The Doves of Ohanavank (3 page)

Ano is invited to sit on that couch, offered tea or coffee, which she declines, and then is left alone. The reception room has not received much attention over the years. She notices scratches on the elaborate wooden coffee table, wear and tear on the carpet, and several stains on the couch. It is clear that Al Barmaka himself would not receive visitors here, and even Manoj would not hold his more important business meetings in this room.

Manoj arrives fifteen minutes late, looking rushed and frazzled, his dark skin glistening with perspiration. He greets Ano hurriedly, does not apologize for being late, and sits on a chair next to the couch. His trademark show of manners and flowery compliments, which used to annoy Sumaya to no end, are gone. Men like Manoj do not hide their distaste for meeting women like her. They consider it unbecoming of their social status and demeaning, even though it is Manoj who handled the finances of Al Barmaka’s concubines. The hypocrisy revolts Ano, but this is not the time and place to reciprocate his attitude.

“His Excellency wants to find out more about the background and whereabouts of Ms. Leila,” says Manoj. “I expect that you’ll tell us all that you know.” Leila is the Arabic name that Al Barmaka had given Lara.

Ano has come prepared to face questions about Lara’s escape, possibly additional queries about the connection in Istanbul who handed her over to Ayvazian, or perhaps questions about who in Dubai could have in any way been involved in her escape. These have been the main themes of questioning in the past, which led everyone to believe that he was intent on solving the mystery of the security breach in his compound. But it now looks like that is no longer His Excellency’s main interest. Her whereabouts? Does this mean that he is now trying to get in touch with her, after turning down their offer to return her to him, saying his home was not a prison?

Ano’s antennas are up. This could be worth a lot of money. Had Al Barmaka accepted Lara back when they offered to return her, they would not have had to refund $75,000, three quarters of the price he had paid for her exclusive contract for one year. But he demanded a refund and Viktor transferred the money right away. So now he wants her back? Does he expect to just get her back for free? The answers to Manoj’s questions are
quite simple. And although Ano had decided to play it straight, the nature of the inquiry has already changed things.

“Her background and whereabouts,” she repeats deliberately. “Well, her background is in the file that was submitted to you when you signed her contract. I am not sure what more we have. As for her whereabouts, now that Mr. Ayvazian and his nephew are both dead, that will be difficult to ascertain.”

“Her so-called file,” snaps Manoj, “has nothing in it and you know it. One paragraph, giving her age, the name of her manager in Dubai and her country of origin. The rest of the twenty pages contain only photographs. Surely as her manager you have a lot more information on her background. Let me repeat. I expect you to fully cooperate with us on this matter.”

“What exactly do you want me to do?” asks Ano to give herself time to think about how to raise the issue of payment for her help.

Manoj checks his watch and shows his impatience. “Let us start with what should have been in her file, but was not: where in Armenia is she from?”

“All I know is that she is from a poor village.” Ano has assumed a minimalist manner of responding, as if in a deposition by a hostile lawyer.

“Which village? Surely you know the name of the village!”

“Actually, I don’t. I could try to find out, but without Viktor it will not be easy. It will take time, and… resources.” Given Manoj’s impatience, she wants to start negotiating before the opportunity is lost.

But Manoj is in no mood to play along.

“Look,” he snaps again, this time more forcefully. “I really don’t have time for this. So this is what we’re going to do: I will give you twenty-four hours to answer the following specific questions. If you fail, your operation in Dubai will end and you personally may come under investigation for illegal activities. I hope it is clear to you that in the meantime you cannot leave the country. If you try, you will be arrested on the spot.” Manoj stops for a few seconds to let that sink in, then continues. “My questions are: first, where is Ms. Leila from, the precise name and location of her village; second, what are her family circumstances, in other words, status of her parents, how many siblings does she have and their ages, and their economic circumstances; third, the full name and contact details of this so-called Mr. Abo, who handed Ms. Leila to Ayvazian in Istanbul. You have until—he checks his watch again—precisely two-thirty in the afternoon tomorrow.
Call my secretary at this number with the answers.” Then he hands her his secretary’s card and, without another word, leaves the room.

