The Doves of Ohanavank (4 page)

“And where are the women?” asks Edik laughing, “I did not drive all the way from Vardahovit just to see you guys!”

I cannot help smiling when I hear him. So typical of Edik to ignore the norms and protocols of this conservative culture, and not only get away with it, but do so with the affection of everyone present. Avo, Ruben and Simon smile too, and ignore him. Edik turns toward the house and waves to me.

“I’m sure there are enough women in that kitchen,” he yells, “come down.” Edik is taller than
Khev Gago
and a bit heavier. “It’s all the wine I drink,” he said once in way of explanation of his widening waist. His hair is graying around the temples, and his large, dark-brown eyes always seem to have bags under them. I told him once that the village women believe that the bags could indicate some problem with his liver and he should have it checked. “Those have nothing to do with liver problems; they are a sign of age and wisdom. It will be a long time before you get bags like that,” he said, winking at me.

Avo walks up the stairs to the house to get shot glasses. He throws his cigarette away before entering the house. I have asked him not to smoke inside while I’m visiting and he accommodates me. The smell of cigarettes reminds me of the first night when Ayvazian raped me, and I find the memory of clients with heavy cigarette breath intolerable.

“You go back out and tend the fire,” I tell Avo, taking the glasses from him. “I’ll bring these down, with something for you men to eat.” Avo smiles and lights a cigarette the second he crosses the threshold.

I fill a tray with sliced sausages, cheese and pickled cucumbers and cabbage, which is a favored accompaniment to vodka for seasoned drinkers. I add the shot glasses and some bread, and walk down to greet the men. Edik moves forward to take the tray from me, which is another breach of custom that everyone ignores, and then gives me a hug and kiss on both cheeks, yet another breach which, in different circumstance, could easily have led to a quarrel.

“I have a present for you,” he says, smiling from ear to ear. “I hope you like it.” And he takes a small volume from his coat pocket and hands it to me. It is a copy of Daniel Varujan’s
Pagan Songs
. Varujan is one of the most prominent Western Armenian poets, and was killed during the 1915 genocide. Turkish soldiers arrested him along with several other writers, took them to a secluded wood, stripped them, tied them to the trees and proceeded to cut them slowly with knives. Their screams could be heard from a distance for hours, according to some witnesses. His
Pagan Songs
is a celebration of love, power, lust, sex, courage and life. It celebrates the pagan traditions of Armenia, which he presents as the antithesis of the Christian defeatist, turn-the-other-cheek, live-life-in-fear mentality. Edik says even though religion has lost its omnipresence in Armenian life today, that mentality dominated Armenian culture for several centuries, weakening it politically and militarily. He considers Varujan not only one of the greatest poets, but also one of the important influences on his own writing.

I notice that he gets distracted for a minute. Sometimes I catch Edik staring at me so intensely that I wonder what he is thinking. Right now, my smile touched him, I know it, and I wonder if I should have been more reserved. I take the book, look at the cover, and hold it to my chest.

“
Shnorhakal em
, Edik jan.” I am thankful. Then I go to greet
Khev Gago
and my brothers-in-law.

Chapter Four

“H
ow much do we tell him about Yuri, and when?” asks Laurian pulling Gagik aside.

“We better do it now. He’ll be too drunk after dinner,” says Gagik. Then, looking over his shoulder at the group around the fire, he adds, “I don’t know…maybe this is not the right time and place.”

“He needs to be warned,” says Laurian. “Maybe we can give him a heads up now, without destroying his mood on Lara’s birthday. Let’s leave the long discussion for later.”

“I’ll go get him,” says Gagik. Laurian walks around the corner of the heap of snow and waits.

“You remember Hamo?” starts Laurian after they arrive. “Ayvazian’s bodyguard that you pushed down the cliff in Sevajayr?”

“Yeah, what about him?” The first hints of slurring are already apparent.

“Well, he has this brother, Yuri, who has returned from Moscow recently. He worked for Ayvazian too, but was based in Moscow. He doesn’t know about what happened here, and nothing about you and Lara, yet. But
he is asking questions. The reports of his brother and Ayvazian falling off the cliff at the same time have intrigued him.”

“Is he asking about Lara?” says Avo. That is what matters most to him.

“Not yet. But we think he knows about your family. What exactly, we don’t know,” says Gagik.

“If he’s not asking about Lara, let him ask all he wants,” says Avo. “It doesn’t matter now, does it?”

“Probably not. But we thought we’d let you know, in case he gets close, that’s all. What you need to remember is to keep calm. Do not show any emotion to these people. If anyone shows up asking if you know about the Ayvazians, just look them in eye and say no. If you act angry or uneasy they’ll know you’re hiding something. We can talk about this more later; let’s not take away from the festivities today.”

With that, Laurian puts his arm around Avo’s shoulders and they walk back to the fire. Lara, who has gone inside at this point, notices the three of them come around the corner, and leaves the kitchen to join them. She wants to find out what was that all about, and her best chance is Laurian; neither Avo nor Gagik is likely to tell her much.

Carla Ayvazian is in her father’s study in Yerevan, the same room where they brought Lara two years ago. The study is part of a one-bedroom suite attached to Ayvazian’s main residence, with a separate entrance.

This is where sixteen-year-old Lara was overwhelmed and intimidated because everything was so opulent, and because she had arrived there straight from their house in Saralandj. Not much has changed in the room in the past two years. The maroon velvet sofa is still there, so are the overstuffed chairs, the cupboard of heavy crystal and the thick drapes at the windows. The only addition is a wooden desk, placed in front of the windows, behind which Carla sits, with her feet resting on top of the desk. Sergei Ayvazian had no use for a desk, but for Carla it is critical; without it, the room feels bare to her, no matter how heavy all the other furniture is. As importantly, if she is to succeed in taking
over the family business, she needs an imposing position from which to greet visitors.

