Organic Wanderings

Story by Artavazd Yeghiazaryan
Translated by Nazareth Seferian
Illustration by William Karapetyan
In cooperation with the European Union Delegation to Armenia

Because staying at home with my computer the previous three days and avoiding contact with anyone did not lead to any results, I had been forced to try a different strategy that day. It was my last chance to finish my assignment and not miss what was perhaps the most important deadline of my life. The publishers had already been waiting several months for my stories, which were being considered for my first book. I had already asked for three extensions, promising that I close to completing a wonderful series of stories. After all, I hadn’t studied two years of creative writing through an Erasmus programme for nothing, had I? The time had now come to put my skills to work and… so far, it wasn’t working.

The previous evening, Ernest, one of my oldest friends, managed to get hold of me somehow and insisted that we go get some drinks. He insisted that I wasn’t supposed to make up stories, I was supposed to live them, and then put that experience in writing. He added that “no great story ever begins after a salad is eaten; what matters is the first cup that is drunk!” He’d read that at the entrance to a pub somewhere. But it sounded so primitive to go and get a drink out of desperation and then see what happens. I was looking for a new experience. So this was the decision I took — I would go and walk around Yerevan until a new story implanted itself in my head. There’s a Chinese saying — “the dragon has dived”. It means that the dragon has gone into the depths of the ocean in order to gain new experiences and it would leap out again at any moment. So I was the dragon and Yerevan was my ocean. Time to dive into it.

But before diving, I needed to get a bite to eat on the shore. For three days, I had simply tortured myself over my unwritten text and had barely eaten anything. I left home, walked across Charbakh and went to Gazebo. There was nobody there yet at that hour, even Arman, the founding father of Gazebo, had not yet arrived. It was just Mrs. Arus. She smiled when she saw me and suggested making my favourite ham sandwich and a glass of old-fashioned Armenian coffee. I almost agreed but then stopped myself — I needed new experiences today, didn’t I? So I ordered “an awesome salad” and “one of those crazy herbal teas”. Mrs. Arus thought for a bit, then said, “All right. Since there’s nobody else here at the moment, I’ll make both those things for you with some things I’ve picked up for myself, not the usual Gazebo stock.”

Aha! So something unique was coming up already. Not a bad start. Ten minutes later, I was scarfing down the most delicious salad in the world — cucumbers, tomatoes, peppers, onions — and a cup of tea that was no less tasty (it had been four years since my last cup of tea). As I was chewing away, Mrs. Arus gave me their back story.

“My daughter grows those vegetables in our village. She and her husband got one of those European Union grants supporting organic agriculture, you know?” The immense pride for the work her daughter did was obvious in Arus’ voice, “Now they’re writing a project to export some of their produce.”

“What about the tea?”

“I bought the tea at a store.”

I continued walking. Where should I go, what should I do? I looked around and discovered that I was at the “Oil” intersection, if I kept walking I’d end up at the abandoned factories. Ernest and I would often wander around there with some of the other boys from our neighbourhood when we were kids. It was a deserted, post-apocalyptic place, we’d feel like we were in one of those popular science fiction films. On that day, I thought that I might as well go ahead and look around. The long, broad, dusty street stretched out to the horizon (or so it seemed), and there were giant gates on both sides and buildings that used to be factories. Once in a while, I could hear the sound of someone working or of a vehicle approaching, so the whole place wasn’t abandoned after all. A truck emerged from yet another green gate and sped past me. A piece of paper fell out of it and to my feet. I bent over and picked it up. It was a pamphlet that had been folded twice and featured all kinds of fruits, vegetables, honey and other appetizing agricultural products at the bottom. The writing said, “Harvest Festival of Rural Life and Traditions” and the starry flag of the European Union featured above it. I thought for a second of attending the event and seeing what it was about, but then I recalled that I wanted to walk around the city, not a village. I folder the pamphlet into my pocket and walked up to the gate. I walked in but saw nobody there. The tracks of the truck’s tyres could be seen in the dust. I walked and walked — abandoned building, broken-down machinery, smashed windows… But I could hear the sound of people working further ahead. One of the buildings was still operational. I saw a logo next to the door — by a twist of fate, it was the printing house of the publishers that still held hope of putting together a collection of my stories. The corridors held large stacks of the latest issue of Yerevan magazine on one side, and stacks of Yerevan stickers on the other. Because there was a danger that I might bump into the director of the publishing house by hanging around there and stir up some awkward questions, I sneaked a sheet of stickers into my backpack and quickly slipped out. Fifteen minutes later, my feet had brought me to the Garegin Njdeh metro station. It wasn’t a bad option — if you’re diving into something, might as well go as deep as you can, even if it means going underground.

I got into the train and rode through several stations with the same numbing, monotonous rhythm. I hadn’t decided where I would get off when I suddenly saw a starry and serene night sky in front of me… underground? How could this be? I looked carefully and realized that it was someone’s shirt. The person wearing it was a pretty girl with a large bag on her shoulder. The train stopped at the next station, and the girl walked to the door, taking the starry sky with her. I guess that meant I was getting off here too, why not?

