Authors: Michael Barakiva
“I’m so happy you’re here,” Alek whispered to him.
“Me too,” Ethan whispered back, running his hands through Alek’s hair.
“You’re going to mess it up,” Alek protested weakly, staying exactly where he was.
“So, what’s the deal, Polly-O?”
“Dinner party—me, you, my bro, his half-Turkish girlfriend, and my folks. Think you can handle it?”
“Becky filled me in. I’m game.”
“Let’s see if you still feel that way at the end of the night.” He took Ethan by the arm and led him inside. His parents were munching on the hors d’oeuvres when Alek returned. They stood up the moment they saw Ethan.
“Mom, Dad, I think you remember Ethan Novick. Ethan, my parents; and I think you know my brother, Nik.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Khederian, I want to apologize for our first meeting, which I believe occurred under rather unfortunate circumstances,” Ethan recited formally.
“Young man—” Mr. Khederian began.
“Please, sir,” Ethan gently interrupted him. “I’d really like to get through this, since I went to the trouble of writing it out and memorizing it.” Ethan paused, asking permission, and Mr. Khederian gave the slightest nod of his head. “I want you to know that I care about your son very much, and I hope you give me the opportunity to show you who I really am. I might not be a model citizen like Alek, but that’s one of the things I like about him, and I don’t want to change that. I don’t want to be a bad influence.” Ethan looked at Alek for a second, then continued. “Someone very important to me once said that apologies are cheap. It’s easy to say ‘I’m sorry’ and expect everything to be better. He also said that gifts are better. They say ‘I’m sorry, and I’m willing to spend some time and effort to show you how sorry I really am.’ So here.” Ethan pulled out a small package exquisitely wrapped in white tissue paper from his inside jacket pocket. “Please accept this gift as a token of my apology. I hope you like it.”
Alek’s father only hesitated for a moment before he held out his hand and took the package from Ethan. He slowly undid the intricate pale green bow, opened the box, and held up its contents: a single ceramic tile of authentic blue-and-white Armenian pottery.
“How did you find this?” Mr. Khederian asked, dumbfounded.
“Peter Balakian gave it to my dad.”
“Your dad knows Peter Balakian! That’s so cool,” Nik exclaimed.
“They’ve been friends since they went to NYU together. My dad was having lunch with him the day after you got back from your trip early—that’s why I wanted Alek to come into the city with me.”
“Your father is a professor, then?” Alek’s mom asked hopefully.
“Sociology. He specializes in urbanization.”
“How lovely, Ethan. What a truly thoughtful and meaningful gift.” Mrs. Khederian smiled. Alek’s parents looked at each other for a moment. Alek couldn’t see any gestures that indicated communication between them, but somehow he knew that an entire conversation transpired in that moment. “I understand Aleksander invited you for dinner tonight?”
“He did, yes,” Ethan said, nodding.
“Well, why don’t you stay? Tonight. This one time,” Mr. Khederian said, extending his hand.
Ethan exhaled visibly, shaking Mr. Khederian’s hand. “Thank you, sir. Yes, I’d be honored.”
“We have hors d’oeuvres on the coffee table,” Nik called in from the living room.
Alek took Ethan’s hand and led him into the living room.
“I didn’t know your name was short for Aleksander. I’m going to call you ‘the Great’ from now on,” Ethan teased, tussling Alek’s spiky hair with his fingers.
“That’s a great idea,” Alek said. “If you want me to kill you.”
“These are authentic Arabic pickles,” Nik said, explaining the offerings to Ethan. “And this is—”
“String cheese!” Ethan said gleefully.
“You eat it like this,” Nik offered, holding up a braid.
“I got it, man—when it comes to string cheese, I’m a pro.” Ethan expertly unbraided a strand and popped it in his mouth.
The doorbell rang for the second time that evening. Alek and Nik looked at each other, then Nik got up and opened the door. He stepped outside and drew Nanar into a fierce embrace. She was wearing a lavender linen dress with a simple matching belt, an off-white shawl hanging from her shoulders. Her heels made her look even taller than she was, and Alek saw a defiant strength in her stance. Rather than apologizing for her height, she was owning it.
“No!” Alek heard his mother say. She crossed to the entry foyer, barricading the would-be guest from entering.
