said.


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“Add at least another ten, there are three of us, we will share it equally.”

I turned back; two policemen were standing at a distance, portly, like this one, well fed, bulky, of a size of a closet by height and volume and looking at us.

“I have nothing else” I said tired. “You see, I’ve barely escaped death”

“OK, you may go,” the policeman allowed to leave, seizing my fifty rubles.

I stood there humiliated and insulted and did not know what to do.

“Where are you going?” Someone asked.

I turned to the voice. A native from Caucasia, of medium height, with black mustache, was looking at me from under his eyebrows with sympathy.

“Nowhere,” I said. “I am just hanging around.”

“I saw how the cop took your money,” he continued, “so, they rob those who come and go. Let’s go,” he suggested.” “Where? I have no money.”

“I know,” he said. “No problem. Let’s go. You’ll pay me some other time. I am from Dagestan, Rasul Hamzatov’s compatriot.”

... On the doorbell, my mother opened the door and looked at me in confusion.

“Whom do you want?” She asked uncertainly and a little frightened.

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“It’s me, mom, do not you recognize me?” I said and even tried to smile.

“My God!” My mom screamed. “What are these rags on you? Where are your clothes? What did they do to you? Oh, God, and your hair, it has turned gray.” She fell to my chest, crying. “What had happened to you?” she continued, “let’s leave, let’s leave soon,” she said. “Let’s vanish, disappear, and go farther away from this damned country...”




March – October 1990,

Leningrad





                FROM THE AUTHOR

 "The Alienated Shore" is a true story. And it is not an accident that the whole narrative is told in the first person. This is the story of my wrecked life. This is the story of each of my miserable interlocutors, of their interrupted dreams and staggering sufferings, and therefore, the author talks on their behalf. Recounting episodes from the conversation with Leonid Hurunts, this incredibly great man and devoted patriot, I once wanted to ascertain what brought about Karabakh's rage against the eruption of anti-Armenian sentiment in Azerbaijan. He told me that he had written everything he spoke of a long time ago, but had failed to publish it, and that there was no hope that it would ever be published. I am not sure if he would be able to publish those stories in the future. If not, let the stories I share here in this book be considered a tribute of respect and love to the remarkable Hurunts and his immortal memory. I would like to express my deep gratitude to Marina Hovhannisyan, a 22-year-old resident of Budyonnovsk and native of Stavropol, who dejectedly relived what happened to her in Sumgait: how her birthday turned into a horrible nightmare for her mother, younger sisters, and her, when they were brutally raped in front of her tortured father. I am grateful to Emma Sargsyan, who was heartbroken, grieving, and repeated spoke about her husband's tragic murder. She would cry and repeat the same thing over and over, that the life in this world lost any meaning after her husband's death. I sincerely appreciate my friend Barmen Bedyan for recounting those horrible days in the City of Sumgait Committee building. With his deformed face resulting from heavy beatings, he told me with a tearful voice about how he had built dozens of apartment buildings in Sumgait demonstrating his craftsmanship and skill, and how police officers had caught him and handed him over to a murderous mob. The author is grateful to many for this book, including William Rusyan from the 32nd building on Lenin Avenue in Baku. He said that those who could not escape the clutches of a furious gang would be silenced, and those who managed to survive could only say that they were miraculously saved from that hell. And I urged him to write down about those horrible events. He, who escaped the Armenian extermination that began on January 13 in Baku, as a credible eyewitness, helped to restore the real picture of the horrific massacre of Armenians in Baku.
Eternal memory to the anonymous martyrs.
 Eternal glory to the suffered ones who survived.


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REMARKS AND FOOTNOTES


1-Yerevan - the capital and largest city of Armenia as well as one of the world's oldest continuously inhabited cities. Was founded by the Ancient Armenian king of Urartu Argishti in 782 B.C.

2-Karabagh - is a geographic region in present-day eastern Armenia and southwestern Azerbaijan, extending from the highlands of the Lesser Caucasus down to the lowlands between the rivers Kura and Aras.

3-jan –in modern Armenian literary and spoken languages, a widespread short word that means soul, body, chest.

