The winds continued as night approached. The sound had diminished due to the snowpack, but we could tell it was deadly out. Tamara became stiff and less amorous, and I thought I might have let my desire go too far. The change was sudden, and it wasn’t like she didn’t happily participate. I gave her my concerned look, “Is something wrong?” She recognized the expression and nodded with embarrassment. She spoke quietly as if she didn’t really want me to hear. It was one of the few things I understood. She needed to pee.
I tried not to smile, but it was hopeless. To me, it was humorous. We were unwashed, had made a sexy mess of our bed, would probably die of exposure, and she was worried about peeing. She smacked my shoulder letting me know she didn’t think it was funny. I straightened my lips and kissed her tenderly.
The cooking pot was all we had. Unless we wished to water our bed and freeze to death sooner, the pot would have to serve. I handed it to Tamara, and she shook her head. “We don’t have a choice,” I said and handed it to her again. She sighed and took it. I knew she was close to losing control of her bladder; I could see it in her face. She got on all fours, thought about it, then signaled for me to turn away. I smiled, held back a chuckle, and turned away. I knew everything about her body, yet she was embarrassed about peeing. Hell, I cleaned her up when she was unconscious.
The sound of her stream hitting the pan and was loud, then softened as it began to fill. I heard her softly complaining, words that I am sure weren’t meant for young ears. When the stream stopped, I turned back I saw a pot of pee in her hands and tears in her eyes. I saw no more humor. Peeing in front of me had hurt her. I carefully took the pot and set it near the door. I crawled back to her carrying one of the old man’s shirts. I put a hand behind her neck and pulled her shaking lips to mine. At the same time, I wiped her dry between her legs with shirt’s sleeve. There was no way I was going to let nature’s call come between us. She folded into me, and I felt the embarrassment fade away. She was smiling when I looked again. Such a lovely smile.
I broke the seal and pushed snow away from the upper section of the door. Bitter cold met my arm as I extended the pot out and emptied it. I was sure it would freeze quickly. I pulled my arm back in and closed the gap. Knowing I wasn’t going to make the night, I began to fill the pot myself. Tamara watched me, mesmerized. Even with all her brothers, I suspect she had never seen a man relieve himself. When I was done, she was there with the shirt. She lovingly cleaned me and followed with a tender kiss. More lovely words whispered as she let me know that everything was okay. Somehow, I loved her more.
We had to be gross about it. Survival required no less. I broke the seal, dumped out the pot then filled it with snow. I brought it in quickly, scrubbing it as best I could, then repeated the dumping and filling again. I sealed the gap for a final time that evening. The temperature had dropped dramatically inside, and my arm was freezing and had lost some of its color. Tamara hugged it to her chest as we shivered in the blankets. Once feeling returned to my arm, I lit the Sterno can, with one of our precious matches, and held the pot above to melt the snow.
Tamara made a face, indicating the pot. I shrugged my shoulders, “not much choice.” I said. She moved in close and kissed my cheek. We huddled near the only sources of heat, Sterno and each other. When the snow had melted, and the water warmed, I tried to remove it from the flame. Tamara pushed my hand back and made a popping sound with her lips. I laughed and left the water over the flames to boil. She lightly bit my ear with her lips to stall my laughing and relieved me of the pot. She was in charge of sanitation.
The Sterno took the cold bite out of the air as it brought the water to a strong boil. After the melting, there was less than a third of a pot of water. There was no way we were going to break the seal again that night, so a third would have to do. We covered the Sterno and let the water cool.
We became tender, caressing with no sexual intent. Tamara needed the closeness after all the stress of handling nature’s call in my presence. I loved her that way, so soft and caring. She thought she had lessened herself, exposing her animal needs. Greedily, I found it worth her minor shame. A cost worth enduring for such warm love. If a rescue team had showed up at that moment, I would have cursed them and all they held dear. I was exactly where I wanted to be, reassuring the most beautiful woman in the world that she had lost nothing.
Somehow, we slept. Our ears became used to the wind, our minds shutting it out as normal. Entwined in each other’s arms, we found safety and warmth. I awoke once to some less than dainty snoring that I found strangely reassuring. I liked Tamara relaxed and sound asleep. Her breathing, loud or not, was part of her. It reminded me she was alive and comfortable in my arms. Like the wind, the snoring became part of everything and I slept again.