Ano sits there for a minute, stunned, before one of the aides comes in and, with a smirk that Ano knows is meant to mock her, escorts her out.

Chapter Three

T
here is an old proverb that goes something like this: “Everyone has three ears: one on the right side of their head, one on the left, and the third in their heart.” I remember my father telling us this. “Few have developed the habit of listening through that third ear,” he said. “But it is often more important than the other two put together.”

Based on my experience, it is women, more than men, who listen with the heart. That is not always an advantage. Those who use only the ears on their head can be better off. The third ear often exposes unhelpful truths and, even worse, falsehoods. There are those who swear by it. But I am not sure it is as reliable as it is made out to be. It is possible to mishear with the heart, sometimes with devastating consequences. Unlike the two ears on the head, the third ear is subjective; it serves different functions for a woman in distress, a woman in love, a criminal, a mafia boss, a shrewd politician… It does not always serve its master well, unless the master is focused and selfish, and even then, it can still mislead.

My father had an evolved third-ear. “The third ear keeps doors open,” he used to say. “What you hear with your head is what people say, which
may or may not be the truth. You hear this or that, who did what; you hear possible or impossible; you hear what happened. But the truth is never that simple, and it is what you hear with your third ear that gives you the depth, that turns the ‘no’ into a ‘yes’, the impossible into possible…” We were kids then, and had no clue as to what he was talking about.

Now I understand the wisdom behind those words. And I believe that it was his ear of the heart that got him killed. Without that ability, he probably would not have been so suspicious and would have let Ayvazian take me the first time he asked. But even after refusing to give me up, without his third ear, he probably would not have accepted Ayvazian’s invitation to visit him for a day in Martashen, which gave Ayvazian the opportunity to take him to Sevajayr and kill him. He saw the danger in going, but he saw a bigger danger to all of us in refusing Ayvazian twice in the same week. Of course no direct threat was made; he heard it with his third ear.

The only other man I know who can use his third ear is Edik Laurian. Al Barmaka may have the gift, and he did tell me something similar once, but I was not really paying attention at the time. As I think back about specific moments with him, I have to admit that the man demonstrated a rare ability to listen, even to unspoken words. But there were also moments when he was just like any of my other clients—totally third-ear-deaf.

Edik is different. It seems that he is always listening with all three ears.
Always
. That must be an incredibly exhausting way to live. I am not sure I could handle that, twenty-four hours a day.

Avo has invited
Khev Gago
and Edik Laurian to my birthday party. This is not a party like the ones they have in the city, but rather a family gathering with friends coming to eat and drink. The only difference from any other day is that there will be more people at the table and better food. There will be nothing to mark it as a birthday, other than possibly a toast or two. The fancy parties with decorations and presents in colorful wrapping paper with bows and ribbons, which have reached certain well-to-do homes in Yerevan, have not reached Saralandj yet, and I am thankful for that.

It is ten a.m. and I am still in my nightgown, lying on my parents’ bed. The others have been up for hours, but have not come into the room in order not to disturb me, forgoing their morning coffee and breakfast. I have grown to cherish my morning hours alone. I did not know what solitude
was when I was taken from home at sixteen. Not only did eight of us share a cramped bedroom, but we could at anytime barge into our parents’ room for any reason. The concept of privacy simply did not exist, so we never sought it and wouldn’t know how to miss it. But during the months that I spent in my own villa in Al Barmaka’s estate I developed not only a keen sense of privacy, but also an appreciation of solitude. Solitude does to the soul what sleep does to the body—it restores it, mends the wear and tear, pacifies the inner storms, creates a space that is yours.

This is all the time alone I’m going to get today, until late at night when everyone leaves and I go to bed. My sisters, and maybe even Avo, would want to bathe before the guests arrive, and then they have to start preparing the feast. This room will go through various transformations, as it is set up for its various functions one after the other. At the end, it will look its best as the dining room, cleaned, tidied, and made to accommodate around a dozen people in the space and at a table that can reasonably accommodate no more than four or five diners with any measure of comfort. That will not affect anyone’s joyful mood; here, the more crowded a room at times like this, the more festive the atmosphere. Space is irrelevant. It is all about sharing joy, not space.

