THE ARMENIAN SWAIN
by Curtis Harnack
When she noticed him following her into the library, he quickly said with a smile: “My name is John Hecopian. May I help you find a book?”
“John?” Puzzled, for she assumed he was a Muslim.
“Yes, John. A Christian name.”
“You speak English very well. Better than most Turks here in Erzurum.”
“Poorly, I fear -- but thank you.” He looked closely at her long blonde hair, which he and the other swarthy male students much admired, though none, he thought, had talked to her as yet. “I am Armenian. Like you, a Christian. My family has cousins in California. I am student in your father’s class. We are honored to have him teach us English this year.”
She seemed uneasy, or annoyed, and moved toward the exit.
“I, too, am a teacher. Both student and a teacher. There is still much for me to learn.” He pushed the door open for her, and when her arm brushed his coat sleeve, blood rushed to his face. “Are you going home now? I should be happy to give you a lift in my car.” He remembered that idiomatic phrase from an American film.
“Thanks, John, but I don’t live far.”
She didn’t even seem surprised that he owned an auto. But she’d called him by his Christian name, as if they’d long known each other. “Please, allow me to go with you.”
As they passed out of the library and down a corridor, he noticed the keen interest of his fellow students, envying him for having dared make Miss Robertson’s acquaintance. Since most of them were Muslims, they didn’t realize how much Armenians and Americans have in common. Once on the street, he pointed to his old green Volga. “My car. It would be convenient to drop you off.”
“Honestly -- I’d rather walk. But thanks.”
In the Armenian church school, where he taught English and coached sports, his meager salary didn’t allow for a nice vehicle. No wonder she’d refused his offer. “Is it not late for you to walk? Dusk comes quickly in November, and it is quite cold.” Southwest, toward the border of Iraq, a yellow band of light held the horizon in place. “Permit me to drive you home.”
“Walking, I look at shops along the way.”
The students watching saw that Miss Robertson refused to go with him, and he felt humiliated. Yet those Muslims could only look from afar at women who weren’t family; and their parents arranged marriages. He on the contrary was used to a casual companionship with girls -- had danced with them, even kissed a few.
“No doubt we’ll see each other again -- bye!”
Hearing snickers from the onlookers, without glancing at them, he walked back to the building and down a hall toward the sports room. He was a weightlifting champion and his body ached to be put into service.
Several scrawny boys struggling with the heavy equipment moved aside when they saw him, and an audience gathered to watch. He pulled off coat, shirt, and trousers, put on canvas shoes and a pair of gym shorts over his underwear. Then with detachment he examined his muscular body in the dusty mirror tilted forward in one corner.
In a squatting position, he slowly drew up a weighted bar until it was chest high. This was the first stage, and he paused to gather energy for the upward thrust. Then he shoved the weights above his head, stifling a roar that always wanted to escape his straining lungs at this moment. Exhilarated, he turned lightly on his feet and set the iron discs on the padded floor noiselessly. Ignoring the murmur of approval from the spectators, he added twenty kilograms, lifted the weighted bar once more. Only this time, halfway up, a severe pain scored his chest and trembled his shoulder blades. He hastily dropped the bar and bent over the washbasin to hide his face. He’d felt the pain before, and in awe of it, had stopped this sport some months ago. Now he was out of shape.
When the sharp ache left; he dressed and returned outside. Two Armenian friends asked to ride with him in the Volga but he refused. Didn’t want them along when he cruised the street where the Robertsons lived, in a house where the upper story was visible because the clay-and-straw wall had been set too near. Was she home by now? Would he glimpse her in a window, as he had a few times? Did she think of him at all, now that she’d met him? And remember that he was Armenian -- so different from the Turks.
He couldn’t return home just yet and talk with his parents as if nothing had happened. Instead, he headed for the cinema and bought a ticket without noticing what was playing. He sat in the mezzanine with a bag of pumpkin seeds and chickpeas in his lap, but he couldn’t become absorbed in the film from India. All around him were men and boys in their ill-fitting suits and big caps, boorish in manner -- they annoyed him more than usual. He still felt strong from weight lifting and imagined knocking them about -- to make them stop chattering, misbehaving -- make them civilized. Their Muslim ancestors had murdered his forbears, and they were killing him, too.
