The Most Important Door

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

8:07 a.m.

As Arman walked, he heard the pleasant rustle beneath his feet of the yellow autumn leaves that almost completely covered the asphalt curb of the sidewalk on Shirak Street. There were still a few minutes to go before he reached the threshold of the most important door of his life. He walked past the Charbakh metro station and glanced at his watch — it was just a few minutes past eight in the morning. Arman sighed and shook his head, because he could still not fathom how his life had changed — he used to barely get to bed at eight in the morning after a night of productive creativity, but now he was walking to work at that hour. But calling it a place of work was not quite right — that would better suit an office where a person was simply a paid employee. This place was literally his second home.

“Excuse me, honorable friend. Would you be so kind as to help this desperate man with 100 drams?” Vladimir, the beggar who was a permanent feature of the street appeared in Arman’s path a few steps away from the door to the second house. “Or perhaps offer me a cigarette?”

Arman gave Vladimir a coin, contrary to his habit of never expending his small change when he came across beggars on the street.

“Accept my most profound gratitude,” said Vladimir, who had a two-bedroom flat in Charbakh just a couple of blocks away, but had decided years ago that he would never work another day.

That radical decision by Vladimir, in fact, somehow resembled the path that Arman was now taking. At least in the sense that he had decided never to work for anyone else a few years ago. After that, he threw himself into the charotic, independent, but considerably unpromising lifestyle of a freelancer. And even during the most difficult moments in that period of his life, Arman recalled that it would be impossible to adapt once again to a life of working in an office. He remembered the discussions he had on this with Sergey, a friend who shared his fortune as a freelancer, who said, “Coffee, sunshine, the Cascade, Saryan Street, meetings. How could you give up this piece of false joy in Yerevan?” It was Sergey who had basked in this joyous work regimen as he developed the visual brand for a coworking space called Gazebo, a job which also ended up providing him with a membership card to that café-workspace. And he would come there from that much-lauded Saryan-Pushkin-Cascade triangle; luckily, it was close to the metro station.

Arman noticed Artak standing near the café door. Although the young programmer was a regular customer at the new café, Arman had never seen him there that early.

“Come in, but you’ll have to wait a bit while the coffee machine is ready,” Arman said, “Take away, right?”

“No, no, I’m not going to work today. I have to write a motivation letter for the Erasmus+ programme. I’m not leaving till I finish it,” Artak said confidently.

“Awesome! If you’re selected, you can come here to celebrate,” Arman offered with a smile as he turned the key.

A moment later, he stepped into his new life once again. I wonder if this feeling will last, he pondered, as he rushed to the get behind the bar, where every time felt like the first time.

As Artak settled down at his favorite table — the one in the far corner — Arman stood behind the unique bar next to the large window, where he switched on the coffee machine and started the morning play list. As the band burst out through the speakers, rejoicing in ‘Another Day of Sun’, the rays of the autumn sun stretched through the café window and reached out to Arman. Yes, another day of sun, but it was a more important day from the ones that came before it — Gazebo had some important guests this evening. The future of the café depended largely on the outcome of that meeting.

10:23 a.m.

The past twenty minutes had already seen a whirlwind of activity in the open kitchen located behind the bar, where the center of the action was Mrs. Arus, the creator of the most delicious pancakes and tomato omelettes in Yerevan. Every time a customer made a comment about them, Arman would note it down with pleasure in his black Moleskine and fill with pride at working with Mrs. Arus.

“Arus, you remember what I said about being sure that the omelettes are perfect this evening, right? Today is vitally important!” Arman anxiously reminded her.

Arus just smiled, deciding not to mention that the only thing that Arman had been speaking about for the past week had been the omelettes for this evening.

At this hour, Gazebo was transformed into a vibrant coworking space. Many of its customers were searching — as Arman had been until recently — for new paths and new doors that would lead them to their own rocky, but bright, future. Proud new businessmen. A startup-generating youth.