I awoke to silence. Sometime during the night the storm had exhausted itself. The hut was dimly lit in a morning glow. My eyes opened to find Tamara on her side, her head propped in her hand, watching me. She smiled, and my life held meaning. “Good morning gorgeous,” I said, adding my smile to hers. She said something musical and leaned in for a kiss. I let the words and the kiss wash away the cold threat outside. Her hand trailed down my side and reached between my legs. More soft words and a pair of eyes filled with desire left no room for misinterpretation. We heated the hovel with more love.
Wearing everything that would fit us, we ventured outside. The hut needed fresh air and we needed to assess our situation. The situation wasn’t good. The snow was to our knees where our fire used to be and the drifts against the trees were waist high. There would be no more finding dead wood. We knew where our supply was buried though it held only a day’s worth. Our food was exhausted and even if we could attempt the cliff, we would die of exposure quickly.
I looked over the whitened landscape and smiled. At least it was beautiful. If you had to die, it might as well be among nature’s perfect landscape. Tamara slid in next to me, wrapping her arm around me and sighed. She had come to the same conclusion.
“Tamara, will you spend the rest of your life with me?” I asked softly. My heart wasn’t joking though the words held ironic humor. She looked up at me and smiled. I kissed that smile and accepted it as a yes. I let the grimness fade away and decided to make Tamara happy for as long as I could. They say freezing to death is like falling asleep. I couldn’t think of anyone else’s arms I would rather fall asleep in.
We dug out the fire pit and lit, what was most likely our last fire. Depending upon the weather, this could be our last time outside for any length of time until spring. We wouldn’t last until spring. We both knew what it meant and let it go to enjoy what time we could together.
The fire felt wonderful. Things got a little damp around it, so we had to be careful to stay dry. Somehow, through her tenacity, Tamara taught me a game she called ‘gomoku.’ She sketched a many squared grid into the wet ground and we took turns placing Xs and Os into the squares until someone got four in row. I sucked at the game, but the stakes made it worthwhile. The winner got to demand a kiss wherever she, for it was never he, desired. Tamara had fun exposing portions of her skin to the cold and wasn’t afraid to make me kiss her ass. It was the worst game I ever loved.
We had a long conversation, my half about what I did for a living and the places I had been. She spoke happily about something to do with her home. It didn’t matter that we didn’t understand each other. In fact, the lack of any possible disagreement made it that much nicer. We could laugh about a spark from the fire landing on my shoe or snow suddenly tumbling down a tree. Anything different that caught our attention and was shared seemed important.
Tamara was happy to run off and take care of her needs out of my sight. I would smile when she returned so that I could see her blush. It would earn me a smack on the shoulder, but it was a loving smack. I would apologize with a kiss.
Overall, it was one of the best days of my life. As our rocks warmed, I took her hand and held it over my heart and placed my other hand on hers. She covered it with her hand. “I love you,” I admitted again. She nodded and cried. Fate put us together and dealt a lousy future. I thought about what life could have been and saw nothing of value that didn’t contain Tamara. I preferred our short existence to one without her. We held each other as the last of the wood burnt low.
I tried adding growth I ripped from trees, but it produced more smoke than heat. Our last fire was done. Tamara smiled and held out her hand. In time, we would be done. For now, we would make love.
++++++++++++++++++++++
Tamara shook me awake, babbling as my eyes took in the morning glow. I smiled, thinking she wanted to continue last night’s activities. Thinking back warmed me against the chill in the air. She pointed to the door then put a finger to her lips and one to her ear. I listened.
The unmistakable sound of a helicopter came in and out, echoing from some unknown distance. I never dressed so fast in my life. The damn storm could have damaged our signal. The snow certainly covered any traces of a crash. I burst out into the morning and was met by bitter cold. I ignored it and headed to the cliff, trudging through waist deep snow banks at times. The sound increased as I neared.
Tamara was coming behind me, using my path to ease the travel through the snow. Smart girl. By the time we got to the cliff, the sound was steady, though I couldn’t see the copter. The sound was echoing from different directions, reverberating off the mountains.
