Translated from the Armenian by Shant Norashkharian.
"Sit down, doctor...You are welcome! Captain, you are welcome...! Such things, yes, such things...! What am I thinking...? What should I think...? Don't forget, the Armenian Orthodox church has a long life behind it...Full of all kinds of happenings, events, tragedies...If these stones of our church could recount everything that they have seen, that would be a book written with fire and blood...We have accepted this monastic life willingly, ready to bear everything for our people and we do not fear anything...They have come and taken over a part of the monastery? They are welcome...They have come to take our vines and lands, let them take...Everything we have belongs to the Armenian people and it is better that they take them rather than those dogs, who in Turkish Armenia ruined everything, destroyed and burned...The newcomers are Armenians, aren't they? Many of them have been educated in our schools, nourished with the bread of our monastery, grown up under the shadow of our Ararat...Scratch them, and underneath you will find fierce patriots...Believe me! You are laughing in vain...Human psychology is very strange...Sometimes you meet people who will deny everything, God, religion, faith, church. They deny with a painful, suffering heart, restless rebellious mind, angry, furious...Now let me tell you; I prefer them over those who behave like believers...those who are neither cold nor hot, who go to church every Sunday, they light candles, they cross themselves, just like that, to keep the custom, without inner fire, without suffering, to maintain friendly relations with God...I prefer them, because the suffering nonbeliever, in reality, is a devout believer...A day arrives, when inside him a certain urge comes out, and he becomes a God-thirsty, deep and sincere believer..."
"Patriotism is the same thing. In my opinion, all the madness of the Bolsheviks comes from unfulfilled patriotism. They deny, get angry, break, crush, curse, simply for the reason that their's is a proud patriotism which is not satisfied with less, which demands great flights, wants to realize everything at once...One must not be deceived by words. Marx, Lenin, historical materialism and I don't know what, are only masks under which are disguised faces of fierce Armenians...They feel and they see, that just by our present national means we cannot reach any goal; we are a miserable, massacred, isolated people who must use others, who must multiply its weak hands with millions of other hands, must become organized, reborn, united to become better seperated...And did not the others do the same thing? They waited for Europe's help, America's assistance, the intervention of the League Of Nations...The Armenian Bolsheviks understood, that Europe would deceive us which it did, that Wilson's promises were rose-colored winds which they were, that the so-called League Of Nations in the hands of wolf-states would become a weapon of exploitation, which it turned out to be. They appealed to the revolutionary forces, which have now come...This nation of ours needs to rest at least some twenty years, to rebuild its home, its inner moral strength, its means of struggle...Now they have come, let us see...I can only say one thing. A day will come when these same men who today are fiercely denying everything, will become believing, fanatic patriots, will swear with the Vartan Mamigonians, our braves, our heroes and will tremble over all of our national values...That's the way the world of Armenia is; it subjects, subdues and makes even its supposed enemies serve its goals. In the past, Mongol princes have come to rule, and as they ruled they became subjugated, served and turned to marvelous Armenians...How did you say it? Will the church become endangered...? That won't be something new either...Has the Armenian church ever lived without danger...? As a monk this is how I think: That the Armenian church is for the Armenian people, not the Armenian people for the Armenian church. Yes, well, that's how...! When tomorrow, the Armenian people find that this church is no longer giving satisfaction to their spiritual needs, it is their will, let them turn to another way, let them worship other forms of divinity...!"
"Even in ancient times", said the doctor, "our gods have been helping powers, they have served, they have benefited our heroes and not the opposite...The Armenians are god-creating people and not god-created..."
"Those are complex issues and I, as a Christian, am unable to agree with you. The theological doctrines of the church..."
"...What must be done, what position must be taken?" asked Herian.
"As far as I am concerned, I will continue my research as a historian, as I have done until now...Here...look at them! Great number of manuscripts, my work for thirty years and still unprinted...What magnificent treasures we have, about which neither foreigners nor Armenians have any idea...! There is the tragedy; we don't recognize ourselves...Let us continue working; that's what's important...! They tell the story of a student of a religious school, a future saint, who was suddenly asked when playing ball what he would do if he learned that in half an hour, the Last Judgment would take place; he answered: 'What should I do? I shall still continue playing ball'...Now it is us; let us continue playing ball and wait...I have been very happy to see you, very...Please come again...Surely come again..."
