Life Goals

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

Gevorg had been born and brought up in Rome (several generations in his family had studied at the renowned Collegio Armeno), which is why everyone called him Giorgio. Many confused his last name Muratian with the Italian Morati. The only thing that reminded Giorgio of his Armenian roots were his childhood visits to the Armenian church on Sundays. His ancestry never crossed his mind on any of the other days of the week. Giorgio had dreamed of becoming a football player. But a few days after the Roma youth team had shown a serious interest in him at the age of 17, and a few days before a very important final game in a youth league competition, his career aspirations were squashed by a party he had gone to with his friends from school and the car accident that had followed it. Both his legs had suffered serious damage. From that day on, after he had been deprived of his lifelong dream, Giorgio grew cynical and life for him was only about going through the motions. He studied business management simply to keep himself busy and, at the age of twenty, he borrowed money from his family to invest in his first tech start-up. He never attended another Roma match again and did not watch them on television either, because he would be plagued by the same thoughts each time — “It should have been me playing with Totti on that field today…” At 26 years, Giorgio had an apartment in central Rome, an expensive car, a girlfriend who looked like a model, and a stable income trickling in from his various investments. And zero interest in the future.

And then, one day, Giorgio lazily walked out of the house, got into his red Ferrari and sped to the expensive restaurant located in Trastevere, where he had a date with his girlfriend Angela. To be honest, he had not really felt like going on that date. He would have much rather lain down on the roof of his apartment building and stared aimlessly at the sky.

Angela, a novice singer with dreams of a career in show business — though Giorgio was certain that she would never make it — surprised her boyfriend that evening with a concerned look on her face, an identity crisis, and the desire to have a serious conversation. She spoke for around forty minutes while Giorgio silently sipped his red wine. The gist of Angela’s monologue was the following –

“You have everything that others dream about, but you don’t care about any of it — your car, your income, not even me or your friends, or football, your past, or your future… I have to think about myself, I’ll probably go study somewhere, the big stage isn’t my thing. You should go and search for yourself too. You’re not really living now.”

Angela was the first to leave.

He felt strange. His rational side could not care less for Angela and what she had said, but his other side — the emotional one — seemed inexplicably upset. Had he ended up with some sort of attachment to that unsuccessful singer? He was standing on his balcony searching for answers when he noticed that he had voice mail on his phone from his financial manager Antonio. Giorgio already felt so bad that he could almost feel no worse when Antonio gave him the news — the drop in stock prices and his unwise investment decisions in recent months had meant that Giorgio had lost everything in one night. He had to quickly sell his apartment and car. Giorgio felt like he was standing at the edge of an abyss, looking for a bridge to get to the other side…

Giorgio’s eyes led his drunk thoughts to the expensive globe located in the distant corner of the living room — the business partner who had gifted it to him had insisted that it was a handmade item from the nineteenth century. Half a minute later, Giorgio had discovered the dartboard hanging from another wall in the room. He walked up to the globe and gave it a spin with a rough movement of his hand, and then took five steps and released a dart. His first attempt plunged into a white wall — he was drunk. He concentrated and threw the next one. The 150-year old wood creaked as it was pierced. The dart-stabbed globe continued to spin a few more times and then stopped. Giorgio walked up to it with a newly-opened bottle of wine in his hand, so that he could take a look at the destination to which he was being sent by destiny, the globe and the sharp object his hand had thrown. He sent Antonio a message — “Do whatever you think is right; I’m taking a vacation.” The following morning, Giorgio held a single bag and several credit cards, already en route to Armenia.

Giorgio was not a regular tourist so he was not interested in the “open-air museum”, the Opera, Matenadaran, or making trips to Garni-Geghard. He did not even know that these things existed because he had not planned his trip or gathered any information to set up an itinerary. He was simply going with the flow. So he took the first available taxi and it took him to the first available hotel, from which Giorgio emerged and began to walk. He saw a metro station and got on a train, which he then left a few stations later. That was how he ended up in Charbakh. It was so strange… When traveling in Rome and other cities, the young businessman would behave exactly like a young businessman — he would move around in a rented car, stay in high-class hotels that had been reserved in advance, and generally enjoy the privileges that his status allowed. He would almost never be in places that did not feature on postcard pictures, like Charbakh.