Reaching the tree, I dug down its trunk to find the wire. It took a few seconds to pull the shirt free from the snow. The wind had blown it up, onto the cliff, and buried it. I shook it off and tossed it over the edge. It wasn’t heavy enough to break through the snow and drop fully visible below the tree branches. I could hear warning words from Tamara as I maneuvered to the other side of the tree, hanging onto the trunk with one hand and using the other to break down the snow.
I could feel the cold weakening my fingers, but the engine sound made me continue. I began using my foot to extend my reach, pushing more snow over the cliff to set our flag. I smiled as the snow began to move en masse. I cringed when I began to go with it. A desperate grab to support my frozen fingers with my other hand failed. Tamara screamed. I went over the edge.
My mind had already settled on death. This new form was met with equal resolution. My last thought was not wanting to leave Tamara alone. I spread myself out and screamed, “See me!”
My thigh shattered in a field of green. Spinning. The left side of my head exploded into white light. Darkness followed.
++++++++++++++++++++++
My eyes wouldn’t open. I struggled, but only a crack would form, and I saw nothing but whiteness behind a curtain of lashes. Snow. I remembered the snow. I was dying in the snow. I wasn’t cold. It was just like falling asleep. I smiled inside, knowing my lips couldn’t copy it. Just like falling asleep.
“Mr. Bennett.” The voice was insistent and completely out of place. I felt something warm in my right hand. Nothing should be warm. I smiled. My blood would be warm.
“Mr. Bennett.” It was a female voice. Not Tamara. Where was Tamara? I forced my eyes open, and light ripped into my skull. I closed them again and tried to move my left hand to cover them. My hand wouldn’t move.
“Slowly, Mr. Bennett.” The voice said. A warm hand covered my eyes so I could blink them open. A white room, warm and no snow. My head felt like it was swimming in grease. Thoughts were slow to come. The hand was removed, and a woman wearing a white lab coat with short cropped red hair smiled at me. Doctor? I drooled at her. A hand, from the other side of the bed, wiped my chin with a wet cloth. I turned my head, a young man in blue smocks stared back. Orderly? Nurse?
“Do you know where you are?” The doctor asked. I tried to answer, but my lips hadn’t decided to cooperate yet. I nodded slightly, more sunk my chin than nodded. I was in a hospital. American doctor. Where was Tamara?
The doctor smiled at my movement. “Rick is going to give you some water to take care of the dryness in your throat.” A straw was inserted between my lips and water was squirted in. Funny, I remembered doing that for Tamara. It felt wonderful in my mouth, so cool. I swallowed hard, letting it coat the back of my throat. I followed with a cough that broke phlegm I didn’t know was stuck there. Rick added more water, and I swallowed easier. My lips were becoming my own again.
“Where’s Tamara?” I asked weakly. It didn’t sound like my voice. I wasn’t sure if what I thought I said was coming out of my mouth. I coughed again to loosen things up.
“Slowly, Mr. Bennett,” the doctor repeated.
“Tamara. Where is Tamara?” I said clearly. I heard the words that time. The doctor smiled as if I was child asking why the sky was blue.
“I don’t know a Tamara,” she answered, “is that a family member?” I tried to move my left hand again. There was resistance. I could lift my right. I looked down my body. Both legs were encased in metal cages that circled my legs with stainless steel spokes entering my skin holding it in place. My left arm was secured in a cast that ran from my wrist to past the elbow and halfway up my bicep.
“Crashed with me,” I replied, “a woman with black hair. Thirtyish.” My mind was quickening. I turned to the orderly to see if he knew.
“It’s good that you remember the plane crash,” the doctor continued,”we were worried you might suffer some memory loss.” I felt anger surge. I don’t know where it came from, but it dwarfed everything else.
“Where the fuck is Tamara?” I growled. I shifted. It was a stupid attempt to sit up and look more forceful. Pain shot up my side, and I quickly became aware of the rest of my body. It didn’t feel good.
“I don’t know a Tamara,” the doctor continued, obviously quite skilled at irate patients, “but I will find out what I can.” I settled back into the bed. It was the best I could hope for since I couldn’t get up and walk out.
“How bad?” I asked, sending my eyes down to my legs.
“Both your legs experienced multiple fractures, ” the doctor stated without reservation. I didn’t want the glossed over version anyway. “We have reset the bones and inserted pins to guarantee it heals correctly. We expect you to regain full mobility in time.”
