By Ari Neuman

(These are my recollections of my time spent in Armenia over the summer of 2012. This is the third installment. Best to start from the beginning)

Day to day life in the Ekmekjian (not their real name) household was hectic.

Not because they had a lot to do – in fact, they did a whole lot of nothing, mostly – but because daughter and mother were determined to squeezing the most drama out of their lives as possible. Hungry for excitement and eager to forget for a while my comfortable life in Montreal, I became a willing participant.

I had become entranced by Lusineh: her crazy, her grit, but also her warmth and her life experience. And after two weeks of living under her roof, I had realized that her occasional stream of insults were harmless and meant to provoke me into revealing my weak spots.

And dealing with the raging sage of the home was made easier by the fact that I was in love with Yerevan. The city was in full rose bloom over the summer; glowing pink during the day and pale-fire at night… the afternoon heat still escaping from the city’s stones well into the evening.

I loved the slow tempo, the lethargy that made me realize, ‘it’s okay to relax!’ and that complete strangers called each other ‘brother’ and ‘son’. I even loved the fruit - vendors that would come by our windows in the late afternoon with sun-soaked apricots and plums. (My opinion has since changed –can’t a guy take an afternoon nap without being woken and hustled to buy some fruit?).

I was settling in just fine.

But Lusineh, ever determined to give me an education, wanted to take me one step further.

__________

As always, Lusineh got up at six, shuffled into the kitchen next to my bedroom and put an enormous jazzve’s worth of coffee on the stove. She liked to joke that she needed just a little more than enough to kill a man to get up in the morning.

Her rustle-bustle woke me and I sat up in bed.

She took a seat at the cramped kitchen table, and seeing that I was already awake, whispered:

“Psst… Ari… Psst… Come over here.” She patted the kitchen table with her palm. “Sit with me for a bit. Do you want some coffee? Come sit with me, bala.”

Eager to get in on her morning routine which I thought stylish and classy, I got up and trudged my way over to the table and sat next to her, the sun beaming onto the kitchen table from behind my head. She poured us both a steaming hot cup of liquid coronary destruction –– but no sugar, because that’s bad for the blood –– and began to smoke.

I held my cup of coffee in my hands and peered out the window, which looked over Erebouni Fortress and into the red mountains on the outskirts of town.

Lusineh stroked the back of my head, and cooed softly:

“Did you sleep okay, tghas? Any dreams for me to interpret? Did you hear the fireworks at night?” She pulled at her cigarette, and looked at me questioningly:  “And by the way, you screamed last night in your sleep, what happened?”

“Oh, it happens every once in a while. Don’t worry about it. It’s normal.”

“Every once in a while?! It’s not normal, Ari jan. It’s weird.”

“It’s not a problem, really…”

“You probably just have a broken psyche, or shitty nerves?”

Lusineh had become fixated on what she deemed my ‘shitty nerves’, and had slowly but surely taken it upon herself to cure me. I think what she meant by ‘shitty nerves’ was my introverted nature. She saw it as a sign of a weakness, and truth be told, I might have as well. This was a time when I wished I was more outgoing and less shy, and the Ekmekjians’ explosive energy was, I felt, a good push in that direction.

“It’s not shitty nerves, Lusineh…Nothing’s broken about my psyche… or shitty about my nerves, I’m a normal boy.”

“Oh normal boy, hell. I wonder how many American Jews before you have decided to spend their summer vacations bumming in Yerevan. Nah. Shitty nerves, that’s what. By the way, sleeping with your ass uncovered leaves you more vulnerable to nightmares. Did you know that?”

“Can’t…can’t say I knew that.”

She petted my hand and told me it was all going to be okay: “I’ll sort you out, kid, get you in working order. Spend some time with me, you’ll see.”

I grinned and sipped at my coffee, lulled into submission by her charm.

We sat for a while in silence, before Lusineh got up to wake Varduhi and make breakfast.

–––––

Ah, breakfast, the most delicious and vicious part of the day.

Generally used as an excuse by daughter and mother to begin their systematic attempts at degrading each other, Varduhi always started it.

On this particular day, she decided that the quality of breakfast was not only subpar, but –– news to me –– against her religious principles.

On being served a couple of eggs sunny - side - up, she took her spoon and started thumping it against the table.

