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#41:ԵՐԿՐԻ ՀԱԿԱՌԱԿ ԿՈՂՄԸ/THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD-Pashinyan

41. գնացքից` պարահանդես

Մենք երկար մնացինք Օվերում. այնտեղ էլ ճաշեցինք ու Փարիզ վերադարձանք բավականին ուշ: Այդ փոքրիկ քաղաքը շատ անուշ տպավորություն գործեց, ու ես հասկացա, որ եթե տվյալ երկրի մասին ուզում ես պատկերացում կազմել, պետք է դիտարկես ոչ թե նրա պսպղան մայրաքաղաքը, այլ գավառը, այսպիսի փոքրիկ քաղաքները, գյուղերը. դրանք խոսուն են, չափազանց խոսուն:

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD

41. From the Train to a Dance

We stayed in Auvers for a long time. We had dinner there and returned to Paris pretty late. That little town impressed me a lot; I realized that if you want to form an idea about a country, you should look not at the glittering capital but at the provinces, little towns like this one, and villages; they are very, very telling. In Auvers, you forget you’re in a town. It seemed to us that we had come to visit a family, that we had entered a hearth. And in fact there are such places; that’s what the term ‘community’ means. There’s such dignity and trust on the faces of people here. If you see an unsure or confused person in a group of people, you can be sure it’s the mayor who feels, or maybe doesn’t feel that what people are saying is that they’re not going to vote for him anymore.

We heard in Auvers that years ago the auditors, which as I understood, consist of townspeople, had found out that the then mayor had taken 100 thousand euros from the town treasury for personal needs and had promised the treasurer that he would return it in three months. When this came out, the mayor had to leave Auvers because people stopped greeting him even though he had returned the money on his own volition: “how can we not have contempt towards a man who gained our trust, and got into our pockets?” explained the owner of the little restaurant, who was proud of his town.

To imagine the city of Auvers, let the reader imagine a warm, comfortable, modest and attractive home, where people live in harmony, knowing in their hearts that they have the responsibility and ownership.

But one must earn that…

After we returned from Auvers, we discussed a few details about the dinner the next evening. Fred said that Quentin’s girlfriend would be joining us for dinner.

During dinner, it became clear that it was that young beauty who had planned the whole thing. She had come up with the idea once she heard the message I had left for Quentin.

“I don’t like it when people are upset at each other,” said Isabelle. It followed that Quentin hadn’t really been too excited about the prospect of seeing me. But my message had been enough reason for Isabelle, and Quentin had ceded. Of course, before the decision to invite us Isabelle had dragged everything he knew about us out of Quentin, and, realizing who I was, who Fred was, the circumstances under which we were in Paris, she decided to invite us.

“I like surprise acquaintances,” said Isabelle with a smile. There was a type of sweet vivacity in her.

I tried to find some hint of sarcasm in her statement about surprise acquaintances, but was convinced that this girl was completely honest; I was glad I had sworn at Quentin because without that, this dinner and acquaintance would not have happened.

Isabelle was a real beauty, a top model by profession, and the rising star of French fashion. The large house where they received us had a huge window and a huge balcony from where you could see the Eiffel Tower and the River Seine.

There were a lot of magazines at the house. Isabelle’s photographs were printed either on the covers or the pages of the magazines. In these photos she was focused, had a feline expression, tense face and wore unusual clothing. In real life her expression was simple, her face vivacious; she wore a pair of jeans and a tight-fitting shirt, under which her tight, beautiful breast were imprinted. But it wasn’t vulgar, just beautiful, and just conducive to an interesting, delicious dinner, in sincere friendship.

In a large photograph hanging from one of the walls, Isabelle and her friends stood on a podium, during a show. I was pouring over the large photo and found one of the faces very familiar:

“Is that the new First Lady of France standing next to you?” I couldn’t resist asking her.

Isabelle was surprised that I recognized her even with make-up.

“Yes, it is; it’s Meme,” she used the tender nickname for France’s sitting president’s sitting wife.

Isabelle admitted that she and Meme were friends. She considered Meme an older and trustworthy friend, and said they liked each other a lot and were very close. It also turned out that the meeting of Isabelle and Quentin had taken place in that context. Quentin had often been among one of Meme’s bodyguards, and Isabelle and Meme used to meet often. That’s where their love story had begun, and because of which Quentin almost lost his job; he was not allowed to look at or appreciate the beauty and femininity of those he protected during working hours. Quentin had explained, of course, that he was not protecting Isabelle, and finally the story had a good ending.

Quentin and Isabelle hoped that their relationship was serious, and everything was moving along in that direction. But they were in no hurry to come to a decision and said that the right thing to do was to be completely and totally sure about everything. In any case, they had been living together for a long time although they said living together was really a relative thing because there were times when they didn’t see each other for days, because of their respective professions:

“It doesn’t make sense to get married under these circumstances,” said Isabelle, laughing, and admitted that she wouldn’t get married until she was ‘too old’ for the podium.

“Will you wait for me, my guardian angel?” she asked Quentin.

Meeting her was an unexpected pleasure. I would never have thought that the girls walking on the podium could be so openhearted, so frank, have regular human qualities, and be so natural and simple.

Quentin, of course, was polite with us, although he was a little cold at the beginning. I said a couple words to him to iron out the misunderstanding between us, and during dinner it seemed to me that he got rid of his unpleasant feelings. Anyway, his aloofness disappeared very quickly.

Meeting Isabelle was very pleasant for Fred as well; a very happy and pleasant evening awaited us. Frankly speaking, it was obvious that Quentin and Isabelle also had the need for human contact and it seemed that our visit allowed a breath of fresh air in their house. Moving forward let me say that we became friends, and my acquaintance with Isabelle lit green lights for my future journey.

(to be continued)

DECLARATION BY THE POLITICAL PRISONERS OF THE REPUBLIC OF ARMENIA

[translation of the document posted earlier]

DECLARATION
BY
THE POLITICAL PRISONERS OF THE REPUBLIC OF ARMENIA

We, Armenia’s political prisoners, welcome the unyielding will of our compatriots who struggle in the name of freedom and prosperity for our county. We are convinced that the struggle has entered a decisive stage.

The regime of criminal oligarchs in Armenia, who have illegally controlled the resources of the state, is in its final throes and discloses its true visage to the world. In the last four months the Chief Prosecutor of Armenia was not able to charge any of the activists of the Popular Movement for crimes committed on March 1. On the contrary, the work conducted by the Prosecutor has unwittingly shown that all announcements made by the authorities about the use of firearms against the police are lies and a fiction of their imagination. Our declarations that the crime committed on March 1 was planned beforehand by the ruling regime against the people and state of Armenia has been proven right beyond any doubt.

Everyone in Armenia and throughout the world now realizes that the slaughter on March 1, the ensuing arrests of hundreds of the Popular Movement’s activists and the trumped up charged brought against them are, in fact, measures to terrorize the entire population. The intent of these measures was to cover up the ultimate crime committed by the authorities. We declare that that which occurred on March 1 was the crime of the forcible usurpation of power on the level of the state. In the Constitution of the Republic of Armenia such a crime is singled out, and is punishable by law. That crime was committed by Robert Kocharyan and Serzh Sargsyan, as a consequence of which the latter has illegally been declared the President of the Republic of Armenia.

From the start, we had no doubt that the operations of the authorities during the post-election days were motivated by the plan, designed beforehand, to forcefully usurp power. The criminally born oligarchic administration, which had lost its authority during the presidential elections, had planned to use force and massive repression. The basis of that monstrous plan was the February 24, 2008 National Security Service inspired criminal case regarding the “violent overthrow of the government.”

This illegal, fabricated operation was conducted in order to legalize a total repression of protests generated, all future operations of the authorities and secure Serzh Sargsyan’s presidency at any cost. It is on this that the subsequent plans of the authorities were based: the shooting of citizens and policemen on March 1, the establishment of the State of Emergency, the adoption of unconstitutional changes in the law on public gatherings and demonstrations by the Parliament, the arrest of the Movement’s activists, police brutality against thousands of citizens, etc.

During this time, television stations, monopolies of the authorities, were busy day and night disseminating false information to the public and to the world. They tried to show that what was taking place in Armenia was an attempt to destroy the state, and that the authorities were striking back at those who threatened the Constitutional order. It took a while for the whole population of Armenia and the international community to come to the final conclusion on what was in fact taking place in Armenia. We therefore think the time has come to call things by their name, and declare:

All those who are guilty of usurping power, of planning the slaughter of March 1, of legalized terror in Armenia, will stand before the courts. Robert Kocharyan should be tried as the author of crimes against humanity. The authors of terrorism and unconstitutional acts and those who implemented them—the Special Investigation Service, the Parliament, the Chief Prosecutor’s Office—must answer before Justice. Serjh Sargsyan, who usurped the offices of the president, should be removed from his position and tried.