Gathered around the long table in the middle of the wood-lined room, a group of five programming students were locked in a heated debate. It was heated to the extent that Arman even considered asking them to lower their voices, but he hesitated a moment and then decided not to hinder the process of idea generation — after all, the café had opened specifically to encourage processes like that.

“Guys, the drinking fountains truly make up one of the the most unique symbols we have in Yerevan. No other city in the world has anything like that. But nobody’s made an app about them yet,” Arman heard the argument coming from a girl with short hair, almost a boyish haircut.

“Nobody’s arguing with that, are we?” the curly-haired boy at the other end of the table shot back, “I like the drinking fountains a lot, too. In fact, let me say this right here — if anything ever happens to me, make sure that a drinking fountain gets put up in my honour, in the yard of my building…” The boy felt obliged to pause while his friends laughed, “But you know what the most destructive thing is for a startup? Thinking local. That’s exactly why very few people would be interested — because these drinking fountains are so unique to our city alone.”

The brainstorming session seemed to be calming down for a moment, and the gray clouds parted, but the blue sky was not a good sign on this occasion, quite the contrary…

“I propose an online memorial park, where every Armenian can set up a virtual drinking fountain to the memory of his friend,” the boy, who was called Gago, said with sparkling eyes, “Can you see it? Let’s say Hovo goes to the States, lives there and does well. Then he dies and his American friend installs a fountain in his memory using our app…”

“And the available drinking fountains will be faithful to the designs we have here in Yerevan,” Hasmik embraced the idea, “But if someone wants a custom design, then that would be an in-app purchase!”

Arman did not hear how the brainstorming session ended because he saw a woman with orange hair and a flowery robe standing in the doorway — the neighbour from the floor above. “Oh no, not today!” Arman thought as he rushed towards the woman.

“Didn’t I tell you to move your nightclub out of the space below my home?” the woman said without a hello.

“But, but…”

“No buts. All I hear is the constant beats of the stereo, not to mention the hissing of the air conditioner.”

“Mrs. Chokekjyan jan, I told you last week that we’re not running a nightclub here and our music is never loud. We’ve managed to lower the noise levels of the kitchen using all the equipment available…”

“Are you suggesting that I’ve lost my mind? You turn down the volume as soon as I come here, and then you turn it up again the moment I leave.”

Arman did not know what to say.

“If this continues during the day, I’m going to call the cops this time. Let the law take the matter into its hands…”

With a look of disgust, Mrs. Neighbour scanned the room and the young people working in it before taking her leave and slamming the door.

“Hey, Arm!” Artak called out, “Listen, what if I’m a bit informal in the way I write my motivation letter and use it to describe my own love story? Do you think they’d accept that?”

This time, Arman did not know what to say to his regular customer.

“Well, it would probably stand out that way and be appreciated for its originality, go for it! Worst case scenario — you’ll end up with a good story.”

Arman rushed to the back room of the café — he had to call the owners, who had more experience, and ask for their advice. Otherwise, everything could be ruined.

11։44 a.m.

“I woke up the other day and felt like having an authentic Armenian bitter coffee. I went to the first café I could find and said, ‘Give me an Armenian coffee.’ You know what they said? ‘We only have espresso!’ How could you do that? How could you not have an Armenian coffee in Yerevan?” Sergey was flustered as he stood near the bar and waited for his authentic Armenian coffee, having finally decided to use his special card, “What I’m saying is this — if you didn’t serve that here, you might as well have closed down this place.”

“Well, if things go on this way, even Armenian coffee won’t be able to save us from closing,” Arman said as he emptied the contents of the jezve into a coffee cup, “There are so many things that had never crossed my mind, you can’t even begin to imagine!”

“Like the neighbours, right?”

Arman nodded.