Next Sunday following Armenian mass, John attended the American Protestant missionary chapel, which held services an hour later. After the final hymn, he moved close to the Robertsons, an expectant smile on his face when Ann glanced at him. She seemed surprised but introduced him to her mother and father, saying only “John’s at the university.” Professor Robertson did not recognize him or his name, even when John said it twice and added, “I am in one of your classes.”
“I see. . . ah, there are so many of you.”
“You like studying English?” Mrs. Robertson was fat and pink-cheeked, blonde like her daughter, but surely the mother had never been as lovely as her offspring, even in her youth. “Did you know Ann’s going to teach a private English class -- in our home? To just a few.”
“But you’re so good in English already,” Ann said, “you wouldn’t be interested.”
“Oh yes -- yes I would like to come!”
“Ann wants to earn money to buy a Persian rug -- for her trousseau,” she added, laughing.
“Trousseau?” They explained what the word meant. “Are you getting married?” he cried -- much too loudly.
“Sure, sometime,” she said. “To somebody.” Both Robertsons laughed but he didn’t understand why.
“May I join your classes, to improve my accent? When will you hold them?”
“Friday mornings -- your holiday.”
“That’s the Muslim holy day. I am Armenian -- a Christian. Sunday is our day, as it is yours.”
“You know what I mean. There’s no school then, so it seems the best time for everyone. If you don’t mind the fee.”
When she told him what it would cost, it seemed rather dear, yet perhaps worth it for the privilege of sitting at her feet in her own home. “Each student will pay that?”
“Heavens no! For all of you. I’m hoping for a couple of girls -- as well as boys.”
“Then I shall come -- at what o’clock?”
“Ten. See you, John.” She moved quickly away to catch up with her parents.
On Friday, when he rang the doorbell, the servant, Ahmad, who was also a student at the university, snarled in Turkish: “What do you want?” His eyes were the color of oil. John was afraid Ann had forgotten all about the English class.
But Ahmad allowed him to enter -- knew perfectly well why he was here. Merely on guard, careful lest anyone encroach upon the Robertsons and seek favors, since he himself expected those, whatever they might be.
A large, ferocious dog was kept chained in the hallway leading to the reception room, dining area, and kitchen. Ann called, “Hello, John!” and came down from upstairs. She urged him to pet the dog, but since it bared its teeth and growled, he kept his distance. “He hates all Turks -- all except Ahmad. Doesn’t know you’re Armenian,” and she laughed, as if being witty.
“The dog is your protector, I suppose.” But having a dog in the house struck him as unsanitary, though he knew it was customary in Western countries.
The others began to arrive; tea was served, and the lesson got underway, though Ann’s attention was constantly being diverted from her English textbook by questions about America and her personal life there -- from the three rudely gazing males, whom he knew to be bold, while the two girls merely giggled and said nothing.
An hour later as the students were leaving, John lingered, and when alone with Ann, said: “You cannot trust men like those.” At that moment Mrs. Robertson came in, and Ann repeated what John had said. They laughed. Why? he wondered.
“You should see some of the letters Ann’s gotten already.”
“What kind of letters?”
“Mash letters -- you know...”
“Oh, Mother, please!” She blushed and shook her head.
John mustered a smile, though he didn’t understand why the mother wasn’t furious over those letters. Still, he liked the way the two women regarded each other, like girl- friends rather than mother and daughter.
“Go ahead, Ann -- just for fun, show John the letters.”
“Yes, I want to see,” pleased to have been taken into their confidence on such a private matter. Ann got up reluctantly, mounted the stairs, and opened the door to her bedroom. He could see in a little from where he stood -- a bit of her bed. But when he noticed her mother eyeing him, he quickly looked away.
Ann returned and spread the letters on a sideboard. The messages were badly spelled on various sizes of paper: “I adore and worship you.” “Be my wife, my love, my darling.” “Kisses, kisses, kisses.”
“Isn’t that something? Of course, I doubt they knew what the words meant,” her mother said.
“They do, don’t they, John?”
He nodded gravely. “You need protection.”
“They’re like that, Mom. At just a glance, they think you’re going soft for ‘em.”
“Don’t suppose I helped any --” smiling, shaking her head. “Remember us driving down the street and you seeing some Turks you knew -- and I waved? Never gave it a thought. But they probably figured Momma was in on some romance and helping it along."
