From To Go On Living, a book of short stories by Armenian writer Narine Abgaryan, published this week.

Zarginants Atanes wakes up at the crack of dawn. The first thing he does is lean awkwardly over the edge of the bed to turn off his alarm clock so its unceremonious and annoying chiming does not wake up his sleeping son. Then he opens the window, climbs back under his blanket, and lies with his eyes closed, taking in the sounds of Berd as it stirs itself awake: the distant, barely audible whisper of the river, the singing of the birds, the indignant gobbling of the perennially discontented turkeys, the honking of the combative geese. The garbage truck passes through, its ancient motor hissing. Atanes is convinced that the truck is as old as the world. Seasons, generations, and centuries come and go; the only thing that doesn’t change is the metallic pile of junk that, desperately fuming and choking on its own smoke, continues to cart endless, useless garbage out of Berd with the determination of an ant.

The neighbor’s rooster, perched on top of the fence, is crowing its heart out. Atanes smiles as he remembers a recent episode: The rooster roamed the veranda, his claws clicking against the floorboards and his yellow eyes covetously trained on the trays of freshly roasted wheat laid out to cool. It wasn’t that the rooster pecked at it – he was no fool to burn himself on scalding grains, but he looked disgruntled and even menacing. The sight of him sent Levon into peals of gurgling, quiet laughter: “Dad, look, Dad, Peto!”

To Levon, all roosters are Peto.

All dogs – Sevo.

All horses – Chalo.footnote

All people – Person. That’s exactly what he says: Person came, Person left. Only about one woman he says: Gentle Person came. Pretty, he adds.

Everyone is entitled to his own idea of beauty, and even then, it evolves considerably over the course of one’s lifetime. But for Levon, it is as constant as it is certain – a pretty person is whoever brings him a sweet treat. That’s why Poghosants Anichka is a Pretty Person. After all, she often brings him baghardj,footnote which she makes with thick cream instead of water, flouting the traditional recipe, and layers it with roasted almonds.

“Dad, Dad, look, Gentle Person coming. Pretty!” rejoices Levon, spotting Anichka as she opens the gate.

“Levon-jan? It’s past noon, and you’re still in bed?” Anichka chides him with feigned sternness as she climbs the stairs leading to the veranda. The stairs require considerable effort on her part; she groans and leans her palms into her knees with every step. At first, Atanes would try to help her, but he eventually gave it up because she angrily rebuffed him, insisting that she’d manage on her own for as long as her legs carried her.

Levon is propped up on a daybed, the bottom part of his body tightly swaddled. He reaches for Anichka with his thin, long arms, the only part of his body that’s not wrapped up. Gentle Person coming. Pretty.

Anichka sits down next to him and unwraps the bundle, revealing golden pieces of sweet baghardj, and only then is able to catch her breath.

Photograph by jobi_pro / Adobe Stock.

While Levon is enjoying the treat, she and Atanes leisurely chat. About how the roof needs patching. How the fence is leaning and prone to collapse. How the days keep getting shorter and the nights longer, and how that’s not because winter is coming but because they are getting older. How they are due for a visit to the cemetery soon because Green Sunday is just around the corner, and the Saturday of Souls comes right after.footnote How you have to prepare for it ahead of time, because you can’t show up to pay respects at an untidied grave.

Then Atanes heats up some water, and together they bathe Levon. Full and content, he diligently splashes and rejoices – “Dad, nice, right?”

“Nice, very nice, Levon-jan.”

They apply special ointment to the bedsores on his nape, shoulder blades, and lower back. Anichka makes it herself; she heats up vegetable oil, stirs in beeswax, and sets it aside to cool completely.

After Levon falls asleep, they linger on the veranda for a while longer. Atanes makes them tea, while Anichka darns old, worn-out linens. They take their tea in their own ways: she with tiny bites of sugar in her mouth, he with fruit preserves.

“You should have said yes when I asked you to marry me,” Atanes breaks the silence. “It would have been easier if we were together.”

Anichka looks at him.

“Do you really believe that?” Atanes doesn’t answer.

“See, you don’t even believe it yourself, but you keep repeating the same thing,” concludes Anichka.

She leaves in the evening, when the timid light of the first stars speckles the sky.

Afterward, Atanes lies awake in his bed for a long time, peering into the indifferent eyes of the night. Levon is asleep next to him, his hands tucked under his cheek, like a child. The war stole everyone else from Atanes; it would have stolen his son as well, but it failed – the force of the explosion tossed Levon out of the bombed bus right before it fell into the gorge. Levon used to be a healthy, sturdy young man; now he is crippled and destined to remain a child forever. He doesn’t even know how old he is. And to think that they celebrated his thirty-fifth birthday just last winter!

Anichka had it worse, although who’s to say with what yardstick one should measure pain? Her entire family perished in the pogroms, and all she was able to recover were the charred remains of her youngest son. She tied his ashes into a bundle, carried them over the border, and buried them. When she heard about Levon, she came to visit him with baghardj, which had been her children’s favorite treat. She has been coming to visit for years. At first Atanes kept trying to turn down the treat because he didn’t want to grow dependent on anyone, but eventually he grew used to her visits and even looked forward to them. Once, he even worked up the courage to propose marriage to her. To this, she responded that between the two of them, they would have too much grief to carry. “On our own, at least we can manage somehow,” she said.

Atanes falls asleep long after midnight and wakes up at the crack of dawn. The first thing he does is lean awkwardly over the edge of the bed to turn off his alarm clock so that its unceremonious and persistent chiming does not wake up his sleeping son. Then he opens the window, climbs back under his blanket and lies with his eyes closed, taking in the sounds of Berd as it stirs itself awake. He spends his morning over routine household chores: cleaning, weeding and watering the garden, washing and cooking. After the midday meal, he carries Levon out onto the veranda, props him up on the daybed, and sits down next to him. And together they settle to wait until Anichka will come over, bringing with her the golden pieces of the blessed baghardj. Levon always eats it as if he is tasting sunlight.

Footnotes

1. Peto, Sevo, and Chalo are common names given to roosters, dogs, and horses, respectively. Peto derives from the Russian word for rooster, petukh; Sevo, literally, a blackie, from the Armenian word for black, sev; Chalo, from the Armenian word chal, multicolored.
2. A flat, pie-shaped dessert with ornately decorated edges, a staple of Armenian cuisine.
3. In the Armenian Apostolic Church, Green Sunday is the second Sunday after the resurrection of Jesus Christ. “Saturday of Souls,” observed several times a year by all Orthodox Christian churches, is a day reserved for the commemoration of the dead.