4---Baku-the capital and largest city of Azerbaijan, as well as the largest city on the Caspian Sea and of the Caucasus region. 5---Tbilisi-in some countries also still known by its pre-1936 international designation Tiflis, is the capital and the largest city of Georgia, lying on the banks of the Kura River with a population of approximately 1.5 million people. Tbilisi was founded in the 5th century AD by Vakhtang I of Iberia, and since then has served as the capital of various Georgian kingdoms and republics

6-Masis-is a snow-capped and dormant compound volcano in the extreme east of Turkey, in Western Armenia. It consists of two major volcanic cones: Greater Ararat and Little Ararat or Masis. Greater Ararat is the highest peak in the Armenian Highland with an elevation of 5,137 m (16,854 ft); Little
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Ararat's elevation is 3,896 m (12,782 ft). Masis is also a town in Armeina.

7-Apsheron-The Absheron is a peninsula in Azerbaijan. It is the location of Baku, the biggest and the most populous city of the country, and also the Baku metropolitan area, with its satellite cities Sumqayit and Khyrdalan. Under the name Apsheron there are also a hotel, A National Park, A district, A brandy, and a gas field.

8-Heydar Aliyev-Heydar Alirza oglu Aliyev 10 May 1923[2] – 12 December 2003) was an Azerbaijani politician who served as the first secretary of the Communist Party of Azerbaijan SSR from 1969, the third President of Azerbaijan from 1993 to 2003.

9- Silva Kaputikyan-Silva Kaputikyan (20 January 1919 – 25 August 2006) was an Armenian poetess and political activist. One of the best-known Armenian writers of the twentieth century, she is recognized as "the leading poetess of Armenia" and "the grand lady of twentieth century Armenian poetry". Although a member of the Communist Party, she was a noted advocate of Armenian national causes.

10- Grigor of Narek- Grigor Narekatsi (c. 950 – 1003/1011) was an Armenian mystical and lyrical poet, monk, and theologian. He is a saint of the Armenian Apostolic Church and was declared a Doctor of the Church by Pope Francis in 2015.




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11- Paruyr Sevak- (January 24, 1924 – June 17, 1971) was an Armenian poet, translator and literary critic. He is considered one of the greatest Armenian poets of the 20th century.

12- Omar Khayyam - Omar Khayyam (18 May 1048 – 4 December 1131) was a Persian mathematician, astronomer, philosopher, and poet. He was born in Nishabur, in northeastern Iran, and spent most of his life near the court of the Karakhanid and Seljuq rulers in the period which witnessed the First Crusade.

13-Odysseus went to conquer Troy - Odysseus aided Diomedes during the successful night operation in order to kill Rhesus' horses, because it had been foretold that if his horses drank from the Scamander River, Troy could not be taken. And after all, it was Odysseus who made it possible for the Greeks to finally conquer the city of Troy.

14 the Crown Prince of Troy Paris, who has kidnapped Helen -

When the Trojan prince Paris abducted Helen, the beautiful wife of Menelaus, king of Sparta and carried her off to the city of Troy, the Greeks responded by mounting an attack on the city, thus beginning the Trojan War.

15- Akhtamar brandy - An Armenian princess named Tamar lived on Akhtamar Island in Lake Van (in Historic Armenia). She was in love with a commoner. This boy would swim from the mainland to the island each night, his way lit by a light she lit for him. One day her father found out about this and was very upset. He went to her as she held the light, waiting for
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her love. He smashed her light, leaving the boy in the middle of the lake without an idea of which direction to swim. They say his dying cries of Akh, tamar... (Oh, Tamar) can be heard to this day at night. This is where the name of the island comes from. The Turks have taken Lake Van and Akhtamar Island, but Armenians have built a statue in honor of this legend on the shores of Lake Sevan instead. It is along the highway, north of Sevanavank, by the artist Rafael Petrosyan. Akhtamar Brandy is 10-year-old, deep, rich and elegant brandy.

16- Nargin island – also known as Boyuk Zira, is an island in the Caspian Sea. It is one of the islands of Baku Archipelago located in the Baku bay near Baku city.

17-Sumgayit - is the third-largest city in Azerbaijan, located near the Caspian Sea, about 19 miles away from the capital, Baku. The city has a population of around 343,000, making it the second-largest city in Azerbaijan after the capital Baku. Sumgayit is infamous with pogrom that targeted the Armenian population of the seaside town of Sumgait in Azerbaijan in late February 1988. The pogrom took place during the early stages of the Karabakh movement. On February 27, 1988, mobs made up of ethnic Azerbaijanis formed into groups and attacked and killed Armenians on the streets and in their apartments; widespread looting and a general lack of concern from police officers allowed the situation to continue for three days.

