He firmly made up his mind to kill his wife’s back-door man, whom he had never met and had no hopes to ever meet. There were a lot more men in Davayatagh than women; in fact, there were several men per one woman. So, which of them was him…? Men, like famished mangy dogs, would roll around women at any place, day or night, without hiding away their unrestrained craving to lay a hand on them.
Some women gave a handle with their instigating behavior, some expressed their revulsion towards those unbridled men, however, inside themselves they did not mind playing a little with them, or at least, having a bite of their smiling attention, and especially that of Yenoque, who was well known in Tagh as a celebrated Don Juan and obviously had a firm knowledge of the theory and good practice of that art or craft. Do not think of Davayatagh as a completely wicked and immoral place in millennia old Yerevan; here morality was of incomparably large sizes and accounted for by humble, shy and little-talking women, who wouldn’t think of adultery even with a corner of their minds, and men chaste to their graves. Nonetheless, it is well-known that it is not always the large quantity that makes the quality; sometimes, the small quantity may play an essential role. In an agglomeration gradually adopting European ways in all spheres of life, where there were gathering spots for street prostitutes and night clubs sighing in blue lights, luxury guest-houses with five and more stars, where rich she-customers were served with gorgeous gladiator-like men not to be found in any other city on the earth, Davayatagh, where once camel caravans would stop for rest on their path from Persia to Northern Lands, was confined within its borders as a piece of traditional enclave. In contrast with the modern city, Davayatagh and its people appeared to be too naïve and virtuous, and this refers also to Yenoque, as well as that of the others, whose eloquent chivalry is more like a swanky joke than an intended action. No one, not even the renown sociologist Adibekyan, who had a special gift for finding solutions for tuff issues and who was able to unmistakably foresee the National Assembly election results, both for proportional and majoritarian lists, and whose opinion was considered even by prominent international sociologists and philosophers, and who was frequently cited by literary critic Z. Sh., who did not generate a single article without a roomy citation from him; he, even at the sight of his best efforts, was unable to explain the reason for disproportionate ratio of men and women. And when the tenacious she-reporters kept asking and sticking out their recorders onto the mouth of Adibekyan: “Mr. Adibek, why is it so that there are more men in the world, please, tell us something reasonable for us to get to the point” and Adibek, after thinking a while, said: “No, not in the world, but in Armenia”. “In Armenia?” they got surprised in unanimity. “Ours is different, girls,” boasted the sociologist, “we are a nation of global dimension, keep this in mind,” he advised.
Manvel was the most educated man in Davayatagh, a chemical scientist who was also painting and writing poetry pieces, which no one had ever seen, except his wife, whom he read them for at nights. Laura loved her husband’s pieces, and knew many of them by heart; she was reciting them for her neighbor women at coffee table. The women were envious: their husbands were not even able to write a letter for them. The only things they could do was playing backgammon and throwing slobbery glances at women’s tushies. Some of them were feeling affection towards Manvel deep in their hearts, but they were fearsome to express their feelings. Nonetheless, Yenoque’s wife Mary had once said “Laura, lend us your husband for one day, please!” “What for?” Laura was surprised. “For him to read poetry for me.” “No way,” responded Laura. “Laura, let him draw me naked!”, “How come – naked! Woman, are you nuts? Let your husband draw you naked!”, “No, he is not that gifted!” “Ah, yes, forgot, tell your husband not to ogle at me. Such a shame, ain’t we neighbours?!” “Oh, let Manvel ogle at me!” “We are not ogle-eyed as you!” Laura cut. Mary was upset for her neighbor not wanting to lend her husband even for one hour, and Laura was deeply insulted by her impudently expressed desire. “Look at her; she wants to be drawn naked, hooker!” There weren’t hookers in Davayatagh, but the word ‘hooker’ was quite wide-spread there, and it would stick to even the most virtuous women. The two women did not talk to each other for a whole week. During that period Laura started breeding the flower of jealousy with blue cup and black heart. ”Paint me naked!” she told her husband. “Gone nuts, woman?!” Manvel burst up, but then added “I wish I could”. “You can paint others naked, why don’t you paint me?! Ain’t I in your taste?!” “Who, Mary? She ain’t in my taste.” “Who’s in your taste then?” “You!” said Manvel, “I love you”. At that moment Laura wouldn’t believe him, although she had abundance of love during the whole period of their matrimonial life. Manvel was mad about her. She even had a thought passing her mind – Manvel did not love her. If Mary was not in his taste, then who was he in love with in Tagh? Was it Arus? But Mary was thousands of times better than Arus, she is like a peacock. Only a fool can leave Mary and run after Arus… And the idea about Mary stuck in Laura’s mind now more firmly grounded. She felt herself forlorn. Her eyes shaded with painful insult for being befooled and her heart shrunk. “Manvel, you scoundrel,” she sobered, “I will go myself to Yenoque and ask him draw me naked…oh, please, Yenoque, draw me naked…” Manvel startled in astonishment. There was no means known in the world to uncover the absurdity of the moment. Neither was it in the hands of the God, although the very moment was His whim. Manvel could not hold back his temper and threw at her as if it was a stone: “Hooker!” It was the first time in his life he was ever using this word. It sounded like a wicked joke or a Devil’s game directed towards no one else but his beloved wife.