“My arm?” I tried to lift my right arm to point to the left and stopped when I saw the IV needle.
“You fractured the radius and ulna and chipped the humerus at the elbow. Your arm will heal faster than your legs.” The doctor stalled for a moment, “It was the head injury that concerned us the most. The swelling in your brain was very difficult to manage. By your questions, I assume there is little lasting damage. Though rehab will verify it over time.”
“I looked like Channing Tatum before the crash,” I joked. A wave of well-being came over me and washed the anger away. My mind was moving through emotions like a rollercoaster.
“The damage was more extensive than we thought,” the doctor chuckled, “I’m glad you still have your humor though mood swings are to be expected as the drugs wear off.” She looked at me, letting the humor fade away. “The swelling in your brain forced us to keep you in a medically induced coma for 57 days.” Realization kicked in.
“Where am I? I mean, what city?” I asked quickly.
“You’re at Chicago Memorial Hospital, Mr. Bennett,” the doctor replied, “I’m your main physician, Doctor Mary Tristin.” Chicago? Where the hell is Tamara? 57 days? Did they find her?
“Are my parents here?” I asked quickly, “I have to tell them about Tamara.”
“They are outside waiting for word from me,” Mary said, “do you think you are you ready for visitors?” She asked like I had a choice.
“Send them in, damn it!” I settled the tension and lowered my voice, “please.” Damn drugs.
My mother was in tears. I didn’t have time for tears. After quickly consoling her, I turned to my dad. “There was a woman who survived the crash with me on the mountain,” I said, “what happened to her?”
“I think you should take it easy, son,” my dad replied, trying to calm me, “let the accident be for now and we’ll talk about later when you’re feeling better.” 57 days, we’ll talk about it now.
“Damn it, quit coddling me,” I chastised, “what the hell happened to her?”
“Okay, okay,” my dad said, holding up his hands, “An Armenian woman was rescued with you, one of three including you that survived the crash. An old man survived as well and walked for several days. He is the one who sent help.” He must have landed below the cliff, in the valley.
“What happened to Tamara, the woman?” I demanded.
“I suppose she went home,” my mother said, her eyes glancing between my father and I. I didn’t like the look. I remembered it from my childhood when I crashed my mini bike, and they were trying to explain why it wasn’t in the garage anymore. I looked to my dad.
“Where is she?” I said leaving no room for lies.
“Son, I know things must have looked pretty grim…” I interrupted.
“Damn it! What the fuck did you do?” I could smell the parental interference. The room stunk with it, and the drugs enhanced it.
“She didn’t even speak English, honey,” my mother chimed in, “she claimed things…”
“I tried to give her some money,” my father added. Oh God! That was the worst thing they could have done.
“I love her, you idiots!” I shouted, “I intend to spend the rest of my life with her.” I heard a gasp at the door. Kimberly stood there, hand over her mouth, watery eyes. Fuck me.
“It’s just the drugs,” my mother declared, looking between Kimberly and me. There was silence for a moment as Kimberly, and I studied each other. I needed her alone.
“Please leave,” I sighed, looking at my mom. Kimberly knew I didn’t mean her. My dad had to escort my mother out. She was not taking the revelation very well. “I…” Kimberly interrupted by kissing my forehead. That is wasn’t my lips, was telling.
“I wasn’t going to tell you that way,” I admitted.
“I know,” Kimberly smiled. Her leaky eyes didn’t match the smile, “I’m still glad you didn’t die.”
“I thought I had.”
“They say you jumped off a cliff.”
“Fell, more like it,” I said, “trying to get the helicopter to see us.” Kimberly studied me for a moment, her smile fading as she thought.
“Do you love her all the time?” Kimberly asked quietly. She knew it too. We weren’t fully compatible, just used to each other. I nodded, unable to answer with words. I had no idea, how do you talk with my last love about my true love.
“I would have made a crappy nurse,” Kimberly chuckled weakly. Her eyes defied the humor.
“We would have hated each other,” I added. Kimberly nodded. There was no way we would have survived me being bedridden. She sat on the bed and took my hand in hers. I welcomed her friendship.
“I’m still sad about it,” Kimberly continued, “parts of us were so good.” I smiled remembering her beneath me in bed. She slapped my hand. “Not just those parts.” We laughed with each other, mostly because she knew where my mind went. At least we now had real honesty.