We are convinced that the people of Armenia will attain freedom and justice. We are happy to, and willingly offer our prison cells to the real criminals. From now on, no one in Armenia should doubt that it is impossible to usurp or keep power through war against the people.


We shall win!


Gagik Jhangiryan
Smbat Ayvazyan
Christapor Elazyan
Gurgen Yeghiazaryan
Ashot Zakaryan
Gevorg Ghazaryan
Alik Arzoumanyan
Ararat Zurabyan
Hovik Harutyunyan
Husik Baghdasaryan
Vardan Ghavalbabuntz
Suren Sirounyan
Davit Matevosyan
Sos Gevorgyan
Vahe Ghazaryan
Mkrtitch Abrahamyan
Grigor Voskerchyan
Aghasi Mkrtchyan
Petros Makeyan
Vardan Malkhasyan
Arman Babajanyan
Mkrditch Sapeyan
Jora Sapeyan

Հայտարարություն: «Հայ մանկավարժների շարժում»

«Հայ մանկավարժների շարժում»
նախաձեռնության համակարգող խորհրդի

Տաս տարի շարունակ Հայաստանի Հանրապետության նախագահի աթոռը բռնազավթած Ռ.Քոչարյանը և նրա վարչախումբը իրենց ապօրինի իշխանությունը պահպանելու և վերարտադրելու մոլուցքով տարված այլասերեցին ու բարոյազրկեցին հասարակությունը:
Բռնապետությունը հատուկ մեթոդներով ժողովրդին պահեցին մշտական վախի մեջ, խրախուսվեց և հովանավորվեց միջակը, ստրկամիտը, որկրամոլը, շողոքորթը, ստորաքարշն ու կեղծարարը: Մսուր-մանկապարտեզից սկսած՝ խեղաթյուրվեց, այլասերվեց կրթական համակարգը: Որպես աղետալի հետևանք՝ Հայաստանում ձևավորվեց մարդու նոր տեսակ՝ հոգեզուրկ, մուտանտ:
Ծանր հարվածը ստացավ հասարակության ամենաանպաշտպան շերտերից մեկը՝մանկավարժները՝ դաստիարակը, ուսուցիչը, դասախոսը:
Վայրի օպտիմալացման հետևանքով իրենց աշխատանքը կորցրեցին հազարավոր մանկավարժներ: Օտարվեցին ու վաճառվեցին բազմաթիվ ուսումնական հիմնարկների շենքեր:
Վախը մտավ նաև ուսումնադաստիարակչական օջախներ, աշխատանք կորցնելու վախը, որի արդյունքում մանկավարժներին դարձրին իրենց հանցավոր մտահղացումների մասնակիցն ու կատարողը, նրանց ներքաշեցին կեղտոտ քաղաքական խաղերի մեջ, ստիպողաբար անդամագրեցին իշխանական կուսակցություններին, օգտագործեցին քարոզարշավի ժամանակ, ընտրությունների ընթացքում. նրանցից շատերը կեղծիքներ կատարեցին:
Այսօր, նույնպես, մանկավարժների ճնշող մեծամասնությունը վախենում է ազատ մտածել, գալ Ազատության հրապարակ, լսել իր առաջին նախագահի ոսկեղենիկ հայերենով իմաստուն խոսքը, լինել հարյուր հազարավոր հայրենակիցների կողքին, ըմբոշխնել ազատությունը, արդարությունը, հպարտությունը:
Երկրում սահմանադրական կարգը վերականգնելու, ազատ ապրելու ու ստեղծագործելու, մեր երեխաների արժանապատիվ ապագան կերտելու պայքարի դուրս եկած, հանրապետության մանկավարժներին՝ աշխատող, թե չաշխատող համախմբելու նպատակով, մենք՝ Համաժողովրդական շարժման ակտիվիստ մանկավարժներս ստեղծում ենք «Հայ մանկավարժների շարժում» նախաձեռնությունը:
Կոչ ենք անում մեր հայրենիքի ապագայի համար նախանձախնդիրներին՝ անդամակցել շարժմանը: Մենք իրավունք չունենք կողքի կանգնել, մենք պետք է լինենք հարյուր հազարավորների հետ, մենք մեր ձայնը պետք է միացնենք նրանց ձայնին:


«Հայ մանկավարժների շարժում»
նախաձեռնության համակարգող խորհուրդ

ՔԱՂԲԱՆՏԱՐԿՅԱԼՆԵՐԻ ՀԱՅՏԱՐԱՐՈՒԹՅՈՒՆԸ

[Update: english translation is above]

Մենք, Հայաստանի քաղբանտարկյալներս, ողջունում ենք հանուն ազատության եւ երկրի բարգավաճման մեր հայրենակիցների պայքարի աննկուն կամքը եւ համոզված ենք, որ պայքարը մտնում է վճռական փուլ:

Պետական իշխանության լծակներն ապօրինաբար իր ձեռքում պահող Հայաստանի քրեածին-օլիգարխիկ ռեժիմը հոգեվարքի մեջ է եւ ամբողջ աշխարհին ցուցադրում է իր իրական դեմքը: Չորս ամսվա ընթացքում Հայաստանի Գլխավոր դատախազությունը Համաժողովրդական շարժման որեւէ ակտիվիստի չկարողացավ հիմնավոր որեւէ մեղադրանք ներկայացնել մարտի 1-ի հետ կապված հանցագործության մեջ: Դատախազության աշխատանքն, ընդհակառակն, ակամա ցույց տվեց, որ իշխանության բոլոր հայտարաությունները ցուցարարների կողմից ոստիկանության դեմ հրազեն օգտագործելու մասին սուտ են եւ մտացածին հերյուրանք: Մինչդեռ անհերքելիորեն հաստատվեցին մեր հայտարարություններն այն մասին, որ մարտի 1-ին գործող ռեժիմի կողմից ժողովրդի եւ պետության դեմ կատարվել է նախապես ծրագրված ոճրագործություն:

Հայաստանում եւ աշխարհում բոլորը հասկացան, որ մարտի 1-ի սպանդը, Շարժման ակտիվիստների՝ դրան հետեւած հարյուրավոր ձերբակալություններն ու նրանց շինծու քրեական մեղադրանքներ ներկայացնելը իրականում բռնաճնշումներ են ամբողջ ժողովրդի դեմ՝ նպատակ ունենալով դրանով պարտակել վարչախմբի ծանրագույն հանցանքը: Մենք հայտարարում ենք, որ մարտի 1-ին տեղի է ունեցել պետական մասշտաբի հանցագործություն՝ իշխանության բռնազավթում, որը ՀՀ Սահմանադրության մեջ առանձնացված է որպես քրեորեն պատժելի արարք: Այդ հանցանքը գործել են Ռ. Քոչարյանը եւ Սերժ Սարգսյանը, ինչի հետեւանքով վերջինս ապօրինաբար հռչակվել է ՀՀ նախագահ:

Ի սկզբանե մենք համոզված էինք, որ հետընտրական օրերին վարչախմբի գործողությունները բխում էին իշխանության բռնազավթման նախապես կազմված ծրագրից: Նախագահական ընտրություններում իշխանությունը կորցրած քրեածին-օլիգարխիկ վարչախումբը ծրագրել էր իրականացնել ուժային ակցիաներ ու զանգվածային բռնաճնշումներ: Հրեշավոր այդ ծրագրի հիմք դեռ 2008թ. փետրվարի 24-ին Ազգային անվտանգության ծառայության կողմից «Իշխանության բռնազավթման փաստով» հարուցված քրեական գործն էր: Այս հակաօրինական հորինածո գործը կոչված էր օրինականացնել համընդհանուր բողոքի ճնշման՝ իշխանության բոլոր հետագա գործողությունները եւ ցանկացած գնով ապահովել Սերժ Սարգսյանին Նախագահ հռչակելը: Դրա վրա են հենվել վարչախմբի բոլոր հետագա գործողությունները. քաղաքացիների եւ ոստիկանների գնդակահարությունները մարտի 1-ին, Արտակարգ դրության ռեժիմի հաստատումը, Ազգային ժողովի կողմից Հանրահավաքների եւ ցույցերի մասին օրենքում կատարված հակասահմանադրական փոփոխությունները, Շարժման ակտիվիստների ձերբակալությունները, տասնյակ հազարավոր քաղաքացիների դեմ ոստիկանական ահաբեկչությունը եւ այլն:

Այս ամբողջ ընթացքում վարչախմբի մենաշնորհը հանդիսացող հեռուստաալիքները գիշերուզօր լծված էին հասարակությանը եւ աշխարհին ապատեղեկատվություն հաղորդելու գործին: Ջանում էին ներկայացնել, իբր Հայաստանում տեղի է ունենում պետականության քանդելու գործընթաց, իսկ իշխանությունը հակահարված է տալիս սահմանադրական կարգին սպառնացողներին: Որոշակի ժամանակ պահանջվեց, որպեսզի Հայաստանի ողջ բնակչությունը եւ համաշխարհային հանրությունը վերջնական համոզման գան Հայաստանում իրականում տեղի ունեցածի մասին: Ուստիեւ հենց հիմա մենք ճիշտ ժամանակն ենք համարում իրերը կոչել իրենց անուններով եւ հայտարարել.