Laura was insulted to death; she felt the roof would come over her head. The imaginary betrayal seemed a light wound compared to “hooker”, bludgeoning her painfully like a heated stigma. A few nights of love were enough for Manvel to gain back his wife’s heart. “Do not betray me more,” Laura finally asked, “Only in grave!” he joked. “Not even in grave! Never call me a hooker.” “No, I won’t.” “Mary is a hooker, not me.” “No, she is also not a hooker.” “Do not defend her!” All that night Laura stayed in the arms of her husband. This was not a rare occasion, however, this time Manvel was so excited as if it was for the first time that he found himself in the blue pool of love, where white seagulls were singing and dancing, a breeze was blowing from green mountains down to the pool, patting and kissing its mirror surface. Laura was the breeze, the transparent blue surface of the pool and a pretty seagull, and it seemed to Manvel that no ocean seagull could have such beauty as the beauty of his seagull.
At dawn, when they were drinking coffee in the dining room as usual, Manvel was still in the night’s bliss. Is this woman a daydream or real? He kissed his wife and it was a feeling of celestial pleasure. “Laura, whose wife are you?!” – “On, don’t you know?” – “Only mine?” – “Crazy little one.” Nonetheless, it was hard for Manvel to believe that such perfect creature could wholly belong just to him. Some others should have their sweet portion of her (no, she was not an inkpot at a post office), if not many then at least one. And doubts like dark clouds obsessed his mind just for a moment, then, at the next second, they cleared up when he heard Laura’s sweet voice: my love!
They got married thirteen years ago. And despite their ardent desire, they could not give birth to children, and it was the fault of no one else, but the God. Sometimes, they would console themselves by saying that the God himself was barren. But Laura would always add, “Then who has given birth to the countless people? Do you think it was God?!” Laura would gaze at the Heaven,” No God is not a woman to give birth to children.” At those moments she was feeling herself weak. And away from her husband’s sight, she was touching her empty tummy. Nonetheless, Manvel would notice her doing so. “Let me paint you.” “No! Not now. When I am pregnant…”
Manvel felt as if he had just fallen in love with her; he was jealous about her every moment and doubts began gradually obsessing his mind whether she was faithful to him or not. The moment he was back from work, he would ask “Have you gone out?” – “Yeah, I went to bazaar”. What he inquired for was not ‘what did you buy’, or whether the prices for meat and vegetables again arose, but rather who she met. And if his wife had met any of the men from their
Tagh, Manvel’s soul would darken up. What did he say? What was your answer? And Laura would reply quite sincerely. He told me a compliment. How come?! He told me I was very pretty. Did he kiss you?! Where?! And Manvel would get upset. Where did the man kiss Laura at? Onto her lips? Damn him! I will pull out his eyes for him not see you pretty! How cruel you are, my love! Manvel would no longer believe in the frankness of the word ‘Love’, counting it as a means to veil a kiss not mean for him. And even beyond the curtains he imagined himself how they kissed each other – Laura and her lover.
