From Moscow to Yerevan, flying over Tsmakut, takes about a hundred minutes. But getting from Tsmakut to Yerevan takes a day and a night.
“Our village, dear in-law, is far, far away…”
“You say ‘far’ as though it were outside Armenia.”
“Outside Armenia, outside the world too.”
There, for days and years, the hawk makes the same circuit above the village and its hens. Hail escapes from between the hills to batter fields and quails. Wind flings away the beehive roofs, and rain pours into the hives. The child sent to fetch the horse gets lost on this slope of the gorge; on the other slope stands the wet horse, while the gorge fills with the hiss of a black torrent. The great rock cracked a hundred years ago and still will not fall, will not fall. A man does not know whether to build his house on the level ground beneath the rock or above Simon’s house, at the clearing’s edge. Or neither there nor there, but—here is a rare chance—bundle up his nonexistent belongings and move to Yerevan? Things worked out well for Simon: he has a son in Yerevan, and as for escaping the heat, Tsmakut is a ready-made summer retreat. Aghun reached her goal. From the day she came as a bride: the city, the city, the city. All she wanted was somewhere like Manats, and now she has a twenty-five-year-old son in a place like Yerevan.
“Sero!”
She still owed Parandzem thirty eggs. Last time her son said: “An egg costs ten kopecks; the market’s under our noses.” He does not understand, takes after his maternal uncle, will never live well. He cannot count money: receives it by the handful, spends it by the handful. His wife will have to be thrifty.
“Sero, five hundred eggs at ten kopecks—how much money?”
“Since you won’t take me with you, I won’t tell you.”
“Have you learnt your arithmetic? What are you reading?”
“Since you won’t take me with you, it’s none of your business.”
“Write on a piece of paper: thirty eggs to Parandzem.”
“Since you won’t take me with you, I won’t write it.”
“Jump up! Go and see if that horse is grazing or tangled up.”
Her other son was poor at arithmetic too. He was due for an exam, was chopping wood and cut his foot. Not deeply, but because he had an exam to go to, he cried: “It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.” Siranush said: “Aghavni, you’re a woman who’s suffered. I’ll give him a mark, but without arithmetic your child will have no future.” She said: “If he takes after the Vanker side, he won’t be lost. But if, dear Siranush, he’s a Tsmakut boy, he could be good at algebra and it would make no difference.” Does Siranush read his articles, she wondered. Vazgen reads them and disapproves: “If I write, I’ll write better than him.” Windbag: we have ink and a pen, write.
“Sero.”
“What?”
“Dear Professor Sero, have you written thirty eggs to Parandzem?”
“Since you won’t take me with you, I’m not a professor.”
“That’s what I’m saying too. A hundred eggs and fifty more make a hundred and fifty?”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying you’re Sero the shepherd.” When he failed algebra in eighth grade too, Simon said: “There are decent workdays and money in it. Come on, wife, let him herd lambs.” Let him herd lambs. No fight, no will, no wish to live well. You’re a potato, so eat potatoes. “Get up. I made Armenak work. Find an old book, the paper’s run out.”
The child stood before the cupboard, looked, then went to fetch a chair.
“There are no useless books there. Climb up higher.”
“Since you won’t take me, I’ll break the eggs.”
“Oh, no you won’t!”
“I will.”
“Can you do anything else useful?”
“Since you won’t take me…”
Artash robbed the collective farm and robbed it, yet the boy’s share was a carpet and bedding. Touch the pillow: his slovenly wife had stuffed the feathers into the ticking just as she had plucked them.
“All right, I take Sero with me, then what? The cow comes home, the calf doesn’t. Your father comes from the fields: no fire, no water at home. And your father’s hungry, hungry, thirsty, thirsty. The pig doesn’t come home, the kite takes the hens, the Murads’ Gaping-Mouth pulls the pole off the pear tree on his way to the fields. The hens lay, nobody gathers the eggs, the cat eats them. We come back from Yerevan and find not a house but a cowshed. Is that good?”
“What’s it to me?”
“Everything in this house is yours, the house too. Your father and I are your slaves, that is, your servants.”
“Don’t need you.”
