Things We Left Unsaid (19 page)

Armen tucked the money in his pocket and left the house without saying goodbye. He had argued several times with the twins, had not spoken to me or his father, and had barely eaten anything
since the day before. I could not work up the energy to lecture him about not leaving the school grounds again during recess to buy a snack. ‘Only Mama’s boys bring their snacks from
home,’ the high-school-age boys would say. So, to prove their manhood, they would appoint one boy each day to sneak off the school premises and buy Lavash for everyone at the nearby bakery.
God only knows how many times I had to go to the Principal’s office because Armen was the one who had slipped out. Each time he promised not to do it again, but he was a habitual
offender.

I went out to the yard hand in hand with the twins. Halfway down the path, I gestured toward Armen, his back to us as he opened the gate. ‘Now what’s the matter with him?’

The twins looked at each other, then at me, and finally shrugged their shoulders. I asked, ‘Is it because Emily did not come over last night?’ This time they avoided looking at one
another and tried not to laugh.

The school bus picked up the kids and headed off, the sound of the engine fading farther and farther away. I closed the gate, walked up the path, and came inside. I was about to close the front
door and breathe a sigh of relief about being alone until the afternoon, when I heard the faint whirring of the Chevrolet’s ignition.

The Chevy’s failure to start was part of our daily ritual. Artoush would open the hood, engrossed in the old, and in places rusty, guts of the machine. Then he would play with some of the
hoses, which connected something to something else (and I was fairly sure that Artoush did not know either). ‘It won’t start?’ I would ask Artoush, and he would say,
‘Hmmm.’ I would stare at the engine with him for a few seconds, thinking of it as a terminal patient, kept alive with transfusions and drugs. ‘Shall I call a taxi, or call Mr.
Saeed?’ were my next lines. If Artoush was late, he would say ‘Taxi,’ the way a surgeon might tell a nurse, ‘Scalpel.’ And if he was in no hurry, and the car could not
be coaxed into coasting by fits and starts to the repair shop, he would say, ‘Call up Mr. Saeed,’ the way a surgeon might tell a nurse, ‘Give him a pint of blood.’

Mr. Saeed was the owner of a repair shop near Cinema Khorshid. Every time he saw Artoush and his Chevrolet, he would laugh, clap his blackened hands to his head with its even blacker frizzy hair
and say, ‘Dear ole Chevy broke down again?’ Mr. Saeed would come stand over the Chevy, and nearly every time he did, he would tell me, out of Artoush’s earshot, ‘Mrs. Doc
– pardon me for meddling – but if you just nag a bit at your husband like other ladies do, the Doc will certainly buy the latest top-of-the-line model.’ And when I explained that
the Doc had grown rather fond of this car, Mr. Saeed would shake his head and mutter, ‘Well, if you want to know the truth, I can’t make head or tail out of you and the Doc. Customers
from the Oil Company, as soon as things take off and they get a salary raise and a
Grade
increase, go right out and trade in their house and car for better ones. But the two of you...’
I would take him tea or sherbet and tell him, ‘Salary and rank don’t decide what house you live in or the car you drive.’

He would knock back the sherbet or tea and say, ‘They don’t?’

I did not go out and stand beside the hood to participate in the usual ritual, but instead stayed in the hallway, leaned up against the wall, and closed my eyes. ‘Oh God, make it
start.’ I wanted to be alone. I wanted to be alone right away. My head was pounding and I had no patience for anything.

When the engine finally turned over, I opened my eyes. But I waited until Artoush had backed out of the garage and turned into the street, and until the sound of the engine faded into the
distance, before saying, ‘Thank you, God.’

I went to the kitchen, sat down at the table and yelled at myself. ‘What the hell is your problem?’ I drew a Kleenex out of the box and dabbed my eyes, remembering my father.

Whenever I felt really bad, I would think of Father, and whenever I felt really glad, again I would think of him. Like when a plant clipping I had put in water actually sprouted roots. Or when I
tried out a new recipe and it turned out delicious. Or when Armen got good grades. I began to tear the Kleenex into pieces and wondered why I think of Father whenever I’m feeling especially
bad or glad.