Residents of Davayatagh had always admired the fine beauty of Laura, but that attitude did not make a special impression on the spouse. They would smile faintly and pass by, as if it was a quite natural phenomenon. But now every remark or action of admiration touched them. Both the inner and outer self of Laura felt rejoiced of such attention; her heart going pit-a-pat, whereas dark clouds would come over Manvel every time he heard something about Laura, resentment and anxiety would filled him and he thought: “What the hell those morons want from me? What they want from Laura? Does Laura want anything from any of them?” And he was hardly holding back his fury. Everyone wants something from everyone and only myself does not want anything from this world. Nonetheless, Manvel wanted something from his wife – her eternal love, and noticing the lewd glances of dog-men at Laura, he could not help his anxiety: their God is Satan, they will ruin the world.
This anxiety could be gradually diminishing or becoming out of date, if neighbor Yenoque did not do what he once did in front of many. “Neighbor Manvel, you’ve got a very beautiful wife,” he said. “True, true,” the others reacted. “I wish my wife was half as pretty as Laura,” said shoe-maker Simon. Bolshevik Ghukas Ivanich, whose eyesight was almost all gone and who hardly could drag his feet also confessed,” If once I decide to marry, I will choose Laura, yeah!”. “Ivanich, Laura has a husband – Manvel!” “Yeah, I know, after his death, of course,” Manvel could not hold back his fury “You are already in grave, old dog!” Ghukas Ivanich guffawed showing his crooked iron teeth “I am immortal!” Indeed, Ghukas Ivanich seemed to be immortal. He was before Davatayagh had existed and he seemed to be still living after it was gone.
In the evening, Manvel delicately not to insult his wife, told her what the men were talking outside, leaving out some parts of the story. “Loathe that Ivanch” she said with an expression of disgust on her face, which did not match her beautiful traits at all. What about Yenoque? All of them are ghastly! Then why are you showing yourself before them and the rest all the time?! What do you suggest? Shan’t I go shopping? Stay home! Manvel put this as if saying a curse. Your soup was tasteless today! You are tasteless! Laura felt insulted not from his brusque manners, but rather from his qualifications and ignorant attitude towards the meal she prepared for him. And that evening the state of their relationship was even more tasteless than the meal, which was, as usual, very tasty. Laura’s meals and cookies had always been “superb”, as Manvel would often qualify them. Manvel knew his wife very well. She was intelligent, far-sighted and quite diplomatic, and as a good chemist she also knew what to mix and in what proportions, to get what she wanted. The next morning and daytime, he ate his wife’s tasteless meals showing good appetite, licking his fingers and lips. And he put a compliment about her meals Laura had never had before. “Honey, what shall I prepare for you tomorrow? Want meat balls?” “No, not meat-balls… Boz-bash ”, said Manvel in low voice and delicately, and felt unease for the first syllable of the meal he mentioned, for Laura could misunderstand it. ”Well, let me go and buy meat.” “No, I will go! You rest. You just did some washing.” “Oh, no you cannot buy meat.” You cannot make a good choice. And they will cheat you in money and weight.” “Ok, go!” he uttered reluctantly, “but do not pay much attention to yenoques! Fuck them all!” “Honey, shame on you! They are also humans.” “No, not all men are humans!” he cut, “I know what I say.”
In the absence of her husband, Laura put on one of her best low-necked dresses, had some makeup on and headed for the bazaar. Men were playing backgammon in the yard. Laura slowed down her steps and without looking at them, consciously or subconsciously, slightly moved with her hips. That slight movement had a hard effect on men. The game stopped and the wide open eyes of all followed Laura till the edge of the street. At the bazaar, the butchers were hanging on to her and wouldn’t let her go. “See what meat I have for you! A deer, just like you! Oh, hold on! Do not leave!” It was for the first time she was received so in the bazaar. She reckoned it was because of the dress, which was exposing her hips and breast so openly. Come on, cutie; tell me which piece you prefer? All are like chocolates. How much? Free for you, Aziz ! That word was appealing for Laura. No one had referred to her like that before and this made her buy a piece of ham for Boz-bash from him. Upon return, she again playfully passed by the men in the yard, feeling their lascivious glances stitching onto her back. She was not deliberately playing with her body to provoke their desires, no. It was just her womanly self singing and dancing by the call of the nature.
Laura was faithful to her husband. She never thought of adultery, even with a corner of her mind; she adored him. But despite this she was a woman with a perfect feminine psychology and she loved to be an object of admiration for men, imagine their wildest and unrealistic desires and laugh at them to herself. Ever since she realized she was attractive for them she began wearing short skirts above her knees and tightly-fitting pants to show her lady lumps. And although she had fine and attractive traits she would not go out without her make-up on. And she started to pay more frequent visits to beauty parlors. And men and even women were charmed with Laura’s beauty both in Davayatagh and beyond its borders. Everyone was delighted with her sight, and especially women were happy to discover and love the womanish side in themselves when seeing her. Manvel did not notice his wife’s transformations at once, fore it was happening gradually.
One Sunday, Laura went to the beauty-parlor and the usually dark-haired Laura returned fair-haired. Manvel’s eyes popped onto his forehead. “Now,” he said, “This was just what we missed out,” he hardly held himself back from saying that she looked like a hooker. “The men in the yard barely could recognize me. Can you imagine, Ghukas Ivanich just told me ‘my pretty girl’!” “The blind?!” Manvel went pale. “Didn’t you give him a slap?” “I felt pity of him.” And she kissed her husband. The kiss seemed cold and fake.
Manvel turned indifferent towards everything, his thoughts were scattered, and he even could not concentrate on the issue of getting radio-active isotopes of chemical elements received artificially, which was his constant and main scientific pursuit. Cautious not to be noticed he was surveying Laura, every step of her was counted. Where did she go? When did she come back? Why was she smiling? Had she had any compliments from a jerk outside? “Who do you smile at?” “You!” “Tell me the truth!” “Love you!” “Why do you wear short skirts?” “For you to see my pretty legs.” “Me or Ghukas Ivanich?” “Oh, do not call his name! Yesterday, he was twitching me all over, I barely ran away or he would tear my clothing to pieces. Do you know what he was saying? Divorce from Manvel and marry me. With me you will have a life of a rose. Next time I will slap his mouth to death.” “Oh, no! They will get me into jail.” “You do not love me!” “Yes, I do!” “If you do love me then why don’t you kill Ivanich?” “I will kill them all! You cannot even imagine how much I love you!” Manvel’s heart stopped for a moment. Then it beat with unusual beats and stopped again. It seemed to him that Laura was making this confession not to him but to another man, whom he had not met yet. “Who are you, you jerk?!” Laura noticed her husband’s anxiety. “Manvel, my darling….” ‘Darling’ seemed more close to him than ‘my love’ and he was about to faint hearing the word meant for the unknown. “Do not put on your short and tight clothing any more. And do please, bring back the natural color of your hair. Got it? You look like a yellow pullet.” “Got it.” Laura was insulted.
Laura’s obedience sufficed only for several days. Then she put back her short and tight clothing and this time dyed her hair in blue which was in the first flush then. “Sorry Manvel jan , I I do want them blue. Aren’t we living in the 21rst century?” “Who do you do this for?” Laura smiled. “Don’t you know?” “Yes, I know.” The woman thought her husband meant himself and continued frankly smiling at him. Whereas Manvel reckoned that her smile meant she had a back door man. It was to this man that she was giving her love and smiles.
Not having reconciled with the imaginary fact of adultery by his wife, Manvel conceded by letting the jealousy in towards an unknown man who had stolen such a delightful beauty as Laura from him. Jealousy is a much complex phenomenon than any chemical element. Even an Alchemist can get gold, but never can he get jealousy, since it is not a chemical phenomenon, it is a psychological phenomenon, a state of anxiety, a feeling of suffering which cannot be divided up into elements, cannot be weighted, there is no accepted formula for it. It is an unbearable pain of one’s soul. And Manvel was struck by this ailment – jealousy and mistrust more than Othello had been. Had Shakespeare known him and penetrated the depths of his soul, he would have called his well known play on jealousy after his name – Manvel.
Day-and-nights, he was looking for his wife’s back door man in his mind and around himself, following the real or invented stories of others and trying to avail himself of the opportunities of the rule of deductions to reach the final result after multiple deduction trials.
The first man his mind could stop on was, of course, the reputable philanderer Yenoque, who was the first to spell out his admiration of Laura’s beauty. Was it him? Manvel thoughts stopped on him for several days. For several times Laura has expressed her wish to be painted naked by Yenoque who had never tried to take a brush or pencil in his hand. “Hooker, he said soundless, ”How come you do not loathe him?” After comparing and weighting numerous facts he finally concluded, Yenoque should be excluded from the list; Laura may not fall that deep into the pit.