And the tall monk's bowing eyes with abundant eyebrows smiled, and his large, full , hairy hands folded on his chest.
In the pathway other monks with swift steps and preoccupied looks were passing. One of them saw Ouranian, stopped and searched his eyes.
"Like that, then...!" he said with a distant voice.
"Like that", Ouranian answered.
The monk backed and walked away dragging his feet.
Most homes were locked; In others new, non-clergical people had settled. Children's and women's voices could be heard; noise, laughter.
By one door Ouranian and Herian met one of those newcomers. A short man with a bald head and gray eyes.
Ouranian, who apparently knew him, exclaimed surprised:
"From where have you come...? Are you also settled here?"
"What can we do, somehow we are moving along..."
He brought his fists together, took them close to his mouth and muttered:
"As a home it's not too bad...In the old times our wealthy people have been concerned about monks, have built homes for them...They have believed, that if they built monasteries they would be admitted in heaven without papers. Love of glory, nothing else...They have had inscriptions in old Armenian carved on buildings, Armenian dates with 'remember my mother, Antaram, my father, Apisoghom..."
He laughed again. He continued: "Since they have built them, let us enjoy them a little. Two rooms, kitchen, running water; it's not too bad...This Armenia of ours is a large home; the sky is the roof, the mountains are the walls, but there's not one room, and because of that, wherever a bed is found, a thousand people fall on it...Well, of course, the monks are not very happy; ash is falling from their faces, they walk around murmuring under their noses, they pass chewing the edges of their beards...All kinds of people from outside, have come and entered their sacred place, converted the church hall to a movie house, have taken the wheat supplies, have opened the bags of dried fruits, and they are enjoying them...It's not worth mentioning, that not much is left; the refugees have eaten and digested everything like locusts...As you can see, many of these monks, young men, taking advantage of the coming of the Bolsheviks, have thrown their robes away, have gone to the city as free citizens, and are fooling around with girls...Only the old have remained in the monastery and that is better...What did you say, doctor...? No, I really don't think that everything must be destroyed, on the contrary, I believe that when a fierce wind passes over a field, the only plants that remain standing are the most durable ones, whose roots are firmly attached to the soil...truly, the religious person is one thing, the religious feeling is another...Echmiadzin has been, is and will be...Everything gradually arranges itself, every phenomenon, if it is necessary to life, finds its place...You remember, don't you doctor, when we lived in Kharkov, our distant homeland was complaining inside our whole heart like a foggy dream. We thought of it, we became sad...Wasn't it so...? We missed it, always missed it so much that it was never enough...On Sundays we would go to church, not to listen to priest John's mass with a believer's heart, but to hear the language, the song, the ceremony, to see the Armenian clergy in ceremonial clothes...You know, the smell of the incense, the incense-burner, the hymn holy-holy, and then the chicken pilaf at a friend's home, stuffed grape leaves or kefte...I want to say, as soon as Sunday came - during the hours that we were free of work and worry - we flew and came to this land of ours with our hearts and minds...After hearing the Armenian hymn, Ararat's head stuck up, became bigger; during the hymn holy-holy, this field of ours spread in our minds, became illuminated...How...? Ha-ha- ha...You said it well; when we ate the chicken wing the chicken coops of the homeland clucked noisily...Ha-ha-ha...You said it well, doctor, you said it very well...!"
He became serious, thought and:
"Let's put joking aside...I wanted to say one thing...What did I want to say...Yes, that, since we have now come here, now that we shall grow roots in these lands again, for the love of the homeland, let's throw away these old shabby things, let's get liberated from this incense-burner stuff, let's get liberated from the illusions and as we stand like men facing Ararat, let us find new solutions to life's new demands...Whatever the country has to say to us, let it say, and whatever we have to say to it, let us say it, without unnecessary mediators...Like mature men, let's discuss business, let's grind stones, let's pile stones...Isn't that so...? I have been very happy to see you, very...Come over one day, let's eat a piece of bread, drink a glass of wine..."