“Well, after these came, Mom didn’t wave anymore.”
The women laughed, and although perplexed by it, he joined in -- genial, as if one of them.
He began to follow Ann’s habits, knew the days she played bridge at the American consulate, when she shopped in the bazaar, and when she aided at the missionary hospital. He would be there in his Volga, wave a greeting, then help her negotiate the street to his auto. She almost never had to use a taxi. Now he was missing many classes at the university and neglected his teaching duties to such an extent that the principal reprimanded him. The old man, soon to retire, asked if he’d forgotten his prospects? Upon graduation from the university, John was slated to head the Armenian elementary school. Had he lost interest?
In Professor Robertson’s class he volunteered to answer questions more often than anyone, though his raised hand was sometimes ignored. He undertook the role of favorite student by right of his friendship with Ann; his commanding, assured voice reminded all in the room of his enviable liaison with the professor’s daughter. Among his Armenian companions, he referred to Ann as his girlfriend, though it was known she sometimes dated an American army lieutenant who was as fair-haired and blue-eyed as herself. With Armenian kitchen help in various American homes throughout Erzurum, he had spies everywhere.
John’s mother enjoyed the prestige her son’s romance gave her. Neighbors asked: if John married the girl, would he go to America with her? Of course, was her reply.
But as time went on she felt hurt that he hadn’t brought Ann home to meet his parents -- as if he were ashamed of them. True, they weren’t rich, but theirs was a Christian household, not a Muslim one. They esteemed their family honor and had suffered mightily for it. In 1915 her grandfather and grandmother had been massacred by the Turks in the village of Hizon near Lake Van, where she’d grown up. And her father was killed in mountain fighting along the Persian border a year later. There had been little but hardship for the Hecopians for many years, and it would be wonderful if all they had endured would end by having her son marry a rich American girl.
John knew the range of his mother’s hopes, but his father seemed full of foreboding. He’d seen enough trouble to know that good things seldom happened, especially for Armenians. Whenever he began grumbling about the romance, John insisted that it was merely a friendship; he had not even kissed her yet. All talk of the future was premature. But her mother smiled, hearing this, for she knew his heart.
When at last he brought Ann home for tea, he ushered her into the dim parlor. John had told his father to stoke up the wood-burning stove because Americans liked it hot in their houses. Introducing her, he suddenly saw his mother as Ann might: a wrinkled, smiling old lady, drably dressed, and yet she was only forty-five. She wore a brown homespun skirt, two coarse woolen sweaters which she had knitted and dyed black, and a gold-chain necklace with dangling antique coins. John wished she’d worn the Armenian silvery jewelry instead. Her legs were winter-wrapped in black hose, and to preserve the carpets, wore no shoes -- neither did his father. John kept his shoes on because Ann did, though his father looked askance at him.
He saw his mother smiling and staring at Ann, trying to penetrate the difference in ages, cultures, and countries with a mere look. His father remained half-hidden behind the stove, one hand on a piece of wood, as if thus explaining his function. John and Ann sat at a table covered with a lace cloth, and his mother served, curtsying each time she came to Ann. Usually the Hecopians hired a servant when they entertained, but his mother wished to honor the American girl by personally attending her. Ann, embarrassed, protested being waited on; but she took something of everything until her plate was stacked with fruit and sweets. At last his mother brought them silver cups of wine.
“This -- is good, try it. Very sweet. Armenian. Muslims know nothing about winemaking, since they’re not supposed to drink it. We Armenians follow an old -- how do you say -- recipe? The grapes are grown by Armenians, of course. Drink some more. Eat.”
“Umm. Everything’s so good. Please tell your mother her cooking is wonderful!”
But though he spoke in Armenian to his mother immediately, he only said Ann was appreciative. All of this came from a caterer and had cost a lot, more than an entire week’s food.
He began to sweat, wondered what to do next. There wasn’t even any radio music at this hour. He reached for his photograph albums on the buffet, just as his mother asked Ann, in Armenian, if she liked John without his mustache. Oh, Mother, he scolded in reply, why do you think of such things to say?
“What is it? Translate for me.”
“She wants to know how old you are.”
“I’m nineteen,” she said, smiling at his mother. Mrs. Hecopian laughed and bobbed her head, thinking Ann had said yes, she liked him very much without his mustache.