The suspect Yenoque was followed by all backgammon-players from their yard, who stopped their game to watch playful bodies of their neighbors’ wives passing by until sometimes some of them would realize that it was his own wife. “Man, this is your wife, why are you gawking at her like that?! Haven’t you seen her before?!” “Yeah, the one passed before was yours!” However, in the face of Manvel’s suspicions one should note that those men were so misshapen and unabashed that hardly any woman, let alone Laura, would agree to have any one of them as her lover. Maybe, it was Ghukas Ivanich… He used to be a minister during Soviet times; he was driven in and out by a black “Volga ” and had lots of awards, and among them – a Lenin medal. He always wore a dirty red tie covered with snivel spots; and they say, in old times he had them enough to suffice till his grave; did Laura get engrossed with all this?! For a long while Ivanich was torturing and driving Manvel mad. ‘I will cut his throat; whoever it was, Yenoque, shoemaker Simon or the butcher from the market, but not that toilet-smelling Ivanich! Oh, Laura, get back to common sense! I’ll kill you both; soil you both before the whole world.”
Laura noticed he was in bad mood and asked: “Has something happened?” “Last night, I dreamed of Ghukas Ivanich holding you in his arms and kissing,” said Manvel frowning believing his mind’s eye more than if it would be the bare truth. “Loathing both of you!” Laura shouted. Manvel started analyzing the screamed expression. “Who does she loathe more? Me or Ivanich? Ivanich for sure! But if she loathes me, too, then she has a lover. And that lover is not Ivanich, but a different scoundrel.” And his mind wandered passing the shoemaker and returning back to Yenoque, and soon it hung somewhere quivering in the cold air.
The days passed slowly like camel caravans, but they seemed flash past to Manvel, and whatever direction he turned his search, nowhere he could uncover his wife’s back door man. He finally concluded that they were so artfully hiding away, that neither the Satan and the Satan of the Satan, nor a single earthly or heavenly creature would be able to discover their secret.
Manvel, sleepless of jealousy, love, suspicions, turned skinny. Often he turned firm to inquire from Laura herself: “Do you have a lover, Laura? Who is he? Then if she says, “Yes I do, it’s Yenoque.” What would I do? I will lose my mind. No, let me reach Yenoque in silence.” One day, he would kill Yenoque, the other day his target was Ghukas Ivanich, on the third day he would kill all the butchers from the bazaar with their own axes, where only one could be Laura’s lover, the one who called her “Aziz”. Meeting a known or an unknown man at the streets and elsewhere, he was obsessed by a surmounting desire to kill him as his wife’s lover. As a professional chemist he knew what to mix to get a certain effect. Finally, he turned to a psychologist friend to prevent his insanity and uncovered his thoughts before him without holding back a piece. The doctor smiled. “Friend, Laura does not have a lover, she is faithful to you to grave, please, do not have doubts in this. Love each other. God loves you, too. Be happy and do not ruin your life by unrealistic assumptions.”
As if he had his second birth. For a while he was looking at Laura with an apologetic smile on his face. Then suddenly he told her: “I thought you were cheating me,” “You fool!” Laura embraced her husband, “You crazy!” That night and several nights after seemed for them to be long years of unquenchable love.
Soon, Manvel’s mind was poisoned by another thought; why was the doctor so sure of Laura’s faithfulness? Got it. He was kindly deceiving me not to go mad, or for me not to become a murderer and preferred keeping me in the state of blissful ignorance. He smiled bitterly at the sight of dreadful truth returning to him. The only thing left was to find and kill the man. With these tearing thoughts he was about to kill Laura, too. ”What a pity I can’t make myself kill her. I love that hooker.” He suddenly discovered that amoral Laura is dearer to him, he was mad about her more than for the chaste Laura. And every night he was even more stretching himself towards her bed.