18- Stavropol - city and the administrative center of Stavropol Krai, Russia.

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19- Kura River - is an east-flowing river south of the Greater Caucasus Mountains which drains the southern slopes of the Greater Caucasus east into the Caspian Sea. Kura River flows through the capital of Georgia Tbilisi.

20- Antonio  Canova  -  was  an  Italian  Neoclassical  sculptor,

(1757 –1822) famous for his marble sculptures.

21- Icheri Shahar –means Old or Inner City, is the historical core of Baku. In December 2000, the Old City of Baku, including the Palace of the Shirvanshahs and Maiden Tower, became the first location in Azerbaijan to be classified as a World Heritage Site by UNESCO.

22-Siberia - is an extensive geographical region spanning much of Eurasia and North Asia. Siberia has been part of modern Russia since the 17th century. The territory of Siberia extends eastwards from the Ural Mountains to the watershed between the Pacific and Arctic drainage basins. The Yenisei River conditionally divides Siberia into two parts, Western and Eastern. Siberia stretches southwards from the Arctic Ocean to the hills of north-central Kazakhstan and to the national borders of Mongolia and China.

23 Panah Ali of Sarijallu - Panah-Ali Khan Javanshir (1693, Sarijali, Safavid Empire – 1761, Shiraz, Zand dynasty) was the








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founder and first ruler of Karabakh Khanate under Persian suzerainty.

24-Shahnazar – is the Armenian prince or Melik of Principality of Varanda which was under the leadership of the Melik Shahnazarian family, one of five Armenian melikdoms in Karabakh.

25-Sergo Orjonikidze - Sergo Konstantinovich Ordzhonikidze, born Grigol, (24 October 1886 – 18 February 1937), was a Georgian Bolshevik and Soviet politician.

26-Nagorno-Karabakh - Nagorno-Karabakh is a disputed territory, internationally recognized as part of Azerbaijan, but most of the region is governed by the Republic of Artsakh (formerly named Nagorno-Karabakh Republic), a de facto independent state with Armenian ethnic majority established on the basis of the Nagorno-Karabakh Autonomous Oblast of the Azerbaijan Soviet Socialist Republic. Azerbaijan has not exercised political authority over the region since the advent of the Karabakh movement in 1988. Since the end of the Nagorno-Karabakh War in 1994, representatives of the governments of Armenia and Azerbaijan have been holding peace talks mediated by the OSCE Minsk Group on the region's disputed status.

27-Stepanakert – (Khankendi) originally called Vararakn, is the capital and the largest city of the de facto Republic of Artsakh. The Republic has limited international recognition,


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being deemed part of the Republic of Azerbaijan by most countries. As of 2015, the population of Stepanakert is 55,200. 28- Taras Shevchenko - Taras Hryhorovych Shevchenko (1814 – 1861) was a Ukrainian poet, writer, artist, public and political figure, as well as folklorist and ethnographer. His literary heritage is regarded to be the foundation of modern Ukrainian literature and, to a large extent, the modern Ukrainian language. Shevchenko is also known for many masterpieces as a painter and an illustrator.

29- Nakhijevan - The Nakhchivan Autonomous Republic is a landlocked exclave of the Republic of Azerbaijan. The region covers (2,100 sq mi) with a population of 414,900, bordering Armenia (border [137 mi]) to the east and north, Iran (border [111 mi]) to the south and west, and Turkey.

30- Boney M - Boney M. is a Euro-Caribbean vocal group created by German record producer Frank Farian. Originally based in West Germany, the four original members of the group's official line-up were Liz Mitchell and Marcia Barrett from Jamaica, Maizie Williams from Montserrat and Bobby Farrell, a performing artist from Aruba. The group was formed in 1976 and achieved popularity during the disco era of the late 1970s. Since the 1980s, various line-ups of the band have performed with different personnel. The band has sold around 100 million records worldwide and is known for international hits such as "Daddy Cool", "Ma Baker", "Sunny", "Rasputin", "Mary's Boy Child – Oh My Lord" and "Rivers of Babylon

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31- Zikina - Lyudmila Georgievna Zykina (1929 –2009) was one of the most famous national folk singers of USSR and Russia. Her signature songs include Techot Volga and Orenburgskii platok. The asteroid 4879 Zykina is named after her. Lyudmila Zykina died after suffering a heart attack

32- merino - Merino is one of the most historically relevant and economically influential breeds of sheep, much prized for its wool.