After he left the station, Giorgo looked around and shook his head. The gesture would best be translated as “My God, where have I ended up?” Any ethnographic curiosity he may have had could not compete with his desire for comfort. Giorgio walked cautiously, as if he was not simply crossing a street, but rather traversing the Amazon basin, where he could fall prey to a crocodile attack at any moment. On a street that did not seem any different from all the others, his face lit up when he saw a modern-looking café and coworking space — Gazebo. He walked in, settled down near the bar and almost ordered an espresso. But he recalled at the last moment that he had come here for a change of scenery instead of dragging his past with him. So he asked for a cup of Armenian coffee; although he had never tried one before, it was familiar to him through his grandmother, who had started her Italian mornings with one every day for several decades. Five minutes later, he was happily slurping his coffee and enjoying the pleasure of not having to do or worry about anything. He had even given up his smartphone in order not to ruin the moment, opting instead for a Nokia from several centuries ago, with a phone number that nobody in Italy knew.

His idleness was interrupted by a smiling young man, who stood next to Giorgio and held out a hand, introducing himself in English as Arman, the owner of the establishment. The Italian-Armenian traveller felt like there was nothing wrong in getting to know some of the locals, so he shook Arman’s hand.

“You don’t look like a tourist, you wouldn’t have come over to our part of town otherwise. So what business brings you to Armenia?” Arman asked, grabbing a cup of coffee as well.

“O Dio mio, no business at all,” Giorgio said, “But I’m not a tourist, you’re right. I’m just out to discover the world. Trying to recharge my batteries in Armenia.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage to do that, if you go to the right places,” Arman replied, “Well, have a good time. Now that you know where Gazebo is, you’re always welcome here. I’ve got to go, I’ve got a meeting here. Oh, by the way, if you have time, perhaps you could join me? It might be of interest to you.”

“Well… what’s it about?”

“There’s a good project called Bridge, which is trying to build bridges between Armenia and the Diaspora — getting people to share their expertise, come closer, and so on. If you plan on staying in Armenia for a while…”

“No thanks, I don’t plan on staying long,” Giorgio laughed and waved both hands. This reply by his new acquaintance struck Arman as somewhat arrogant. “All I want is to relax a bit and then go home.”

Arman smiled politely and moved over to another table, where two men in suits had been waiting for him.

Two days later, it was a Friday evening when Arman bumped into Giorgio at Calumet. It was close to midnight and everyone at the pub had already hit the peak of their celebrations. The music was loud, the air was running thin, drinks were pouring copiously, words were spoken inaudibly, and bodies were dancing. Arman stepped out to get some fresh air for a couple of minutes when he saw a drunk Giorgio arguing with the pub’s bouncer in broken English and with typically Italian hand gestures. The bouncer was asking the customer to leave his bottle of beer inside the pub because it went against regulations and could cause the establishment problems. The customer was stating confidently that no regulations could violate a person’s rights. The bouncer would not relent. The customer refused to go back inside and leave his beer there and “this was why you were falling behind the rest of the world.” At that very moment, Arman placed a hand on Giorgio’s shoulder — he had to calm the situation down.

“Let’s go back inside, the next drink’s on me!”

“No, but this isn’t right… I mean, in Italy…”

“Come on, don’t try to tell me that everything’s perfect in Italy,” Arman took Giorgio by the hand and led him inside, barely managing to drag him through the dancing people to get him to the bar.

Giorgio, still angry, downed the contents of his beer bottle in one go and then lit a cigarette. Arman was talking to the bartender in the meantime.

“Haso, make my friend from the Diaspora one of those signature cocktails of yours, please! It’s on me, of course,” he said and then turned to Giorgio, “You’re in Armenia, cheer up a bit!”

“Yeah, right,” Giorgio muttered to himself. His escape from Rome had not achieved anything so far.

“Where are you from?” Hasmik asked, putting the cocktail on the bar.

“Rome.”