Հայաստանում իշխանության բռնազավթման, մարտի 1-ի սպանդի կազմակերպման, հետագա «օրինականացված բռնաճնշումների» բոլոր մեղավորները կանգնելու են դատարանի առջեւ: Ռ. Քոչարյանը պետք է դատվի որպես մարդկության դեմ գործած հանցագործության հեղինակ: Արդարադատության առջեւ պատասխան պետք է տան ահաբեկչության ու հակասահմանադրական ակտերի հեղինակները եւ իրականացնողները՝ Հատուկ քննչական ծառայությունը, Ազգային ժողովը, Գլխավոր դատախազությունը: Նախագահի պաշտոնը բռնազավթած Սերժ Սարգսյանը պետք է հեռացվի պաշտոնից ու դատվի:

Մենք համոզված ենք, որ Հայաստանի ժողովուրդը հասնելու է ազատության եւ արդարության: Մեր կալանատեղերը մենք հաճույքով եւ պատրաստակամությամբ կտրամադրենք իրական հանցագործներին: Այսուհետ Հայաստանում ոչ մեկը պետք է կասկած չունենա, որ անհնար է ժողովրդի դեմ պատերազմի միջոցով իշխանություն բռնազավթել կամ պահել այն:

Հաղթելո՛ւ ենք:


Գագիկ Ջհանգիրյան
Սմբատ Այվազյան
Քրիստափոր Էլազյան
Գուրգեն Եղիազարյան
Աշոտ Զաքարյան
Գևորգ Ղազարյան
Ալիկ Արզումանյան
Արարատ Զուրաբյան
Հովիկ Հարությունյան
Հուսիկ Բաղդասարյան
Վարդան Ղավալբաբունց
Սուրեն Սիրունյան
Դավիթ Մաթևոսյան
Սոս Գևորգյան
Վահե Ղազարյան
Մկրտիչ Աբրահամյան
Գրիգոր Ոսկերչյան
Աղասի Մկրտչյան
Պետրոս Մաքեյան
Վարդան Մալխասյան
Արման Բաբաջանյան
Մկրտիչ Սափեյան
Ժորա Սափեյան

# 40: ՆԻԿՈԼ ՓԱՇԻՆՅԱՆ. ԵՐԿՐԻ ՀԱԿԱՌԱԿ ԿՈՂՄԸ/Pashinyan- The Other Side of the World

40. ապրելու հետեւանքները

Ճաշից հետո սենյակումս թերթում էի վան Գոգի նկարների կատալոգը, որ գնել էի ցուցահանդեսում: Ֆրեդը եկավ` ինձ համար անսպասելի.
- Մի միտք եմ հղացել,- ասացի:

40. The Consequences of Living

After lunch I was in my room leafing through the Van Gogh’s catalogue I had bought at the exhibit, when Fred came in, unexpectedly.

“I have an idea,” I said.

“Quentin had an idea, too,” he said, solemnly.

“What idea?”

“To invite us to dinner.”

“Are you serious? When?”

“Day after tomorrow; if, of course, we accept his invitation. I’m supposed to call him back.”

“This is a strange show of affection.”

“Do we accept his invitation?”

“Don’t you think it would be too much to offend the guy twice in one week, and for no reason?” I observed.

“Okay, then I’ll go tell him,” said Fred, and stood up.

“You didn’t ask me what my idea was,” I was hurt.

“Oh, I’m sorry…”

“It turns out that Van Gogh is buried here, not far from Paris. Let’s go visit his grave.”

For a minute this idea seemed a little strange for Fred, but he agreed after a little thought.

“Sure, we have nothing else to do,” he agreed and went to call Quentin.

I left after him. A couple of streets away I had seen a small shop that said “Plants and Seeds.” I had to go there. I was back very soon and asked the manager to find out how I could go to the town of Auvers-sur-Oise. She thought it would be by train, but that she’ll find out and let me know. She called a little later and said you could go to Auvers by trolley.
We had an early breakfast in the morning and went to the station where we could catch the Auvers train. This train consisted of wagons painted in white and green, obviously a product of the 1960’s, with uncomfortable seats. But it went as fast as your heart would desire. The passengers of the train were very interesting. There were peasants with baskets who had probably sold their goods in Paris and were returning home.

Auvers was a small provincial town along the shores of the Oise River. This small town of small houses, narrow streets, and ample trees protected Van Gogh’s memory as if he were a saint. Van Gogh attracts many tourists here and the huge, crouching buses in the narrow streets are testimony to that fact. We had gotten a cab at the station, which took us to the municipal cemetery where in a modest corner of the modest cemetery were buried Vincent Van Gogh and his brother Theo. While we were there, a group of tourists were leaving the area and by the time we got there, there was no one near the grave. I looked around; no one could be seen. I looked for and found a small piece of wood and began to dig little holes in the ground around Vincent’s grave:

“What are you doing?” asked Fred, surprised.

“I’m planting sunflowers,” I said. I had gone to the “Plants and Seeds” store to get these seeds. I planted eight sunflowers around Van Gogh’s grave. Then we sat on a bench near Van Gogh’s grave. We were not talking.

“Fred, so what do you think, was Van Gogh a genius or not?” I asked, finally.

“Why are you looking for qualifiers? Don’t you see those are all words, just words? The important thing is that you live your life as you should, without thinking of the consequences.”

I was shocked that Fred said ‘consequences’ and not ‘results.’

“Did you say that intentionally?” I asked.

Fred didn’t answer right away:

“I wasn’t really thinking but I think I said the right thing. A person should live according to his mission on earth, to dream of results and not think about the consequences. If Van Gogh had thought about the consequences of his life, he should have quickly abandoned painting and chosen the kind of occupation that would at least have provided him enough income to eat. But he didn’t think about the consequences; he dreamt about results. That result came a bit late, but now, with the zeal of a fanatic, you’re planting sunflowers on his grave, you paid three times the regular ticket price to see his exhibit, and his paintings cost millions of dollars. This proves that our Vincent remained true to his earthly mission and lived his short life the right way. I won’t exclude the possibility, though, that a large number of idiots have starved to death hoping that their names, too, will mean something in the future, but have been wrong.”

“That’s where the problem is: to understand your earthly mission. As Coelho says, one should find the thread of one’s life and remain true to it. You know, maybe there really is a treasure buried for each person and one can find it by staying true to one’s life’s path and mission. Except that, people often, I mean almost always, understand that treasure to be treasure in the literal sense. Imagine what it would have been like if Van Gogh had understood it in the literal sense. And picture how those people who lived in the same town with Van Gogh—officials, the well-to-do, the nobility—would have felt, had they known that they were nothing but specks of dust by comparison to the starving, ailing man in rags who had cut off his own ear, whom the children harassed, threw stones at, spit on him and cussed him out. The horrible thing is that none of his contemporaries, or almost none of them, understood that Van Gogh was the way he was to show the nothingness of the world.”

“Have you found your life’s path?” asked Fred.

“Frankly, I don’t think you need to search for your life’s path; you’re born with it. The challenge is to remain true to it, not to deny it.”

“How is that done?”

“Very simply: you just live by what your heart tells you. Of course, sometimes you’re tempted, you make mistakes, and your conscious bothers you. That means that you shouldn’t do those things again. At that point you stand before a choice: to do that which is easy or to do that which is right. This is an extremely easy choice. At times it’s hard, but in fact it couldn’t be simpler. And the most important thing is that you should be aware of what you do and why you do it.”

The tourists began to arrive and we got up to leave. Spring was blooming; the earth was warm and moist. The sunflowers will definitely bud.


(to be continued)

"A New President in Armenia?/ՆՈՐ ՆԱԽԱԳԱՀ ՀԱՅԱՍՏԱՆՈՒ՞Մ"

A NEW PRESIDENT IN ARMENIA?
BY GRIGORY KHARKIEV, MOSCOW

Every time I have written in the past, I have thought it was the last. The magic would disappear, I thought, and we would witness a more civilized discourse, despite the abnormalities in Armenia. Besides, one must enjoy the summer days in Moscow because there are not many of them.

What Kocharian has spewed out in a recent interview is a hard act to absorb. It seems the magic is still there, at least in Kocharian’s limited mind.

So, now let’s see what we have here so far?

• A “former” president called Robert Kocharian, who complains that he does not have enough power to put Ter-Petrossian, the first president and main opponent of Kocharian’s successor, behind bars.

