My lessons progressed with Ruben to the point I could hold simple conversations in Armenian. Nothing elaborate, but a little more than ‘where’s the bathroom.’ It was his last lesson that made my heart jump.
“I may have found her, or her family at least,” Ruben stated with a smile as he entered the door. He was excited and now, so was I.
“Tamara? Where?”
“In the outskirts of Yerevan, in old soviet era tenet housing,” Ruben stated, rubbing his bald head. He always did that when lessons went well. Good thing he didn’t play poker. “My family thinks it is Tamara’s family, they’re not completely sure, but how many families claim plane crash survivors?”
“They talked to them?” I asked, pulling a chair out for Ruben.
“No,” Ruben answered, “it is kind of third-hand knowledge. I didn’t ask them to go Yerevan. They just spoke to friends of a friend.” He shook his head, “I didn’t ask them to travel there. I could try.”
“No,” I said, my smile growing, “I’m going there one way or the other. This, at least, gives me a place to start.”
“I only know the building,” Ruben qualified, “It’s a long trip if it isn’t her.”
“Then I’m knocking on doors,” I said proudly, “If it takes years, well… then it takes years. I’m not losing her again.”
“Armenian women have a certain strength to them,” Ruben warned, “are you sure? You chase her that far, and she’ll know she owns you.”
“She already knows,” I said and smiled, “We own each other.”
The very next day, I went shopping. It wasn’t the most expensive ring in the world, but that wasn’t me, or Tamara. It was a pretty thing, platinum band with a solitaire setting. I wasn’t sure it was a wise thing to do, but if she was still single, I meant to rectify it. I closed the black ring box and put it in my pocket. If she wasn’t single, I could always carve my eyes out with the diamond and try out another cliff.
Doug tried hard to talk me out of traveling to Armenia. He was adamant that I would find her with another man or worse, uninterested. He spent a lot of time trying to talk me into going to South America. There was a strong interest in handmade Peruvian pottery and thought my time would be better spent acquiring a supplier. We had angry words on the subject. He seemed to think he could change my mind, not understanding my level of commitment. The only thing that ended the argument was promising to travel to Peru after I found Tamara.
My mother was despondent. Not so much that I was getting back on a plane, but that I was pursuing a woman that didn’t quite meet her criteria. My father, on the other hand, organized the trip and bought the plane tickets. He had been feeling guilty about not being more charitable to Tamara when they had met briefly. My parents treated her poorly, trying to undo what they thought was me sowing wild oats. I kissed my mother and, for the first time in a long time, hugged my father.
“Find her,” my father whispered in my ear. Soft enough that my mother couldn’t hear. I felt he wanted to say more, but he left it at that. His love was stretched between the two of us. He was forever the diplomat.
++++++++++++++++++++++
My three plane hops to Yerevan landed where they were supposed to. I let out the breath I was holding each time the wheels touched down safely on a runway. I grabbed my one bag and walked out of the airport with single-minded desire and note with unverified information.
Tamara Petrosian
Kurkjian building III
Yerevan was not Chicago. No grandiose downtown with glass and steel skyscrapers. Yerevan looked old, a throwback to the 50’s with mostly cement buildings rarely more than ten stories high. The city was backed by snow-covered mountains that brought back memories. Part of the same Caucasus chain that Tamara and I survived.
I took a cab to the Marriott located downtown. The area was well cared for and prepared for tourists. Art, green space, and impressive architecture were all around. It was not an unimpressive city. My lessons with Ruben served me well. I had no trouble understanding that I was being overcharged for the ride. The cabby smiled at the dumb American, who paid the fee without question. The conversion math for the Dram was difficult, and I didn’t have my head adjusted to the new monetary system. From what I could quickly figure, his overpayment was a hell of a lot less than a Chicago cabbies underpayment.
I spent some time, after checking in, with the concierge. It took a few minutes for him to locate the Kurkjian buildings, a twenty-minute trip away. He marked a map for me and also pointed out some choice eateries. I wasn’t hungry for food. He called me another cab and the doorman instructed the cabbie where to go and what to charge. I laid out tips that I hoped weren’t too small or large. The large smiles told me they were still on the large side.