“No what?” Nik asked, disengaging from Nanar but still holding her hand.
“Your mother is saying, ‘No, don’t ask us to accept her into our house,’” Mr. Khederian said. “And I agree.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Khederian, am I so different now from the person who had lunch with you every week after church for the last year?” Nanar asked evenly.
“Yes! Yes, you are!” Mrs. Khederian responded.
“But I’ve done nothing!” Nanar protested. “Why does finding out that my mother is Turkish make me any crueler or pettier? Why does your opinion of me change because of something I have no control over?”
“Nik told us your family was from Van. Did you know that’s where my family was from, too?” Mrs. Khederian asked.
“I didn’t,” Nanar said.
“Boghos, bring me the picture,” Mrs. Khederian said.
“Do you think—” he started, but she cut him off.
“I said bring it to me,” his wife insisted, and he left for the kitchen.
“My grandfather was the only person in my family who had the wherewithal to flee Turkey. It’s easy to look back and ask, ‘Why didn’t everyone run when they saw their friends and families persecuted and executed?’ But how many of us, even now, would have the courage to leave everything we know, to abandon our roots and our community for a new, foreign world where we didn’t speak the language? He was barely older than Nik when he left.”
Mr. Khederian returned from the kitchen, holding the botched family portrait. He handed it to his wife, who held it up to Nanar.
“This picture was what my grandfather used to teach me the names of all the family members who were killed in the genocide.” She pointed to a woman in the back row, laughing. “Manushag, my grandfather’s aunt, who was dragged from her bed in the middle of the night, raped, and then murdered in the town square.” She pointed to a man next to her, standing solemnly and proudly in his three-piece suit. “Her husband, Simon, was bayoneted in the stomach when he tried to intervene, and forced to watch, the life slowly leaking out of him.” She pointed to four children, standing in height order. “Taniel, Garnik, Adrine, and Sevoug, their kids, were rounded up like animals and deported, forced on a desert march none of them survived.”
She continued pointing to figures in the portrait. “Sona, my grandfather’s older sister, killed, along with her husband, Ara, and two of their children, Patil and Elnaz, when the Armenians of Van tried to band together and repel the attacks.”
Point. “Karekin, the youngest, hid in a well. She starved to death and her corpse was discovered weeks later, but she was considered one of the lucky ones because she didn’t die at Turkish hands.”
Point. “My great-grandparents, Dikran and Marine, shot in the head at their kitchen table. This is when my grandfather left. He didn’t even say goodbye to his parents, the only surviving members of his family, because he didn’t think he’d be able to make it out if he did. And they stayed, deluding themselves into believing that things would get better. By 1920, not a single Armenian had been left alive in the town.”
Mrs. Khederian’s body was rigid as she spoke, the memories forcing her voice tighter. “I know that you’re not responsible for any of these things, Nanar. Of course I know that. And I want nothing more than to be able to welcome the girl who gives my Andranik, my firstborn, such joy. But how do I know what your mother’s grandparents were doing in 1915? How do I know that your great-grandfather didn’t pull the trigger on one of my family members, or that an heirloom of your family’s house today wasn’t looted from mine one hundred years ago? How can I welcome you into this house when doing so would insult the ghosts of all my ancestors?”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Khederian,” Nanar answered truthfully.
Nik dropped Nanar’s hand, and Alek couldn’t decide which of their deflated bodies looked more defeated. Alek’s mom walked out to Nanar and put her hand on her shoulder. “Did you drive here today?” she asked kindly.
Nanar nodded her head yes.
“Go home, Nanar, and we’ll figure this out in the future, at a time when we’re not all so worked up, okay?” Mrs. Khederian instructed her. Nanar nodded yes again and turned, her body slumped in defeat.
“No, it’s not okay,” Alek said.
“Alek, please,” his father interjected gently. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“I think it does. I think this is a family issue, and this is my family, too, so this concerns me plenty,” Alek insisted. “Nanar is a guest here. She was invited by someone in this family into our home, and if there’s one thing about being Armenian that I know, it’s that you treat guests with respect. So can you explain to me why that doesn’t apply now? Are you saying that being anti-Turkish is more important than hospitality in the hierarchy of Armenian tradition? Because as far as I can see, the genocide happened a hundred years ago, but the Armenian people and their allegedly famous hospitality have been around for approximately three thousand years, so I’m thinking, by nature of seniority alone, hospitality has to trump everything else.”
