Chronicles of Armenia
Part 1.3
by Alessandra McAllister‘How did the job hunt go today?’ Back in the hostel dormitory the two men were sat where I had left them. The slender French speaker had changed into a three-piece suit for the evening. ‘Not well. I think I got something at the language centre, but it is not enough.’
‘You really should come to Dubai,’ insisted the stocky man, ‘I don’t know why you’re hanging around Armenia. There’s nothing here to stay for.’ Having come in and collapsed onto the bed, I now interjected. ‘And why are you here?’ They both looked over with surprise. The stocky one shifted from side to side and looked away. ‘I’m picking up some money to take to Dubai. I’m out of here next week.’ The elegant man addressed us both, ‘I don’t want to go to an Arab country. I want to go to Europe. I liked France, but I had to go back to Iran for five years. I just left again. I can’t stand the oppression and I like to see women uncovered. Here I feel free, but there’s no work. I’m waiting for a friend to help me out with a Swiss visa. Maybe that’ll come through.’ He spoke with a French accent. I could have sworn he was French. ‘I am French in my heart,’ he said. ‘You’re an old Casanova, you are,’ said the stocky one. The three of us went out for beer. The stocky guy talked about making money in Dubai. He would be rich again. Rich and happy. Oh, he didn’t understand why people wasted their time in moneyless places like Armenia. He couldn’t wait to get out of here. His eyes bulged and darted unnervingly as he spoke, squeezed out from their sockets by the stress of making money and fear of losing it. The old Casanova and I listened half-heartedly. We were more interested in finding a place to dance. At my suggestion we went to the bar where I had met the Iranians the night before. It was the same hub of laughter and merriment as I remembered, although I saw no sign of Iranian Elton John. My energy began to wane. Casanova and I danced a clumsy tango before I resolved to take up a final seat at the bar until closing time. I was ready to go home and about to go when a troop walked in. I say a troop because they had that aura of extravagance so alluring it is like a forcefield to change the course of events. They were a foursome all at once comedic, beautiful and frivolous, but with the air of tragedy about them. I was spellbound on my bar seat. The tall and busty bob-haired blonde among them blew me a kiss and waved her rose-tattooed arms about her head. She placed her hand around the neck of her male companion and they both looked at me and smiled, almost menacingly. She whispered something in his ear and turned away. I knew then I was not going home. The man in question was a gangly, wild-haired fellow with a most peculiar face, so peculiar as to be charming. The laughter lines of his mouth spread around his nose which itself protruded from between two deep-set dark-ringed eyes. His teeth were small and badly cared for but they were framed by a smile that was in love with life. Our eyes locked together for a song. His look showed no signs of sleep, only of wild fantasies that I dared not share. He danced sensationally and wordlessly and when the bar closed he asked, ‘Will you come with us?’ There was a smile in his voice too. We piled into a car driven by the other man in the group. He was very short and slightly rotund and smoked one roll-up cigarette after another from a metal tobacco box with an inbuilt rolling device. He did not speak but bobbed his head to the music making the huge curls of his hair bounce in unison. The girl with the rose-tattooed arms turned and asked my name then took a hold of my wrist and dabbed on it a sweet, pungent perfume. She had the restless gaze of a wild cat. ‘I love England,’ she pouted, ‘I fell in love in London.’ The second girl spoke up for the first time, ‘I would love England, but it has terrible immigration laws that I cannot agree with. It won’t allow my Mimi to enter. I bring her all over Europe with me only to reach the UK border and be told she is not permitted entry into the country. And it is her native land! Imagine a Yorkshire terrier never seeing Yorkshire! It’s so unfair.’ She frowned before continuing, ‘but I love English designers. As you can see I am wearing head to toe Vivienne Westwood. Well, not to toe because my boots are Jean Paul Gautier.’ I nodded. Certainly her outfit was not one to be overlooked: furry bear-eared hat, traffic-light red puffer jacket, leopard print leggings and enormous high-topped shiny purple boots. The car stopped and the troop jumped out. A rose-tattooed hand held itself out to me. ‘Come,’ she said, ‘let’s dance,’ and I was led into a hollow and sparsely peopled club. Whisky bottles and forgotten drinks cluttered the tables. A few men and women slouched in corners. There was an atmosphere of inactivity in the neon-lit room despite the DJ’s best efforts. That was until Deep Red Rose-Tattoos swayed onto the dance floor dancing over wide, shivering hips. Her smile glinted blue under the club lights. I was later informed that she had once been Armenia’s sex symbol. Now she was a little older, a little larger and no longer graced magazine pages, but she still inspired sex. A carnival of gangly limbs and wild black hair followed in her wake and she and the man with sleepless eyes began to writhe across the tiles. Others looked on from their seats in wonder. The two of them drew me into their tireless and predatory dance, crying ‘We love you!’ and I was compelled by a kinesthetic magnetism to carry on in that reel of limbs and casual laughter until I was ready to collapse. I threw myself onto the divan, lungs heaving. The short curly haired man turned and smiled like Behemoth. He pushed a roll-up cigarette between my fingers and said, ‘You are beautiful.’ The sex symbol of yesteryear and the gangly man with sleepless eyes came towards where we sat and bore the words upon me: ‘You are our queen tonight!’ ‘We love you!’ cried all three. I was beginning to feel like Margharita at Woland’s ball: worshipped to exhaustion but fuelled by a great desire to meet the ends of this unexpected twist in the adventure. The man with the gangly limbs bent towards me, smiling still in his sunken eyes. ‘When are you leaving Armenia?’ He spoke softly, curling the ‘r’ with the front of his tongue. ‘Monday.’ ‘From now until then you are with me.’ The command slid through the air like the hiss off a lizard’s tongue. I was intrigued to follow it. I measured him up and then the scene before me: a carnage of whisky, ice and sweat and a mass of bright and beguiling faces that would not take no for an answer. It was the antipode to the devout naivety of my guide from that afternoon; in here, there was no protection for anybody, marital or otherwise, and nobody desired it. Gyrating backsides on the T.V. screen and scarved heads through the window: preliminary snapshots of a long weekend in Armenia. From then on I took no more notice of the headscarves bent over the roadside and I never contacted my church guide or the Iranians again. I was too dazzled by the treasure chest of frivolity I had stumbled upon in the austere Soviet city, too intrigued by the smiling voice and sleeples eyes to look for anything more in Armenia. I responded to his command with no more than a nod. Another hand slid into mine – I was not sure whose it was anymore – and the voices around me sang out again, ‘There is so much love here. You will come back, won’t you?’
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Pamphlet. Magazine - 2014 -