33 –pood - Pood, is a unit of mass equal to 40 funt. Plural: pudi or pudy. Since 1899 It is approximately set to 16.38 kilograms. It was used in Russia, Belarus, and Ukraine.

34- akhper – means brother in Armenian. 35-Sakhavat - Sakhavat Mammadov was an Azerbaijani mugham singer.


36- Khasis – penname of one of the local literary figures mentioned in the novel.

37-Zaporozhets- was a series of rear-wheel-drive superminis (city cars in their first generation) designed and built from 1958 at the ZAZ factory in Soviet Ukraine. Different models of the Zaporozhets, all of which had an air-cooled engine in the rear, were produced until 1994.

38- CHW- Central House of Writers – Central literary house - the Moscow Writers' Club, founded in 1934. At the club you can enjoy literary and musical dinners, international festivals and cinema. Old time on the street Povarskoy, new - on the Bolshaya Nikitskaya Street.
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39- Kalinin Avenue - New Arbat Avenue is a major street in Moscow running west from Arbat Square on the Boulevard Ring to Novoarbatsky Bridge on the opposite bank of the Moskva River. The modern six-lane avenue (originally named Kalinin Prospekt from 1968-1994), along with two rows of high-rise buildings, was constructed between 1962 and 1968, and was literally cut through the old, narrow streets of the Arbat District.

40- Icheri Sheher - Old City or Inner City is the historical core of Baku, the capital of Azerbaijan. The Old City is the most ancient part of Baku, which is surrounded by walls which were easily defended. In 2007, the Old City had a population of about 3000 people.

41- Yalchin Rzazadeh- Yalchin Rzazadeh is a Soviet period Azerbaijani pop singer. He became famous for his clear voice and perfect articulation. From the Soviet period until 1989, he was most famous for his vocals sung in films made in Azerbaijan.

42- 40 days of Musa Dagh – in German: Die vierzig Tage des Musa Dagh; is a 1933 novel by Austrian-Bohemian Jewish writer Franz Werfel based on true events that took place in 1915, during the second year of World War I and at the beginning of the Armenian Genocide.

43- Kyuchalara su sapmyshim, yar gyalanda toz olmasin, yar

gyalanda toz olmasyn - I sprinkle water over the streets; so not


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to be dusty when my beloved comes, not to be dusty when my beloved comes, /in Azeri/.

44-Leningrad- Saint Petersburg formerly and still commonly known as Leningrad is a city situated on the Neva River, at the head of the Gulf of Finland on the Baltic Sea. It is Russia's second-largest city after Moscow. With over 5,351,935 million inhabitants as of 2018, it is the fourth-most populous city in Europe. An important Russian port on the Baltic Sea, it has a status of a federal subject (a federal city).

45- Celentano - Adriano Celentano is an Italian singer-songwriter, musician, actor and film director. Celentano has released many record albums which have enjoyed enormous commercial and critical success. He is often credited as the author of both the music and lyrics of his songs, although, according to his wife Claudia Mori, sometimes they were written in collaboration with others. Due to his prolific career and great success, both in Italy and the rest of the world, he is considered one of the pillars of Italian music.

46- war- means Great Patriotic War /between USSR and Nazi Germany in 1941-1945/.

47- tugrik - the basic monetary unit of Mongolia.

48- Nejasan, azizim - How are you my dear? /in Azeri/.

49- War of Vardanids - Vardan Mamikonian was an Armenian military leader, a martyr and a saint of the Armenian Church. He is best known for leading the Armenian army at the Battle of Avarayr in 451, which ultimately secured
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the Armenians' right to practice Christianity and is known in Armenian history as the Vardanids’ War.

50- capture of the Yerevan fortress - The city fell to the Russians /1 October 1827/ after being besieged for a week and opened up the path for the eventual capture of Tabriz, the second largest city in Iran and an important trading post.

51- “mankurt” is used to refer to a person who has lost touch with his historical, national roots, who has forgotten about his kinship. "Mankurt" was first used by Aitmatov and he is said to have taken the word from the Epic of Manas.[ "Mankurt" may be derived from the Mongolian term manguurakh, meaning "stupid").

52- Venus de Milo - is an ancient Greek statue and one of the most famous works of ancient Greek sculpture. Initially it was attributed to the sculptor Praxiteles but based on an inscription that was on its plinth, the statue is now thought to be the work of Alexandros of Antioch.