“Alek, you know how hard it is for me to let that boy—”
“His name is Ethan, Dad,” Alek said.
“Fine—to let Ethan into this house, knowing he’s the reason you lied to us. But we did that. Your mother and I did that. Now let us spend the meal with the two of you. Isn’t that enough for us tonight?”
Last week, the idea that Alek’s parents would be welcoming Ethan into their home would have been inconceivable to him. When he and Ethan got together, it never occurred to Alek that the relationship was something he’d be able to incorporate into his family life. And suddenly, that doorway was open and the glimmering possibility of being able to have it all beckoned him to step through.
But he couldn’t. Not like this. Because it wasn’t right.
“You don’t get it, do you, Dad? I can’t take you up on your offer. And neither would Nik, if our situation was reversed. You of all people should know why. Because you raised us better than that.”
“That’s my man,” Ethan whispered to him.
Alek stepped outside and put his hand on his mother’s shoulder. “Our dead ancestors don’t care if Nanar has dinner here, Mom.”
“How can you know that for sure?” she asked, and Alek could hear how much she wanted him to be right.
“The only thing they want is for us to be happy. And if Nanar makes their great-great-grandson happy—and you’d have to be blind not to see how Nik smiles when Nanar is around—that’s all they want. They would want you to choose the living over the dead.”
22
Two hours later
,
the family Khederian sat with Ethan and Nanar in the dining room, drinking Armenian mint tea and finishing the last scraps of dessert.
“Don’t tell me you made the baklava, too,” Mrs. Khederian said, spearing the last bite with her fork and sliding it into her mouth with relish.
“Of course we did,” Alek insisted.
“If by ‘made’ you mean ‘had it delivered from the Damascus Bakery in Brooklyn,’” Nik amended.
“But you sprinkled the cinnamon and cloves on yourself?” she asked.
“You got it, Mom,” Nik answered proudly.
“You work in the city, right, Mrs. Khederian?” Ethan asked.
“Just south of Port Authority.”
“You should check out Market Cafe on 9th Avenue and 38th Street. One of the best restaurants in New York, in my humble opinion.”
“I’m always looking for new places to try.” Mrs. Khederian nodded appreciatively.
“And have you been to International Grocery on 40th Street?”
“I’ve walked by a few times, but I’ve never had time to go in,” she said.
“That place is the bomb—I mean, it’s really good,” Ethan said. “It’s got all these spices; I’ve never heard of most of them.”
“My mom took me there last year,” Nanar said. “She said it reminded her of home.”
“Nanar, do you mind if I ask you a question?” Mr. Khederian said.
“Of course not.”
“How did your mom do it? Conceal her ethnicity, I mean. It can’t have been easy.”
“She told us she didn’t have any other relatives, because she knew they wouldn’t play along. Isn’t that sad? It turns out I’ve got an aunt and some cousins I never knew about who live in Baltimore.”
“It must be so weird to find out that your past is not what you thought it was,” Nik observed.
“It was—I mean, it still is. Because it makes you feel like you’re a different person, even though you’re not. Especially when you find out that your past is something you’ve been brought up to hate,” Nanar explained. “I’m still working my way through all of that. What happens the next time one of my Armenian friends makes some offhanded Turkish slur?”
“Tell me about it,” Ethan commiserated. “You know how many times some bro mistakes me for straight and uses the word
fag
? And then I have to figure out if I’m going to let it slide, which I don’t want to do, or correct him and make a big deal out of it, which I also don’t want to do.”
“That’s what makes it hard—there’s no clear sense of what the
right
thing is to do,” Nanar agreed. “But I knew I had to tell Nik.”
“And when I freaked out, did you regret it?” Nik asked.
“I didn’t,” Nanar replied simply. “I knew I didn’t want the burden of carrying the secret. It weighs you down.”
“That it does,” Alek agreed.
“My mom always said that she believed Turkey’s refusal to acknowledge the truth about the genocide hurts Turkey almost as much as it hurts Armenians, because it stops them from having the healing that comes from truth.” Nanar took a pause before she continued. “I think that’s what made her decision to lie to me all these years even sadder.”