It happened during hot summer weather, when the soil, asphalt and stones in Davayatagh were glowing in the sun, when one evening Laura told her husband: “I am pregnant!” Manvel was thrilled like thunder-stricken. How come?… Laura put her husband’s hand on her tummy. “I am pregnant. We’ve been longing for this for thirteen years. Aren’t you happy?” “I am, yes, I am very happy, but…” He said looking for words. “But what?” Then suddenly he asked, “Who is it from?” And pulled his hand back like a snake-bitten. “Who should it be from?! What a strange question!” and Laura burst into tears upset and turning her face away from him. “Callous, that’s what you are!” Manvel did not make an effort to calm her down, he himself was more in need of someone’s consolations.
“I’ll be gone to my parents’,” Laura finally broke the long sorrowful silence. “Oh, do not go,” said Manvel, ”Whoever is its father, it is first of all your child.” Laura left. Manvel was calling his other-in-law’s place every morning, day and evening to make sure his wife was there and not gone to meet with the embryo’s father. Then finally, Laura missed him and came back. In secret, Manvel was carefully observing her now jutting tummy trying to guess who the father was. Sure, not him.
It seemed to him that her tummy was advancing not by months but by days, even by hours. And parallel to it Manvel’s conviction in having been cheated out was also growing. He was looking at his reflection in the mirror and imagining spiky curve horns on his forehead. During the moments of despair and wrath he was striking Laura’s lover to death with his imaginary horns, like a bull would be striking the bullfighter, who had stretched the red canvas towards him, and he was clearly hearing the excited screams of the neighbors “Attaboy, Manvel!” and this was encouraging him to go for more murders. In this way he was killing many in his mind, whoever he had slight doubts about, but the real guilty man was still alive and healthy. Then he again reached the reputable philanderer Yenoque, who caused this story to happen; though he did not pay much attention on Ghukas Ivanich, then he was about to kill shoemaker Simon, who kept saying “I wish my wife be half as beautiful as Laura…”, then he reached Shmoe, Laura’s hairdresser, a man more attractive than Alain Delon, whom women adored and who had fled from Davayatagh to the farthest eastern corner of Russia to save himself from evil and did not give his new address to any of his former neighbors or relatives. Manvel thought, if he fled, then it was him and now she must have another lover; she, surely, cannot live without one. He was looking askew at any man, and one day he even started seriously suspecting the sociologist Adibek, whose wife’s name was also Laura. In contrast to Manvel’s wife who was first time giving birth to her baby, Adibek’s wife Laura had five – two boys and three girls, and the name of one of the girls was also Laura. Adibek’s Laura-loving was an object for long torments for Manvel until his mind was suddenly captured by the postman of Davayatagh – Мessieurs George.
Homesick for Armenia, George immigrated to Yerevan in the fall of 1947. He was a renowned chemist there, however, he was not allowed to work by his profession for having been arrived from a capitalistic country. George was very much upset, of course, but he was happy for being allowed to work as a postman in Davayatagh. Many immigrants, who returned during 40s of the last century, could not get adapted to the new conditions, some even got prosecuted, and finally packed their scarce belongings back into their cases and headed back to the countries they came from where they would live the rest of their lives wistful for their homeland. George stayed as his patriotism was an incurable disease. He preserved his “Akhpar ” dressing style and traditions, such as his drinking black coffee without sugar prepared on heated sand every morning, daytime and evening. In summer heat he wore short trousers demonstrating his straight but lean legs. His worn out sandals and painted hoses were from Paris. His skirt was always snowy white and clean with a black bow tie always on. He wore a gold ring with a big emerald on his left little finger. He had sold out everything except that ring, which he got from his father who found his rest in Pere-Lachaise Cemetery of Paris, and the golden cross and chain he was always wearing, which Davayatagh youngsters tried to steal for several times. He received the cross from his maternal Grandma, who was said to be saved from Der Zor by that very cross. One would never see George untidy looking. He always was shaven up neatly, his hair was trimmed back and he always smelled expensive French fragrances, something quite atypical of Davayatagh men. By the way, only some women used scents and among them was Laura, and her smell seemed to be the sweetest and most inebriate for Manvel.
George led a lonely life in an earthen hut without a wife or children, it was just him and his hefty cotton bag, which besides the letters and papers, sometimes would contain fruit and vegetables. A coffee lover George was also the only raw-food eater in Davayatagh. Logically or not, all this facts served a ground for Manvel to consider George’s candidacy for Laura’s lover.