On the wall opposite the desk, in Carla’s direct view, is a large framed photograph of their home in Martashen, the largest village in Vayots Dzor and Ayvazian’s hometown. He loved the place, and spent as much time there as his work allowed. He loved that photograph too, which shows the acres of fields and mountains around their mansion. Carla never understood her father’s infatuation with the countryside. She’s been to Martashen only once since her father’s death, to attend his funeral. She is a city girl. She has thought of getting rid of the photograph several times and replacing it with a painting or a photograph of her father, but something has stopped her each time.

Carla is thirty years old, somewhat heavyset, with a slightly asymmetrical hourglass figure, where the bottom half is a bit larger than the top. She is not pretty, but attractive in a crude, sensual way. Her short dark hair and minimal make-up accentuate her masculine features, and the serious, almost stern, expression on her face suggests she’s not to be taken lightly. She is Ayvazian’s only child and, while no one either in her family or among her father’s business associates has given her a second thought as a potential player, she is determined to take over the reins and rebuild the business.

But first Carla has to find out who killed him and where the pieces of his business are hidden. Her mother, a lonely and apathetic fifty-four year old woman, who long stopped caring what her husband did, can be of no help, as her father told her next to nothing about the business he ran, and she was not interested in finding out. They had barely spoken in the past several years. She lived in her own world, socializing only with a few of her female friends and a distant cousin, and even that infrequently. Carla does not remember her parents ever doing much together. In the early years, when she was still a teenager, they used to go to visit relatives or attend weddings together. But in the last ten years or so, even those events were rare and far apart. What had survived as a family activity was the New Year’s Eve celebration, which, at their home, involved close to one hundred people, and did not allow much direct interaction between her parents. Her father would be busy entertaining the guests he had invited, and her mother would be busy with the relatives and making sure that the table was properly tended by the staff. For as long as Carla can remember, her mother was bored and indifferent.

There is, however, one distinct memory imprinted in Carla’s mind. It is a comment that her father once made to her mother. She was barely seventeen, her parents’ bedroom door was open, and she heard her father say: “You don’t know how I wish Carla was a boy.” She waited for a minute outside the door to hear her mother’s response, but there was only a barely audible mumble that she could not understand. “Oh, why am I wasting my breath on you,” came back her father’s voice. “What would you know about any of this anyway!” Carla then heard footsteps and was about to move away from the door, when she heard her mother’s voice. “Don’t you ever let her know that’s how you feel,” she said; her voice was still low, but much clearer this time. “Let it stay with all the things that you keep to yourself. Don’t you understand that she needs a father more than you need a son?”

Carla turned away and hurried to her room. That was the most she had ever heard her mother tell her father, and the fact that she showed concern for her feelings was a revelation to her. She had rarely done anything that showed concern for Carla’s wellbeing, other than the minimal and expected motherly duties, which were often performed as much to impress others as for Carla.

To her surprise, she was not upset or emotionally distraught by her parents’ exchange. Back in her room, she processed the information calmly and objectively, which made her feel so empowered that the entire experience became another revelation. She had discovered something important about herself. This was no longer about what her father or mother said; this was about her identity, her independence, her choices, her life. She decided, then and there, that she would be the one who controls men, and not the other way round.
Don’t you understand that she needs a father more than you need a son?
Her mother’s words replayed in her head and sounded like a dare. Her father needed a son; there was no doubt about that, because he said so. But her mother’s assertion that she needed a father was so clichéd that she understood, for the first time, that she in fact did not. “You’re wrong, dear mother,” she thought in defiance. “He does need a son much more than I need a father.”

That night Carla lost her virginity. She telephoned a twenty-year old acquaintance, the son of one of Ayvazian’s associates, and asked him to come over. Ayvazian was out, and her mother was in her room. She could hear the sound of the TV from behind the closed door. She took the young man by the hand and led him to her bedroom, shut the door, and told him
to undress. When he hesitated, she adopted her stern look and said, “Now!” The young man was afraid—afraid of what her father would do if he found out, but equally afraid of her. Then he saw her undressing, and began to focus.

“Now listen carefully,” she said, as a superior talking to an underling. “This is my first time, so make sure I enjoy it. I want to enjoy sex for a long time, so I can’t have a bad first experience. They say the first experience sets the tone.” She watched him for a second, looking him over from head to toe. He had taken off his shirt and trousers, and was standing in front of her in his underpants. He was well built, muscular, and moderately handsome. His chest was bare, but his legs and thighs were covered with thick, curly black hair.

“How much experience do you have?” she asked.

At this point he was so intimidated that he did not know how to answer.

“Look,” she said impatiently, removing the last of her clothes and standing in front of him. “I know nothing about sex first hand. Now show me what you have.” And she pointed at his crotch.

Eventually, the young man gathered enough courage and confidence to do what he was told. He had been with a couple of middle-aged prostitutes, but he had not been confronted in this manner by any woman, let alone by a seventeen-year-old virgin whose father was a feared oligarch. After getting over the initial shock, he found Carla’s confidence and bossiness arousing. He was not an experienced lover, but knew more than Carla.

Carla’s curiosity was not easy to satisfy. She wanted to learn everything about the sensual pleasures. She pushed him hard with her questions, some of which embarrassed the young man and went beyond his own knowledge. Finally, tired more than satisfied, she helped him sneak out.