I raised my head up and looked at the two paintings I kept taped to the refrigerator. The twins had done one of them, a Mother’s Day gift from the year before. Two hearts and big colorful
flowers, with ‘I love you’ written inside each of them. The other one Armen had done, when he was four or five years old. Using yellow watercolors, he had painted the outline of what
was supposed to be a woman. In the woman’s hands, which did not look like hands, was a green ring that looked like a head with two eyes. When I asked him what he had drawn, he said,
‘Mommy, holding Armen.’ Chin in hand, I gazed at the painting and thought, ‘I will never be able to hold you like that again.’

My eyes roamed to the counter and I saw the package that Emile had put in my hand the day before, when both he and I were running after his mother in the yard. How had I forgotten the package
until now? I took it to the living room. What with the chaos of the previous afternoon and evening, it was not so strange I had forgotten. I leaned back in the leather chair and opened it.

It was one of the books by Sardo that I said I had not read. He had inscribed on the flyleaf: ‘For Clarice, to whom I could listen for days and days.’

I closed the book. The room was not that cool, but I felt cold. I re-opened the book and read the sentence again. I traced the handwriting with my finger. What an elegant hand, I thought. Even,
proportional, diagonally slanted. My handwriting in Armenian script was stiff. I wrote in block letters and my ‘O’s looked like little rectangles. Emile’s handwriting was cursive,
with neat angles, and...supple.

Little by little my queasy, listless feeling began to lift. Like boiling water evaporating bubble by bubble. I felt a burden had lifted. I felt better. ‘So he was really interested in what
I said? So I hadn’t bored him?’ I remembered his hand under his chin, and his wristwatch, with its white leather band. In the yard two frogs were calling to each other back and forth. I
looked out the window. ‘Maybe these two enjoy chatting with one another, too.’ The bougainvillea seemed to be nodding to me through the window.

I turned the book over and read the blurb on the back. This man has been in love with this woman since they were young, and his sole desire is to be united with her. Now engulfed in political
affairs, he is uncertain whether to choose love, or as he puts it, his responsibilities to society. I returned to the flyleaf and read Emile’s inscription one more time. I leafed through the
pages, then opened to the first chapter and began to read. The hero of the story was undecided; the heroine attempted a variety of stratagems to win him over, until the phone rang. I looked at my
watch and could not believe it. When was the last time I had read a book for such a long uninterrupted stretch?

On the phone, Nina’s motor was, as Garnik would put it, running at full speed, her voice ringing out like a bell. ‘I, for one, am still in the dark. Are things
really and truly getting serious, or is Alice building sandcastles in the air again? The minute Violette heard, she said it was obvious off the bat that Joop liked Alice. So how did we miss it?
Clueless me, trying to fix him up with Violette! But I guess it did not turn out too shabby. Alice is first in line.’ She chuckled loudly. Then her voice lowered to a whisper. I heard her say
‘Emile Simonian’ a few times and when I asked, ‘What did you say?’ she answered, ‘Nothing. Will you come with me this afternoon to drop by the bazaar? Sophie is
nagging me to buy her a beret.’ She gave me no chance to answer yes or no, ending with, ‘So, see you this afternoon. Violette says hello. Bye for now.’

For Alice to divulge a relationship that had barely even sprouted yet, much less borne fruit, was not terribly surprising. But what was that Nina had said about Emile? Why was she whispering,
and why had she said ‘I’ll tell you later’?

I went to the backyard, checked on the vegetables I’d planted, and picked a few tomatoes. I turned my head to look up at the jujube tree. Wedged between the branches were two nests. A nice
plump sparrow flew up in the branches and settled on one of the nests. It had something in its beak – bringing food for its babies, I thought. It was very hot and everything was quiet. I went
back inside, singing a song to myself.

For their after-school snack, I made what the kids liked to call ‘Cheese in the Oven’ sandwiches. I cut up some rolls, laid a slice of cheese on each, and put them in the oven. While
waiting for the bread to toast and the cheese to melt, I wondered how many after-school snacks I had prepared up to that day. How many lunches? How many dinners? The metal gate squeaking and the
sound of feet running up the path interrupted my calculations.

Sophie said, ‘My mom said to come to your house. She should get here herself in a minute or two.’

I told them to wash their face and hands, have their snacks and get ready for their piano lesson.

Armineh said, ‘It would be super if Sophie came to piano class with us.’

Arsineh said, ‘It would be super duper if Sophie came to piano class with us.’

Both of them turned to Sophie. ‘When you hear Miss Judy speak Persian...’ began Armineh.