• Ter-Petrossian, a citizen, dared to challenge Serzh Sargsyan in the presidential elections last February. Serzh Sargsyan is installed as the new president, and damned be the actual vote counting.
Damned be the law; full torpedoes ahead.

• By some accounts, Kocharian refuses to leave the presidential residence in the presidential compound in Yerevan. He does not think anyone else could govern Armenia, not even his appointee. So, he must stay close to those who are still in power and reside in the compound, to add another dimension to the overwhelming feeling he must be cherishing, that of being president forever.

• The damage he did to his successor was not enough. Now he needs to make sure his successor does not stray or, in a fit of reasonable governance, show any softening; in the past Serzh Sargsyan had on occasion manifested symptoms of being reasonable—that means being weak—compared to Kocharian’s projected “I am a real man” image.

• Maybe Serzh Sargsyan was for too long number 4, 3 or 2 to really be effective as Number 1 and chart his own way. In this respect I hope I am wrong. For that to happen, Serzh Sargsyan must first rid himself of Kocharian’s shadow and protection. And de-claw Kocharian by making Kocharian’s goons harmless within and outside the government.

• May be this is wishful thinking.

• Continuing interrogations and the spreading of fear. Keeping opposition figures in prison without trial, although Kocharian was so sure they were involved in a plot to overthrow the government by force. Kocharian stated many times that they had “credible evidence” for such a plot and for possession of arms. It has now been more than four months.

• An expansion of repressive mechanisms: is the Soviet system returning?

• A refusal to deal adequately with the events of March 1—that is, the killing of citizens who were demonstrating peacefully. And blaming Ter-Petrossian for it. Isn’t that what the Young Turks said and their heirs are saying now to justify the Genocide? The victims are the guilty party: the demonstrators and their leaders are responsible for the behavior of the atrocities committed by the authorities.

• A total disregard for the people and for promises made during the elections.

• A foreign policy that can be characterized at best as “Soviet Lite,” and at worst as opportunistic, devoid of Soviet power or of a long term strategy. Squandering opportunities created a long time ago at great cost for the benefit of earning “stars,” as children in a kindergarten, from Washington, Moscow, and Brussels.

Maybe what is happening is the only way the sitting president knows how to “pacify” the population. Very close to American “pacification” policies in Vietnam and elsewhere since, as if the people of Armenia were a foreign entity to be conquered.

Sargsyan did not have to emulate Kocharian.

Who is the president of Armenia? Kocharian? Or Sargsyan as defined by Kocharian?

Well, back to the cafes on Arbat Street.

I need a break.

ՆՈՐ ՆԱԽԱԳԱՀ ՀԱՅԱՍՏԱՆՈՒ՞Մ

Գրիգորի Խարկիև
Մոսկվա

Վերջերս ամեն անգամ գրելիս կարծել եմ՝ վերջին անգամն է: Կարծել եմ՝ կախարդանքն անհետանալու է, և մենք, չնայած Հայաստանում տիրող արտառոց երևույթներին, ականատես ենք լինելու ավելի քաղաքակիրթ քննարկման: Դե, բացի այդ, մարդ մի քիչ էլ պետք է վայելի Մոսկվայի ամառային օրերը, քանի որ դրանք այնքան էլ շատ չեն:

Վերջին հարցազրույցի ընթացքում Քոչարյանի դուրս տվածները դժվարամարս ակտ էին: Կախարդանքը կարծես դեռ մնում է, առնվազն՝ Քոչարյանի սահմանափակ մտքի մեջ:

Հիմա եկեք տեսնենք, թե այսօրվա դրությամբ ինչ ունենք:

· Ռոբերտ Քոչարյան անվամբ մի նախկին նախագահ, ով բողոքում է, թե բավարար իշխանություն չունի՝ առաջին նախագահ և իր հաջորդի հիմնական ընդդիմախոս Տեր-Պետրոսյանին բանտարկելու համար:

· Տեր-Պետրոսյան քաղաքացի, որ հանդգնել է վերջին՝ փետրվարյան ընտրություններին մարտահրավեր նետելու Սերժ Սարգսյանին: Սերժ Սարգսյանը պաշտոնավարում է իբրև նոր նախագահ, և գրողի ծոցը կորչի քվեների հաշվումը, գրողի ծոցը օրենքը. սվիններով հառա~ջ:

· Ըստ որոշ լուրերի, Քոչարյանը մերժում է դուրս գալ Երևանի նախագահական համալիրի նախագահական կացարանից: Նա չի կարծում, թե ուրիշ որևէ մեկը կարող է ղեկավարել Հայաստանը, ոչ նույնիսկ իր կողմից նշանակված մարդը: Եվ ուրեմն՝ ինքը պետք է մոտ մնա նրանց, ովքեր դեռ իշխանության են, և բնակվի նախագահական կացարանում՝ հավերժ նախագահ լինելու իր փայփայած անդիմադրելի զգացմանը մեկ այլ ծավալ հաղորդելու համար:

· Իր հաջորդին պատճառած նրա վնասը բավարար չէ: Հիմա նա ուզում է վստահանալ, որ իր հաջորդը չի շեղվելու կամ, տրամաբանական կառավարում իրականացնելու նպատակով, մեղմացում չի ցուցաբերելու: Նախկինում Սերժ Սարգսյանը տրամաբանական լինելու ախտանիշ է դրսևորել, ինչը, Քոչարյանի տարփողած "միակ տղամարդու" իր կարծեցյալ կերպարի համեմատ ըստ իրեն նշանակում է թույլ լինել:

· Թերևս Սերժ Սարգսյանը չափազանց երկար է եղել երկրի 4-րդ, 3-րդ, 2-րդ դեմք՝ իբրև 1-ին դեմք իսկապես արդյունավետ լինելու և իր ուղին հարթելու համար: Հուսամ՝ սխալ եմ: Որպեսզի դա պատահի, Սերժ Սարգսյանը պետք է ինքն իրեն ձերբազատի Քոչարյանի ուրվականից ու հովանավորչությունից: Եվ պետք է մագիլազրկի Քոչարյանին՝ վնասազերծելով նրա վարձկաններին կառավարության կազմում և կառավարությունից դուրս:

Գուցե և սա երազային մտածողություն է:


· Հարցաքննությունների և վախի մթնոլորտի տարածման շարունակություն: Ընդդիմադիր գործիչներին բանտերում պահել՝ առանց դատավարության, չնայած Քոչարյանն այնքա'ն վստահ էր, որ նրանք ընդգրված էին իշխանությունը բռնի յուրացնելու դավադրության մեջ: Քոչարյանը բազմիցս հայտարարել է, որ իրենք այդ դավադրության, ինչպես և զենքի առկայության "հավաստի ապացույցներ" ունեն: Արդեն չորս ամսից ավելի է անցել:

· Ռեպրեսիվ մեխանիզմների ընդլայնում. խորհրդային համակա՞րգն է արդյոք վերադառնում:

· Մարտի 1-ի դեպքերի՝ խաղաղ ցույց անող քաղաքացիների սպանությունների իրավաչափ քննության մերժում: Եվ դրա համար Տեր-Պետրոսյանին են մեղադրում: Սա այն չէ՞, ինչ երիտթուրքերն էին ասում, և այսօր էլ նրանց ժառանգներն են ասում՝ իրենց իրականացրած ցեղասպանությունն արդարացնելու համար: Զոհերն են մեղավոր կողմը. ցուցարարներն ու նրանց ղեկավարներն են պատասխանատու իշխանությունների կատարած գազանաբարո վայրագությունների համար:

· Ընտրությունների ընթացքում տված խոստումների և ժողովրդի լիակատար անտեսում:

· Արտաքին քաղաքականություն, որ լավագույն դեպքում կարող է բնութագրվել իբրև "Սովետ Լայթ"՝ թույլ խորհրդային, իսկ վատագույն դեպքում՝ իբրև պատեհապաշտական՝ սակայն լիովին զուրկ խորհրդային հզորությունից կամ հեռահար ռազմավարությունից: Երկար ժամանակ առաջ ծանր գնով ձեռք բերված հնարավորությունների վատնում՝ հանուն Վաշինգտոնից, Մոսկվայից, Բրյուսելից "միավորներ վաստակելու"` մանկապարտեզի երեխաների նման:

Կատարվածը թերևս գործող նախագահի իմացած միակ ձևն է ազգաբնակչությանը հանդարտեցնելու: Շատ նման Վիետնամում և այլուր ամերիկյան "հանդարտեցման" քաղաքականությանը, կարծես Հայաստանի ժողովուրդն արտաքին թշնամի է, որին անհրաժեշտ է պարտության մատնել:

Սարգսյանը կարիք չուներ Քոչարյանին կապկելու:

Ո՞վ է Հայաստանի նախագահը: Քոչարյա՞նը: Թե՞ Քոչարյանի բնութագրած Սարգսյանը:

Լավ, ես գնացի Արբատի սրճարանները:

Ընդմիջման կարիք ունեմ:

# 39 ՆԻԿՈԼ ՓԱՇԻՆՅԱՆ. ԵՐԿՐԻ ՀԱԿԱՌԱԿ ԿՈՂՄԸ/Pashinyan -THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD

39. սեւ խավիարը

Երբ մոտեցանք Իմպրեսիոնիստների թանգարանի մուտքին, տոմս գտնելու հույսով ահագին մարդ էր հավաքվել, հիմնականում` երիտասարդներ:

39. The Black Caviar

When we got to the entrance of the Impressionists’ museum, we saw a lot of people, mainly young, who had gathered there with the hope of finding tickets. They were asking each other if they had any extra tickets. They approached us, too. They were clearly painters themselves, probably students. Of course there were also other people selling tickets in the area, but the students couldn’t afford their prices. They were waiting for the wealthy clients who were ready to pay 100-150 Euros per ticket.

