Things We Left Unsaid (25 page)

On the way back to Isfahan, Mother explained that in Julfa, if someone goes mad, his relatives take him to Namagerd. There are families in Namagerd that will, for a monthly fee, look after the
insane. I cried all the way to Isfahan and Alice asked me several times, ‘Why are you crying? There’s no more dust and dirt, and it’s cooler now.’

I circled around the jujube tree and the herb bed. I bent over to pull out the weeds growing among the herbs. Some blackened, dried-up jujube fruits were scattered under the
tree. I picked up a few of them and sat on the ground, leaning back against the tree trunk and juggling the jujubes from one hand to the other.

I tilted my head back to look at the jujube branches. Was it Youma who had said – or had I read it somewhere – that the jujube tree is another name for the lotus tree, the leaves of
which are used to make shampoo powder? It got me to wondering how many trees had a different name from their fruit. The fruit of the lotus is a jujube, the fruit of the palm tree is a date. I could
not think of any others. How interesting that both these trees were found in Abadan. I got up, tossed the blackened, dried-up jujubes among the herbs and went back to the bedroom. I got dressed in
silence, put a note on the telephone table and left the house.

The church was dark and smelled of frankincense.

The caretaker woman talked about her child’s illness as she opened the door of the church for me. I put some money in her hand and told her it was not necessary to put on the lights, and
that I would not need any frankincense. I closed the door of the church behind her.

I took a small lace scarf from the table near the door and covered my head. I crossed myself, walked across the red carpet and went up to the altar. I sat in the first pew and gazed for some
time at the image of the Christ child in the arms of his mother, until the morning light shone through the stained glass windows, brightening the church a little.

My eyes drank in the altar table and its candle sticks, the large silver vases with their plastic flowers, the chalice of holy wine and the priest’s gold-embroidered stole next to the
chalice. I had seen all of these things so many times before, but now I was noticing them as if for the first time.

The painting of Christ looked like Armen as a baby. I remembered Nina had said, ‘Every time I see this painting, it reminds me of Tigran as a baby.’ The image of Christ also looked
like the twins when they were babies, I reflected. Maybe, I thought, all children look like this image of Christ when they are infants.

I drew a deep breath, crossed myself, closed my eyes and prayed.
Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.
When did I first recite this prayer?
Thy kingdom come. Thy will be
done on Earth, as it is in Heaven
. When was the last time?
Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors
. It felt like I was reciting it for the
first time.
And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil
. I finished the prayer:
For thine is the kingdom and the power and glory forever
. I opened my eyes.
Amen
.
I crossed myself, looking again at Christ and Mary. Mary wore a blue shawl over her head and shoulders and cradled in her arms the infant Christ, swaddled in a yellow cloth.

My feet were asleep. I got up and went over to the votive table, put some money in the little wooden box and, as always, took out seven candles – six of them for the children and Artoush
and Alice and Mother, and the seventh candle for my father. I lit the seventh candle and said softly, ‘Help me.’

I walked around the church, past the choir alcove, past the old organ, and the little plaques on the wall that people had donated after regaining health or achieving a wish. I had been to this
church so many times over the years, but had never paid much attention to the plaques. Most of them were in Armenian, a few in English, and one small marble stone was inscribed in Persian:

I ran my hand over the little marble plaque. ‘Poor woman,’ I thought. I circled around to the door of the church, wondering, ‘How do you know it was the mother
of the sick child who gave the plaque, and not the father?’ I turned around to face the altar, crossed myself, and backed out of the church.

I headed for home. The heat felt good. How long had it been since I enjoyed hot weather? Before reaching Cinema Taj, I turned my head to the right to look down a cul-de-sac at the end of which
was a big blue door, always closed, and always with a sentry standing guard. I had heard there was a compound like the Kuwaiti Bazaar behind this blue door, with coffee houses, stores, vendors, and
houses. The women who lived behind the blue door did not set foot outside their compound except maybe once a year. I had always wanted to see what was behind the blue door, but knew it was
impossible.