“Hello, Messieurs Manvel,” George would greet when meeting Manvel, “Hello” Manvel threw back as if cross with the whole world, continuing his thought in mind, “You Akhpar scoundrel!” “How is Madame Laura? Haven’t seen her for a long while.” “What business have you with my wife?!” Manvel set upon him. “Just… I just respect her very much.” Manvel held back. Respect, this word, especially in combination with ‘very much’, is often used to disguise ‘love’. “Do not respect her, George!” “Oh, how come? I cannot go against my inner self, how can I?” And Manvel had no more doubts that Laura’s lover was him – George. Alone he was getting furious, imagining to himself how he was killing and killing George with the kitchen knife meant for cutting meat and hung on the wall with the other knives there in the kitchen. He was killing George, cutting him into pieces and all in blood, placing his flesh into the fridge for him to continue getting tortured by freeze. Then, this intention was cut and followed by several peaceful hours. During those hours Manvel was regretful for his callous thoughts, feeling shameful for himself, turning kind and merciful. But soon he was again filled with jealousy and vengeance. No doubts, George was Laura’s lover, not just because he had come from reverent Paris (I wish his legs were broken on the way for him not to reach here), but also for his wearing pleasant odors and bow ties; his father is buried in Pere-Lachaise, who cares? A Sorbonne professor, ah, big cheese! I am also a Chemist like him. This very fact seemed very important for Manvel, he thought to have finally disclosed his wife’s adultery – from Chemist Manvel to Chemist George! He pictured the situation to himself from the point of view of a third party imagining Laura melting in the arms of George. Both are chemists, George or Manvel, only the names are different. Laura’s been suckering me. And Manvel gradually turned kind towards shoemaker Simon, who would have his wife exchanged with Laura, Ghukas Inavich, all the butchers in the market, and even sociologist Adibek and licentious Yenoque, whose every word was soaked with lady-loving. He felt reconciled even with the hairdresser Shmoe, who had fled to Russia, all the other men – known or unknown, Armenian or foreigners. And only poor George was left as his rival. He was determined to send him to hell, and the only thing that was keeping him back was the breaking of the Lord’s commandment, ”Do not kill, Manvel, my son!”
One day, upon return home Manvel found Laura and George friendly chatting and drinking coffee in the dining room. There were grapes, pakhlava and a bunch of flowers on the small table. “Today is my birthday, Manvel, my love. Come and have something!” But Manvel passed ignorantly and speechless to the bed-room, laid himself on the bed with his face down and his clothes on. He remembered their wedding, what a beautiful and faithful wife was Laura; in grief, he had many nice moments from their wonderful life flash past before his closed eyes and he felt the tears rising to his eyes, despair got stuck in his throat at the thought that Laura was pregnant, she would be delivering soon and it was not his child, but George’s.
George left quite late thanking the hostess and the sleeping host for the warm reception. “I felt my homeland’s sweetness again, Madame Laura,” he said and kissed Laura with his eyes, “I deeply respect my Manvel Akhpar.”
Laura tried to wake her husband up for him to take his clothes off, but he was fast asleep. In the morning she slightly jogged on his shoulder, “Wake up!” “Leave me alone!” he muttered protesting. The whole day and night till the next morning he was lying with his face down without taking off his blue jacket with silver ribbons, his jeans and black shoes. Laura was getting frustrated. She shook him angrily, “Get up, man! You are late! Your coffee’s getting cold! Wake up!” Then finally she harshly turned him onto his back. Manvel stared long at her with his eyes wide open and scary unwinking. He was dead.
P. S. Soon, Laura presented a baby boy to Davayatagh and the world; she named him Aram. Aram was so much alike Manvel, as if they were two peas in a pod. And his father was Manvel. The group of backgammon-players from the yard was envious and angry with him. Why weren’t their children so alike themselves? They were alike Manvel. Some even thought taking him out of grave, scolding him for having allured their wives and killing him. No one from the old Davayatagh, who took part in this story, is alive any longer, they are all gone. Only Ghukas Ivanich is still living. Hobbling swinging with his stick in front, he approaches women in the street and tweaks them on the back threatening to take advantage of them. Women giggle and flee from him like hen from an attacking eagle. It’s been long that Ivanich pisses in his bed. His consciousness is fading away. He lost his memory. He has forgotten to die.
Translated by Mariam Chakhoyan