“It’s just that a couple of people are going to visit today from the EU4Business SMEDA programme. They want to see how everything is going, how I’ve developed the creative side of the business after the training their provided, whether or not I’ve done what I said I would do, so that they can decide if they’re going to continue their support.”

Arus was preparing the usual lunchtime sandwiches. At around half past noon, the usual flow of hungry office employees was expected. Sergey walked up to the high table arranged along the length of the large window and, facing the passers-by on the street, he began to sketch in his writing pad while also taking loud slurps of his coffee. The movie critic Diana was already sitting there, typing up some text into her notebook. Artak was still working on his motivation letter, stepping outside every half hour to smoke a cigarette.

3։00 p.m.

While the customers at Gazebo munched on Mrs. Arus’ splendid sandwiches coupled with coffee, Arman was at City Hall. He knew it was not going to be easy and that the official bureaucracy was enough to bury any entrepreneurial spirit, but he would never forgive himself if he failed to benefit from the lovely weather and get at least two outdoor tables set up next to the entrance to the café. And, at exactly 3 p.m., the door opened and he came in, waving the coveted permit in his hand. He looked as victorious as one would after signing a guaranteed and unlimited treaty securing world peace.

“Guys, can you help me take two tables outside?” he asked Arshak and Mika, who, unlike the others, would come here only to have coffee or lunch, preferring to work in their editorial offices.

“Sure, we’ll help, but on one condition. We’re bringing some copies of our magazine here next week, so that people can read without gadgets once in a while.”

Ten minutes later, two wooden tables and matching chairs were sitting pretty on the Shirak Street sidewalk, under the displeased gaze of Mrs. Chorekchyan looking down from the floor above. Another victory chalked up, Arman thought to himself.

4։33 p.m.

That victory was followed by a painful defeat. Or perhaps we should not call it a defeat — a blow, which threatened to end in defeat. Mrs. Chorekchyan had a lawyer friend, who had the time to visit Gazebo while brimming with an attitude of disgust. When he walked in, he looked around, then walked up to the bar at a slow and threatening pace while asking, “Where’s the owner of this place?” The creators of the drinking fountain startup were already leaving the long table. Arman had already managed to find out that the young team was getting ready to pitch at a European tech grant event the following day, and that app would not only be about drinking fountains, but about the unique features of cities around the world.

“Let me put it this way. If you don’t solve the issue of noise today, you’re going to be visited by all kinds of other authorities,” Lawyer Avoyan voiced his threat openly as he faced Arman, seated in an empty distant corner of Gazebo. Then he turned his eyes towards the door and said, “I even seriously doubt that you have the necessary permit for those tables out there…”

“No, no, wait a minute,” Arman had begun to crack his knuckles at the stress as his hands lay on a stack of documents. “That’s exactly what I was saying to you a minute ago. Every millimeter of this place has been taken into consideration, we’ve done everything to avoid causing anyone any trouble…”

“I know how you get those papers,” the lawyer said with a smirk and got to his feet, “I’m not going far. I’m going to be one floor above you, so I can watch the proceedings.”

Arman was once again left without a response. He simply stood up and walked after Avoyan towards the exit. Before opening the door, the lawyer looked around one more time.

“Not a bad place, would be a shame if you were forced to close,” he said.

At that moment, something unbelievable happened. The lights at Gazebo went out. The power supply had been cut. The dismayed voice of Artak, the motivation letter writer, was heard, “I didn’t manage to send it!” Arman suddenly had the urge to scream.

5:40 p.m.

It was dark at Gazebo. Mrs. Arus was lighting candles in the darkest corners of the large room, hoping to maintain a sense of romance, while Arman had been trying to call the electric company for the past fifteen minutes in order to find out the cause of the power cut.

“We understand your frustration, sir,” the unfrustrated and robotic female voice at the other end of the phone, “Our people are doing some work in that district and I can assure you that the electricity will be back in about forty minutes…”

“But that’s what you’ve been said for an hour, I’m losing business…”

“You can send a formal complaint in writing to any of our offices…”

Arman ended the call (such a shame that it was a cell phone — one could no longer slam down the phone in anger the good old-fashioned way) and decided to smoke a cigarette to calm his nerves. He managed to get one off of Artak, since he himself had quit a long time ago.