John knew his mother: the better for kissing, she was thinking.
Ann studied the snapshots of his family and friends, as well as various stages of his muscular development -- posing to make biceps rise and thighs bulge, as in bodybuilding magazines. He feared it was a mistake, showing her these -- somewhat indecent, perhaps. He couldn’t tell from her look what she was thinking.
Why show her those pictures? his mother asked. A young girl should not look at such things.
Yes, Mama. Be quiet. He knew she had sensed his own unease over the matter.
“What does she say?” asked Ann.
“Never mind.”
“That’s not fair -- tell me.”
“She thinks you are not interested in these photos of me.”
“But I am! I’ve never known any weightlifters.” She turned a page of the album. “Who’s this?”
She pointed to a mate who’d started body building with him, at age thirteen. “My friend, Robert Shahnazerian, the best in strength. If I had not stopped working out, I would be famous now, but I began to teach school, instead. When I improved my mind, my body fell away. Robert is in Ankara now.”
“What’s he doing there?”
“Living off the government, preparing for the Olympics. He has a nice apartment, a salary -- many friends. He lives well.”
“Really? How did he manage that?”
“Because he is champion weightlifter of all Turkey.” Slowly he turned the page. “Here I am with Robert.” They were in swimsuits at a lake, grinning at each other as they flexed their muscles. “At that time I was good. Now. . .” he shrugged, “I am nothing.”
“Dad says, in this part of the world -- the strong ones become really important. I guess your friend Robert is a hero, even though he’s Armenian -- right?”
“For such strength, everyone claps his hands.”
She turned another page. “Who’s this?”
“Peter.”
Immediately, both parents gasped and shook their heads. Ann said: “Who’s he? Who’s Peter?”
Around the portrait of a handsome, smiling young man were two foil wreaths. “He was my friend -- but now is dead.”
“Oh? I’m sorry. When did he die?”
“Last month. You did not hear of it? He was killed by a Muslim.”
“Killed? But why?”
“He was in love with a singer at the Grand Hotel, and so was this other man. They quarreled over her -- though she was -- how to say it? A bad woman, a public woman, you know?” He bowed his head. “Such a lively, good young man, so brave. Murdered. But none of us could keep him away from this woman.”
“I’m sorry.” Quietly, staring at the picture: “And -- he was killed right in the Grand Hotel? We sometimes go there to eat kebab. Didn’t hear anything about it, nobody said. Though it must’ve been in the papers . . . if we could read them.”
“Oh, you would not hear.”
“Well, I hope the murderer has been caught. Made to pay for his crime.”
“God will punish him.” Actually, the killer was attending Professor Robertson’s classes, just as always. Ann may even have met him. He was from a rich, local family, and his father had given baksheesh to all the police officers, to hush up the case. John wanted to change the subject, because talk of violence might make Ann uneasy -- and put her off Armenians as well, since their history was full of violence. But she couldn’t seem to get enough details about Peter’s doomed love affair. She fixed on the photograph -- so absorbed she didn’t notice that Mrs. Hecopian had peeled and sectioned an orange for her, which now lay open like a flower on her plate.
At last the four of them moved into John’s bedroom because he wanted Ann to see his library of Armenian books. She questioned him on the history of the Armenian people, as if the tragedy of Peter were somehow connected. “It is a long, terrible story,” he warned.
“Everyone knows about the genocide. The awful massacre by the Turks.”
“Killings by the Russians, too.”
“’Feed the Starving Armenians’--that was a slogan my grandparents used to hear, in California. But I never understood why the Armenians were massacred.”
“Because we are Christian!” Amazed that she did not comprehend this simple, basic fact -- the reason all Christians owed Armenians friendship because of what they’d suffered for their religion. “Armenia was the first Christian nation in the world.”
“That’s why Muslims persecuted you people?”
“They hated us! Wanted our lands, too.” Quickly, he translated the discussion for the benefit of his parents. They nodded grimly and studied Ann’s face, gauging her response. As John spoke of the axing of his mother’s family, he became increasingly excited, for Ann stood there in rapt attention. “So we never forget. Never! Even though Armenians are in Russia, Turkey, Iran, and America. A diaspora -- that is the word Jews use too -- because of the genocide. But our people are still one. We speak Armenian, have great writers like California’s William Sorayan, composers like Katchaturian, many great heroes. We will always be together.”
