ՆԻԿՈԼ ՓԱՇԻՆՅԱՆ. ՇՈՒՐՋԵՐԿՐՅԱ ՃԱՆԱՊԱՐՀՈՐԴՈՒԹՅՈՒՆ/Pashinyan: Journey Around the World, part 8

[English is below] from payqar.org

10.մղձավանջ եւ անուրջներ Լոզանում

Ես իզուր հրաժարվեցի որեւէ բան խմելու` այդ խստաբարո տիկնոջ առաջարկից: Մի բաժակ վիսկի կխնդրեի. եվրոպացիք սիրում են հաստ պատերով բաժակով վիսկի խմել: Կասկած չկա, որ հենց այդպիսի բաժակով վիսկի կբերեին ինձ: Հաստատ «Ջեկ Դենիելս» կլիներ, որից զզվում եմ: Բայց եթե անգամ «Գրին լեյբլ» լիներ, մի կում կանեի, բթացնող ժպիտով կնայեի տիկնոջը, ու նրա պատասխան ժպիտը կկասեցնեի` բաժակը քներակին զարկելով: շարունակություն

JOURNEY AROUND THE WORLD
FROM THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD (PART EIGHT)
10. Nightmare and Visions in Lausanne

I should have accepted that harsh woman’s offer for a drink. I would have asked for a glass of whiskey. Europeans like to drink whiskey from thick-walled glasses; there is no doubt that they would have brought me whisky in such a glass. And that would certainly have been Jack Daniels, which I detest. But even if it had been “green label,” I would have taken a sip, looked at the woman with an obscure smile, then I would have stopped that smile by smashing the glass against her temple.

There, she has collapsed from the unforeseen assault. The death penalty has been carried out. It is I who has carried out that sentence. The lady—but why call her a ‘lady’?—that whore, has broken my law, my secret law, of whose existence neither she, nor I, in particular, were aware of. And who can claim that the sentence is not legitimate? Certainly there is a secret sentence on a secret page of any number of secret law books that would give me the right to carry out the death sentence on this whore. She didn’t know about that. But does ignorance of the law absolve any one of the responsibilities before the law? The death penalty: to plaster her head on the floor. There, I raise the heavy piece of alpine granite supported by a bronze base from the table and execute the death sentence. My hands are covered with blood; my face is splashed by the pressure of the whore’s curdling blood, her brain flowing on the floor with the ease of flowing lava. I shout out the most heart-felt curses.

“Father, what’s happened?”

That voice nails me on the spot. I can’t turn around, my face and hands are covered with blood. I can’t move; I cover the harsh woman’s smashed head with my body:

“Nothing has happened, my daughter. It’s just that this woman doesn’t feel well. There’s a man sitting at the end of the hallway. Go tell him to call a doctor.”

I hear her departing footsteps.

“Ma’am, stand up, ma’am. I beg of you, ma’am; wake up, ma’am; have pity on me, ma’am; don’t kill me, ma’am.”

I shake her; I try to wake her up; I try to collect her brain that flows on the floor; I try to put it back in her skull. I sob because I feel powerless; I sob in despair. I scream in confusion.

I hear a man’s voice behind my back.

“Yes, murder is like extra-marital sex. Its process offers indescribable pleasure, but when everything is over, the feelings of guilt and remorse come to torment you.

One of the horrifying pictures on the wall was talking to me:

“But don’t retreat. Didn’t you carry out justice? Didn’t you avenge Josef? Explain to your daughter and she will understand it all, she’ll justify…”

“Shut up,” I said without turning, “I don’t want her to understand all this, I don’t want her to justify any murder…”

“You’re just a weakling…”

I turned around. Looking at me from the picture was the Catholicos of All Armenians, twirling the keys to the Mercedes around his finger…

I woke up in a sweat. I was in Lausanne, sprawled on the bed in my hotel room.

I got up, washed and ordered some coffee. I have to call Marko. I search my pockets for his telephone number and find it:

“Hello, Marko; it’s me. They killed Josef.”

“I know; I’ve already heard about it…”

“Does it have anything to do with you, or your business, in any way?”

“No, not at all. But I thought it might have something to do with you.”

“It has nothing to do with me, either. I knew it had nothing to do with you, but I asked just to be sure.” The story is not believable. I also know where one of his murderers is—here, in Lausanne.

“If that whole story really has nothing to do with you, go on your way,” advised Marko.

I said good-bye to Marko and hung up the phone. I went to the window and opened it. Rainy gusts of wind froze my forehead. I need to drink something. If I were an ordinary traveler, I would definitely have a bottle of Armenian cognac in my suitcase, maybe even some dried apricots. And now, go and find Armenian cognac in this squeaky clean, orderly hellhole! I had seen a bar adjacent to the hotel and decided to go there (hotel bars are very tiresome). I ran there from the hotel, without getting wet, and went to the counter at the bar.

“Do you have Armenian cognac? Doesn’t have to be ‘Nayiri,’ it can even be ‘Akhtamar,’ ‘Ani,’ ‘Ararat’—five or three stars.”

“I’m sorry, sir, we don’t have it,” says the barman with a smile.

“What about Armenian wine? Doesn’t have to be ‘Areni,’, it can also be a Pachik, or Pasek, or mother-in-law, or brother-in-law,” I continue with bitter sarcasm.

“No, sir.”

“Then you don’t have Armenian vodka, either. In that case, give me Carrabba.”