“I need to find her,” I said, “my parents may have screwed it up pretty bad.”
“I’ll help you,” Kimberly offered. I was shocked and must have looked it. She smiled, “it will make up for all the care you’re not going to get from me.”
“I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You don’t have to. We love each other too much to end it by ourselves,” Kimberly sighed, “we owe it to…”
“Tamara.”
“Tamara for making sure we didn’t end up hating each other.” Kimberley meant it. “I don’t think I want to meet her right away, but I can at least help you find her.” I chuckled at the qualified help.
“I also need to learn to speak Armenian,” I added.
“Is her English not good enough?”
“She doesn’t speak any English,” I replied.
“How did you…?”
“It was primal,” I replied, “we spoke without words, yet we understood everything.” Kimberly smiled at me, almost a laugh. “What?”
“What happens if you don’t like what she has to say?” I never thought about it.
“Then I shut up and forget I know Armenian,” I replied. Kimberley’s laugh filled the room. My mom burst in, all smiles.
“So, is everything back to normal?” My mother queried, looking at Kimberly.
“Hardly, Pamela,” Kimberly replied nicely, “we have just decided that there will be no war over it.” My mother’s face dropped. She always liked Kimberly and thought I should have married her years ago.
“Pamela, leave it be,” my dad said, forestalling my mother from interjecting her opinion.
“Do you know her last name, or surname, or whatever they use over there?” Kimberly asked, continuing our conversation.
“She told me once, I think,” I said, trying to jog my memory.
“You’re not helping him in this?” my mother chimed in.
“Yes,” Kimberly answered with determination, “yes I am.”
“I can’t remember, but I think it started with a ‘P’ sound,” I said, ignoring my parents.
“Jonathan!” my mother continued, ” you can’t do this to Kimberly.”
“Pamela, I am doing this,” Kimberly responded, “He obviously can’t do it himself,” she waved her hand over my caged legs and lowered her voice, “and though you would have made a wonderful mother-in-law, we would have been a terrible husband and wife.” I watched as my mother hugged the daughter she wanted. Kimberly smiled at me from over my mother’s shoulder. It was the she-likes-me-better-than-you smile you would expect from a sibling. I rolled my eyes and kept silent. I loved them both, but Tamara held my heart.
When the drugs wore off, mood swings were replaced by pain. It wasn’t a sharp I-can’t-function pain. Luckily, I was in a coma for the worst of it. The pain was dull and constant. Moving increased it and stillness was incredibly uncomfortable. At night, sleeping pills were a must. During the day, I took it out on Rick and the other nurses. Being immobile was incredibly boring and being cleaned by unloving strangers was embarrassing. I thought back to the mountain when Tamara had to pee. I now knew what she felt. I wondered if she knew how much I loved her and that it didn’t matter to me. I cringed as the night nurse wiped my ass. I truly hoped Tamara didn’t feel as I did at that exact moment.
Kimberly came to visit every few days. Always a kiss on my forehead. I would never again know her lips. That was a good thing. They would never compare to Tamara’s. Locating Tamara was taxing Kimberly’s talents. The embassy had not kept records beyond mine, an American. The Azerbaijani authorities were difficult to converse with and knew little beyond putting Tamara on a bus with transfers to Yerevan, her requested destination.
My parents spent a lot of time apologizing for writing Tamara off. You can’t hate the people who dropped everything and flew across the world to bring you back home. From what I could discern, they had run Tamara off. The interrupters were weak, knowing only one language well. My mother, her eyes on me and Kimberly walking down the aisle, probably bordered on cruel. My dad, ever the diplomat, tried to soften the blow with money. From what I could discern, Tamara was irate when they separated the two of us. I could still see the scars of her words in my mother’s eyes, even though the language barrier and the interrupter must have weakened their sting.
When the pain finally faded, my alone time was filled with thoughts of Tamara. Sleeping was difficult. I kept waking, expecting a warm body next to mine. I would smile, half in a remembered dream, then reality would destroy it. I missed her horribly.
Doug Finley came by to see my progress two weeks after I had woken. I could see the dilemma in his eyes. He had a useless partner in a company that needed both principles. The firm was not large enough to absorb the loss easily.