“Maam! I’ve told you. I’ve told you. You never listen, woman!”THUMP. “I’m Buddhist now, remember? I’ve been a Buddhist since March. I don’t, won’t and can’t eat eggs. It’s destroying my karma. But you just keep on serving up these death-orbs. You don’t give a rat’s ass about me.”THUMP. “And  worse! After I eat eggs, I have to run immediately to the bathroom –– what’s the freaking point of eating them if they’re just gonna come out in a few minutes, huh? How good for you can they be if they go down your throat and out your ass before you can even finish wiping your plate?”THUMP. “And, you over fry them anyway. Didn’t anyone teach you to cook?”

 er mother, still conjuring what I had come to consider magic at the stove, responded:

“Well, first of all, my Buddhist ditz, you don’t seem to complain when I cook meat. Since when can Buddhists eat meat, but not eggs? And second, you spoiled, ignorant dolt, when you go to the bathroom immediately after eating eggs, that’s not eggs you’re dealing with.

You think they drop from your tummy to your rump immediately? Sweet God of Mercy, is it my fault that I raised such an ignorant run, or is this one of your tests?”Lusineh pressed her hand to her chest in earnest questioning and confusion. “How you got into university is beyond me. And third…!”

Lusineh grabbed the spatula from off the stove and started whacking it against the frying pan.

“Imagine how many people don’t get to eat eggs for breakfast? Think of those cousins of yours from Spitak? Do you know what they eat for breakfast every day? They get kasha.” WHACK. “Every day… kasha.” WHACK. “If you want kasha every day, we can do that. Want to do that? No, that’s what I thought. So you just shut it, and eat what I cook for you. And they’re not over-fried. Your taste-buds are just dead!”

Whack.

A brief debate, accompanied by the continued, emphatic whacks and thumps of kitchen utensils, ensued on the subject of the Buddhist diet, the digestion trajectory of eggs, and Lusineh’s culinary prowess, after which the conversation erupted into a series of more personal attacks.

Varduhi went straight for the jugular: “You’re a lazy bum, maam, know that? You just sit at home, drink coffee, smoke and watch TV. What, are you above getting a job?”

In a fit of fury, Lusineh turned off the potatoes she had been frying –– my heart sank as I realized that breakfast had been indefinitely postponed –– and abandoned her post at the stove. She sat down at the table:

“Ari, don’t listen to this idiot. I used to haul ass working 14 hours a day. You just guess what I used to do.”

“Teacher?” I ventured. Neutrality during these feuds was vital for making sure I got a complete breakfast.

“Hah, no. I ran girls.”

“Eh?” I asked with a mouth full of eggs.

“That’s right. Chew, Ari jan. Varduhi, see what a good boy he is? But yeah, just behind our house, a hundred or so meters down the street, there’s a shady little bar. And this bar offered two services. The first: the company and conversation of pretty, respectable looking girls and as much intimacy as you can get when there’s an enormous table between you and the apple of your eye. I tolerated a little bit of on-table hand-holding, but no kissing or leg - touching. None of that shit on my turf.

That was extra, the second service: the company of the same girls in one of several back-rooms, where our clients could enjoy their tenderness and talents.

It was my job to hold down the fort.

I made sure the girls didn’t get bruised. I made sure they kept their appointments and that our clients left satisfied. I made sure we got paid, and I made sure the girls didn’t get stiffed by management –– in both the literal and the figurative sense. I made sure the men didn’t fight and the beer didn’t spill. I was the go between for all, and I was damn good at it.”

Varduhi, who had retreated into the embarrassed safety of her elbows, peeked her head up from behind her hands: “Oh maam, stooop!” THUMP. ”I don’t want to hear it, and I don’t want Ari to hear about it…it’s so embarrassing.”

“Shut up, girl. I’m not talking to you. And what’s embarrassing here? This was work, and it was good work at that. I kept order like God himself wishes he could do on this mess of an earth, and I earned good money; as much as $600 a month.”

Lusineh sighed.

“But as things do, everything went to shit. Management started getting a little high and mighty, started inviting me into the backrooms for what that jackass - what was his name? - called ‘business chats.’ I played dumb at first, bat my eyelids and asked him, ‘And what are we going to do there?’”

But that didn’t really work, you can only pretend to be slow for so long. And then I was getting threats…and needless to say I was out of a job pretty soon.

So what kind of work do you want me to do now, Vardush? Go and work as a waitress? Work as a saleswoman in some oxygen - deprived, underground dirt-hole of a shop selling cheap, Chinese garbage? Earn $150 a month if I’m lucky and have to deal with the same crap from some scrump of a man-boss? Isn’t it better that I stay here, and cook for you? Clean for you? Make a home for you? You know the moment I walk out that door to work, this place will fall apart, piece by piece.”

Lusineh shot her daughter a look of irritation and disgust: “So shut up and eat your eggs, Buddhist.”