“Oh, really?” Hasmik leaned forward, putting her hand inside her blouse and taking out a necklace with the Roma football team logo. She noticed that Giorgio grew upset and asked, “I hope you’re not a Lazio fan!”

“No, no, never…”

“Whew… I’ve been a Roma fan since I was six years old, ever since I saw Totti at Euro 2000,” Hasmik slipped into a reminiscent mood, only waking up when someone moved up to her and ordered another beer. Half a minute later, she returned to Giorgio, who had been quietly drinking his cocktail. “Do you know how much I’ve dreamed of becoming a football player? But I didn’t… I mean, it’s quite unusual for girls to kick footballs in our country. But things are changing gradually. I want to start a football club in my village now. For crazy people like me. I still need to fundraise so that we can get a place to train and find a coach…”

Seeing the bartender’s bright face, her eyes shimmering with football-related emotions, Giorgio thought of remaining silent, but then he decided that the bitter truth would be more useful.

“You’re wasting your time, and you’ll be wasting the time of those kids too,” the Italian-Armenian former football player said, slurping his cocktail, “Modern football is just a tasteless piece of show business, its soul died a long time ago. No, don’t look at me like that, I’ve seen it all up close, I was almost recruited to play for Roma, but… It didn’t happen… And now it’s just disgusting to watch any of it.”

“Well, I don’t know what’s going on in Italy or my much-beloved Roma but football is nowhere near show business in my village yet, that’s for sure,” Hasmik tried to joke.

“Well, it looks like things aren’t going to work out for football in this Armenia of yours, either.”

Hasmik immediately stopped talking to Giorgio and silently continued working the bar. The pub was going to close soon, people were asking for their bills. The refugee from Rome realized that he had gone too far. Why had he shattered the dreams of that pretty, innocent girl? With these thoughts in his head, Giorgio blacked out, falling asleep right there, his head leaning against the bar. He woke up from a strong blow to his back. He lifted his head and saw Hasmik.

“We’re closing, signor,” she said, with a sarcastic emphasis on the signor.

As Hasmik was locking the door, Giorgio tried to make amends.

“Listen, I’m sorry for being a bit rude. It’s just that I know football quite well while you…”

“While I’m someone in the Third World who has no idea what she’s saying?”

“No, that’s not what I meant… It’s just… Listen, let’s meet tomorrow and talk about happier things in a soberer state, what do you say?”

Hasmik sighed.

“Listen, we’re not kids, we’re mature adults. You have your opinion, I have mine, there’s no problem. But I’m going to reject your offer because you look like you’re lost and disappointed, and you’re looking down on Armenia and me from your imagined higher ground. If we meet tomorrow, it’s not going to be fun for either of us. Also, I’m going to Goris tomorrow to work on some things for our team.”

“Okay, at least tell me the name,” Giorgio was growing more and more interested, “What are you going to call your team?”

Neither of them noticed how they had continued to walk together and talk.

“The Goris Wolves,” Hasmik said, “But the name doesn’t matter. What matters is that we have neither a place to train, nor a good coach. I’m just a football fan, I’m not an expert… Anyway, I’m home. Thanks for walking me over.”

Early the next morning, Giorgio was at Gazebo, waiting for Arman. They finally met at noon.

“I’ve decided to sign up for the project — it was called Bridge, right? Can I be involved as the coach of a girls’ football team in Goris?” Giorgio fired his questions without even saying “hello” first, “How do I go about doing that?”

“Ah, I see you’ve spoken to Hasmik last night,” Arman noted with a cunning smile, “It will be a pleasure for me to organise a meeting for you with the Bridge4CSOs team, they’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

Hasmik had already spent two weeks in her ancestral village near Goris. Her family continued to express surprise at her stubbornness, but she was ready to do anything to get her girls’ team, the Goris Wolves, into the women’s league that had been created two years ago. She had put together a great team, Hasmik was very proud of her players. She had always known that there was no reason to assume that only men could play football, but it had taken years for that stereotype to be overcome in the tradition-loving mountains of Armenia. Nevertheless… she had already been rejected by a third coach, who had refused to “give up on real football to waste time with girls” (as one of them had literally told her). And so the tournament was only two days away, but they did not have a coach. Hasmik was so desperate that, a couple of days earlier, she had even called Arman to try and find the strange Italian-Armenian young man, hoping that he would be able to help with something. But Arman had said that he had left a week ago and returned to Italy, he had not heard from him since then.

