The Doves of Ohanavank (17 page)

“Yes Sir,” says Manoj. He already has arranged round the clock surveillance of Ano.

Back in his office, Jawad Ghanem goes through the dusty files of Viktor Ayvazian. Aside from the cash payment in full, there is nothing unusual surrounding the transaction, and even that is not entirely unheard of in Dubai. Nevertheless, he calls in his legal counsel and asks him to do a quick background check on Ayvazian with the immigration authorities and with the courts handling expatriate affairs.

Within two hours his legal counsel returns with interesting information. It turns out that Viktor Ayvazian was deported from Dubai around two-and-a-half years ago. Aside from a few legal violations, he had offended the system with his loud and careless behavior and had argued with his local protection, and even refused to make payment on time on at least one occasion. But a couple of months later he returns with a new passport, under the new name Viktor Arakelian. The authorities know that Ayvazian and Arakelian are the same person, but they let him get away with it. By then, through Ano, he has already paid off all his debts and reestablished his old protections.

But the legal counsel’s attention is quickly drawn to the fact that, a few months after that, Viktor Arakelian enters Dubai again, this time with a wife—a young woman called Lara Galianova, who, according to her Russian passport, is twenty-one years old at the time. After that, Viktor Ayvazian’s status is restored, even though he continues to enter Dubai with his fake passport.

Yuri does not know about Lara Galianova, because he was kept out of the loop. When Viktor was getting ready to bring Lara to Dubai, she was only sixteen, and Dubai laws did not allow single women under thirty-one years old to be issued entry visas. Viktor knew that a fake passport showing her to be thirty-one would not be believable. So he had a passport forged that showed her to be twenty-one, and also produced papers showing that Viktor Arakelian was married to Lara Galianova. That is how Lara entered Dubai, accompanied by her legal husband, Viktor Arakelian.

Jawad Ghanem ponders the situation for a long time. The legal owner of the villa in the Palm has been deported once from Dubai, has returned under an assumed name, has a wife under the assumed name, but is supposed to be single under his real name, and now he is deceased and his uncle’s family wants the villa.

Ano has given Manoj most of the details involving Lara, including both her real and fake names and ages. She has also mentioned that, as a pure formality to secure her entry visa into Dubai, Viktor had forged marriage papers for her.

When Manoj gets his informant’s report that Jawad Ghanem was seen meeting a man who had been also seen with Ano earlier, he gives him a call. Al Barmaka’s family owns Ghanem’s real estate firm, and Manoj handles their accounts, and represents Al Barmaka on the board of the firm.

“I thought I had seen everything in this business,” says Ghanem, “but even I have to admit that I’ve come across a new one—the first in a very, very long time. If this case interests you, you are welcome to the entire file.”

Chapter Fifteen

“T
hey say you cannot find a calf under an ox,” Edik tells Anna as he takes his leave. I know he likes her. His handshake is long and his voice is warm. “Finding solutions is sometimes easier than we think, if we don’t waste time looking in the wrong places.”

“Thank you, thank you very much,” says Anna. “For everything.”

Edik gives me a short kiss on the cheek, winks, and rushes out of the café. He has already paid the bill and tipped the waitress. He has a long drive to get to Vardahovit.

“Lara jan, thank you
soooo
much. He’s amazing. Now you have to tell me why he does it.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, even though I know what she means.

“Who in this country today will help anyone, especially a total stranger, if he does not expect something back?”

“He expects nothing back,” I say with finality.

“Then why?”

I shrug my shoulders and turn my palms up. “It’s the way he is, that’s all.”

Anna’s not convinced, but drops the subject. Edik called his lawyer friend, a certain Mr. Thomas Martirosian, while we were at the café, and explained the situation briefly. He then made an appointment for Anna to see him on Wednesday next week, at noon so it coincides with her lunch break. He told Anna not to worry about any fees, because Mr. Martirosian would do this as a favor for him. Anna accepted the explanation, but I know he will end up paying for the legal costs of Anna’s divorce.

It is a pleasant Sunday afternoon. The weather seems to have taken a break from its normal late-March madness, the wind has subsided to a light breeze, the skies have cleared after starting the day cloudy and drizzly, and the air smells fresh and full of promise. Unfortunately, Anna has to rush back to work. She’ll be late as it is.

I take a long walk, crossing Republic Square and walking up Abovian Street, left on Northern Avenue, past the Opera and then back on Toumanian Street, wandering aimlessly, looking in shop windows and watching people. Random phrases from the various conversations of the past few days ring in my ears, and once in a while a verse from one of Edik’s poetry books intervenes in the cascading thoughts. If there is a pattern to this cacophony, it is buried so deep in my subconscious that I’ll never be able to find it. And it does not matter anyway.