“Jonathan, it’s good to see you awake,” Doug said as he took in my caged legs.
“Doug, thanks for coming to see me,” I returned, “I hope the Azerbaijani deal went well.”
“Truthfully, it took a nosedive,” Doug admitted, “they got wind of your problems and attempted to renegotiate.” He paused a moment, maybe thinking he should have lied, “some misunderstandings occurred that both sides would have trouble undoing. I think they felt the deal was with you and not us.”
“Damn,” I said more to myself. I disliked having all that effort go to waste, especially after what I had endured.
“Not your fault.” Doug shrugged his shoulders. I knew he felt the investment in the trip was a complete loss. Now I am laid up, costing more than I produce. “We’ll find another source in time.” He smiled as if it was non-consequential. I knew it was.
“It kind of pisses me off,” I said grimly, “I thought it was a done deal. I’m sorry Doug.”
Doug smiled. “Just worry about getting better. Have they given you any idea how long you’re going to be laid up?”
“Walking in five or six months, fully mobile in a year,” I answered truthfully. There was no way I would be returning to work quickly. Doug nodded, and I could see the friend mixing with the business owner. I knew that he would pay a financial toll as I recovered.
“Doug, if we need to sell,” I said, “don’t wait to spare my feelings.” I wasn’t sure I was ready to end the business, but I couldn’t let him suffer financially without me.
“Not sure we can,” Doug said, “the proposal expired thirty days ago. Our numbers have dropped,” he added, indicated my legs, “not sure if there is any interest at a reasonable price.”
“Shit, I’m sorry Doug. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
“I know,” Doug sighed, “we’ll just have to make the best of it.” His smile belied the fears I knew were working their way through our finances. Unlike me, he lived rather high. Insurance on his Porsche probably cost more than my car. “So they tell me you tried base jumping without a chute…” At least we could still laugh together.
++++++++++++++++++++++
Five months after I fell from the cliff, my rehabilitation began in earnest. The tree that had saved my life did so at the expense of my legs. Immobile, my leg muscles had weakened so dramatically that when the pins and cages were removed I could barely bend my knees. The doctor had been correct. My arm had healed much quicker. I had to learn to walk all over again.
Kimberly had practically given up trying to find Tamara. She still visited me and told me of trading emails with this authority or another, but I could tell she had been defeated. I wasn’t going to push. She at least had found a trail to Yerevan. My parents said they were looking, but I knew it was a half-hearted effort to stall my feelings while they hoped my desire would wane. My mother had some vision of my future, and it didn’t contain an Armenian wife. My father, bless his heart, loved my mother as much as I loved Tamara. I could not pit him against her.
At night, alone in my room, thoughts of the mountain would return. Feelings of Tamara would fill me. Fear of her finding another frightened me. I would not fare well against someone who knew her language. Longing to return to that hopeless hovel with her in my arms swamped reasoning. I would rather die with her than live without her. It was hard to sleep with her in my mind.
I spent six hours a week learning Armenian. My tutor, Ruben Aslanian, was more than patient with me. He was a retired steelworker, born and raised in Southern Illinois in an Armenian household. I was never a good student, and Ruben wasn’t exactly a great teacher. We learned together. There weren’t any other teachers willing to make house calls on a regular basis.
Ruben would shake his bald head every time I mispronounced a word. He didn’t have the skills to describe my error properly, and my ears currently heard no difference. It would take time to become proficient. What Ruben lacked in teaching skills, he made up for with his patience. He had made many trips to Armenia, visiting and supporting his extended family. I soaked up his knowledge of the country as well as the language.
Seven months after the fall, I was able to walk across the room, with two canes, without tiring. It had been a brutal rehabilitation. Entire muscle groups had to be rebuilt and adjust to the newly healed bones. My ankles, spared the brunt of the fall, were the worst. They felt like the first time I went ice skating when I was a child. It was if they had forgotten everything they were taught and fought against me the whole time. My doctor estimated I would be close to 100%, or what would be my new 100%, in a few more months. I moved back to my apartment. My mind began thinking of travel.
Kimberly insisted on driving me to physical rehab every other day. She was feeling guilty for not locating Tamara. The trips made me feel guilty. We had that way about us still. Unable to handle normal life comfortably. With her help, I progressed quickly. In two more months, I was able to jog half a mile on the treadmill without faltering. The scars along my legs became less hideous, more part of me now. Kimberly said I should tell people they were bullet holes. She thought It would be sexier.