We sat for a moment in awkward silence. I quickly scarfed the rest of my eggs, Varduhi pushed hers aside in quiet humiliation, and I - good boy, Ari jan - eagerly awaited my postponed potatoes as Lusineh, justice delivered, returned to the stove.

–––––

Lusineh and Varduhi licked their wounds in brutal silence until harmony had been restored an hour later.

“Vaaardi!” Lusineh shrieked from the living room.

“Ha, maam?” yelled from the kitchen.

“Call that friend of yours, the one with the really dark hair? Astghik?”

“Which Astghik, ma?”

“The one dating that snake of a boyfriend. I want to find out how that’s going.”

“Why? Are you going to do your psychologist thing again? She’s my friend, you know, not yours. Are you gonna make her cry again?”

Lusineh’s eyes twinkled. “What psychologist thing? I just want to talk to her. I’ll behave, I promise.”

A phone call later, and we were expecting guests. Lusineh sprang into action from her arm chair and directed Varduhi and I about the house as we made the place more presentable. When Varduhi’s friend arrived, Lusineh remained seated in the living room, smoking, legs crossed and smiling graciously.

Presentation is everything, kids.

Our guest tip-toed into the living room and sat on the couch opposite Lusineh’s throne, shoulders huddled together in a sign of what I thought was either fear or respect.

From what I could gleam with my pitiful Armenian, the conversation started innocent enough. I bobbed my head in between Lusineh and the girl, trying to pick out words.

Varduhi, instantly enraged by the seating arrangement which very obviously excluded her, tried inserting herself a few times into the conversation, but gave up when it became all too clear that Astghik was here for a consultation with Lusineh, who I could tell from the gleam in her eye was gearing up for a show.

After a few minutes of small talk, Lusineh sighed and asked Astghik a question, tilting her head to the side as if to say: “Asa, tell me.”

Astghik paused, and looked down at the floor. After a moment’s hesitation, she began to speak.

Lusineh listened in earnest and smoked cigarette after cigarette, occasionally sending Varduhi into the kitchen on missions to replenish her coffee mug.

And finally! There was a word I understood! ‘Iran’.

How exciting.

I had been studying Farsi for about a year now, and Armenia was the closest I could imagine myself getting to Iran. Completely convinced we were discussing this girl’s trip to the Islamic Republic, I tried imagining all the interesting things this girl had to say about our neighbor to the South.

My faith in my linguistic ability was shaken when the girl’s speech began to be interrupted by small sobs and hiccups and the occasional tear. I began to suspect we were not speaking about the linguistic homeland of Rumi.

When Astghik finally finished speaking, she continued to sit quietly and looked up at Lusineh with tear-filled, hope-filled eyes. Lusineh rearranged herself in her chair and began her delivery of an equally long but carefully-measured response.

Several minutes into Lusineh’s speech, Astghik completely lost it. Lusineh continued in a slow and motherly tone, managing to smile, frown, laugh and shake her head in the same breath. When Lusineh had finished, the girl sat rocking in her seat, her head in her hands and mumbling, ‘ayo, ayo, ayo’ between tears.

Continuing to shake and nod her head, she got her stuff together. Before slipping out the door, Astghik hugged Lusineh and whispered in her ear, “Merci, Lusineh jan.”

_____

Having escorted her guest out, Lusineh returned to her throne. She smirked at my look of bewilderment.

Varduhi tramped into the living room and snapped: “You ALWAYS make my friends cry. You said you wouldn’t!”

To which Lusineh laughed, and responded: “And yet they keep on coming back to see me…You know if you didn’t have me, you’d be absolutely friendless.”

I interrupted, eager to find out what had happened and desperate to avoid a repeat of the morning’s antics: “So, uh, were we talking about Iran?”

“What Iran?”

“Iran…Astghik, she kept on saying, ‘iran.’”

“Ahah! That ‘iran’. No, that means ‘him’ in Armenian.”

I laughed at myself. “Then what?”

“Astghik’s been dating this real jackass for a few years now, and things have been getting serious: marriage after graduation, moving in to his family home. But he’s been acting up, and is getting all picky about his girlfriend’s activities when he’s not around –– Armenian boys tend to start feeling like real hot shit as soon as they start thinking about marriage.

He’s forbidden her from seeing certain friends…To go out in the evening, and to put on tight pants and the like. Heard she’d been smoking in a cafe with some friends. She claims he gave her a bit of a roughing up because of it.

You don’t know Armenia very well yet, Ari, but image is so important here. And that little shit of a boyfriend of hers can’t bring himself to imagine that maybe, just maybe, his girlfriend has a life and mind of her own.