I arrive home by early evening and help Diqin Alice prepare supper. We eat together, with very little to say, and then I retire to my room. I read for several hours and then fall into the deepest, most restful sleep I’ve had in over two years. The thoughts, voices and flashbacks must have worn themselves out during my walk.

The week is relatively uneventful. I’ve been expecting Ahmed’s call by Thursday, before the weekend begins in Dubai. I know he spends Friday with his extended family of siblings and more than a dozen nieces and nephews. He never visited me on Fridays. Even though he is not religious and has broken many social customs, he likes going to the mosque on Fridays, just to uphold tradition, which he views in an entirely different
light than social rules. Tradition, especially aspects of it that are tied to a glorious past, is worth upholding. Ahmed thinks of himself as an Arab nobleman, the heir to a period when Arab culture reached its zenith. He especially loves to imagine himself as a modern day prince descended from eighth-century Andalusia, the height of Arab culture, literature, music and science.

And then the call comes.

I see the ‘971’ country code on my phone, which is the United Arab Emirates. “Hello?” I say, aware that my voice is trembling.

“
Habibty
.” My dear love.

“Ahmed, is that you?” What a stupid question to ask. Who else would call me ‘
habibty
’?

“Leila, how are you?” Then there is a hesitation, followed by another question. “Shall I call you Leila or Lara?”

“Ahmed, I am Lara now.” I feel foolish again at the way that sounds. Then I make matters worse by adding, “I remember the days when I was Leila fondly, Ahmed.”

I want him to know that I hold no grudge against him, or against the name he gave me, and that the name ‘Leila’ is not a bad memory. But I still sound stupid.

“
Habibty
,” he says, and I believe he uses that word to avoid choosing between Lara and Leila, “there is so much to talk about, but none of it can be said over the phone.”

“Ahmed, I am very sorry for the way I left.” I begin, and he tries to interrupt me with something like ‘none of it matters now,’ but I am too nervous to hear exactly what, and I feel the need to finish telling him what I need to tell him, so I talk over him, drowning his words with my voice. “Ahmed, stop! Please listen to me. I was wrong. I mean, I’m sorry for treating you the way I did. I should have told you the truth.”

“Are you done?” he asks, and waits. So do I. Am I done? Is that all I want to tell him?

“Well? Are you?”

“I’m sorry,” is all I can manage to say.

“Lara,” he says, and I know he deliberately uses my real name, “stop feeling sorry for the past. You must have had your reasons. None of this would make any sense otherwise. Let’s go forward. Listen carefully, Lara. Forget
everything
about the past. Everything. Do you understand?”

“No, I don’t,” I whisper into the phone. And I really don’t. Forget everything?

“I want to see you again,” he says. “Just Ahmed Al Barmaka meeting Lara Galian. No intermediaries, no contracts, no deals. Just a meeting of two people.”

Just a meeting of two people
? Can he really forget that he bought me from a pimp?

I wish Edik was here to tell me to stop being childish. I want to hear him say that Ahmed is not at fault for the way he met me, that he did not know me before he bought me, that he got to know me afterwards, and he’s been trying to live up to what he discovered about me since then. But that is probably even more childish. Nothing changes the fact that he bought women, even if most of them wanted to be bought by someone like him.

“I cannot come to Dubai.”

“I know. I’ll come to Yerevan. I need some time to arrange schedules, because I want to come for at least a few days.”

“Ahmed, it cannot be like it used to be.” I’m not sure myself what I mean. Do I mean, ‘visiting me in Yerevan cannot be the same as visiting me in his villa in Dubai?’ Or do I mean, ‘we cannot be lovers like we used to be?’ I don’t know what I
want
it to mean.

And I finally see what an incredible haven ambiguity really can provide.

“It does not have to be any specific way, Lara. I want to see you. Let’s talk face to face. It may take me a few weeks to free up the time. Or I can come for just an afternoon; I can do that earlier, if you prefer that.”

“No, Ahmed, please don’t do that. Take your time.” I create yet another ambiguity—am I saying an afternoon is too short? Take your time and come for a longer visit? Or am I saying take your time to plan, so you don’t disrupt your schedule?

“Okay then,” he says. “I’ll call again soon. And I’ll see you soon.”

Before I finish saying, “Okay, Ahmed,” he hangs up. That’s the other side of Ahmed that I remember well. He decides. He acts.