My lessons progressed with Ruben to the point I could hold simple conversations in Armenian. Nothing elaborate, but a little more than ‘where’s the bathroom.’ It was his last lesson that made my heart jump.
“I may have found her, or her family at least,” Ruben stated with a smile as he entered the door. He was excited and now, so was I.
“Tamara? Where?”
“In the outskirts of Yerevan, in old soviet era tenet housing,” Ruben stated, rubbing his bald head. He always did that when lessons went well. Good thing he didn’t play poker. “My family thinks it is Tamara’s family, they’re not completely sure, but how many families claim plane crash survivors?”
“They talked to them?” I asked, pulling a chair out for Ruben.
“No,” Ruben answered, “it is kind of third-hand knowledge. I didn’t ask them to go Yerevan. They just spoke to friends of a friend.” He shook his head, “I didn’t ask them to travel there. I could try.”
“No,” I said, my smile growing, “I’m going there one way or the other. This, at least, gives me a place to start.”
“I only know the building,” Ruben qualified, “It’s a long trip if it isn’t her.”
“Then I’m knocking on doors,” I said proudly, “If it takes years, well…then it takes years. I’m not losing her again.”
“Armenian women have a certain strength to them,” Ruben warned, “are you sure? You chase her that far, and she’ll know she owns you.”
“She already knows,” I said and smiled, “We own each other.”
The very next day, I went shopping. It wasn’t the most expensive ring in the world, but that wasn’t me, or Tamara. It was a pretty thing, platinum band with a solitaire setting. I wasn’t sure it was a wise thing to do, but if she was still single, I meant to rectify it. I closed the black ring box and put it in my pocket. If she wasn’t single, I could always carve my eyes out with the diamond and try out another cliff.
Doug tried hard to talk me out of traveling to Armenia. He was adamant that I would find her with another man or worse, uninterested. He spent a lot of time trying to talk me into going to South America. There was a strong interest in handmade Peruvian pottery and thought my time would be better spent acquiring a supplier. We had angry words on the subject. He seemed to think he could change my mind, not understanding my level of commitment. The only thing that ended the argument was promising to travel to Peru after I found Tamara.
My mother was despondent. Not so much that I was getting back on a plane, but that I was pursuing a woman that didn’t quite meet her criteria. My father, on the other hand, organized the trip and bought the plane tickets. He had been feeling guilty about not being more charitable to Tamara when they had met briefly. My parents treated her poorly, trying to undo what they thought was me sowing wild oats. I kissed my mother and, for the first time in a long time, hugged my father.
“Find her,” my father whispered in my ear. Soft enough that my mother couldn’t hear. I felt he wanted to say more, but he left it at that. His love was stretched between the two of us. He was forever the diplomat.
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My three plane hops to Yerevan landed where they were supposed to. I let out the breath I was holding each time the wheels touched down safely on a runway. I grabbed my one bag and walked out of the airport with single-minded desire and note with unverified information.
Tamara Petrosian
Kurkjian building III
Yerevan was not Chicago. No grandiose downtown with glass and steel skyscrapers. Yerevan looked old, a throwback to the 50’s with mostly cement buildings rarely more than ten stories high. The city was backed by snow-covered mountains that brought back memories. Part of the same Caucasus chain that Tamara and I survived.
I took a cab to the Marriott located downtown. The area was well cared for and prepared for tourists. Art, green space, and impressive architecture were all around. It was not an unimpressive city. My lessons with Ruben served me well. I had no trouble understanding that I was being overcharged for the ride. The cabby smiled at the dumb American, who paid the fee without question. The conversion math for the Dram was difficult, and I didn’t have my head adjusted to the new monetary system. From what I could quickly figure, his overpayment was a hell of a lot less than a Chicago cabbies underpayment.
I spent some time, after checking in, with the concierge. It took a few minutes for him to locate the Kurkjian buildings, a twenty-minute trip away. He marked a map for me and also pointed out some choice eateries. I wasn’t hungry for food. He called me another cab and the doorman instructed the cabbie where to go and what to charge. I laid out tips that I hoped weren’t too small or large. The large smiles told me they were still on the large side.