The village mountain was enveloped in fog. The goals on the uneven playing field did not have a net, but only the goalposts were enough for them. The girls were engaged in their training session — the two hours they spent there were their freest moments of the day. They lived in a dream in that time, whether they were playing as goalkeeper, defender, midfielder, attacker or in any other position. But if they wanted to get to a competitive level, they needed a coach.

At that moment, when Hasmik got up from her coach’s bench and walked up to the middle of the field to tell the girls that they would have to skip that year’s tournament, the screeching of a car’s brakes could be heard coming from the rocky road. Hasmik did not even turn around, she ignored the sound. She did not see Giorgio excitedly emerge from the car. The last time his face had shown so much joy and determination had been when he was 17 years old. He ran up to them, a backpack hanging from his shoulder.

“Everyone, drop the ball for a second, we need to talk,” Hasmik said, “Shusho, get over here. The thing is that…”

“Hasmik, I think this guy is walking over to you,” midfielder Vardush interrupted her, noticing Giorgio.

“Huh?” Hasmik barely had enough time to feel surprised.

Giorgio stood breathlessly in the middle of the football field, gesturing with his hand that he needed a moment to compose himself. He then sighed and focused, saying something in broken but heartfelt Armenian,

“Hello… I be your coach for calcio… football…” Hasmik looked at Giorgio in surprise and none of the other girls in the team understood a thing either. “I be real coach… see?”

Giorgio took out a piece of paper like a school diploma from his pocket, switching to English to give Hasmik an explanation.

“I’m a real coach now. I’m not going to get a job at Serie A, of course, but it’ll do just fine for your league. I spoke to the Bridge project coordinators. When I asked them what I could do for the project, they said that there was this wonderful team in a wonderful village, and that they needed coach and some financial support. I don’t know why this happened right now, right here in Armenia, but I’ve finally managed to find myself. I rushed over to Italy, completed a coaching course, got my diploma and here I am! I called a few friends too, and told them that there are some spots on the planet were football has not yet turned into show business, that it still held some meaning and was pure, unadulterated freedom… So it looks like we’re going to be able to build a decent sports facility for your village!”

Hasmik had not yet said anything. Giorgio was afraid — had he rushed into things? Perhaps nobody wanted him there…

“Jasmine… Hasmik, did I do something wrong? I’m sorry if…”

That was when he noticed that Hasmik’s eyes had grown moist.

“Girls, davaite, let’s go train, they can discuss the rest themselves,” Shusho gave the order at the right moment, “Let’s go practice some penalties.”

“All this is for us?” Hasmik whispered, when the two of them were alone in the middle of the field.

“Well, to be honest, part of it is for me too, because… I needed something that I could dedicate myself to… And so…” Giorgio decided to change the sentimental tone of the conversation because he’d never been a fan or dramatic or emotional moments. “By the way, I’ve got one more thing to show you, but you’ll see it only if you agree to go out with me when we’re back in Yerevan.”

“Ah, so that’s what all this melodrama was for…” Hasmik said sarcastically, “And here I thought this was a sincere effort on your part…”

“Don’t get ahead of things, this last thing is only for you… Well?”

“Okay, you can try your luck.”

“Excellent. And so…” he opened his backpack, “This is especially from the wolves of Rome for the Goris wolves, straight from the Emperor of Rome.”

Hasmik almost fainted right there. Giorgio held one of Francesco Totti’s shirts in his hands, with the famous footballer’s autograph on it.

A few days later, the Wolves were defeated in the tournament, unable to defeat one of the more experienced teams. But the bridge had been built. Their new coach, Gevorg Muradyan, already had a strategy for the next tournament. And his assistant, Hasmik, was busy recruiting new talented players from the village to the team.