We went in and soon found ourselves in an exhibit hall which was filled with the buzz of human voices. I tried to find the “Sunflowers,” but that proved to be impossible because my view was blocked by human heads and I had no choice but to mingle in the art loving crowd. It quickly occurred to me that this was not the only exhibit hall and that the “Sunflowers” would be not in this, but in the last hall. Fred and I decided to split up, so that we each could look at the paintings on our own. I realized that my viewing would be complete only if I began, and not ended with, the “Sunflowers.”

I walked by each canvas, though, just to convince myself that the “Sunflowers” were not here, and looked for the entrance to the next hall. I had guessed right. In the third, and last hall, a group of people larger than usual, were standing around. They were looking at the “Sunflowers.” The canvas was larger than I had imagined, but in every other aspect it corresponded to my mental image.

When I first saw a reproduction of the “Sunflowers,” I remembered my grandmother’s soup. Now, when I stand before the authentic thing, I remember, I feel the taste of that soup. At that time I didn’t dare think that there could be a relationship between Van Gogh’s “Sunflowers” and my grandmother’s “Rice soup.” But I see it clearly now.

If I were to say that they are both artistic creations I guess the reader wouldn’t understand my meaning, especially since I know the contempt with which the Armenian public holds soup, especially soup made of ordinary rice. But these colors, these colors which I see in Van Gogh’s “Sunflowers”, are the colors of my childhood, I’ve been nurtured by these colors; I’ve grown up with these colors; I have seen these colors in my grandmother’s rice soup, which, of all the foods in the world, was my favorite.

This yellow (I don’t even know if it’s yellow) used to float on the surface of my bowl of soup, the drawn fat, like little lakes in constant motion. This unusual hue was probably fed by the little pieces of carrots that gave depth to the strange yellow. And the parsley my grandmother used to grow in her backyard and would choose only the youngest for meals; that parsley used to give a light green hue to the soup. It’s the same green, the same green hue. And haven’t you noticed that there’s a very fine, almost unnoticeable green in potatoes? And the rice, the rice is that pure canvas on which this image is painted, the image of my childhood, the nourishment of my childhood.

I really liked getting sick. Not so much to avoid school, but because only when I got sick I could force my grandmother to make me rice soup everyday. I would refuse to eat anything except rice soup. Once, my illness lasted a little longer than usual. My father thought that rice soup didn’t have enough nourishment for me to get well. My grandmother said she would make the same soup with chicken or beef. But I revolted. I wanted rice soup only, the rice soup that only had rice, potatoes, carrots, parsley, oil and salt, and nothing else. My father, on the other hand, had seriously thought that the reason my illness lasted as long was because I wasn’t getting enough nutrition. In the evening, he brought some black caviar. I don’t even know how he got his hands on it. People in our class, meaning everyday soviet citizens usually wouldn’t buy black caviar, or would buy it very seldom. Not only because it was so expensive, but because you couldn’t find it in the stores. Anyway, I saw caviar for the first time on that day in our house.

They served me black caviar with rice soup, and bread and butter. I ate my soup with dignity, and then assumed such a face that meant that I was full. My father, my grandmother, my brothers were all pleading with me to eat the black caviar.

I had never eaten black caviar in my life. Once, during a feast at the house of one of our high-ranking friends my mother prepared a bite-sized sandwich and said, eat this, it’s delicious. I opened my mouth, she put the bite-sized sandwich in my mouth. But when the black caviar touched my palate, I spit it out, receiving the contemptuous looks of the children of the high ranking communists there. For me, black caviar was a disgusting thing. Not even the pleas, entreaties and threats of my father, my grandmother and my brothers yielded any results. Every day, four or five times a day, I used to eat rice soup and was really happy. But four or five times a day my poor grandmother would bring me the black caviar, from which not a single kernel would be missing at the end of my meal, and take it right back.

My father and grandmother soon stopped pleading with me to eat the black caviar. But my brothers, especially the middle one, spent half the day on the topic. I used to feel that he wouldn’t have minded eating the caviar himself and I would constantly tell him that I wasn’t going to eat it, and that he should. But that was the portion allotted to the person who was ill, and no one dared get close to it. I was supposed to eat at least some of it and open the door for others. But, I mean it, I just couldn’t; I would have died if I had to taste that disgusting thing again. So the ritual of taking the black caviar back and forth lasted a few days. I was better but didn’t get up not because I didn’t want to go to school but because I wanted to continue my feast. Six or seven times a day I was eating rice soup and was really happy. And the black caviar, which participated in all the séances of my feast, remained a virgin, without a single kernel missing from it.

No one was pleading with me to eat it anymore. They had realized it was futile to do so. By now, it was I who was asking them to do the same but then I realized that that, too, was meaningless. No one dared eat the portion allotted to the ill person. A few more days passed, and then the door to the big room where I lay, and where my father, grandmother and my eldest brother were, suddenly opened with a crash. For a few minutes no one came in. We were all looking in that direction. Finally, my middle brother walked in. There was terror in his face. He was looking at the caviar in his hand with that terrified look. There was some kind of foamy liquid oozing from the bottom of the caviar container. A lot of that liquid had spilled into my brother’s hand and was dripping down to the floor:

“It’s spoiled,” said my brother, terrified.

The next day, I went to school. Habitually, when I got out of school I would go to the kitchen, then to a cellar-like room which we called ‘the back kitchen,’ to find something to eat. The ‘back kitchen’ had drawers where they put full and empty containers. The clean, empty caviar container was sitting on top a three liter container.

******

“You’re lost in thought,” said Fred, putting his hand on my shoulder.

“No, I’m not, I’m looking for the “Potato Eaters”….


(to be continued)

փաստաթուղթը...

Ստորև զետեղված է Ռ. Քոչարյանին Հաագայի միջազգային դատարանում դատելու վերջերս շրջանառության մեջ դրված հայցը: Խնդրեմ տպեք և տարածեք: Կարծում եմ՝ միայն ՀՀ քաղաքացիներն իրավունք ունեն ստորագրելու այդ փաստաթուղթը, որն այնուհետև ներկայացվելու է Հաագայի դատարան: Մանրամասները կճշտեմ և կտեղադրեմ: Հայցի պատճենի համար խնդրեմ սեղմեք վար ;ի տողին:

փաստաթուղթ

...Հայտարարություն...

Մարդկության դեմ հանցագործության հատկանիշներով Ռոբերտ Քոչարյանի դեմ Հաագայի միջազգային Քրեական Դատարան գործ հարուցելու համար ստորագրահավաքի հետ կապված հարցերով ՀՀ քաղաքացիները կարող են զանգահարել հետևյալ հեռախոսահամարով` 520974, ժամը 11:00-17:00:

# 38 -ՆԻԿՈԼ ՓԱՇԻՆՅԱՆ. ԵՐԿՐԻ ՀԱԿԱՌԱԿ ԿՈՂՄԸ/Pashinyan- The Other Side of the World

38. ինձ տոմս տվեք

Այն միտքը, որ տեսնելու եմ վան Գոգի «Արեւածաղիկները», ենթադրաբար` նաեւ «Կարտոֆիլ ուտողները», հանեց օրվա երկրորդ կեսից իմ մեջ կուտակված լարվածությունը:

38. Give me a Ticket

The idea that I would be seeing Van Gogh’s “Sunflowers,” presumably including the “Potato Eaters”, eased the tension built up in me in the second half of the day. I watched the second airing of “Le Mag” to make sure I got everything right. I was right: in three days Van Gogh’s exhibit would open at the museum of Impressionists in Paris, where the “Sunflowers” would also be exhibited, as well as canvases collected from different parts of the world. The exhibit would last one month. On my way to breakfast the next morning I asked the hotel manager to get me two tickets for the exhibit. We had breakfast with Fred, returned to the foyer and according to our custom, had another coffee there. The manager, whom I had asked to get the tickets, appeared:

“I’m sorry, but there are no more tickets for the exhibit.”

I was stunned.