53- heine (henna) - Henna is a plant native to the Middle East that has been used to decorate the hair and body for thousands of years. Lush Henna blends the finest Persian henna with Fair Trade cocoa butter and ingredients like indigo herb and fresh organic lemon juice to create bricks of organic hair dye.

54- Hermitage -is a museum of art and culture in Saint Petersburg, Russia. The second-largest art museum in the world, it was founded in 1764 when Empress Catherine the


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Great acquired an impressive collection of paintings from the Berlin merchant Johann Ernst Gotzkowsky. The museum celebrates the anniversary of its founding each year on 7 December, Saint Catherine's Day. It has been open to the public since 1852.
54- the first civilized nation who adopted Christianity -

Armenia became the first country to establish Christianity as its state religion when, in an event traditionally dated to 301 AD, St. Gregory the Illuminator convinced Tiridates III, the king of Armenia, to convert to Christianity.

55- Es si-ru-mem kez... Eu shat si-rum em kez... Es mer-nu-mem qez hamar (Arm.) - I love you... I love you very much... I can’t live without you...

56- pioneer camps –was the name for the vacation or summer camp of Young Pioneers. In the 20th century these camps existed in many socialist countries, particularly in the Soviet Union. The Young Pioneer camps of the Soviet Union were the place of vacation for children from the Young Pioneer organization of the Soviet Union during summer and winter holidays.

57- lezgin –are a Northeast Caucasian ethnic group native predominantly to southern Dagestan, Russia and northeastern Azerbaijan and who speak the Lezgian language.






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58- Zhiguli-was a designation of cars manufactured in Russia and the Soviet Union by AvtoVAZ during 1970-2012 and somewhat longer in some places abroad; also, is a brand of beer.

60-"Pamir" or "Avrora" – brands of cigarettes without filters in the former USSR.

61. Cythera -In the ancient world, Cythera, one of the Greek islands, was thought to be the birthplace of Venus, goddess of love. Thus, the island became sacred to the goddess and love.

62. Sulamith- Sulamith in Paul Celan's 1948 poem "Death Fugue" ("Todesfuge")

63. Yalama--- lezgian villages

64. Well, come over, hieromonk, and don’t go crazy - The poem “Unobtrusive Belfry” by poet Paruyr Sevak is a lyrical story of hieromonk Komitas's biography. The poem was written in 1959 in Moscow. Sevak, through the image of Komitas, presented the history of the Armenian people, mainly the genocide, which intertwined elements of the Komitas song.

65. Perestroyka – (in the former Soviet Union) the policy or practice of restructuring or reforming the economic and political system. First proposed by Leonid Brezhnev in 1979 and actively promoted by Mikhail Gorbachev, perestroika originally referred to increased automation and labor efficiency, but came to entail greater awareness of economic markets and the ending of central planning.

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66. Chekist - in a narrower meaning is an agent of the Cheka (ChK), in a broader meaning is an agent of Cheka and its descendants NKVD, KGB, FSB, Lubyanka. It may relate to: Cheka, first of a succession of Soviet state security organizations.

67. ;;;;;;; ;;;;;; ;;;; ;;;;;;;;; ;;; ;;;;;; – Glory and honor to Mikail Mehmed Oghli Gorbochov /in Azeri/

68. like Lenin with outstretched hand – On the statues of the founder of the USSR Lenin has always his arm outstretched as if trying to show the bright future of the communism.

69-  Zosima,  ...  Mitya  Karamazov....  Sonya  Marmeladova  –

figures in the novel “The Brothers Karamazov” by Fyodor Dostoevsky.

70-Tigran the Great- Tigranes II, more commonly known as Trigrams the Great was King of Armenia under whom the country became, for a short time, the strongest state to Rome's east. He was a member of the Artaxiad Royal House. Under his reign, the Armenian kingdom expanded beyond its traditional boundaries, allowing Tigranes to claim the title Great King, and involving Armenia in many battles against opponents such as the Parthian and Seleucid empires, and the Roman Republic.

71- Zia Buniatov- was an Azerbaijani historian, academician, and Vice-President of the National Academy of Sciences of Azerbaijan. As a historian, he also headed the Institute of


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History of the Azerbaijani Academy of Sciences for many years. Bunyadov was a World War II veteran and Hero of the Soviet Union.