It was evening, yet the church bells were not ringing.
Silent was Gayane, silent was Hripsime.
Downstairs the print shop worked constantly. They were printing Lenin's speeches. The Comsomole. The alphabet of the Communist Party. Religion is poison. 25,000 copies.
Over the balcony, a monk, who amazingly resembled Karl Marx, stared with fearful eyes and chewed his lips.
__________
They had gone to bed, but could not sleep.
"What is it, friend, are you sick? Your eyes are shining, your words are gurgling like a fountain...I hope you don't have fever; come, let me check your pulse..."
"What fever...! I simply walked around too much..."
"Yeah, you went and got lost. I thought you had returned to Yerevan."
"Tomorrow, it's probable that I leave. It's impossible to leave the ship like that. It's surely necessary to make a decision..."
"Well, of course..."
"The ship, you understand, cannot be left like that...?"
"I understand, how can I not understand...?"
"What is it, you got quiet...?"
"It's really amazing..."
"Amazing...?"
"Yes, well..."
"What are you saying, I don't understand..."
"There's this Indian-Armenian...Have you ever met him...?"
"Indian-Armenian...? I met one in Kharkov once; he spoke old Armenian..."
"I don't know old Armenian, but the way he spoke was pretty complicated..."
"If he speaks in a complicated way, let the devil take him. Those Indian-Armenians are a little crazy...They are awesome merchants, they say...they mix old Armenian with English, the sterling with Mashdots...The ones who know how to get them excited are the Mkhitarist monks..."
"Because of their old Armenian..."
"Yeah...It is amazing how the fake and artificial language fascinates the Armenians..."
"The one that I'm talking about is one strange personality...It is the third time that I have seen him..."
"Where?"
"You're going to laugh at me, by my sun..."
"I don't understand..."
"I see him, I talk with him and I'm not sure if he is a real person..."
"I told you, let me check your pulse..."
"I know, you'll say I am sick...hallucinations and so on..."
"There you go, our boy...!"
"It's better if we sleep..."
"O well, since you started narrating, go ahead. Whom did you see, where did you see him...?"
"In the evening, at the courtyard of the monastery...There was no one near the main temple; I was standing by the tombs of the Catholicoses, looking...All of a sudden, I heard a familiar voice...The voice was talking with someone; rather, it was arguing angrily...'From the ostrich, which cannot run', he was shouting, 'one cannot expect flying like an eagle'...Then later, 'Every people has its own essential style; it either lives according to that style or it does not live at all'...Another voice was answering him; a thick bass...I listened carefully, but could not understand what he was saying...Gho-mo-gho-gho...That much. I looked, a beard swayed in the wind, then a door closed forcefully and the familiar voice approached me. Lo and behold! The one approaching was that same man called Peter Mark, whom I had met in Sevan...To tell you the truth, when I saw his yellowed face and black round eyes, my whole body started shaking... 'Ah, Captain", he exclaimed with a muffled voice when he saw me, 'how good it is, that a cold wind is blowing'...He said and let the wind blow against his face and fell silent. And I remained tongue-tied, not knowing what to say. 'The wind', he said, 'is divinity, pure spirit...Have you noticed? In the Bible the Almighty', he said, 'always appears in the form of a hurricane...Ahead of Ariel, ideas, angels', he said, 'the hurricanes blow...Ah, I would have wished, Captain, that the wind became stronger and blew away all this dust...The world is new, but the people are old'...He said, took my hands in both of his hands and shook them forcefully. 'I am happy, I am happy Mr. Shipman, for having seen you again...!' "
"Mr. Shipman...?"
"That's how he said it, Mr. Shipman...He talked heatedly, very heatedly, because as it seemed, he was furious..."
"You are saying spooky things...And then what did he say...?"
"That was the problem...It's hard to remember, it was so complicated...He talked about some spiritual universe, about the classification of receptive and expressive forces and who knows...?"
"Darn it! Could it be that he is a protestant reverend...?"