The people we passed along the way could have been from any western city in the world. No distinctive clothing like you might find in the mid-east. Jeans, khakis, and a suit here and there. Women wore pants as well as dresses. It was the normal structures that were different. They were boring. Every now and again we would pass something unique, but all in all, the city had a lot of drab architecture.
Green spaces were the exception. The people seemed to treasure the parks and the grasses between their boring buildings. That’s where they put most of their effort, and it was wonderful. I always loved the Chicago parks, but they were far apart compared to the integrated system they had in Yerevan.
We arrived at, what the driver indicated, was the Kurkjian buildings. A set of four zig-zagged five-story buildings that reminded me of an accordion. The cabby pointed to the one in front of where he pulled over and said something too quickly. When he repeated it slowly to my confused face, I understood that it was building three. I thanked him and paid him the agreed upon fare plus a much smaller tip than I gave the concierge. I received a polite thank you, but no smile. The proper tip was somewhere between the two.
I stepped out of the cab and realized I had just walked out into a huge risk. I turned to ask the cabbie to wait, but he was already driving off. I shrugged to myself; it couldn’t be as bad as falling off a cliff. I moved toward what looked like the main entrance. The building was a cinderblock structure, gray with little in the way of adornments. Definitely a boring Soviet-era structure.
The people I passed were not friendly, or unfriendly. They seemed to ignore my presence as I ambled, obviously new, toward the entrance. I was kind of hoping someone would ask me if I needed help so they would be committed to trying to understand my poor Armenian. Sadly, I made it to the doors unaccosted.
Though the buildings housed a lot of people, there was no formal information desk. A wall of flushed mailboxes were along the entrance wall, most without names, just numbers. The hall ahead was lined with doors leading to the individual apartments. I should have hired an interrupter. I had some glorious dream of Tamara seeing me from afar and avoiding language altogether. Now that I was there, the dream faded and reality set in. I waited by the mailboxes, thinking someone would be along. It was better than knocking on random doors.
A young girl with bushy black hair walked toward me. I was terrible with ages, but I guessed ten. She moved deftly to the other side of the hall to avoid me with the most distance she could put between us. Of course, I was a stranger. She opened a mailbox using a key and retrieved a few letters.
“Hello,” I asked in my piss poor Armenian, “I am looking for someone.” I tried to remember all my lessons, but the look on her face said something other than I intended came out. She hurried past me. “Please,” I added. She ran faster. I shrugged my shoulders and waited for an adult.
It was only a moment later when a rather burly man came down the hall from where the girl had disappeared. He had a few days growth on his face and was wearing sweats and t-shirt. “Hello,” I started.
“American?” the man spat in a deep accent. I nodded as he slowed. A series of words left his mouth at a speed I couldn’t understand. I assumed his one word of English was ‘American.’ By his tone, I don’t think he liked Americans.
“Please, slowly,” I sputtered. I understood something about children and scaring or frightening. He then asked if I liked children. I nodded. Humorously, Ruben had taught me a few swear words. This man wasn’t laughing when he screamed some I understood and others I didn’t. I was missing something. I raised my hands, fingers wide, trying desperately to remember the words for ‘I don’t understand.’ Another door opened, and a man emerged, obviously known to the first. They had a brief conversation where the word ‘American’ was used in less than favorable terms.
“I am looking for a person,” I said, happy I could assemble the words. I should never have trusted my language skills. The new man looked at me.
“Tamara Petrosian,” I added.
“You look for Petrosian?” the man asked in broken English. I nodded. He smiled, “he think you after… daughter,” he added, pointing at the burly father.
“No,” I said, looking at the first man. I vehemently shook my head to emphasize the point as the new man translated. The first man grunted and dismissed me with a wave of his hand. He was rambling about Americans as he went back down the hall. I sighed. Nuances were everything.
“Petrosian… floor three,” the man said and pointed way down the hall, “three-nine-eight.” I smiled and held out my hand in a way of thanks. He ignored it and went back his apartment. Americans weren’t popular in this building. I walked down the hall until I saw stairs going up.
I took a deep breath and knocked on 398. I heard movement behind the door and waited for a moment before the door open. An old woman, heavy set with her black hair loose and wavy, answered without a smile.