“Hello. Petrosian?” I asked as pleasantly as I could. Her expression shifted at my words. There was interest in her eyes and something else. Her face tightened.
“American?”
“Yes,” I said, and then repeated it in Armenian. She spoke quickly, too fast for me to understand. I interrupted with the Armenian word for slower. She repeated herself again as if she were talking to a dull child. I caught about half the words. Something about a plane and mountains. I smiled.
“I look for Tamara Petrosian,” I said, excited that I was at the right place. I saw anger in her face. I was missing something again. I quickly raised my hands, trying to wipe away the last part and start again. “I am Jonathan,” I said, “I look for Tamara Petrosian.”
The words that flowed from the woman’s mouth came too fast. I heard more people moving in the apartment and prayed that one knew English. Two men, both larger than I, moved behind the woman as she opened the door further. I could see that their presence strengthened her.
“I look for Tamara Petrosian,” I repeated to the two men. The one on the left rattled off some words to the woman who nodded. The door in the next apartment opened, and another man older than the first two entered the hallway, nodding at the woman. She rattled off some more words that included a butchered form of my name and plane and mountains.
“Yes,” I replied, “I’m Jonathan.”
A series of cursing followed. Intermixed with Tamara and something about being wrecked or ruined. Followed by a question that had something to do with Tamara and my happiness. I was scared to reply. I was scared not to reply. I had no idea if I understood correctly. Hesitantly, I nodded. Wrong answer.
The man from the hall hit me square in the face. I blocked the next fist and kept shouting “No” as the other two man came into the hall around the old woman. They were yelling, which drew more people out of their apartments. I remembered the ring and fumbled in my front pocket as a fist found my stomach. The ring box tumbled away as I doubled over and drove myself forward, into my attacker, trying to turn it into a wrestling match. The three men weren’t having it.
My arms were restrained, and I was lifted up. I kicked out, trying to move one of the men away from me. I was slammed against the wall, and another fist found my nose causing momentary blackness and a flood of warmth over my lips. I closed my eyes waiting for the inevitable next strike I could no longer avoid.
The woman yelled something. I could only pull out the word ‘stop’ in her words. The expected fist didn’t come. I opened my eyes. I breathed through my mouth since my nose was no longer functioning properly. The woman held up the open ring box and asked a question. I understood the name Tamara, but the rest went to fast, and my brain wasn’t exactly running at full speed. There was no way I was going to nod again.
“I don’t understand.” The words slurred out of my mouth in a horrible rendition of Armenian. The women repeated the question slower. Something about Tamara, the ring, and payment or gift. I slumped against the wall. “I’m not answering,” I said in English, “I don’t understand, and I don’t want to fight anymore. I just want to see Tamara Petrosian.”
“She want to know if ring is payment for… pleasure with Tamara,” a woman with straight blonde hair, obviously dyed, said in English. I smiled stupidly at her, never so pleased to find someone who spoke English.
“Payment?” I asked. Blood was entering my mouth as I spoke, but my secured arms disallowed wiping it away, “why would they think that?” I shook my head no. More Armenian words were exchanged quickly.
“You American who crash plane with Tamara?” the woman asked.
“Yes, Jonathan Bennett,” I said hoarsely. I had to cough to clear my throat, “why do these people want to beat me up?”
“You ruin her life. They say you think her… I don’t know word… woman who sell sex,” the woman responded with her hands on her hips. I think she thought the same of me. My breath caught in my chest. Tamara must think of me as garbage. My eyes teared up as I looked back at the woman.
“I love her,” I said, the words choking, “that ring… I meant to ask her to be my wife.” Words began to be exchanged. “Where is she?” I tried to interject. I switched Armenian, “Where is Tamara?” I couldn’t bear her hating me.
“They say you lie,” the woman said, “you not see her for year. Now you want… buy sex. Hurt her more.”
“I was in a hospital,” I said quickly, “my legs were shattered. I was in a coma for two months. I had no idea…”
“Slow, slow,” the woman demanded. She grasped English better than I grasped Armenian, but she had her limits.
“I was in a hospital,” I repeated slowly, “I was in a coma for two months.”
“Coma, what is this word,” she asked.