“I’m glad you told me. And about Peter, too. Now I suppose I should be going.” She made a little bow to his mother. “Please thank her for me.”
He escorted her to his car.
At her home, he shut off the motor and playfully reached across her, holding the door so that she couldn’t get out. Although this vicarious embrace excited him, she didn’t like it and struggled to turn the door latch. He relented at once. If only she had smiled -- he might have kissed her, even if people on the street saw. But she looked angry. “You liked coming to my home? My parents were honored, and I thank you.”
“Oh, yes . . . so interesting.” She had now gotten the door open.
He couldn’t bring himself to add -- and do you like me? He had to know that before confessing his love.
“I’m expected back.” She stepped out of the Volga, and he watched her enter the Robinson compound. Knew he should have tried to kiss her. Americans would expect it -- he’d seen that in movies. Why was he so timid?
As the months passed he spent more and more time with Ann, Ahmad hovering behind doors and keeping a close watch, especially if they were alone. But she refused to attend movies with him -- matinees where he might have held her hand, squeezing her fingers during the love scenes so that she’d know the English words spoken were his feelings as well.
He worked out more frequently at the sports club, improving his muscles. Bought a stick of American deodorant, and used the public baths three times a week instead of once. The attendant even depilated him in Muslim fashion, smiling as he scraped -- to be doing this for a Christian man! But how would Ann know his body was no longer hairy -- as in those photographs she’d seen of him posing at the lake shore? He felt cleaner, more Western somehow (though itchy too), but it was nothing to talk to her about. As he gazed in the bedroom mirror he struck a pose, trying to recapture his old self-confidence -- yet knew himself to be sick with love and unable to do anything about it. He thought of writing Ann, declaring his love, but that would make him sound like those Muslim students who’d sent those ridiculous letters last fall.
Final examinations soon -- the school year drawing to a close. His academic standing was in jeopardy because he could not memorize his lessons. He would surely fail -- and he hardly cared, except that Professor Robertson would think less of him. When Ann mentioned packing up soon in preparation for their leaving, a dream of traveling to California with the Robertsons blossomed. Or perhaps, when the moment of departure came, Ann would realize she was in love with him and could not leave. They would fall into each other’s arms and live happily in Erzurum forever. But in sober moments he knew nothing of the sort would happen.
To be with Ann, he offered to help crate and package the Robertsons’ possessions and run last minute errands. Ann and her mother gratefully accepted his services. He reserved a compartment for their journey by train to Ankara; he guided them on purchases of carpets in the bazaar from Armenian rug-dealers, bargaining for discounts, because they were his friends. And was hurt by Mrs. Robertson’s remark to Ann: “Well, I suppose we’ve been taken again. But that’s life in this country.” Then that puzzling, empty laugh.
During examination week he threw himself into prolonged study sessions, but his efforts were late. Had he mastered the texts? But during the test, when he was to write a composition, he felt fluid in English. Results would not be posted for a week, but perhaps he had failed? Afterward, he was so despondent he walked the streets alone for hours and even stopped by a tree near the edge of the city where he wept, leaning against the trunk.
I have lost my honor -- my manliness. In Ann’s going, this is what she was taking away. “And it cannot be, It cannot be,” he said aloud. At least he must make a declaration. If she rejected his love, then he had lost; but he could not have her depart without knowing for sure what she felt about him. He waited two days to go to the Robertsons.
Ahmad let him in, asking only -- Are you expected? John strode past the growling dog and mounted the stairs to the hallway, which was packed with boxes. A door nearby stood open, and there was Professor Robertson in a striped sports shirt and khaki walking shorts, his legs exposed -- covered with a golden, animal-like fuzz, exactly the color of Ann’s hair. Never seen anything like it in American movies. “Excuse me, sir -- I wish to speak to you.”
“Oh, John. . .” snapping shut a suitcase. “Look at all this stuff! The girls keep buying in the bazaar, but we’re already over our weight allotment. Don’t know where we’ll put it, either, when we get home.”
“Sir, I wish to say --” he paused, wondering how to begin. Courtesy demanded he make some statement of honorable intention, that he register with the parents his suit for the hand of their daughter.
“Ann’s in her room, I guess. I see the door’s closed. She’s bound and determined to take her phonograph and records, too. Maybe you’d be interested in them, sort of a souvenir?” He looked amiable.
“No sir, I do not think so. You see, I wish to say something very important, very serious.” Now having won the professor’s puzzled attention, the English language failed him. Finally he began: “As you know, Ann and I have been together very much.”
“Yes?” A questioning glance, no longer so friendly.
“We go on picnics. I have her to my home, and she has me here. I want you to know that I have a good job. My car is paid for because I saved for three years to buy it. I am the only son and will inherit all my father’s estate.” A frown crept across the professor’s brow. “Though Father is not rich, he has money in the bank -- more than you would think. Next year I will be principal of the school where I teach, because now I have a university degree. The old man retires, and I will live well on my salary. Can afford to marry. And I want to marry your daughter, Ann.”
“Good heavens, man, what are you talking about?”
“I love your daughter and wish to marry her.”
"We’re leaving for Ankara in a couple of days and you come here with this! Now, I think we’ve been very good to you, but don’t press us too far. I mean, for God’s sake, whatever gave you this idea? Did Ann -- did she lead you on? You know what I mean by that? Did she encourage you?” His voice grew louder. “I have a mind to have serious words with her.”
“No, no, please!” To bring down the wrath of her father would make her hate him. “She knows nothing, it is my idea. I love her, sir. I love her,” repeating it so that the professor would know that of all things a man could say, this was the highest, the noblest, the most deserving of respect. It had been wrong to begin like a Muslim and talk finances.
Then Mrs. Robertson appeared, in a bright green pants suit of the kind she might wear in California but never in Erzurum, and the sight of her in this distracted John. He couldn’t think how to proceed.
The professor laughed with relief. “Mildred -- just in time. Wait’ll you hear this. You girls and your ‘Armenian swain’ -- now see what you’ve done!”
John noted the suspicion and ridicule in Mrs. Robertson’s eyes; she looked at him the way foreigners view the natives. He decided not to lay himself open to her, as he had with the professor. He must find Ann at once. “Where is she? Where is Ann? I tell her my plan.”
Hearing footsteps in the hall, he quickly left them, Mrs. Robertson muttering, “What’s his trouble?”
On the landing Ann greeted John innocently: “Why, hello there!”
With an anguished sob, he dropped to his knees at her feet. “I love you. I want to marry you!” He threw his arms around her legs and buried his face in her white skirt.
She gasped and struggled to get away. He didn’t dare look up, realizing he’d lost here, too. With his head against her warm, wriggling legs, he reached up to caress her back and repeatedly confessed his love in an unintelligible mumble. He’d forgotten all his English.
She tried to get away but he held more tightly, tears wetting her skirt. “Stop it! Stop it, John!” Pushing his shoulders.
He heard footsteps on the stairs but only clung to her more desperately. Then she screamed. A coat rack topped over and crashed down the stairs. The dog barked furiously, and as John released her, he saw Ahmad hovering, his face red with excitement, brandishing a rolled umbrella. Then he felt the blow on his head, and the dog began ripping his trousers. John kicked at the dog and tried to scramble away. He got to the stairs, with repeated kickings at the dog, the barking resounding through the stairwell. Then he saw with horror that he had knocked over Ann.
“Mad man!” Mrs. Robertson shouted. “Mad man!”
Ahmad pursued him down the stairs, out of the house, and to the wall door, where he caught up and gave him a last, brutal shove into the street. John sprawled on the sidewalk as Ahmad slammed and locked the door.
People began to collect, looking him over. His leg was bleeding from the dog’s bite, his shirt and trousers were torn. He crawled over to the edge, where water ran in a little stream. He put his feet -- shoes and all -- into the cooling liquid, which came all the way from the mountains. Soon a score of onlookers had gathered and were commenting on him -- wondering why he’d been thrown from the American house. Was he drunk, drugged, or what?
Glancing up at last, he saw Ann in the second-floor window, peering down at him in wonder -- and at another window, Mr. and Mrs. Robertson, with that same look of half-incredulous surprise. And in the third window, triumphant Ahmad.
Exhausted, he leaned over, mesmerized by the water flowing over his shoes. It seemed to him the stream was the tears of all the sorrowing Armenians; and now he too was one of them. Despite all his strength, he was still a victim.
Only--why, why?