An Arab man was walking along the sidewalk, driving five or six goats along in front of him. He was talking with another Arab man riding a bicycle alongside him. The bicyclist was trying to ride
slowly, at the same pace as his conversation partner. The front wheel of the bike kept swerving, now left, now right. The smell of gas from the Refinery was in the air, but there was not a cloud in
the sky.

I followed the street, with its scattered palm trees and clumps of wild grass, until I reached Cinema Taj. I had been in Abadan for many years, but was always shocked by the contrast between the
Oil Company’s section of town and the rest of the city. It was like stepping from a waterless desert wasteland into a lush garden.

The identical houses on either side of the wide boulevard with their uniformly trimmed boxwood hedges looked like children just back from the barber, all lined up and waiting for the school
headmaster to come tell them, ‘Excellent! What clean and orderly children.’

I turned onto our street. The only sound was the chirping of crickets and an occasional ribbeting of frogs. I looked around and thought, ‘I do like this hot, green, quiet city.’ I
opened the gate and stepped into the yard.

Artoush was in the kitchen with the children. The twins gave me an anxious, worried look, but when they saw my smile, they jumped into my arms. Armen came over to me and did not draw back when I
kissed his cheek. Artoush asked, ‘Shall I make coffee?’

It was the children’s decision not to go to the Club for lunch.

Armineh said, ‘We have to study.’

Arsineh said, ‘It’s almost final exam time.’

I warmed up last night’s leftovers.

Artoush had dolma with plain rice. ‘Don’t tell your mother, but dolma with plain rice is quite tasty.’ He had laughed at my mother many times whenever she asserted that the
Armenians in Julfa eat dolma with plain rice. As he got up from the table, he said, ‘The food last night was spectacular. Especially the dolma – perfect!’

Ashkhen was dusting the dressers in the bedrooms and talking non-stop.

‘Mrs. Clarice, hon, I would do anything for you, but I’m sorry, I don’t wanna work in Mrs. Simonian’s house. First off, she insists I have to come on Fridays. I usually
have guests over on Fridays, since it’s not a workday, and I need to help my husband with his bath, and there are a thousand chores to take care of. And then, she constantly criticizes what I
do: “Why do you wash like that? Why do you iron like this?” And then, she’s arguing the whole time with her son and granddaughter. Her son’s a gentleman, through and through
– doesn’t say a single word of reproach or reprisal. But the granddaughter – oh lord! That one is a little monster. She’s sassier than sassafras and has quite a potty mouth,
too. She throws things and tears into stuff with the scissors, cutting them to bits...’ She set the dust rag on the ground. ‘I heard her on the phone telling someone, “If you love
me you have to slap Mr. Vazgen in the face.” You know him, don’t you, Mrs. Clarice, dear? The principal...’

I told Ashkhen, who had forgotten all about dusting, that I did know Mr. Vazgen and that after she finished dusting the bedrooms, she should go brush the dust off the living room furniture.

I came out of the bedroom wondering, ‘Who was the girl talking to on the phone? Armen? Armen had better not slap...’ The phone rang and I went to get it. Maybe I should have a talk
with Armen. I picked up the receiver.

Emile’s voice was calm, as usual. ‘I wanted to thank you for the dinner Thursday night. You went to a lot of trouble. By the way, I found a book last night that I thought you might
like, and set it aside to bring for you on Monday. You haven’t forgotten our appointment for Monday?’

One half of me was shouting, ‘Tell him you are busy on Monday! Say you don’t have time. Say something has come up. Say...’ I answered abruptly that it hadn’t been any
trouble, thanked him for the book, and said I had not forgotten the appointment. I put the phone down. My inner selves were locked in mortal combat.

I leaned over the telephone table and tried to think of something else. What pretext could I use to start a conversation with Armen? Ashkhen was calling me again – what does she want, now?
It’s a quarter after four, why aren’t the kids back?

I raised my head, and through the lace curtain I saw them coming, the twins hop-scotching half-way up the path, and Armen walking behind, hands in his pockets. Ashkhen called to me again,
‘Mrs. Clarice, hon!’ I opened the door.

‘Hello,’ said Armineh. ‘One A+ and two As!’

‘Hello,’ said Arsineh. ‘Two As and an A+!’

