Bread

My father had taken his axe and was going to build a barn. My mother had tied on her apron and was going to the fields to gather potatoes. My uncle had shouldered his pitchfork and was going to the mountains to stack hay. In the yard, in the sunshine, I sat on a stump and, eating bread, read a book about heroic deeds.
It was Sunday. At school I received shining “excellent” marks in Armenian; in Russian, mathematics, geography, every subject, I received shining “excellent” marks. The book about heroic deeds was a good book. My father was a good father. My mother loved me very much. My uncle was a handsome, strong man. The swallows under our eaves had migrated with the cranes in the sky. Autumn was settling with a rustle over orchard and forest. If our pigs had not been lost, everything in the world at that moment would have been immeasurably beautiful. Axe under his arm, apron tied, pitchfork on his shoulder, before going to work they looked at me and secretly rejoiced that their son was growing up, had laid his cheek upon his hand and was reading a book. My mother, her apron tied, thought: shall I say it or not? She decided not to say it, not to disturb her son; let him read and become a scholar. My father, axe under his arm, thought: shall I ask or not? Thought again: shall I ask or not? And decided not to ask; let his son read, let him read while eating bread. I read and felt they wanted to say something to me about the pigs, but pretended to feel nothing and only to read the book about heroic deeds, because it is good, very good, when others in books go, get wet, grow cold, fight, lose, win, and bad, terribly bad, when I myself must go, tire, find or fail to find our pigs.
The barn had to be built, the potatoes had to be gathered before the snow, the hay had to be stacked, so Father, Mother and Uncle could not fail to go before winter to build the barn, gather the potatoes, stack the hay. And my father said to me:
— What if I ask you something?
I knew what Father would ask, but said:
— Ask what?
And it was a great shame that I knew, yet pretended not to know his request.
— Someone has seen our pigs in Clear Glade, my father said.
— Who saw them? I asked.
— The forest guard.
— When? I asked.
— Yesterday evening.
I managed not to ask, “Why did he see them?” I asked:
— Where is Clear Glade?
— I think you know perfectly well which is Clear Glade.
— That faraway one?
He did not answer, and I understood he was a little hurt by me. I asked:
— Do you want me to go and find and bring back our pigs?
— I don’t want anything, he said.
— Someone has seen our pigs in Clear Glade; then what? I said.
Without answering he turned to go.
— All right, I said, “I’ll go. But if they aren’t there, what do I do?”
— I don’t know.
He truly was hurt, because he could not go searching himself while I asked the questions of a lazy good-for-nothing.
— Forgive me, he said, “read your book, forgive me.”
— All right, I said, “I’ll find their tracks and follow them to the pigs.”
The autumn sun was gently warm. Beautiful in the gentle autumn sunshine were the swallows’ silent nests, the orchard’s apple trees still bearing an apple or two, my mother’s gentle smile, the reddish dog lying at my feet dozing, the rooster’s red comb, and the cherry tree that suddenly began to chirp. I looked at the orchard, saw the cherry tree and the yellow-bellied bird that had found a cherry so late in autumn and chirped in surprise. I understood that in the gentle autumn sunshine everything was sad and beautiful and I alone was ugly, because I pretended it was on account of the book that I did not want to go looking for our pigs.
So I said:
— I’ll read the book beside the pigs.
— I’ll be grateful, my father said. “If you like, leave the dog to guard the hens; if you like, take him with you. Thank you,” he repeated, and I was a little ashamed.
— All right, I said, “I’ll take the dog.”
They put on me a warm, soft woollen sweater Mother had knitted for me in the evenings, had me put on light rubber-soled shoes so that I would not accidentally slip on the grass in leather-soled ones, and looked at me tenderly, because the sweater suited me very well and I was their son.
— Shall I go now? I said.
— Your way and your uncle’s are the same as far as Blind Spring. Go with him to Blind Spring; from there you’ll turn along Thicket Path towards Clear Glade.
The dog did not want to come. I called again; he rose slowly and lazily followed us. He knew the thieving kite of the forest opposite; the thieving kite of the forest opposite knew him. They were old acquaintances. The thieving kite of the forest opposite did not soar openly and high like a falcon; he approached our hens from bush to bush and tree to tree, almost crawling. The dog stopped again. I saw the grey kite’s furtive flight between thickets, but thought I was taking the dog on a task as important as guarding hens, and whistled him. He followed reluctantly, then, when we had left the village and he had forgotten the kite, rushed ahead with a joyful whine and went. He had missed the forest, the pigs, running, weariness.
At home were my desk, the lamp’s warm, caressing light, my little library, the radio’s gentle song, and on my couch the thick camel-wool shawl for a midday nap. In the forest were bears, elephants, tigers, leopards, devils, demons and monsters: apart from our pigs and my honesty, everyone was in the forest, and I walked slowly, lagging behind my uncle. I had opened the book and went looking at it, as though unable to tear myself away and lagging because of reading.
At Blind Spring, where the paths parted, the dog stood waiting for us. The spring was called Blind because it brought fine sand from its depths, and the sand closed its eye. Again the spring had filled with fine sand and silt; behind its closed source, beneath the ground, perhaps the spring was suffocating.
My uncle looked at the spring already becoming a marsh. From his field bag he took his food, halved the boiled chicken, wrapped it in lavash bread, wrapped the parcel in newspaper and put it under my arm. And with his head indicated the path to Clear Glade.
— I want a drink of water, I said.
— You’ll drink from the spring in Clear Glade, he said. “It’s beneath the big oak. Go.”