It turned out that we were at the Yeritasardakan station. The girl walked a step of me, but she looked more like she was floating in the air. Was it just me, or was she sometimes moving her arms in dance moves? My investigation was interrupted by a ringing in my pocket — Ernest was checking on me again to make sure I was still alive. I rejected the call — I didn’t want any distractions. But it was too late — the crowd had swallowed up the girl with the European shirt, who had been dancing and floating in the air.

I went up on the escalator, and my feet took me to the kiosks selling books — perhaps delving into some old books would satisfy my dragon’s hunger? I found the old books’ section and began to look over some covers and titles. Meanwhile, some of the vendors were having coffee and arguing with each other on one of the benches. The argument centred on a comparison between American and European literature.

“American writers are tasteless hamburgers, just like American cinema! I mean, they don’t even have a real culture of any kind,” one of them insisted, “If you want literature, then you should turn to Europe.”

“Are you calling Saroyan and Hemingway tasteless hamburgers?” the other objected, “European literature is stuck in the 18th century…”

“Come on, what matters is a particular book and whether or not it’s good. This is a pointless argument,” a third one intervened.

I took out a book with a green cover that said Agriculture in Armenia, Armenian State Publishing, 1956 — a real retro piece. I looked through it and saw images with slightly distorted colours — typical for that period — but fascinating pictures of Armenian villages and fields, farmers who cultivated land with pleasure, agricultural machinery, happy faces… I recalled the breakfast I’d had that morning at Gazebo and the pamphlet I’d seen at the printing house — the city kept hinting about agriculture. Was that supposed to be the central theme of my story? How could I do that if I knew nothing about rural life? Suddenly, my brain sensed that my peripheral vision had caught hold of the girl from the metro at the end of the kiosks selling books. I quickly stuck my head out of the book with illustrations about agriculture but couldn’t spot her (and the vendors had now moved on to the topic of politics).

I had to stop somewhere and think. I settled down into a spot on Aznavour Square and ordered a cup of coffee (I couldn’t give it up for tea a second time). The phone rang in my pocket. I unwillingly looked at the screen — it wasn’t Ernest this time, it was the publishers. I slyly ignored this call as well. But when the next call four minutes later was from Mihran, the editor of the publishing company and my closest friend in the world of literature, I was unable to keep my head buried in the sand.

“Yes, Mr. Nikoghosyan,” I started with false formality, “How can I help you this wonderful afternoon?”

“Arthur my friend, my wonderful literary co-creator, the hope and pillar of Armenian literature,” Mihran responded with equally false glorification, “I wouldn’t want to spoil your day in any way, this bright afternoon in your life, but the thing is that my management is threatening to ruin this day and every day after it for me if I don’t succeed in getting those wonderful stories from you.”

“Oh, Mihraaaan,” I began, this time sincerely, to whine, “Come on…”

“Art, seriously, if that text isn’t ready tomorrow, we’re going to print another book instead,” Mihran grew serious, “I mean, there’s no shortage of writers now, so there’s no reason for us to wait long. You could miss out on this chance. The worst thing is that I have to be somewhere in an hour, but I can’t leave because of you.”

“I don’t know what to say, I’ve got a bad case of writer’s block, my muse is prematurely dead or something, the dragon’s taken a lungful of water and drowned…”

“What dragon?”

“Oh, nothing. Forget it.”

“Anyway, what I’m saying is that I’m coming to see you and I swear that I have a meeting with the director this evening where I’m telling him if we’re publishing your work or not. I don’t want to end up lying to him, so let’s meet.”

“You really think we should?”

“I’m waiting!”

“Oh, Mihran, I’m sorry, I’ll call you back… yes, yes, I’ll call you back as soon as I can…”

Even though I was close to losing the last person in the literary world who supported me, I ended the call. The girl from the metro had walked past just a few steps away from my table, with the starry sky on her t-shirt and the bright eyes. My dragon started showing signs of life, as if to say, “Hey, get up of that chair and find out where that girl is floating to. It might make you want to pick up a pen.” I took out a crumpled thousand-dram note from my pocket (with the great poet depicted on it giving me a reprimanding look), placed it on the table and ran. The city was urging me to follow that girl.

I lost the girl in a village. Well, not really a village. We didn’t really walk enough to get to Ptghni, Hatsarat or Shurnukh — it was the collective environment of a village that suddenly engulfed us. Well not just us — Yerevan. The Children’s Park had been transformed into a charming little village. And that village contained everything we love about rural life — grandmothers and grandfathers, grown-ups and children. Agriculture does not recognise such age limits, after all. There were the fruits and vegetables those people had grown, the honey their grandchildren had collected, even hay and some cute cows. It was so surreal to find myself in a village in the centre of Yerevan — like a scene from a Kusturica movie — that my dragon even rubbed its eyes in disbelief — perhaps the water in its lungs had caused brain damage? No, this was really happening, and there was even a large banner — Harvest Festival of Rural Life and Traditions. It made sense now — since a pamphlet about a harvest festival had randomly ended up near my feet in the morning, I would naturally have to end up at that very harvest festival in the evening.