“How can there be no more tickets?” I couldn’t hide my surprise and noticed that my reaction caused the same kind of surprise on the beautiful face of the manager. “Anyway, I’m grateful to you; forgive me,” I tried to put things right, and turned to Fred:

“Fred, there’s something wrong here; let’s go to that museum.”

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong here, but let’s go anyway,” said Fred.

“But how can there be no tickets?” I repeated rhetorically.

Fred looked at me in surprise:

“The same way theaters, movies and football games are sold out.”

But still, this was surprising for me; it was the first time that I was hearing about an exhibition being sold out. Fred explained it to me:

“The paintings are not the property of the museum, but the property of different people and museums. The museum of the Impressionists borrows them on a temporary loan, in this case, for one month, and pays a fee the owners of those paintings. There are certain criteria for viewing the paintings. In any given space, there can’t be more than 10 people at the same time. And, in many cases when the interest in an exhibit is overwhelming, viewing hours are assigned on the tickets. It looks like a maximum number of people wanting to see those paintings during the scheduled one month, as a result of which there are no more tickets.”

It’s really wonderful that people here go to exhibits with the same enthusiasm as I went to a ‘Khash’, I thought to myself.

Fred was right. The registry at the Impressionists’ museum told us that there were no more tickets for sale:

“They’re saying that the deadline for the exhibit might be extended by one week. So you can reserve tickets for the extended period. But let me tell you in advance that this is not certain and the deadline may not be extended,” the person selling the tickets consoled us.

“But aren’t there people who will sell their tickets?” I asked.

“Sure, there may be. But we don’t get involved in that. Come around when the exhibit has opened and you might find some people in the area selling tickets. Or, you can try finding tickets through the internet,” he advised us.

“Can you give me a hint as to what website these tickets are auctioned on the internet? I’m not familiar with the sites here,” asked Fred.

The person selling tickets wrote the website address, and we left. Van Gogh’s exhibit had already made a created great interest, through the absence of tickets. How happy the poor guy would have been had he known that 110 years later people would make an effort to get tickets for his exhibit and be afraid of being denied the pleasure of seeing his paintings.

“What do you say, Fred, is this an adoration of the arts or PR?” I asked.

“PR to worship the arts,” he answered and continued: “people want to see what this man, who cut off his own ear, has painted.”

“Fred, you’ll find the tickets, won’t you?” I asked him, pleading.

“I hope so. But we should do it fast, otherwise the prices will soar,” he said, smiling.

There was lightness on Fred’s face. In general Fred had changed a lot in the last few days; very little remained from the days of Lausanne. His interest in life, in daily routine, had returned, if not completely, at least noticeably. The seal of hopelessness had gone from his face; he walked with more confidence and a kind of energy was present in his movements and gestures. I was happy for that, and happy that during the difficult times of our respective lives we had been together and through our friendship we were able to dispel the pain and longing we each felt, and in which we each suffered.

We went in the first internet café we saw, ordered some coffee, and sat down by the computer. Fred went into the site the ticket seller at the museum had given, he surfed a little and said:

“There’s nothing here; it looks like we should try in the evening.”

We left the place, walked around a bit, went into a couple of shops and then sat at a café till it was time for lunch. We ate at a restaurant which had tables on the sidewalk. We went to the hotel after lunch and went directly into the internet. Fred got to work, but I didn’t stay with him; I went to the foyer to read the paper. In about half an hour or forty minutes Fred came back and announced victoriously:

“I bought them; for four times the original price.”

The next morning the distributor brought two tickets to Fred’s room, for which Fred paid 240 Euros. Of course, I reimbursed Fred for the cost of my ticket. The tickets were for the second day of the exhibit, from 12noon-3:00 in the afternoon.


(to be continued)

# 37: ՆԻԿՈԼ ՓԱՇԻՆՅԱՆ. ԵՐԿՐԻ ՀԱԿԱՌԱԿ ԿՈՂՄԸ/Pashinyan- The Other Side of the World

37. անկեղծութիւն անկեղծութեանց

Երբ հասանք Մադելեն տաճարի մոտ գտնվող այդ սրճարան, Քվենտինը արդեն եկել էր: Ես միանգամից նկատեցի նրա հայացքի սառնությունը. զգալի էր, որ նա այստեղ է եկել «թոկը վիզն ընկնելով»: Ինքս կնախընտրեի ետ դառնալ առանց նրա հետ հանդիպելու, առանց բարեւելու, բայց չէր ստացվի: Մենք մոտեցանք, նա շատ սառը բարեւեց, Ֆրեդը սիրալիր էր, բայց ես նույնպիսի դեմք էի ընդունել, ինչպիսին Քվենտինը:


37. Frankness of All Frankness

Quentin was already there when we reached the café near the Chapel of La Madeleine. I immediately noticed the frost in his expression. You could sense that he had not come here because he wished to. I would have preferred to leave without meeting him, without greeting him, but it just wouldn’t have worked. He greeted us coldly. Fred was affectionate, but I had assumed the same expression as Quentin:

“So, how can I help you?” he asked, just to have said something, in a very official tone and, it seemed to me, with some contempt.

“Nothing, really,” I answered curtly. Fred was surprised, as was Quentin.

“Meaning?” asked Quentin.

“If a person already knows how he can be helpful but asks how he can be helpful, that just means that he can’t be helpful. He can be harmful,” I continued in the same tone.

“I’m not getting ready to harm you,” said Quentin.

“Why not? Haven’t I told you everything? I told you the whole thing. So call one of the policemen you know. Maybe he’ll get a reward. How much is the reward here, 300 Euros?”

Fred was silent, but his face had tensed up.

“But why do you talk in that tone. I highly appreciate your frankness, but…”

“You highly appreciate my frankness? In that case, I’ll be even more frank and tell you more,” I interrupted Quentin. He was confused and maybe was waiting for me to say that I was in reality a dangerous, multiple offender or that I was a terrorist.

“What are you trying to tell me?” he asked, on edge.

“My opinion about your boss, the one you protect. He’s an ass,” I said and got up from the table.

Quentin was contented with my frankness, because, as I said, he had been waiting for an extraordinary exposure. Yet, his cold expression changed to regret, regret that he had even met me. I was leaving the table:

“Where are you going?” asked Fred.

“I’m going to the hotel, to piss,” I said sarcastically.

“You can piss at the restroom here,” said Fred, confused, perhaps not wishing to be left alone with Quentin.

“I can’t stand public restrooms,” I disappointed him.

I arrived at the hotel, spread out on my bed. Ten minutes later, there was a knock on the door. It was Fred:

“You acted like an idiot,” he said.

“It’s possible.”

“You should apologize to Quentin.”

“It’s possible.”

“It’s possible? You should call him and ask his forgiveness.”

“Fine, I’ll call him,” I said, feeling dejected.

“Call him now.”

“I said I would,” I was getting irritated. But Fred was furious with me. I had really done a stupid thing; Quentin didn’t deserve that. And why should he have used his position, endanger his career and security for a stranger from a foreign country? But then again, I have to get to Armenia from the other end of the world; only and only from the other end of the world, because to turn back from your charted path is a bad omen. But that doesn’t mean I had the right to offend Quentin.

Fred and I were sitting in my room in silence.

“Let’s go, I’ll call from your room,” I said.

“Why from my room, let’s call from here,” he sensed evasiveness in my attitude.

“If everything comes into the open, dear Fred, that I’ve had a connection with Quentin, it wouldn’t look so good. You, on the other hand, can explain that connection.”

My logic calmed Fred down a lot. He was consoled by the idea that I, too, concerned about Quentin. We went to Fred’s room. We had two numbers for Quentin, home and cellular. I called his home number, the voice message came on:

“Quentin, it’s Boyan calling. I want to apologize for today. Forgive me; I’m a little stressed out right now. I hope I’ll be able to prove to you some time that I’m not the person I was today,” was the message I left.

“Was his phone turned off?” asked Fred, realizing that I was talking to the voice message.

“I called his home.”

“Knowing that he’s not at home. You should have called his cell phone,” he said.

“And don’t you need a crocodile?” I said, thinking of a Russian expression.

Fred didn’t say anything. He was sitting on his bed. I sat down, too. For a while we were silent. Then I suggested we go down for coffee. We went down to the foyer. We were still quiet; and we drank our coffee in silence.

“You should understand Quentin,” Fred said finally.

“Believe me, I understand. I have no reservations about him. It’s just that my nerves gave in,” I explained.

“But why not go to the embassy directly, let’s say, and get a visa? You have a passport, don’t you?”

“Fred, you have to fill out a form for a visa, you write who you are, where you work, and information about members of your family. It’s not possible to fabricate that much stuff. Even if you do, they can check up any one of the information you put down and expose the forgery. I can’t get a visa with a blank form, can I?”

“How many countries do you need visas for?”