So she asked me, how to deal? What to do?

And I told her: it’s simple, really. Get rid of him.

I’ve worked my entire adult life regulating, administering and managing male - female relationships. And have had enough boyfriends and husbands in my own time to have formed a few opinions of my own. There’s nothing to be done when dealing with a chump-scrump of a man –– the only thing to do is cut him out, run and hope to God he doesn’t come after you.

I sat quietly, listening, not having much to say but gripped by her decisiveness and ruthlessness.

“My husband ruined my life, and I can see that Astghik’s boyfriend is the same kind of guy. Did I tell you my husband left because he thought I was into dogs? He would get jealous when I would pet dogs, and fly into a rage! Idiot. At any rate, the sooner she gets rid of this guy, the better. Remember, Ari: the majority of the representatives of your gender? Little shits.”

She paused, and sighed with a smile on her lips:

“Now, wanna run out and get us a beer or two? I’m exhausted.”

_____

I skipped downstairs, dashed into the store on the first floor and brought back up some beers.

I sensed a continuation of Lusineh’s discourse on the horridness of the male sex, which, though not entirely interesting or convincing for me, pointed to further, wide-ranging life discussions. I loved the way Lusineh spoke, furious with righteousness and conviction, and I was ready to listen to whatever she had to say.

Believing or putting stock in it, well, that was another question.

Back in the apartment, I resumed my place by Lusineh, opened our beers and waited.

“Maybe some of what you heard today shocked you?” she asked, taking a swig.

“Beh, it was all….something new.”

“I hope you won’t scream in your sleep again because of it? I know how easily you get shaken up.”

“I don’t get shaken…” I stopped myself. What’s the point? “I think I’ll manage.”

“Haa…yeah…” She turned to me and looked me earnestly in the eyes. “You know, Ari. I like you. You’re not so bad. You’re shy and got a few complexes, but you’re honest, and have a good heart.”

I smiled.

“I don’t think it’s purely coincidental that you’ve decided to come to Armenia. I think you’ve a lot to learn from this place; from me, from the way of life around here, with all its ups and downs.”

“How ya figure?”

“You’ve a soft spine and can be wormy, a bit of a push-over. You need a roughing-up. And I think Armenia could give you that. Get hit a few times. Trip. Mess up. Say the wrong thing, offend someone, and get a black eye for it. I think all of that would do you some good. You’d benefit from a place that would make you think on your feet. It’s time for you to come out of your shell, man-up. I’m not saying people here are evil: but this is not America, and you would learn to look after yourself more. You told me you don’t want to go back to Petersburg for school. Why not stay here, then? Stay with us as long as you like. You’re practically family. I’d love to keep you around…”

I smiled again, and chewed over her words. While I was not in agreement with her proposition that I was ‘wormy’ and ‘spineless’, I did like the idea of staying in Armenia.

–––––

Lusineh and Varduhi retired in front of the television, and I went out for an evening walk to enjoy my buzz and craving a little time on my own after having spent the day cooped up in the Theatre. I sat in a park not far from our house, and watched the families out for a spin. 

A few couples strolled about slowly in front of me, their kids running dizzy-circles around them and play-fighting with one another. Some older men played backgammon in a pavilion next to me and faint music floated over on the breeze from the other side of the park.

I was thinking about Lusineh’s proposition to stay in Yerevan for school. Over the past two weeks I had come to look at Armenia as a diamond in the rough - tough, but sweet. Ancient, majestic, but faded by a difficult century. Poor of pocket, rich of spirit. Much like Lusineh, I thought.

Such an environment was diametrically opposed to what I had experienced while growing up in the States, where hardship can be kept out of view for a lucky few. And as Lusineh had pointed out, I was aware of a certain naivety in myself that I thought was the result of having grown up in such a protected and privileged corner of the world.

And I wanted to get rid of it. I wanted to join in on the fighting and screaming with Lusineh and Varduhi at the breakfast table and not worry about hurt feelings or proper conduct. I wanted to forget being shy, and learn to be a little more wild.

Maybe Yerevan was a good place to do that?

I returned home and asked Lusineh if she was serious about ‘keeping me around.’

Her eyes still glued to the TV, she smiled, and told me: “I knew you’d like the idea. Sure, stay with us.” She turned to her daughter and asked, “Right, Varduhi? You’d like it if Ari stuck around?”

Varduhi shrugged from her vertical position on the couch, “Eh.”

Lusineh laughed. ”Only we have some work to do, Ari jan, and I hope you’re up for it.

You’ve a lot to learn.”