The villagers had happily displayed their products and were telling poorly informed city-dwellers like me about the uniqueness of the organic produce they were growing on their farms, and the dairy products and the appetizing meat obtained from livestock that ate organic fodder. All the time, my eyes had taken on a will of their own and kept searching for the girl… I walked through the rows of happy villagers, looked left and right, but could not find her. I sighed and thought, fine, let’s see I can find of interest here. I had stopped near a kiosk selling honey. The middle-aged woman offered me a spoonful of the “best, completely natural home-made honey”. While I was trying to resist, she told me about how her family has been in apiculture in Lori marz for more than a hundred years, but that she would not be here if not for the European Union agricultural support programme. She talked me into it. I tried a spoonful and it was really fantastic. Just as I was halfway through saying, “Mmm, that’s really good,” the girl appeared right next to me. I didn’t know what to do and wanted to have an excuse to hang around a bit longer at that spot, so I asked the beekeeper to sell me a jar of her honey, so I could eat some at home as well. The lady told the girl from the metro the same thing she had told me, and gave her a spoonful of honey as well. I was staring at the girl when she suddenly turned around and looked at me with her bright eyes,

“It’s good, isn’t it?”

“Hm? Oh yes, yes, very good…” I wanted to say something else as well, so I decided to do my ‘amazing facts’ routine, “Did you know that this park used to be where Ghantar, the biggest market in Yerevan, was located? And it’s a market again today… sort of.”

“Really? Wow, I didn’t know that,” the girl displayed some interest, but probably just to be polite.

I was about to introduce myself when the girl glanced at her wristwatch and began to rush to the stage set up in the middle of the park, leaving me standing there right before someone unexpectedly tapped me on the shoulder.

I turned around and saw that it was Mr. Mihran Nikoghosyan, looking down at me from his full height of one metre and ninety-four centimetres.

“So this is how you plan to make your deadline, is it?” my editor asked.

“I’m seeking inspiration from real life,” I tried to come up with a decent excuse, “What are you doing here?”

“Me, Arthur? You may be a genius with the pen, but I’m just a village boy, my father is a farmer from Sevan. I’ve come here to help him sell his shrimp,” he pointed at the end of the row, where a corner was occupied by the participants from Sevan, and one table was overflowing with “clean home-cooked shrimp.” “But since we’ve bumped into each other here, let’s have a little talk.”

“I’m, actually, looking for someone, perhaps later we can…”

I made a move in the opposite direction, but my editor’s hand landed on my shoulder again and held me in place.

“Art, you can’t keep running away. Be frank with me — is there any chance at all that you’ll finish next week if you can’t make it tomorrow?”

I did not know what to say.

“Let me tell you why I’m asking; it’s very important. This is going to be your first book. This is your debut in the professional league, and you can’t submit any old half-baked text. It has to be really good, a well-developed book. If you have even the slightest of doubt that it’s not going to be the way you want it, you’d better tell me now. It’s okay, we can publish it a year later, when it’s ideal, instead of rushing into something half-done.”

My diving dragon screamed in terror, but Mihran had a point. I had to think.

I was sitting on a bench in the park, chewing hawthorn berries (I can’t remember the name of the village, but they were once again pure, organic and dried at home) and thinking about what to do. How was I supposed to understand whether it was really too soon now, and it was wrong to force myself to finish the book or if, on the contrary, this was the moment, and it would be too late if I waited? My thoughts were interrupted by a sudden awakening of folk instruments. I looked in the direction from which the sound was coming — the musicians sitting on the stage had started to enthusiastically play their zurnas and dhols, while girls in traditional costumes were moving from the edge of the stage to its centre. Earlier this morning, I would have never expected my day to feature a performance of folk music and dancing at the site of the old Ghantar market (with a jar of organic honey in my backpack). I was preparing to get up and go home, to once again isolate myself with my computer, when I realised that one of the dancers was none other than the target of my pursuits throughout the day. She was floating on stage the same way she had floated on the streets of Yerevan earlier today. I watched frozen, and it even seemed like our eyes met for a moment. This was the moment, damn it!

I sat down again, took out my black Moleskine notebook and began to write. I’ll probably never get to know the dancing girl or see her again, but she had already taken shape in my Moleskine story. She was mine now. And because it was a cool autumn day outside, it was cool and autumn in my story as well. And there was a rural market at the site of the old Ghantar in my story too — the harvest festival. The sky was starry and serene, like the shirt worn by the floating girl from the metro.

When I’d finished, the park was almost empty. I hadn’t noticed when the festival had ended. I put down the last full stop and happily texted Mihran — “I’ll send it over tomorrow.” I walked towards the park exit. And there she was! The main character of my story was standing there, waiting for someone. Could it be me? I had to ask…