The Doves of Ohanavank (46 page)

Carla is finally released from house arrest on the basis of inconclusive evidence. However, the police order makes it clear that the case would be reopened if and when new evidence implicating her comes to light.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

T
wo momentous events took place this week, hopefully both harbingers of better days to come. On Monday,
Apastan
officially opened its doors. It is a beautiful three-story house in the Malatya-Sebastia district of Yerevan. It has the charm of the old homes, but is renovated and well suited to accommodate twenty boarders. There is a two-meter high wall around the one thousand square meter property, with a small garden at the back of the house. Most of the furniture has arrived, and although we still have a few pieces to procure, we decided to do the opening because Monday was the only day that Manoj could visit again.

Manoj gave me a small sealed envelope. It was a note from Ahmed.

“Dear Lara
,

        
I’m sorry I could not attend the opening, but please accept my sincere congratulations. As soon as you have next year’s budget finalized, I will transfer the next tranche of the funds. The Ayvazians’ villa is still stuck in the court, but I will fund the shelter personally until the villa is sorted out and sold
.

        
On a personal note, I want to thank you again for opening my eyes. My life has changed immeasurably because of you. As you soar over your mountain peaks, know that you have a friend for life here in the desert
.

        
Sincerely, Ahmed.”

There was no pomp and circumstance, no long speeches, no cutting of ribbons. Just us, and the few staff that we have hired, including my assistant, a guard who is also the driver, a psychiatrist, a housekeeper and Dr. Suren, who is on retainer. There were also two people from the government: the chief of police of the district and a representative from the Department of Justice. No reporters were invited. Manoj outlined the purpose of the foreign benefactor, Edik translated, and the guests toured the house. The ceremony lasted forty-five minutes.

Although Hov is still in jail, I gave Anna the option to move into the shelter or stay in our new apartment. She opted for the apartment. She will enroll in acting and literature classes, and will work part time at the shelter. Her job will be to engage the residents in reading from classical literary works as a recreational activity a few times a week.

The second event was the wedding of Sona and Simon in Ohanavank on Saturday. Everyone in Saralandj was there, in addition to a lot of friends and relatives from Aparan and Ashtarak. The main hall of the monastery was packed. The service was traditional and truly lovely. I had forgotten how beautiful Armenian liturgical music is. Sona looked beatific.

The most amazing thing that Sona and Simon did was to leave the church through the secret door, into the underground cave, and out on the other side of the gorge, where a horse-drawn carriage was waiting to take them to a car on the main road, which, in turn, took them on their honeymoon, to a small hotel outside Ashtarak. Everyone laughed when she removed her high-heeled shoes and handed them to Simon. The scene where they walked down the hidden staircase as man and wife, she in her flowing white wedding gown, he in his silver-grey tuxedo, and disappeared into the ground, captivated everyone. As they emerged from the cave at the other side of the gorge, forty-eight white doves were released, which is the sum of their ages, twenty-two and twenty-six. It was their idea to build a bridge between their wedding and the thirteenth century tale of the church. Edik had tears in his eyes, as did I.

Edik had found the time to pull Arpi aside during the wedding and commend her on her poetry. He was not exaggerating. He honestly believes Arpi is already an accomplished poet, and should be encouraged to write. “Just keep writing,” he told her.

Edik remains an enigma. I cannot decide whether the cause of his deep interest in me is his feeling that my coming home, and his role in it, has been a vindication of the loss of his sister Sirarpi, or whether a more romantic feeling is in play. Had it not been for the age difference between us, would he have wanted a romantic relationship with me? I guess I’ll never find out, unless I put him on his bench of truth and redemption and outright ask him one day. In the meantime, I’m happy to live with this ambiguity for a while longer. He is not only one of the most decent people I have ever known, but a true friend, and someone who has helped guide me
through some of the most difficult conflicts that I have had to resolve. He’ll have a life-long friend in me as well.

Anastasia is back to her routine in Moscow and calls once in a while. She is another enigma. She has embraced everything that I have rejected, and will never understand my inability to accept the life she has adopted, and yet we too have become friends of sorts. I know she would trust me with anything. I just don’t know why. That too is something I am happy to live with.