"No, if he was a protestant reverend, he would have said flat things which were obvious to everyone...He's not a reverend, but what he is, I don't understand... He's an Armenian; there's no doubt about that, but his Armenianness is also another Armenianness, coming from far, from centuries..."
"He didn't say anything else...?"
"He did. He was angry. It seemed he had quarreled with the monks, what was it...? 'They don't understand', he said moving his hand toward the monastery, 'They don't understand that human greatness is born at the edge of the abyss; the comfortable and secure life has not been the birthplace of great ideas, and has not created great spiritual events. They are living in one of the world's most primordial places, where fundamental spiritual currents intersect, where the hidden principles of existence are integrated, where the foundation stones of being are made, yet they speak and act in such a way that dwellers of a suburban slum would act and speak...They always repeat the same thing', he continued, 'getting liberated...! Liberated from what...? Everything is external, superficial...They don't understand, that what's important is not the flight of liberation, but the depth of the individual, the will for the coming vision, which forms into being like a chemical reaction...Believe me, Mr. Shipman, those men are like those mushy soil-made walls which stand surrounding the vineyards, which are eaten by the winds and the rains, eaten like the warm bread just out of the oven...They don't understand; the world has always been a chaos whose equilibrium has been maintained by renewed gods...' "
"And how you can remember...!"
"I am myself amazed about that...it has entered into into my head..."
"Then...?"
"Then it became more complicated and I don't remember well...He talked, talked without paying attention to me, as if I really didn't exist...And then..."
"What...?"
"All of a sudden he started complaining that good leather for shoes cannot be found in Armenia...He gave a long lecture about the different ways of preparing leather and showed me his feet...Imagine, he was wearing sandals...! Perhaps because of that, he walked away so quickly; as if he flew...I looked everywhere, he was nowhere...This is the third time..."
"You're not making this up, are you?"
"Making it up?...The voice is still in my ears and I told you approximately the things he said, didn't I...?"
"Such things...!"
"What's your opinion...?"
"What do you want it to be...? I think, in these mixed-up times, there are such people coming here from abroad, who must have been locked up in hospitals..."
"What is it, are you referring to me...?"
"No...in general..."
"If one listens to you doctors, it would only be possible to leave the oxen, bulls, and the Swiss cows outside of the hospitals...That is also some kind of sickness..."
"Perhaps. As far as what concerns me, I'm rather a microbiologist..."
"I had a friend who had finished chemistry school in Paris and was called Bosdanjian...That Bosdanjian was from Agoulis and not a bad boy...He would always twist his lips, and one-two-three, like a rifle, spit the air out of his mouth...He would say, 'Ara my dear, if you knew what kind of microbes are in the air, you would go crazy...' In spite of that, he was from Agoulis and not a bad boy..."
"Your story made me sleepy..."
"Are you asleep...?"
"No. One turns right and left...it's impossible..."
"I was thinking, you know? There is some meaning in the things that Indian-Armenian of yours said..."
"I'll tell you something; he had an effect on me, specially his voice...In general, have you noticed...? People's voices are so different and they say so much more than the words...In the sea, for instance, from the first sound of the winds it is possible to understand the nature of the approaching storm...Sometimes there are empty shouting winds, they blow things around, they roar, howl and quickly leave...Yet there are those half-voiced hissing, meager blowing winds, whose sound comes from the depth of far places, from the heart of the sky; those are dangerous and betraying...They don't raise a wave on the water, but only spread little wrinkles; they suck the air, they filter it through their teeth and throw it down...Every seaman knows, behind those kinds of winds angry elements are hidden...The good captain immediately takes some means and gives necessary orders..."
"It's interesting..."
"Sure...In general we pay little attention to the human voice. We look at the facial expression, eyes, sometimes hands, but we ignore the voice...Isn't that so...?"
"Sometimes there are feminine voices...which resonate in the folds of your flesh..."
"Yes...! Voices remain in my memory in a strange way; they continue to resonate...Let us take this Mark himself, his voice is always present in me, a voice that comes from far places...And notice one thing, everything can be faked, but not the voice."