“Knocked out, unconscious, asleep,” I said until she nodded so I could continue “my leg bones were shattered. I couldn’t walk.” I signaled for her to translate. More words were exchanged, and I only understood a tenth of them. I was beginning to think Ruben was a lousy teacher.
“You family try pay her. Send her away.” the blonde woman stated. The expression of the older woman was just this side of evil. I had no answer for this, but the truth.
“My father and mother were foolish,” I said, “they didn’t like me with Tamara.” More words were exchanged. I noticed the grip had lessened on my arms. I stood up straighter but didn’t make an attempt for freedom.
“Why not family like her?” the blonde woman asked. I could see this was going to drag out. We had a fairly large audience in the hallway.
“She doesn’t speak English,” I answered, then added more truth, “because she is not American.” I was going to get it all out in the open while I had an interrupter. I watched the black haired woman’s face soften as more words were exchanged. She was nodding to the blonde woman as she rattled off her response.
“She not like you. You not Armenian.” The blonde woman was holding back a smile. I felt as if I had crossed some line. The we-no-longer-want-to-kill-you line.
“Is she Tamara’s mother?” I asked. The blonde woman nodded. I thought for a second then took a risk. The truth was working so far.
“Tell her, if Tamara asks me to leave, I will leave Armenia,” I said slowly, “until then, I don’t care whether she likes me or not.” The blonde woman smiled at me. She turned and exchanged more words. She was still smiling when she turned back to me.
“She not hate you now,” the blonde woman chuckled. My arms were released, and the two men attempted to brush me off and straighten my shirt. I was sure my face was a mess. Tamara’s mom held out her hand and smiled when I took it. She pulled me into the apartment while she called out some instructions that involved the name, Tamara. I suspected the men to be Tamara’s brothers. One responded to his mother and took off down the hall. The other two entered with me. Thankfully, the blonde woman entered as well.
Unlike the drab hall, the apartment was plush. Red seemed to be the main color, with large paintings covering the cement block walls. An accordion divider, as tall as a man, was used to block off a portion of the Soviet boredom on one wall. The divider had an intricate medieval scene with a red flowered border. I was led to a red couch that was sitting on a very fine throw rug. I started to sit down and then reconsidered when Tamara’s mother scolded me. I didn’t understand the words, but the tone was clear. She pointed at the floor where I stood and walked off. I stood still as ordered.
“My name Viktoria,” the blonde woman introduced herself.
“I’m Jonathan,” I returned, “I owe you my thanks.” I felt a little foolish standing in the center of the room, under orders, with the others moving about examining me.
“No problem,” Viktoria said, “you good entertainment.” She laughed, which forced a smile to my lips. She looked a lot friendlier without the scowl on her face.
“I’m glad you decided to stay. I’d like to avoid more misunderstanding.”
“I would not miss,’ Viktoria responded with a sly smile. I saw something there in her face. I was the butt of a joke, or I was missing something. Maybe both.
“Yana,” Tamara’s mother said, pointing at herself. She had returned with some towels and pot full of water.
“Yana,” I repeated. She smiled as she lay a towel on the couch and indicated I should sit. I did. She didn’t seem like someone you said no to. Especially since two of her enforcers had taken chairs, sporting the same interest on their faces as Viktoria. She knelt in front of me and placed the pot on the floor. She pointed to one of the men, “Garik,” then at the other, “Davit.” I nodded to both who smiled back.
“Tamara’s brothers?” I asked Viktoria. She chuckled while nodding. A few words were exchanged between the brothers of which I understood little, but the tone indicated humor.
“They say sorry,” Viktoria snickered, “they thought you insult sister.” I knew the interpretation was missing something. I had heard the word American and something less than favorable.
“You are a diplomat,” I told Viktoria. She looked confused. The word was too much for her, so I let it go by waving my hand and smiling as if it didn’t matter.
Yana dipped a washcloth in the water and brought it to my face. She spoke in a tone one would use with a child as she began to wash under my nose. I almost reached up and took the cloth from her, but Viktoria shook her head no. The cloth came away bright red, with more blood than I had expected. Yana turned to Garik and spouted a command that had him bounding off.
After rewetting the cloth, Yana returned to my face with more tender words. Her free hand would tilt my face this way and that with no thought as to my fighting it. It took a few more dips of the cloth to clean my face to her satisfaction.