I harbored my suspicions about the twins’ identical grades, and sometimes fretted that they might be making similar mistakes on purpose, so as to wind up with the same grades. But how
would that even be possible? Still, I had arranged with their teachers to have them sit on different benches, far apart from each other.

Armen closed the door and waited for the twins to stop jumping up and down. His habit of late had been to go straight to his room and close the door, so what was he waiting for? When I looked at
him, he said, ‘Will you call Miss Judy? We should postpone the piano classes for a couple weeks until the exams are finished.’ The twins nodded in affirmation of their brother’s
observation. He took me by surprise with his sudden interest in studying for the exams, only to further ratchet up my astonishment by asking, ‘Will you quiz me on my history? I have a
practice test tomorrow.’

Ashkhen came into the hallway. ‘Mrs. Clarice, hon.’

I elbowed the twins to be polite and greet her.

Ashkhen raised her voice an octave and warmly greeted the twins, affectionately fussing over them: ‘Hello my lovely and hello my pet! One sweetness, the other light. One milk, the other
honey! No, no, no. You couldn’t possibly be the culprits.’

Armineh and Arsineh said at the same time, ‘We didn’t do anything!’

Ashkhen tightened the knot of her kerchief at the back of her head, and gestured toward the living room. ‘The easy chair?’

We all went to the living room. The furniture cushions were sorted in piles on the floor. Ashkhen pointed to one of the easy chairs, and we went over to it. On the chair frame, under the
cushion, there was a hole. It looked like someone had taken a knife or some kind of sharp tool and punctured it. I looked at Armen, who was looking back at me, stupefied. ‘I swear to
God...’ he said, and ran out of the room. The twins looked at me, then at Ashkhen, then back at me.

‘Armen did not do it.’

‘I swear Armen did not do it.’

Before I even posed the question, ‘Then who did?’ they chimed, ‘We don’t know who did it, but...’

‘...but it wasn’t Armen.’

Ashkhen, her hands folded over her sizeable tummy, shook her head. ‘Tsk, tsk, tsk.’

I told the twins their snack was on the kitchen table and asked Ashkhen to cover the tear with the cushion for the time being.

I paid Ashkhen in cash and she tightened the knot of her headscarf, this time tying it under her chin (when she tied it in the back, it meant time to get to work, and when tied
under the chin, it meant her job was done). She zipped up her wallet, slung the bundles of clothes and the bags of food I gave her to take home under her arm, thanked me and left. I closed the door
behind her and watched her for a few seconds through the lace curtain. She went down the path to the gate, huffing and puffing with the bags and bundles in hand. ‘Poor woman,’ I
thought. ‘She has got nothing but hard labor out of life.’ I untied my apron and tossed it in the dirty clothes hamper. I had worked side by side with Ashkhen all day long, and I had a
dirty apron to show for it.

I went to Armen’s room, determined not to say one word about the tear in the easy chair. I had something more important to tell him. As he put his history book in my hands, I asked him,
‘What’s new with Mr. Vazgen?’

He sat down on the bed. ‘He’s not bad. Why?’

I opened the book. ‘Just asking.’

He got up and opened his satchel, searching for something. ‘As it happens, today I went to the front office. Mr. Vazgen was there, too.’

I closed the history book. ‘Why did you go to the principal’s office?’ Armen was not usually summoned to the principal’s office except to reprimand him for mischief or
misbehavior. I certainly hope he had the sense not to slap the principal!

He gave me a slip of paper. ‘For this.’ My heart dropped; I would probably be summoned to the school. He must have been punished again. He must have...I read the slip:
‘Commendation for Armen Ayvazian for his effort and determination in math.’ I jumped up and hugged him, showering him with kisses. He laughed out loud and said, ‘You’re
squishing me.’

When the excitement abated, I said, ‘If you want to know the truth, I have been very worried about you lately.’

I was trying to think how I could work the topic of Emily into the conversation, when he told me, ‘I know why you were worried. But don’t be. You never need to worry about me. Your
son is no dunce. Now quiz me on history.’ He bent over, picked up the text book off the floor, and handed it to me. How could I have forgotten that my son was a master at taking me by
surprise?