“A country in Latin America, and Japan. Latin America is easy. It’s possible to go to French Guinea from here without a visa, or even to one of the French islands of the Caribbean. Or the Cayman islands; they’re French or British territory, and I can enter them with the visa I have. But continuing on East is complex. I need either a Japanese or Chinese visa so that I’ll be able to enter Russia.”

“But isn’t it possible to fly to Russia from French Guinea?”

“No, there are no flights to Russia from there. And in general, I think the flights from the American mainland don’t fly to Russia from the direction I need…”

“I don’t understand, what’s this idée fix about journeying around the world with a fake passport, and an investigation on your tail no less,” said Fred after a pause, dismayed.

“It’s not an idée fix, Fred, it’s a problem I have to solve, even if the world breaks into two.”

Fred said nothing; maybe he was being considerate. After finishing our coffee, we went up to our rooms. I turned on the Euronews on TV. The “Le Mag” program was on. I called Fred right away:

“You won’t believe it; they just said it on Euronews. The Van Gogh exhibit will open at the Museum of Impressionists in three days. The “Sunflowers” will be in the exhibit.


(to be continued)

"They didn't beat you enough..."

This is a video from HIMA youth movement... a discussion which evolves into a mild argument between young protesters and police. The police are trying to stop them from protesting, but can't seem to name a single logical reason that the protesters should stop. The topic moves to March 1st, and one of the protesters says she was there and was beaten by 5 police officers. The response of the police officer is, "They didn't beat you good enough."

ՆԻԿՈԼ ՓԱՇԻՆՅԱՆ. ԵՐԿՐԻ ՀԱԿԱՌԱԿ ԿՈՂՄԸ/Pashinyan - The Other Side of the World

36. ամեն ինչ լավ է լինելու

Երկար ժամանակ լուռ նստած էինք Լուվրին մերձակա այդ սրճարանում. լուռ էինք, որովհետեւ էնքան էինք հոգնել, որ խոսելու ուժ էլ չունեինք. հազիվ գարեջուր պատվիրեցինք, հազիվ խմում էինք: Մինչեւ Քվենտինի հետ հանդիպման գնալը մի չորս ժամ ունեինք ու որոշեցինք այդ սրճարանում անցկացնել այդ ժամերը:

36. Everything will be all right.

We sat quietly for a long time at the café near The Louvre. We were quiet because we were both so tired that neither of us had the energy to talk. We barely managed to order the beer, and were barely able to drink it. We had about four hours before we went to meet Quentin and decided to spend those hours at the same café. In the meantime, we each had a sandwich, regained our strength a little, and started sharing our impressions of The Louvre. It was evident from our conversation that we had formed three impressions: the Lady with the Little Penis, remembering which Fred still smiled because he didn’t have the strength to laugh; Mona Lisa La Gioconda and the Venus of Milo, because of Claude. Our attempts to talk about anything else were futile because we hadn’t seen anything else at The Louvre, as we had the other three.

“In your opinion, what’s the secret of La Gioconda? Is it the PR?” I asked Fred.

“It does have something to do with PR, but look, they do PR for other paintings also, but they haven’t turned into La Giocondas. Did you sense that one moment she smiles, the next moment she doesn’t. It could be that La Gioconda looks very alive, more than the other paintings. So it’s natural that people want to see it with their own eyes, and some others can’t resist her glance.”

“But there’s obviously some direction is suggested in all this, and it’s because of that direction that people pass by Raphael’s, Dürer’s, Giotto’s and Giorgioni’s paintings, or stand before them for just a few minutes and seem to say, “Hey, guys, excuse us, but we have a date with La Gioconda.” The fact that the Giaconda receives special recognition by The Louvre is also PR.”

“Is Raphael a good painter?” asked Fred unexpectedly.

“I don’t understand what you’re asking,” I sensed a trap in his question.

“I’m asking your opinion about Raphael.”

I felt that I was being wedged, but whether I liked it or not, I answered:

“He is a great painter, one of the titans of the Renaissance.”

I was prepared to accept defeat, but continued:

“I’ve read that.”

“You mean you’ve formed an opinion about Raphael through PR?”

“You’re right, Fred. I saw the original canvas of Raphael for the first time today.”

“But there’s no need to be ashamed of that; the PR you were subjected to did not really deceive you. And one should accept that the same PR that had convinced you that Raphael was a great painter also says that Gioconda is the ultimate, that there is none better. It’s just that Gioconda is on another level; great painters and painting, are on another.”

“What do you mean?” I was surprised.

“Do you realize that there are many really great painters, geniuses? Yet it’s one thing to be a great painter, to create canvases that are praised with the name of their authors, and something entirely different to create that unique canvas whose name or title is more praised than the name of its creator. Leonardo Da Vinci is a genius, but today the name La Gioconda rings more loudly than Leonardo Da Vinci’s name. Had there not been the Mona Lisa, the section of the Louvre would have been empty because no other painting would have had the right to be on that stand, even one of Leonardo’s other works. Can you name another painting whose title rings higher than the name of its author?”

“Maybe Van Gogh’s ‘Sunflowers’.”

“You just said Van Gogh’s ‘Sunflowers.’ No one says ‘Leonardo Da Vinci’s Giaconda. They say, La Giaconda. Maybe that, too, is a result of PR. But anyone who is good at PR, and in this case we’re dealing with a good PR person, knows what can be promoted through PR and how.”

“I accept what you’re saying; you’re right. For example, I really like Van Gogh’s ‘Sunflowers’ and now I admit that the PR did have an impact on me because I’ve never seen the original of that painting. But I really want to,” I said.

“I think it’s in Munich, in the collection of some pig collector. But you know, a lot of people insist that Van Gogh is a weak painter, that he has no connection with fine art, and that his presence is sheer PR, only PR. And that if he hadn’t cut off his ear, his name wouldn’t even have reached the 20th century, even though he committed suicide on the threshold of the 20th century.”

“I’m familiar with that viewpoint.”

“You know, I don’t know much about painting, you can even say, I understand nothing of it. For me, Van Gogh is not an artistic phenomenon but a human phenomenon. By that I mean, I can not and don’t want to assess his canvases from the point of view of the visual arts, especially since I’ve never seen any of his originals. But his life, his tragic life comes to show in many hues how defenseless the human being is in this world. The human being is defenseless not only in physical terms but in the spiritual and moral sense as well.”

“That is clear even without Van Gogh,” observed Fred.

“Dear Fred, other things are understandable without that, too. But the example, the well- known example doesn’t allow us to circumvent or pretend that we don’t see the obvious proof. When I read about Van Gogh, it became obvious to me that even today there are people who live near us, such as in my country, who have no chance of feeling contentment or self-expression. And in those circumstances, when people living next to you are hungry, unemployed and defenseless, you feel guilty about not being hungry, about having a job and a home and about being safe. Do you understand what I mean? And the man who scratched Van Gogh’s painting to put the canvas to “better use”; the man who had plugged a hole in his chicken coop with Van Gogh’s canvas, lives today, in the form of injustice, ignorance, rudeness and unlawfulness.”

“So?”

“So, either everything should be done so that a man is safe, physically, morally and spiritually, but if that doesn’t work, then we should be as defenseless, as unfortunate, and as scorned, as Van Gogh.”

“And La Giaconda?” asked Fred with a smile.

“You know, La Giaconda is about everything being okay. I’m not arguing against it. In Europe, in the United States, in Japan and in many countries if not everything, but at least many things are okay. But if I were to organize an exhibit in my country, I would place Van Gogh’s ‘Potato Eaters’ and “Sunflowers” on individual stands, all by themselves.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that everything will be okay.”

My answer made Fred very happy. I was happy, too.

The time for our meeting with Quentin was drawing near; we got up to leave.


(to be continued)

ՆԻԿՈԼ ՓԱՇԻՆՅԱՆ. ԵՐԿՐԻ ՀԱԿԱՌԱԿ ԿՈՂՄԸ/Pashinyan - The Other Side of the World

35. պուպուլիկով տիկինը

Ճաշից հետո հենց ռեստորանից Ֆրեդը զանգեց Քվենտինին: Վերջինս ասել էր, թե մեզ հետ կարող է հանդիպել միայն հաջորդ օրը երեկոյան: Նրանք պայմանավորվել էին Մադելեն տաճարի մոտ գտնվող ինչ-որ սրճարանում:


35. The Lady with the Little Penis

Fred called Quentin from the restaurant, after we finished lunch. The latter had told Fred that he could meet with us only the next evening. They had agreed to meet at some café by the chapel of La Madeleine.

We left the restaurant, walked a little more but soon realized that we were both really tired and decided to go back to the hotel. I had already taken a bath and lay down, and was watching television when Fred called.

“Listen, shouldn’t we go to the Louvre tomorrow?”

“Let’s go.”

“Are we resting this evening?”

“Yes, my feet are throbbing. I’ll tell you what. Let’s have tea downstairs in a couple of hours and call it a day,” I suggested.