"The voice changes with the growth of the soul..."
"It's true."
"What is it, did you sleep...?"
"It's impossible...If you being a doctor can't sleep, then how about us. They say Edison slept three hours..."
"Let's leave Edison...The issue is that we are living through great, historic days...A few years ago, when we were students, in the hallways of the university, in the cheap restaurants, at the secret meetings, we talked, argued about different political issues, we were cultivating plans, participating in small demonstrations, but none of us imagined that those plans which were cultivated in offices and prisons could become realized...And so, we thought that one day it would be possible, that our children's children..."
"It turns out that when the dreams come true, people feel that they are unfortunate..."
"It is partly that way. The reason is that plans are formed with the mind, ideas, dreams, but the body, by the nature of its human structure, its psychology, is slow, does not like changes, but likes its habits, its laziness, its reflexes...There are people who believe in heaven, right...? Fine, but if you pick them up and from one moment to another throw them into heaven, I don't think they will be joyful...They will sit at the edge of that garden of Eden and will search with restless eyes for the little things they had at home, the armchair where they used to sit after a full meal, the pipe they had smoked for years, the cup of coffee, the warm slippers...The human body is bourgeois and much more complex than we think. There are small factors, whose influence may play a decisive role; the air, the smell, certain things that are eaten or drunk, even the poison that has been absorbed...and yet such men have come, who are fanatic and ruthless, who destroy life as if it were an old palace...Big things are happening in this world of ours, big things...!"
"Everything is a question of measure...The problem is that the events are running faster than the people...Yes, it's simply that! People are small, but the events are enormous; they can't measure up...isn't that so? They can't measure up...There is also the problem of the machine and of science, their development which was fast beyond measure...Life, as it was organized, has cracked on all sides; the waters are rushing in, the barriers are inadequate, the sea has opened its abyss wanting to swallow us...And it is natural; people have become disturbed, crazy and don't know what to do to save themselves from inescapable death..."
"It's true..."
"Isn't that so...? If not, how is it possible to explain these wars, these battles, the flowing blood...People want to fight against death with death..."
"These are complex issues...The reasons are many, many...! They speak, for instance, about the sunspots which influence man's constitution and psychology...Also, a simple bite from a gnat has a big effect...the truth is that we know very little, and in general we are in chaos...It is better not to search for reasons. The events have come; Let us accept them with courageous calmness. In the human soul there is a point which cannot be tyrannized, a level; we ought to establish ourselves in it and let the storms pass away..."
"They are fundamental events, like flooding waters or advancing fires in the forest..."
"You take care of your ship and I shall continue taking care of my patients..."
"If they nationalize the ship...?"
"Wasn't it national before...?"
"It was national."
"So...? Tomorrow, when they decide taking the ship to Sevan, whether they like it or not they will call you; there are no other captains now...I tell you, take care of your ship!"
"Is it necessary to tell me that? If I don't take care of it, whom will I take care of...? Really, you don't know; the ship and myself, we are a whole story. That is not an ordinary enterprise; that, so to speak, is an adventure of the heart...Sometimes I think, if I were a poet and I wrote...Our Armenians don't understand..."
"For me the ship is something else, doctor, something else...Do you understand...?"
"I can guess."
"Isn't it true, that in old times there have been people, people enlightened with the inner light, who after leaving everything behind, conceived a temple, a church, built a monument...I don't say that what I am doing is that important! Perhaps it really is not important...There have been acrobats, who before dancing on the ropes, have gone from one holy place to another, have fasted, prayed and who knows what...Like that; I am not able to explain my mind well...In one word, there is a lot involved in that ship, a lot...! No! No matter what happens, I must absolutely make that ship reach Sevan...For me it is truly a life and death issue...Absolutely! Absolutely I must make it reach Sevan...! Are you asleep...?"
...And February, having taken the night into its arms and with it, had stretched with its whole body in front of the door of the mother church and had slept. A monk, black, hairy, becoming a silhouette, had bent down in front of the same door and moving his warm lips quickly, conversed with the sky and the shadows of the earth.
The wind was howling with a muffled voice.