“Your brother said that too. And now look: his Sero sends him a winter’s worth of food. Know why? Wrap them, I’m telling you. He sends it so that, when university time comes, he’ll get his Sero into university. Like this, wrap them one by one, put them here. I wonder what breed the daughter-in-law will be. There’s a sort of hissing snake that straddles a man: ‘This man is mine.’ No mother gave birth to him, he was there ready-made. There’s a sort of sloven: you bring and bring and bring, but your house is empty. Let her be fair, tall, with long, heavy hair, let her bear healthy children… Tomorrow you’ll warm up that food; the day after, Nazik will come and cook. Don’t let her put in too much butter. When your father comes from work the day after tomorrow, say: ‘Father, every day it’s state work, state work. Others have brought their hay; ours is still up in the mountains. If it snows, it’ll be hard, won’t it, Father?’ Go and turn up that radio, it’s a good song. All my life I wanted a son who could sing, and you were born deaf.”
“Doesn’t my brother sing well?”
“Your brother… May I bear his troubles. He sings, writes, laughs, has good friends… Oh, my back. You’ll grow up, go to veterinary university, become a vet, won’t you, dear Sero? Become a vet—and wrap and listen—and come to the village. You’ll have a house in town, your brother in the village. And I’ll be your mother, sit down and have a good rest. Your father will keep bees for you. But if your mother isn’t here, don’t forget: come and tell my grave, ‘Mother, we are what you wanted us to be.’ I’ll hear. Have you written thirty eggs to Parandzem? May your grandfather Ishkhan find no rest underground. A world full of boys, and it was: go, Aghun, make a man of Simon, a home of a cowshed, make Armenak into Armenak. Make and make, then there’s no health left, no heart for laughter. Let others go from palace to palace; God allotted me Tsmakut, and in Tsmakut, Simon. You’re a flower, you’ll bloom every spring. You’ll come, dear Sero, stand at my grave: ‘Mother, Armenak’s well, I’m well, we followed the road you marked.’”
“Started again? I’ll break an egg now, you hear!”
“Don’t cry. You won’t belong to their soft breed.”
“Then why are you crying?”
“I have the right. Your fine Uncle Adam grabbed my arm and threw me out in January: ‘Go, you’re not for this house.’ Your grandmother Arus made me weep blood every day. Your grandfather Abel, may he sink deep, came from the fields: ‘Still here?’ Woke up: ‘Still here? You’ve got a dog’s face, a dog’s.’ And that fine father of yours stood beside them with his mouth crooked. My name wasn’t Aghun; it was Arnaut, Kurdish woman. I ate so very much of their nonexistent bread. Your uncle’s son Hrachik was a tiny child; they’d taught him to say Arnaut and hit me with a stone. That’s how it was, dear Sero. And my Aunt Manishak… my Aunt Manishak… Jump up, jump up! You sit on your heavy backside like your grandfather Abel, as if you’ve mown the world and brought it home. That horse is tangled up by now, run. Quickly, may your grandfather Abel sink deep, hurry!”
“They were right to say it.”
“Right to say what?”
“To call you Arnaut.”
“Well done.”
“Then why did you hit me?”
“Run and look at that horse, or if I get up…”
“Aghu-un!”
“See, I’m not Arnaut any more. I have a name, my name’s Aghun. It’s Aghavni. ‘A-u-un!’”
“Aghu-un!”
“‘A-u-un!’ Say: what?”
“I won’t.”
“It’s your granny, let her shout as long as she likes.”
“Let her shout.”
“Aghun, Aghu-un!”
“Say: what?”
“Sero, Sero-o!”
“Wha-at?”
“Sero-o!”
“Hey, what?”
“What’s your mother doing?”
“Say she’s going to Yerevan. Say she’s getting ready, has no time.”
“Going to Yerevan, getting ready!”
“Say she has no time.”
“Going to Yerevan?”
“Ye-es!”
“Tell her to step out for a moment.”
“Say she has no time, she’s busy. Now I’m needed, now I have a name, now my name’s Aghun, I’m not Arnaut any more. Run to the horse. Leave this radio on.”
In the city they do something: the radio sings and speaks, the iron heats up, lights burn in all the rooms, the stove warms them, but the meter doesn’t count. They do something, and all of it is free…
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