Fred agreed, and that’s what we ended up doing. The next morning, after breakfast, we arrived at the Louvre by cab. We waited in line for a long time to get tickets. Fred suggested we get tickets for two visits because we couldn’t see much in one day and may come again. I wasn’t opposed to the idea.

We were soon in the hall of antique Greek sculpture. It’s hard to believe that there was such technology in the ancient world to work in stone.

Then, all of a sudden I notice Fred examining the statue of a beauty in perfection. By that I mean an ancient Greek statue. That beautiful nude was reclining toward me. She was on her side, but a little turned over her belly, her legs bent halfway. I got closer. It was just fantastic. Her body silhouette was astounding and perfect, her behind, round and exciting, her feet were dainty, her hair was flowing. When I got closer, her breasts became visible, in perfect proportions, the nipples were erect and supple. It seemed the statue was saying “Take me.”

“She’s a real babe, isn’t she?” I said to Fred. The latter was looking at the ‘babe’ from the front, and when I began to admire her, a sly smile appeared on Fred’s face. He beckoned me with his finger, underlining the wry smile even more. Without a clue as to what was going on, I circled the beauty and stood by Fred’s side. I saw that which I never expected to see. The ‘babe,” that beauty, had a little penis, a regular little penis; the inscription on the pedestal read “Hermaphrodite.” Fred couldn’t control himself and started giggling in a low voice. I was in a complete panic. Okay, I’ll admit it. When I had said “What a ‘babe’, isn’t she?” I had also touched the hermaphrodite’s round bottom.

Fred brought down the black side of The Louvre on me. Let’s say, we’re standing before Titian’s canvas. All at once he would make a………..motion and say “what a ………., no?”, and would start to giggle a little. I was laughing with him and wasn’t offended. I was seeing him happy for the first time, and that was really a pleasure.

In this way, with some breaks, we were looking at different classical canvases, when I noticed that a huge crowd of people had gathered in one of the halls. The museum workers were trying to get the visitors to stand in line.

“What’s the line for? I asked Fred.

“La Gioconda,” he said.

It was clear that we too would wait in line.

By contrast to the other canvases that hung along the walls side by side, La Gioconda stood alone. It didn’t hang on any wall but from an enormous stand made especially for it, in the center of the exhibit hall. On each side permanently stood a heavy set male with the words “Security” inscribed on their arm bands. La Gioconda differed from all other paintings, as it appeared behind a pane of glass. One of the supervisors explained that the picture ha been put behind the glass after some fanatic had tried to throw acid on it. Hence the special measures for security. Visitors were not allowed to get closer than three meters to La Gioconda, although no such limitations were de facto enforced in the case of other canvases. Signs around La Gioconda issued the warnings that no videotaping or photographing was allowed, but despite that everybody was trying to videotape or photograph it, trying to be photographed with La Gioconda, and inviting the insults of the supervisor of the Louvre. When it was my turn, I couldn’t look at it long, because La Gioconda’s bodyguards were looking at me in such a way, as if I had done something wrong. In the same way that the bald headed bodyguards of the Armenian oligarchs eyed the young men who dared glance at the daughter of their bosses. In brief, Fred and I quickly left the area.


“Leonardo should be taken to court for this,” I said when we were some distance away.

“Why, what has he done?” Fred was surprised.

“That’s a dangerous crime. In Armenian it’s called pushing people to a psychological break-down; in English, I guess it would be psychosis.”

Fred didn’t understand what I was saying. We were talking, looking at paintings and statues. We saw one of Michelangelo’s works, the winged but headless Nike. Then we found ourselves in a hall where Venus de Milo was exhibited, where we noticed a 60 year old man. He was standing before Venus, and, with a visibly unhappy expression was mumbling something under his nose. Our knowledge of French allowed us to conclude that that he was swearing.

“Thieves, knaves, liars,” he was saying, keeping his eyes on Venus.

The superintendent clearly knew the old man, because he approached him calmly, took his arm and said in a low voice: “Okay now, Claude, that’s enough for today.” The old man, however surprising it may sound, obeyed the superintendent, turned around and walked toward the exit, but didn’t stop swearing:

“Thieves, knaves, liars…”

We didn’t understand what was going on, but I told Fred that it was enough for us as well:

“My feet are killing me,” I said

“Mine, too,” said Fred. We left The Louvre and threw ourselves into a nearby café.

What we both wanted was a cold beer.

(to be continued)

ԵՐԿՐԻ ՀԱԿԱՌԱԿ ԿՈՂՄԸ/Pashinyan - The Other Side of the World (#34)

34. ծեծկռտուք Միլանում

Ֆրեդը հետաքրքիր անձնավորություն էր: Նա զբաղվում էր հին գրքերի առքուվաճառքով. բոլոր այն գրքերը, որ տպագրվել են 1950 թվականից առաջ, գտնվում էին նրա հետաքրքրության ոլորտում:

34. Scuffle in Milan

Fred was an interesting character. He was a dealer in old books. Books printed before 1950 were in his area of interest. And so it had been the search for valuable books that had brought him to Europe, obviously not for the first time. The company Fred owned was in the United States, it functioned primarily in internet auctions and brought him a good income. He had entrusted others with the management of his company, while he himself preferred to go around the world buying antique books. During the last two months he had not attended to business, for reasons the reader is by now aware of.

I’ve already mentioned that Fred had met Catherine in Italy. More specifically, that had happened in Milan, where the Benevolent Society which Catherine represented was involved in fund raising for starving children in Darfur. Fred and Catherine had met at a fund-raising auction.

And then, during the eighth month of Catherine’s pregnancy, Fred had gotten involved in a scuffle with Italians, in a bar-restaurant. And since he’d trained as a boxer in the past, he had broken the noses of two of the Italians. The next day, his acquaintances had told Fred that the Italian police were looking to arrest him.

At that news Fred had decided to leave Italy:

“If they had arrested me, Catherine would have been helpless,” he had said.

The reader already knows the rest, but the most interesting thing is that there was a political subtext in Fred’s scuffle and departure from Italy:

“You may have heard the story about an American soldier who killed a member of the Italian special services in Iraq. That was a year and a half ago, but the topic surfaces on the front pages of Italian newspapers from time to time. The Italians are demanding that the United States hand over that soldier so that they can judge him by Italian laws. But our people say that first of all, they won’t surrender their soldier, and second, that he has not committed a crime because he acted within the law,” explained Fred and continued to tell the story. “On that day, the newspapers and the television stations had brought up the topic again. A few young men in the bar started to harass me, and then went over the limit. The Carabinieri (Italian Police), according to my acquaintances, were pleased that the American had hit the Italians and brought harm to them. What’s going on? Everyone is disgusted with Americans.”

“I can’t deny it,” I said in answer to Fred’s question.

“Are you disgusted, too?” asked Fred.
“Look, not with Americans, but with their political games. But actually, I have the same attitude toward the Europeans, the Russians, and the Iranians. But, if I were to be even more frank with you, I’d say that all this is simple emotional reaction and that I know well that the problem is not so much with the United States, Europe, Russia or Iran, but with us, I mean with Armenia.”

“But Bush really turned America into a subject of ridicule,” observed Fred.

“The image of the United States doesn’t worry me that much. What I’m thinking of are Serbia, Iraq and other countries that are experiencing tragedies. Who’s guilty for the condition in which these countries are? In the first place, it is the citizens and political figures of those countries who have lived by the principle “As long as I have my acorn, eat it, and get fat,” I cited the quote in Armenian.

“What does that mean?” asked Fred.

“It’s a line from a poem that tells about the stupid pig,” I said and explained its meaning.

“So, we too are responsible for Bush’s actions?” asked Fred.

“Of course you’re responsible.”

“So the loathing hurled at us is not exactly unfair.”

“That’s what it comes down to.”

We were leaning against the handrail by the shores of the Seine and watching the passersby.

“Fred, have you noticed that there is not a single fat person? They all have admirable physiques.”

“Guess so, but the French know how to eat,” said Fred. “Shouldn’t we go somewhere to eat?”

“Let’s go. Let’s walk until we find a restaurant we like.”

“There are more restaurants and cafes in Paris than anything else; and you can always have a regular meal, at any time of the day.”

“And are there restaurants that have specific hours of business?”

“In Spain, for instance, if you miss the siesta time, your only hope are the “bread-and-butter” folks. After the siesta, the cooks goes off to sleep.”

“And when is siesta time?”

“I think from two to four. I can’t remember for sure.”

“Fred, shouldn’t we call Quentin?”

“Let’s call.”

“Please, you call him.”

“I’ll call him; but when?”

“Whenever you want to.”

“Okay; after lunch.”

“OK.”

“Listen, aren’t the Italians looking for you?”

“Hardly; they’re not yet so impudent as to search all over the world for an American citizen, for two broken noses.”


(to be continued)