The people we passed along the way could have been from any western city in the world. No distinctive clothing like you might find in the mid-east. Jeans, khakis, and a suit here and there. Women wore pants as well as dresses. It was the normal structures that were different. They were boring. Every now and again we would pass something unique, but all in all, the city had a lot of drab architecture.
Green spaces were the exception. The people seemed to treasure the parks and the grasses between their boring buildings. That’s where they put most of their effort, and it was wonderful. I always loved the Chicago parks, but they were far apart compared to the integrated system they had in Yerevan.
We arrived at, what the driver indicated, was the Kurkjian buildings. A set of four zig-zagged five-story buildings that reminded me of an accordion. The cabby pointed to the one in front of where he pulled over and said something too quickly. When he repeated it slowly to my confused face, I understood that it was building three. I thanked him and paid him the agreed upon fare plus a much smaller tip than I gave the concierge. I received a polite thank you, but no smile. The proper tip was somewhere between the two.
I stepped out of the cab and realized I had just walked out into a huge risk. I turned to ask the cabbie to wait, but he was already driving off. I shrugged to myself; it couldn’t be as bad as falling off a cliff. I moved toward what looked like the main entrance. The building was a cinderblock structure, gray with little in the way of adornments. Definitely a boring Soviet-era structure.
The people I passed were not friendly, or unfriendly. They seemed to ignore my presence as I ambled, obviously new, toward the entrance. I was kind of hoping someone would ask me if I needed help so they would be committed to trying to understand my poor Armenian. Sadly, I made it to the doors unaccosted.
Though the buildings housed a lot of people, there was no formal information desk. A wall of flushed mailboxes were along the entrance wall, most without names, just numbers. The hall ahead was lined with doors leading to the individual apartments. I should have hired an interrupter. I had some glorious dream of Tamara seeing me from afar and avoiding language altogether. Now that I was there, the dream faded and reality set in. I waited by the mailboxes, thinking someone would be along. It was better than knocking on random doors.
A young girl with bushy black hair walked toward me. I was terrible with ages, but I guessed ten. She moved deftly to the other side of the hall to avoid me with the most distance she could put between us. Of course, I was a stranger. She opened a mailbox using a key and retrieved a few letters.
“Hello,” I asked in my piss poor Armenian, “I am looking for someone.” I tried to remember all my lessons, but the look on her face said something other than I intended came out. She hurried past me. “Please,” I added. She ran faster. I shrugged my shoulders and waited for an adult.
It was only a moment later when a rather burly man came down the hall from where the girl had disappeared. He had a few days growth on his face and was wearing sweats and t-shirt. “Hello,” I started.
“American?” the man spat in a deep accent. I nodded as he slowed. A series of words left his mouth at a speed I couldn’t understand. I assumed his one word of English was ‘American.’ By his tone, I don’t think he liked Americans.
“Please, slowly,” I sputtered. I understood something about children and scaring or frightening. He then asked if I liked children. I nodded. Humorously, Ruben had taught me a few swear words. This man wasn’t laughing when he screamed some I understood and others I didn’t. I was missing something. I raised my hands, fingers wide, trying desperately to remember the words for ‘I don’t understand.’ Another door opened, and a man emerged, obviously known to the first. They had a brief conversation where the word ‘American’ was used in less than favorable terms.
“I am looking for a person,” I said, happy I could assemble the words. I should never have trusted my language skills. The new man looked at me.
“Tamara Petrosian,” I added.
“You look for Petrosian?” the man asked in broken English. I nodded. He smiled, “he think you after…daughter,” he added, pointing at the burly father.
“No,” I said, looking at the first man. I vehemently shook my head to emphasize the point as the new man translated. The first man grunted and dismissed me with a wave of his hand. He was rambling about Americans as he went back down the hall. I sighed. Nuances were everything.
“Petrosian… floor three,” the man said and pointed way down the hall, “three-nine-eight.” I smiled and held out my hand in a way of thanks. He ignored it and went back his apartment. Americans weren’t popular in this building. I walked down the hall until I saw stairs going up.
I took a deep breath and knocked on 398. I heard movement behind the door and waited for a moment before the door open. An old woman, heavy set with her black hair loose and wavy, answered without a smile.