‘You’ll die laughing...’ finished Arsineh.

I shouted, ‘Armen, snack!’

He shouted back from his room, ‘I’m not hungry.’

The girls muffled their laughter. When I looked at them, Armineh said, ‘I swear, we don’t know anything, but...’

Arsineh continued, ‘But we heard he made up with Emily.’

Sophie said, ‘That’s probably why he’s not hungry.’ The three of them burst out laughing.

The phone was ringing in the hallway; I went to get it. Mrs. Simonian said that she had heard from Emily, who had a piano lesson scheduled, that the twins also had their piano lesson that
afternoon. Since Emile would be coming home late due to some business that had come up, Emily should come with the twins. Mrs. Simonian herself had a backache and could not take Emily. Not so much
as a ‘please,’ or an ‘if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.’ Not even a proper hello and goodbye.

Before I could put down the receiver, Armen popped out of his room.

‘Shall I go get Emily?’

I raised a quizzical eyebrow, and he fell to stammering.

‘Uh, well...Emily said on the bus that she has a piano lesson and, uh, well...I decided to take piano again.’

I laughed when I saw the comical look on Armen’s face, forgetting all about the sting of Mrs. Simonian’s rudeness. Just at that moment, Nina opened the front door. ‘Oh my gosh,
I’m baking in this heat.’ With no thought of hello, Armen slipped between the two of us and shot out the front door. Almost at the end of the yard, he turned back and shouted
‘We’ll wait for you at the bus stop.’

Nina looked at me. ‘What’s come over that one?’ I stared up at the ceiling.

‘He’s in love!’

I waited for her rollicking laughter, but she just shook her head. ‘It seems like they’ve poured something in the water supply these days!’

I called out toward the kitchen, ‘Kids, let’s go.’

Emily was wearing a white blouse and black trousers, a piano book pressed to her chest. She was leaning up against the bus stop sign, her head down, pushing a little stone back and forth with
the tip of her toe. Her long straight hair was spilling over her face. Armen paced back and forth in front of Emily, waving his hands and talking. He fell silent as soon as we walked up. Emily
swiftly raised her head and said hello. The hair fell to either side of her face.

‘What a sweet girl,’ Nina said.

I asked myself, ‘Is she just a girl?’

Emily looked at me for a moment. Why did it feel like she had read my mind? She tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear and smiled, not unlike the smile the twins offered when they wanted
something.

The bus arrived, and when I got on, the driver greeted me. I was surprised to see him. ‘Hello, Mr. Abdi. Weren’t you working the Refinery route?’

He laughed. ‘What can I do, ma’am. I got promoted. What about you? Are you well? We are grateful for all the troubles you went to for us.’

‘What trouble?’ I protested. ‘How is your boy?’

The kids filed past the driver one by one, each saying ‘Pass.’ Mr. Abdi laughed and said, ‘Day before yesterday there was a Tehrani riding the bus. He heard the passengers from
the Oil Company sayin’ somethin’ and not payin’ for the ticket. ’Stead of saying “pass,” he said “gas.” ’

I laughed and Mr. Abdi pressed the button to close the door. He turned his face to me. ‘Thanks God, our son is much better. We brought him home. Your sister was very kind. Many
thanks.’ Nina nudged me from behind. ‘Hey, get a move on, already.’

The bus had only a few passengers. The twins and Sophie went to the back, Armen and Emily sat directly behind the driver, and Nina led, almost pushed, me to a seat far away from the children. I
was explaining, ‘His son was sick, and I asked Alice to look in on him at the hospital...’ when Nina cut me off.

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. The sun would never rise if it weren’t for your making buddies out of all the Oil Company drivers, gardeners and plumbers, would it?’ She looked behind her
and leaned in close to my ear. ‘Tell me about your new neighbor. Isn’t his name Simonian? He’s a widower, right?’

I stared at her for a few seconds. Why had I not understood earlier? Now that I had understood, why did I suddenly feel empty? Why was it so hot? Why was it taking so long to get there?

By the time we reached Miss Judy’s house in south Bawarda, I had told Nina everything I knew about the inhabitants of G-4. As we approached the stop, I stood up, pulled the cord and told
Nina that while the children were at their lesson, we could go buy that hat for Sophie and come back. Nina looked at me, confused.