Carrabba is liquor made of Italian grapes, similar to what the Georgians call Jaja or Tchtatcha, in other words grape jaji vodka and we call it yatrchi. How the Europeans drink the yatrchi without cheese or pickles! Pickles. Oh, Armenians, do you know that you national value is not only in your self-aggrandized history, but your pickles as well. The greatest thesis of forgotten (and soon to be forgotten) Armenian cuisine can only be found in the subtitle “Pickles.” And at the basis of that foundation, of course, is the mixed pickle. But what a structure has risen on that foundation: pickled summer cabbage, pickled red beets dagi and jakhi, pickled cucumber, green and semi-ripe tomato pickles, carrot, green bean, cauliflower, kyaravouz, garlic, onion, watermelon, eggplant, pepper, dzidzag (not in the manner of the Molokans, but in the Armenian tradition), mandag pickles and caper pickles. But the masterpiece of all pickles is the pickled pepper, a special type, now on the way to being forgotten. They do this pickle in the fall, when the harvest is over. At that time, pepper bushes still carry small buds that haven’t quite ripened, and many leaves. These leaves and the unripe peppers are used to make the djakh pepper pickle. And if the person doing the pickle knows how to do it well, like my grandmother, may she rest in peace, then the result is not a pickle but a masterpiece, an artistic creation.

But this partial list does not include all the pickles of Armenia. We still haven’t talked about pickles made of wild plants—lily, pokhi, itzgot, Solomon’s-seal…

Solomon’s-seal is in full bloom in the open fields of Ichevan now; the forests are adorned in green. Every year about now, I go to Ichevan, to open the lamb season. What happens more or less is this: I reach Ichevan on Friday afternoon. My friends and I quickly exchange phone calls: “Are you here?,” “I’m here.”

After a while I call Pitzik, or he calls me.

“Shouldn’t we eat a lamb?”

“Of course; what else would we do?”

The real ceremony takes place the next day. In the meantime, though, it is necessary to find a lamb. Lambs are sold in the Ichevan market only a few days of the year, at Vartavar. In Ichevan, Vartavar is celebrated on the last Sunday of July, and, beginning with the preceding Thursday, the streets overflow with lambs and kids. But the rest of the year you can’t find live lambs in Ichevan. You can find lamb meat; but what we need is the live animal. To find the live animal you need to search in the nearby villages. In the meantime, we are “teghakum,” that is, we are trying to find a specific location where lambs are sold. As a rule, the “teghakum” does not yield any results. We have to go; but in whose car? This is an essential matter, because not only has the lamb not bathed, but on the way, it won’t ask to stop by the roadside to take care of its bodily functions; it does so on the luggage rack. Pitzik and I agree: we won’t take our cars. That leaves the option of taking Tchagh’s car, especially since it seemed to have been at the “Meyka,” meaning that it was just washed. Agreed!

Convincing him is not easy, but we do. Tchagh is with Smiley, Popo is off at work, and for the time being, we have no business with him. We go, let’s say, to Agnaghpyur. We reach the village center: “Hello, boys. Who has a lamb for sale in the village?” A short discussion takes place among the villagers. Finally, they give us a name, and get one of the village boys to ride with us and show us the house of the villager they named. As a rule, the kid calls out to the potential lamb owner from the gate:

“Who is it?” an old granny answers as is customary, and realizing the purpose of our visit, says:

“We had one, but they took it yesterday. The rest are too young, they’re not for sale.”

As is customary, you can’t find a lamb on the first try. The search must go on.

“But who would have a lamb, Grandma?” we ask her hopelessly.

“I don’t know. Ask so-and-so.”

It’s good to have a specific address; and the young lad knows the place.

“I have three, but they’re not for sale. I’m saving them for my son’s military conscription farewell party.”

“It certainly seems you’ll give a big party.”

If the stars are aligned in our favor, there will be a lamb in the third place we go to. We enter the barn. Pitzig lifts one of the lambs, or if there’s just one, the only lamb. Now the lamb has been weighed.

And then begins my favorite part: the bartering. Lat year, the lamb cost 20 to 25 thousand Drams, but if prices have gone up in general, the lamb, too, will be more expensive this year.

“What are you charging for this lamb, Uncle?”

“35 Manet”, says the uncle, each Manet being 1000 Drams. That meant he wanted 35,000 Drams.

“Oh, man, you want how much?” we say, our feelings hurt, “We’re giving you 25 Manets and taking it.

“I’ll eat it myself for 25 Manets.”

“A little ways from here we got a lamb for 20, it yielded 40 kilos of meat. There aren’t even 10 kilos of meat on this one!”

“A little way from here the flour is cheaper, too; the oil is cheaper, the sugar is cheaper. It has 12 kilos of meat.”

“There’s no other way, it’s a skinny one. We’re giving you 30, and taking it.”

At this point, as is custom, the uncle turns off the light in the barn. “I have no merchandise for sale,” he says, his heart broken. Also, as is custom, Tchagh, who has stayed in the car, toots the horn, as if telling us to hurry up.

“Okay, okay, tie up its feet, throw it in a bag,” we say to uncle. We pay him, take the lamb, and go back to Ichevan.

According to tradition my brother Artak slaughters the lamb. If the weather is bad, the ceremony takes place in the house. But, as is custom, the weather allows us to go to the forest.

[translator’s note: the words in bold are words that Pashinyan has intentionally spelled or arranged differently, in line with the Ichevan dialect. Also, note that throughout the piece, Pashinyan uses the phrase “որպես կանոն:” as is the rule, as is customary, as per tradition. I have translated it several different ways depending on the context, but the original uses the same phrase in each case.]