“Well, did you send it to them?” he asked Artak.

“Yeah, I finished it and pressed the send button just as the lights went out, so I don’t know if it got there,” Artak said after taking a couple of drags in silence.

Suddenly, a crowd appeared at the entrance — they were six or seven people. Arman recognised the girl with the camera among them; it was the photographer Lilith.

“Oops, there’s no electricity here!” one of them noticed in panic.

“How are we going to run the seminar?” another one said.

Arman recalled that a seminar was supposed to take place at Gazebo today on the skills necessary for developing growing innovative business solutions. In the run-up to the evening’s meeting, it had completely slipped his mind.

He said hello to Lilith, his neighbour from Charbakh, who had come to photograph the event and then he recalled how he too had attended several similar events earlier that year before developing the business plan of his life with the SMEDA business development specialists. At first, he had wanted a café in the city center. Then he realised that it had to be something new — perhaps a coworking space? He developed the concept, got Sergey to prepare the visual designs, and studied the features that such spaces had around the world. Yes, there had been moments when he had come close to giving up, when he’d almost returned to a life in an office somewhere. But he stood firm in those critical times. He decided put in all of his own money. But where should he open the place? After a long search he finally decided — enough of focusing on the center, it’s time to set up a good place in our very own Charbakh. That was how Gazebo was born. The Gazebo that was now in darkness…

8:00 p.m.

The lights came back on around seven. The organisers and participants of the seminar had waited patiently and even started part of the discussion informally, as a conversation lit by candles that had been reduced to stumps. In the meantime, a dismayed Arman had decided to speak once again to his upstairs neighbour. But he had no need to call her or go up the stairs — Mrs. Chorekchyan had appeared on her own. When she came in, she was angry once again.

“Didn’t I tell you…” she began, but then suddenly realised as she looked around her that no electricity also meant no music and no noise from any equipment.

Over the next forty minutes, they sat in the small room at the Gazebo, so as not to disturb the seminar, as she spoke to Arman about how tough it was to live alone, how tired she was of the noise that came from the street and how difficult it had become to trust anyone. And also about how the noise that bothered her probably came from the young people who lived a floor above her, not Gazebo. She tried a cup of coffee and the croissants that Mrs. Arus had baked. She praised them and smiled. When the lights came back on, she wished him success “in all this” and got up. Arman said that they would always be happy to have Mrs. Chorekchyan here — “Come over for a cup of coffee or tea in the morning. We also have good books here, so you can read and relax.”

It was incredible! That problem had finally been resolved. All that remained now was to wait for the important people and leave a good impression on them. But where were they? Strangely enough, they had not yet shown up. Or had they?

11:40 p.m.

A few minutes later, the final event of the day would wrap up. The regular Thusday movie screening. At exactly midnight, everyone would leave Gazebo, Arman would lock the most important door of his life and go home.

Seated at the long, high table, Arman looked out at the street that had emptied before midnight, then re-read the email that he had received a few moments ago. One of the important people had written, “Dear Arman, we came over to Gazebo today and wanted to talk to you, but we saw that you didn’t have a moment to spare — you were busy dealing with the big and small issues related to your life’s work. That was exactly what we wanted to see — we didn’t come for any dry reports or accounting figures. What matters is your dedication and the satisfaction and enthusiasm of everyone who comes and goes to your place. We’re confident that Charbakh and Yerevan are a little better off now thanks to Gazebo, keep it up! P.S. The omelette was amazing!”

At exactly midnight, Arman switched off the computer, checked the security system, straightened the chairs, brought in the two tables from the outside, locked the door and walked home. The following morning, he would come once again to his second home.