On Sunday, everyone at home was still glowing with the memory of the perfect wedding. Even Arpi was livelier.

Before lunch, I went for a walk toward the forests of Saralandj. I had no intention of reaching them this time. I just wanted to relive that experience from my childhood. The intense awe and excitement that I had felt years ago were replaced by a serene familiarity with the surroundings. The forest is now home too.

When I returned home, I saw Aram with his nose buried in Arpi’s poetry book. I could hear Avo whistling a tune while working in the back garden with Sago, just like Papa used to do. He has his first shipment of honey to Dubai already scheduled for the fall. Alisia was chirping around like a spring sparrow learning how to fly. And I could see and feel Arpi drifting back and forth between the present and somewhere mystical in her mind.

In the afternoon I took a bunch of white carnations that we had brought home from the wedding, and went to the village cemetery. I remember how we used to visit our family section in the cemetery on
Merelots
days; there are five in the Armenian calendar. Early on, the visits were a lot of fun for us. We did not personally know anyone buried there, and my parents used to turn the visit into a family outing. They burned
khung
, incense, and played
duduk
music, wanting to keep the memory of my grandparents and great aunts and uncles alive.

Of course, all that changed when Papa was killed.

Aside from the graves, there are two stones with crosses on them for my great-grandfather and for my great aunt, the legendary Araxi Dadik, whose ring I now wear. They both died in Siberia, and their remains are lost somewhere there. How many secrets are buried in this small cemetery, I wondered? Great-grandpa, who was tired of multiple exiles and came to Armenia in the mid-forties just so he could die in the Motherland, was
instead exiled to Siberia, where he died. The beautiful Araxi Dadik had a miserable life. She left a man who was madly in love with her behind, ended up marrying someone else in Siberia and died of tuberculosis at a young age, alone, because they had quarantined her.

How I wish I could exhume the secrets that have found a final home in these graves.

I placed a white carnation on each grave and the two stones, starting with Araxi Dadik, showing her her ring, and working my way down, taking a minute to think about each person, trying to revive their memory like Papa used to do. I stayed longer at Mama’s grave. I told her how sorry I was that I didn’t make it home in time to see her. I told her how I never forgot our last night and her words of advice; I told her how I never forgot the sorrow that defined her. How many secrets did you take with you, Mama? Did you have any? Were they your prison or your sanctuary?

I placed the last carnation on Papa’s grave, and could not control my tears. Thank you for not abandoning me, Papa. You were there helping me every step of the way. Somewhere in the Bible stories that you used to read, you read once that Jesus died for us. The only person I know who died for me is you, Papa jan. You died for me, and then you saved my life and brought me back home. I will not leave home again, no matter where I go.

Acknowledgements

L
ike its prequel,
A Place Far Away
, this book is dedicated to the thousands of young women who fall victim to international human trafficking every year and suffer silently trapped in a horrific world. It was my chance encounter with some of them and my first-hand familiarization with their plight that inspired me to write both books.

Ultimately, this is the story of the heroic attempt of a young victim of sex trafficking to go home again. It is a work of fiction. All characters, events and places have no connection whatsoever with actual ones. However, once again, I have tried to tell the story in a way that allows a sense of the true nature of the anguish of that journey to flow through the fiction. My most valuable insights in creating that link came from the many victims that I had the privilege of meeting and interviewing, some still in captivity, others in various shelters in Yerevan. By their trust and candor, they gave me more than I can hope to return.

I am indebted to many individuals who helped improve the manuscript: Jane Vise Hall, who patiently and expertly edited the manuscript; Armine Hovannisian, who made several invaluable suggestions which enriched the plot immeasurably; Silva Merjanian, who wrote Arpi Galian’s poem; Artak Tonikian, who helped both with my research and with the cover design; Debbie Beadle of Ecpat UK, who helped with my early research. I am also grateful to several individuals who patiently read the manuscript and made valuable suggestions, including my wife Charlotte Zanoyan, Nora Salibian, Ussama Saffouri, Arax Pashayan, Dikran Babikian and Hera Deeb.