I decide to get out of bed. Although the fire in the stove has been out for a few hours, the lingering embers have kept it and the pot of water over it warm. My rings are on the table, and I debate whether I should wear them both. One is the simple thin band that belonged to Araxi Dadik, my great aunt whose fabled beauty I am supposed to have inherited. She died in Siberia way before I was born. My mother gave me the ring the day I left home. She said my father had wanted me to have it; she said he loved me very much, and with me he felt a special tie to his past. Throughout my time away from home, the ring, in turn, gave me a link to my past. I always had it with me, either in my pocket or in my purse at first, and then I started wearing it permanently.

The second ring is much fancier. It is thicker and has a large emerald. Ahmed gave it to me in Dubai. “I hope you’ll always wear it,” he said. It is beautiful, but entirely out of place in Saralandj. In Dubai, I needed Araxi Dadik’s ring as a link to home; but here, do I need Ahmed’s ring? Do I really need any link to Dubai?

I re-start the fire and wash up hurriedly, using all the warm water in the pot, which I refill from the bucket in the corner. I change, put Araxi
Dadik’s ring on my middle finger, place Ahmed’s in my purse and walk out.

The girls rush in first, to start tea and coffee, and I feel a pang of guilt for holding them up for so long. Martha arrives to help with the preparations, having left three-month-old Ani in the doting care of her mother-in-law. She is still the oldest sibling and, although married, when present is the boss in the kitchen. At the same time, preparations start for heating water for baths. It is amazing how that empty, quiet room is transformed in a matter minutes into a beehive of activity. If there was any doubt in my mind that I did the right thing by moving out, it is now gone, even though this was not the consideration behind that decision. My decision to move to the city and live alone is more complicated, and to this day I do not dare articulate the reasons out loud, even to myself.

There will be
khorovadz
, the traditional Armenian mixed grill of pork, eggplants, green peppers and tomatoes. During March, none of these vegetables are in season, but Avo is determined to make the full spread, so he has secured everything from the greenhouse in Ashtarak, the largest city in the region. There will also be grilled potatoes and onions, and all types of appetizers of dried meats and cheeses. There will be trout, Armenian
Ishkhan
, boiled with special spices, and several types of salads—chicken salad with sour cream, potato salad with olive oil and lemon, beet salad with sour cream and onions, cabbage salad, and grated carrot salad with raisins and walnuts. Making the salads is time-consuming, so fortunately for the girls, the grilling is done outdoors, and it is the men who assume responsibility for it. They gather by the fire with a bottle of vodka, tasting the smaller pieces that cook faster directly from the fire with a piece of lavash, and drinking. The first bottle of vodka will be consumed before they even sit at the table. That is the more pleasant part of the feast for the men.

By two o’clock the family is gathered. Martha’s husband, Ruben, arrives with a large tray of dried fruits and nuts, compliments of the in-laws. Sona’s fiancé, Simon, arrives with two bottles of vodka. Avo has already started the fire at the stone grill in front of the house, and is chain-smoking. Martha has brought a dozen additional skewers, as the ten at our house won’t suffice and reusing the skewers runs the risk of letting the first batch get cold.

By the time
Khev Gago
and Edik arrive, the fire is ready, and Avo has placed the potatoes and onions on the grill; he has also had his first shot of vodka. I watch them embrace from the window. My youngest brothers are
gathering more wood for the fire, and my brothers-in-law are helping Avo, which basically means hanging around, poking the fire unnecessarily every now and then, and giving unsolicited and unnecessary advice.

All that will stop now because
Khev Gago
immediately takes over the grilling.

“Where is the rest?” he asks, inquiring about the meat and the vegetables. Then he looks up toward the house, notices me standing at the window watching them, and waves.
Khev Gago
has small, intense, fiery eyes. Edik told me once that he was far more skinny and crazy when they first met back in the late eighties. He was an idealist and did not understand the meaning of compromise. He has mellowed a lot since those days, says Edik, but the old flame is still in there somewhere, and one never knows when it will erupt.