72-Kapan (Ghapan)- is a town at the southeast of Armenia, serving as the administrative center of the urban community of Kapan as well as the provincial capital of Syunik Province. It is located in the valley of the Voghji River, on the northern slopes of Mount Khustup.

73-;;;;;;-;;;;;;) – God is a witness /in Azeri/.

74-;;;;; –villain /in Azeri/.

75- ;;;;;; –excommunication,anathema,ban,jinx /in Azeri/.

76 -the apartment is in the nine-story building of the airline ticket office, on the sixth floor- On the first floors of high-rise residential buildings in the Soviet Union were state-owned businesses, shops, cash registers, and more.

77 -;;;; ;;;;;;;; ;;;;;;;;;, ;;;; ;;;;;, ;;;; ;;;;;;;;;- I am a native of Nakhichevan, my name is Zakir, where are you from? /in Azeri/.

78- ;;;;) –human /in Azeri/.

79- ;;;;;; ;;;;;;;; – thank God! /in Azeri/.

80 - Bolshevik or Menshevik –The word Menshevik comes from the word "minority" and Bolshevik from "majority". Bolsheviks believed in a radical and elitist revolution, whereas Mensheviks supported a more progressive change in collaboration with the middle class and the bourgeoisie. The Mensheviks were one

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dominant faction in the Russian socialist movement, the other being the Bolsheviks. The factions emerged in 1903 following a dispute in the Russian Social Democratic Labor Party (RSDLP) between Julius Martov and Vladimir Lenin.

81 –Brejhnev – Leonid Ilyich Brezhnev was a Soviet politician. The fifth leader of the Soviet Union, he served as General Secretary of the Central Committee of the governing Communist Party of the Soviet Union from 1964 until his death in 1982. His 18-year term as general secretary was second only to Joseph Stalin's in duration.

82.-;;;;;;; ;;;;;, ;;;;;;; ;;;;;, ;;;;;;;;; ;;;;;; ;;;;;; ;;;;;;;; - Exalted is Allah, the Exalted in Power, Victory will accompany our mighty army.

83- ;;;;;;; ;;;;; ;;;;;;; ;;;;- you are Armenian, you have to die /in Azeri/.

84- Ermanilar rad olsun, Gern Ermanilari-Kill the Armenians! Armenians will be lost! /in Azeri/.

85 Leo Leonidovich- During the Soviet period and in nowadays post-Soviet era, in the former Soviet republics the way of contacting was to call by name and father’s name. Very popular in modern Russia.

86- Ataganyn Jany (Azer.)-I swear by Ataghan. Atagan is a real person by the name of Mir Movsum who lived in the 20th century in the Shuvelyan settlement near Baku where he is buried. He was known among Shia Muslim believers as a man

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who had no bones-ataghan that is, consisted of only meat. Reputedly holy, his grave became a holy place the people swear by making sacrifices.

87- khachkar- also known as an Armenian cross-stone; is a carved, memorial stele bearing a cross, and often with additional motifs such as rosettes, interlaces, and botanical motifs. Khachkars are characteristic of Medieval Christian Armenian art.

88 - Ya Allahi Bismillahi Rakhmani Rahim (Arab.) - In the name of the merciful, the compassionate God.

89 - twenty-six commissars -The 26 Baku Commissars were Bolshevik and Left Socialist Revolutionary members of the Baku Soviet Commune. The commune was established in the city of Baku and led by Stepan Shahumyan. It existed until 26 July 1918 when the Bolsheviks were forced out of power by a coalition of Dashnaks, Right SRs, and Mensheviks.

After their overthrow, the Baku commissars attempted to leave Baku but were captured by the Centrocaspian Dictatorship, imprisoned, and executed by a firing squad between the stations of Pereval and Akhcha-Kuyma on the Transcaspian Railway in 1918.


                =======================







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CONTENT
THE ALIENATED SHORE PART  ONE  3
CHAPTER 1  5
CHAPTER 2  13
CHAPTER 3  26
CHAPTER 4  40
CHAPTER 5  51
CHAPTER 6  58
CHAPTER 7  70
CHAPTER 8  86
CHAPTER 9  95
CHAPTER 10  102
CHAPTER 11  119
CHAPTER 12  126
CHAPTER 13  130
CHAPTER 14  136
CHAPTER 15  141
 
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24


PART  TWO


CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34  
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43


REMARKS AND FOOTNOTES


ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS AND AUTHORS NOTE  --------------------------------------------------429



ABOUT THE AUTHOR