With joyful barking the dog dashed towards the path. For a moment I too grew glad and ran. The fallen leaves rustled dryly and deafeningly. As I ran there was only that rustling in my ears. The leaves reached my knees. When I stopped there was quiet silence, and in that silence and light, whispering barely audibly, the falling leaves swayed. A blackbird flew chattering from beneath my feet, and again there was deep silence. It seemed I could hear the forest’s peaceful breathing.
I looked back. My uncle knelt by the spring doing something. Going a little deeper into the forest, I looked back again. I thought he had gone, but he had not, was still bent over the spring and difficult to see because road and clothes were both earth-coloured. I sat behind a tree and, to deceive myself that I was doing something, opened the book about heroic deeds. Yet I did not read it; bent over the book, I waited for my uncle to leave the return road. He was now sitting by the spring, smoking and, it seemed to me, looking into the forest at me. “For instance, why are you sitting idle like that?” I thought. “Finding pigs is your business, reading books is mine. Here I am reading my book while you sit idle.” And to deceive myself still more, I stopped my ears with my fingers and looked only at the book. As though reading, as though doing nothing but reading.
A faint distant rustling was audible. I lifted my eyes from the book and opened my ears; the rustling was very loud and very near. But I had no time to be frightened, because at the same moment I saw our dog. He pressed against me with a rush, jumped, jumped again, whined and called me towards Clear Glade. So he would not bark and rustle again, I gave him half my bread, and he sat beside me behind the tree, waiting for what else I would give him.
I ate the white, fibrous chicken meat, gave him the bone. I ate the skin of the neck, gave him the bone. It was a little hard to eat, because I had not gone looking for the pigs, but I ate. I ate the wonderfully delicious chicken leg, gave the dog the bone. “Here’s some for you too,” I said.
There was no one by the spring now. I went down the path towards the road. “Let’s go,” I told the dog. He looked at me and did not rise; he did not believe we were already turning back.
— It’s your business, I said, “if you want to stay, stay.”
I went down to the road, to the spring. There was no mud or silt in its basin now, its eye was no longer blind. The spring flowed freely and abundantly, simply danced with fullness. Its blue stone basin was full and clear. In its clean mirror I saw my well-fed, foolish face and was a little ashamed of myself, but I was very thirsty and bent to drink. I had no time to realise I did not deserve that spring before I was already drinking… That the spring, the chicken meat, the dog, the forest’s rustling, that father, that mother, all of them were very good and I very bad, I did not think of it; sip by sip I drank that clear water. I did not think at all that this spring was not mine, did not belong to me. I drank my fill and was content.
I heard a grunt from the forest, which seemed to be a pig’s voice; again I was a little ashamed, but kept going towards home, my couch, my desk, my warm corner.
When I was quite near the village, I saw the dog coming slowly after me.
— If you didn’t want to come, you needn’t have, I told the dog. “Who forced you? No one forced you.”
Whether the kite had stolen a hen or not, I did not find out. “The hens are Mother’s concern; let Mother check whether the kite carried one off or not,” I thought. “I know my geography lesson, my history lesson, my mathematics problem…”
Father sat at the edge of the couch, smiling and groaning. His back, then, hurt again. But why he smiled I could not understand.
— What is the radio singing? he asked.
— Komitas.
— Did he write it, or is he singing?
— He wrote it, he’s a composer.
He smiled, then said:
— Well done for learning history so well.
— Who said so?
— The teachers came and helped me. Do you know tomorrow’s lessons?
— I do.
— Thank you, he said. “It doesn’t matter that you didn’t find the pigs; I’ll go and bring them now.”
— It’s dark now, I said.
— The wolf killed Mushegh’s pigs in the forest last night. I’m afraid it may harm ours too.
Every moment he wanted to rise from the couch and did not. He did not want to lie back, but finally did.
— When I lie down it doesn’t hurt, he said. “Did you look only in Clear Glade, or search elsewhere too?”
— I looked in Clear Glade, I said.
— Then I won’t go to Clear Glade, he said. “A pity, I hoped they’d be there.”
— I don’t know, I said. “The path was covered in leaves; I don’t know if it was Clear Glade I looked at or some other glade.”
— Was there a big oak at the edge?
— There was a big oak, a spring beneath the oak, I said.
Grimacing with pain, he rose at once and looked for his hat. He was so tired he did not realise the hat was in his hand.
— A pity they weren’t in Clear Glade, he said. “Then they’ve gone farther, reached Deep Glade.”
— Your back hurts, I said.
He mocked his pain:
— When you strain your eyes in the dark, the pain is forgotten.
— I’m coming with you, I said.
He stroked me:
— You’ve walked a great deal today. Eat, rest a little and sleep.
As he was being swallowed by the darkness, I said loudly:
— I’m coming too.
— No, he said sharply. “Read your book.”
Something passed through the darkness with barking and a soft rush: the dog, going with my father to search, to find in distant unknown places and bring back our pigs, whose meat I was to eat all winter, with whose price I was to wear a warm coat, have skis, ski boots, a soft scarf, an earflap hat…
Mother laid the supper table. The radio sang quietly. The lamp sifted caressing milky light onto the desk. On the white tablecloth, well-baked white bread glowed softly. Beside the bread, reddish fried potatoes. The wood in the hearth burned with short flames. The teapot clinked gently. And the silver teaspoon was very beautiful, and the brown walnut preserve gleaming in the milky light, and the night was thick and warm, and sad was the solitary cricket’s broken song, heard sometimes near the table, sometimes by the hearth, sometimes by my couch. All of it was sad and beautiful and created for me, but I did not deserve to eat it, feel it, look at it, hear it.
— I’m not eating, I said, got into bed and turned towards the wall. And it was a pity to waste the softness of wool and feathers, the bed’s white cleanliness. Mother approached; I closed my eyes. She covered my back and murmured:
— My child has worked so hard today.