¶³ñÝ³Ý Ñ»ï óñï»ñÁ ϳÝóÝ»Ý: ÎÉÇÝÇ: ØÇ ùÇã ¿É ÑáõÛë¹ ãÏïñ»ë, ³Ù»Ý µ³Ý ï»ÕÁ ÏÁÝÏÝÇ: Îï»ëÝ»ë: ê»Õ³Ýǹ íñ³ Çñ³ñ ÏáÕùÇ ÏѳÛïÝí»Ý µáÕÏ, ϳݳãÇ, ÉáÉÇÏ, í³ñáõÝ·, ëáË áõ ëËïáñ: г’, ѳ’, ÑÇÙ³ ¿É ϳ, ·Çï»Ù, »ë ¿Å³ÝÇ Ù³ëÇÝ »Ù ³ëáõÙ, áñ ÷áÕ¹ Ù»ÏÝ»ë, ³é³Í¹ ѳݷÇëï ËÕ×áí ÉóÝ»ë ïáåñ³Ïǹ Ù»ç ¨ áõñ³Ë-áõñ³Ë ó÷³Ñ³ñ»Éáíª ïáõÝ ï³Ý»ë: Þ³ï ɳí ѳëϳÝáõÙ »Ùª ¹áõ áã ÙÇ µ³ÝÇó ¿É ¹Å·áÑ ã»ë: ÆñÇÏáõÝÁ ùÝ»Éáõó ³é³ç ã»ë ³ÕáÃáõÙ, µ³Ûó ³Ý·Çñ ³ñ³Í ÙÇ Ëáëù ϳ, áñ å³ñï³¹Çñ ÏñÏÝáõÙ »ë. §¾ëå»ë ¿É Ùݳª í³ï ãÇ, ²ëïÍá~õÝ ÷³éù¦: Ðáñ³Ýç»ÉÇë Ó»éù¹ ã»ë ï³ÝáõÙ` µ»ñ³Ý¹ ÷³Ï»ë: î»ëÝáÕ ãϳ. áõÙDZó óùóÝ»ë ³Ý³ï³Ù Éݹ»ñ¹, ϳ٠Ñáï³í»ï µ³óÇÉÝ»ñǹ ¹»ÙÝ ³éÝ»ë, áñ DZÝã: ¼·áõÙ »Ù` Ù³ñÙÇݹ ·Ý³Éáí ÃáõɳÝáõÙ ¿, ³ãù»ñ¹ ÏÇë³µ³ó »Ý, µ³Ûó ÙÃ³Ý Ù»ç áã ÙÇ ³é³ñϳ ãÇ »ñ¨áõÙ, ÙÝáõÙ ¿` ÑÇßáÕáõÃÛ³Ùµ ·ïÝ»ë å³ïÇ ï³ÏÇ ë»Õ³ÝÁ, áñÇ ÙÇ áïùÁ, ѳ’, ³çÁ, ÑÇëáõÝ»ñ»ù ï³ñÇ ³é³ç Ïáïñí»ó, »ñµ »ñÏáõëáí å³éÏ»óÇù íñ³Ý áõ ÙÇ ÏáÕÙ ù³ßí»óÇù, áñ ³ÃáéÝ»ñÁ ßñç³Í ß³ñ»Ý Ó»ñ ßáõñçÁ, áñ ·Çß»ñÁ ùÝÇ Ù»ç ãÁÝÏÝ»ù:
ºÕµáñ¹ ѳñë³ÝÇùÝ ¿ñ: Ðáñ¹ áõ Ùáñ¹ ³½·áõï³ÏÁ ѳí³ùí»É ¿ñ. áí áñï»ÕÇó ϳñáÕ ¿ñ` »Ï»É-ѳë»É ¿ñ. »ñÏáõ Ñáñ»Õµ³Ûñ¹ ¿ÇÝ` ϳݳÝóáí, »ñ»ù Ñáñ³ùáõÛñ¹` ³ÙáõëÇÝÝ»ñáí, »ñ»ù Ùáñ»Õµ³Ûñ¹` ϳݳÝóáí, ÑÇÝ· Ùáñ³ùáõÛñ¹` »ñ»ùÝ Çñ»Ýó ³ÙáõëÇÝÝ»ñáí, »ñÏáõëÁ` ³ñáõ ½³í³ÏÝ»ñáí, Ùáñ³Ï³Ý ï³ï¹ ¿ñ, Ñáñ³Ï³Ý ï³ï¹, Ùáñ»Õµáñ¹ »ñÏáõ áñ¹ÇÝ»ñÝ ¿ÇÝ, Ñáñ³ùñáç¹ ³ÕçÇÏÝ áõ ÷»ë³Ý, Ó»ñ å³å³Ï³Ý ù³íáñÝ áõ ù³íáñÏÇÝÁ, ù³íáñÇ ïÕ³Ý áõ ³ÕçÇÏÁ... ¾É ã»Ù ÑÇßáõÙ, ³ë»Õ ·ó»Éáõ ï»Õ ãϳñ, áõ å³ñ½Çó ¿É å³ñ½ ¿ñ, áñ ·Çß»ñ»Éáõ ï»Õ á’ã Ñáñ¹ ãáñë ë»ÝÛ³ÏáõÙ ÏÙݳñ, á’ã ¿É ùá »ñ»ù ë»ÝÛ³ÏáõÙ, µ³Ûó ¹» ÑÛáõñ³ÝáóÇ Ù³ëÇÝ Ëáëù ÉÇÝ»É ã¿ñ ϳñáÕ: à±í ¿ñ Éë»É` µ³ñ»Ï³ÙÇÝ ÑÛáõñ³Ýáó áõÕ³ñÏ»Ý: ¸³ ¿ÝåÇëÇ Ë³Ûï³é³ÏáõÃÛáõÝ ¿ñ, ÇÝãå»ë ³ë»Ýù ïÕ³ÛÇ Ñ³Ù³ñ` Ñáñ³Ï³Ý ïÝÇó Ñ»é³Ý³ÉÝ áõ ÏÝϳ Ñáñ ï³ÝÝ ³åñ»ÉÁ` ïÝ÷»ë³ ·Ý³ÉÁ:
¸áõ Ñáñ¹ ïÝÇó ¹áõñë »Ï³ñ áõ ÙÇÝ㨠¿ë ï³Ý ï»ñ ¹³éݳɹ ³Ñ³·ÇÝ Ã³÷³é»óÇñ, µ³Ûó »Õµáñ¹ ѳñë³ÝÇùÇ ûñÝ ³ñ¹»Ý ¿ë ïáõÝÁ ϳñ, áõ ¿¹ ë»Õ³ÝÁ Ñ»Ýó ¿¹ å³ïÇ ï³Ï ¿ñ ¹ñí³Í: ¸áõù »ñÏáõëáí å³éÏ»óÇù ë»Õ³ÝÇÝ, áñ Ùáñ»Õµáñ¹ áõ Ùáñ³ùñáç¹ áñ¹ÇÝ»ñÁ` ²ñ³ÙÁ, ²ñïáÝ, ²ñ³ñ³ïÝ áõ гñáõÃÁ, áïáõ·ÉáõË ï»Õ³íáñí»Ý Ó»ñ ³ÝÏáÕÝáõÙ: àí å³éÏ»Éáõ ï»Õ ·ï³í, å³éÏ»ó, áí ã·ï³í` Ùáñ³Ï³Ý ï³ïǹ ϳñ³Í §ÙÇݹ³ñÝ»ñÁ¦ ÷é»óÇÝ Ñ³ï³ÏÇÝ áõ §µááõÉÇݷǦ ͳÝñ ÷³Ûï³ÓáÕ»ñÇ ÝÙ³Ý ß³ñí»óÇÝ Çñ³ñ ÏáÕùÇ, ÙݳóÇù ¹áõ áõ سÝáõßÁ: Øáñ³ùáõÛñ¹, »ñÏï³Ï µ³ó³Í µ³½ÙáóÁ ×éé³óÝ»Éáí, ûùí»ó ÉáÕÉáÕ ³ÙáõëÝáõ ÏáÕÙÝ áõ ϳñ·³¹ñ»ó. §ì³ÝÇ’Ï, ï»ÕÇó¹ »’É, ¿¹ ³ÃáéÝ»ñÁ ß³ñÇ ë»Õ³ÝÇ åéÝÏÇÝ, Ãá’Õ Ù³ñ¹ áõ ÏÝÇÏ å³éÏ»Ý ë»Õ³ÝÇÝ, ¹»Ù ÁÝÏÝ»Ý å³ïáõѳÝÇÝ áõ ùÝ»Ý, ÙÇ ·Çß»ñÁ ÙÇ µ³Ý ãÇ, ÏÉáõë³Ý³-Ϸݳ¦:
êϽµáõÙ ¹áõ å³éÏ»óÇñ, Ñ»ïá سÝáõßÁ ÉáõÛëÁ ѳݷóñ»ó, áïùÁ ¹ñ»ó ³ÃáéÇÝ áõ Ó·í»ó ë»Õ³Ýáí Ù»Ï, áõ »ñµ Ùáñ³ùñáç¹ ì³ÝÇÏÁ ³ÃáéÝ»ñÁ ßñç»ó ë»Õ³ÝÇÝ, سÝáõßÁ ë»ÕÙí»ó ù»½ áõ ѳٳñÛ³ »É³í ùá íñ³: лÝó ¿¹ å³ÑÇÝ ë»Õ³ÝÇ ³ç áïùÁ, ѳ, ѳ’, É³í ¿É ÑÇßáõÙ »ë, å³ïÇ ÏáÕÙÇÝÁ, Ó»ñ ͳÝñáõÃÛ³Ý ï³Ï ûùí»ó, ¹áõù ÙÇ ù³ÝÇ í³ÛñÏÛ³Ý ûñáñí»óÇù ë»Õ³ÝÇÝ, áÝó áñ ·ÛáõÕÇ Ó»ñ ï³Ý ¹ÇÙ³ó µ³ñÓñ³óáÕ ï³ÝÓ»Ýáõ ï³Ï ϳå³Í ×á×ùÇ Ù»ç ÉÇÝ»Çù, áõ سÝáõßÁ, µ»ñ³ÝÁ Ó»éùáí ÷³Ï»Éáí, ÍÕñï³ó, áõ ë»Õ³ÝÇ áïùÁ, ßñÁ~ËÏ, ͳÉí»ó ï³ÏÇÝ: ²ÙµáÕç ïáõÝÝ Çñ³ñ ³Ýó³í: ê»ÝÛ³ÏÝ»ñÇó, ÙÇç³ÝóùÇó, ËáѳÝáóÇó áõ å³ïß·³ÙµÇó µáÉáñÁ Ý»ñë ó÷í»óÇÝ. áñÁª Ù³Ñ׳ϳÉÇó, áñÁª ³ÃáéÇó áõ µ³½Ï³ÃáéÇó, áñÁª µ³½ÙáóÇó áõ ѳï³ÏÇó »É³Ý áõ í³½»óÇÝ ¿¹ ßñËÏáóÇ ÏáÕÙÁ: øá سÝáõßÁ ·ÉáõËÁ Ùïóñ»É ¿ñ í»ñÙ³ÏÇ ï³Ï, áñ ³ãùÁ Ù³ñ¹áõ ³ãùÇ ã³éÝÇ: سÝáõßÇ Ù³ÝϳϳÝ, ëåÇï³Ï³Ù³ßÏ áïݳóûñÁ ¹áõñë ¿ÇÝ åñÍ»É í»ñÙ³ÏÇ ï³ÏÇó áõ ϳËí»É ×Ïí³Í ë»Õ³ÝÇ áõ áïù»ñÁ í»ñ ïÝÏ³Í ³ÃáéÇ ³ñ³ÝùáõÙ: ¸áõ ëåÇï³Ï, ³Ýè ß³åÇÏáí áõ ë¨ í³ñïÇùáí Ãé»Éª Ýëï»É ¿Çñ å³ïáõѳÝÇ ·á·ÇÝ: ØÇÝ㨠Ùáñ³ùñáç¹ ì³ÝÇÏÁ ÉáõÛëÁ Ïí³é»ñ, ïáõÝÝ ³ñ¹»Ý ÃݹáõÙ ¿ñ ÍÇͳÕÇó: Øáñ³ùñáç¹ áñ¹ÇÝ»ñÁ, ÷áñÝ»ñÁ µéݳÍ, óí³ÉíáõÙ ¿ÇÝ ·»ïÝÇÝ: Ðáñ³ùñáç¹ ÷³ñó٠ÏñÍù»ñÁ ÃñÃéáõÙ ¿ÇÝ ë¨ ½áÉ»ñáí ëåÇï³Ï ·Çß»ñ³½·»ëïÇ ï³Ï, Ñáñ»Õµ³Ûñ¹, ÍÇͳÕÇó ³ñóáõÝùáïí³Í ³ãù»ñáí, ݳÛáõÙ ¿ñ Ù»Ï ù»½, Ù»Ï Ø³ÝáõßÇ` Ñ»ï½Ñ»ï» í»ñÙ³ÏÇ ï³ÏÇó ¹áõñë ëÉɳóáÕ Ù³ñÙÝÇÝ, áõ Ó»éùÁ µéáõÝóù ³ñ³Íª ë»ÕÙáõÙ ¿ñ ϳñÙñÇÝ ïíáÕ µ»Õ»ñÇݪ ½ëå»Éáõ Ãáù»ñÇ ãáñ Ñ»ÕÓáõÏÁ, Ñáñ³Ï³Ý ï³ï¹, áñ ëåÇï³Ï, µ³ñ³Ï áõ »ñϳñ ÑÛáõë»ñÁ Ï³Ë»É ¿ñ ÙÇÝ㨠·áïϳï»Õ, ³ÙáÃÁ Ùáé³ó³Í, ·Çß»ñ³½·»ëïÇ ÷»ß»ñÁ ѳí³ù»É ¿ñ ÙÇÝ㨠ÍÝÏÝ»ñÁ, áïù»ñÁ ãé»É, í³ËÝ áõ ½³ñÙ³ÝùÝ Çñ³ñ ˳éݳͪ Ï³Ý·Ý»É ¿ñ ¹é³Ý ß»ÙÇÝ áõ §í³~ß-í³~ߦ ¿ñ ³ÝáõÙ:
ÌÇͳÕÝ áõ ùñùÇçÁ, ÍÕñïáóÝ áõ ѳ½Á ˳éÝí»É ¿ÇÝ Çñ³ñ: ØÇÝ㨠³é³íáï áã áù ³ãù ã÷³Ï»ó: ´³ñÓ»ñÇÝ ÃÇÏݳÍ, áïù»ñÁ ³ÃáéÝ»ñÇÝ Ù»ÏݳÍ, ³ñÙáõÝÏÝ»ñáí ѳï³ÏÇÝ ÏéÃݳÍ, Çñ³ñ Ñ»ñà ãï³Éáí å³ïÙáõÙ ¿ÇÝ` áí ÇÝã ÑÇßáõÙ ¿ñ áõ ã¿ñ ÑÇßáõÙ, áí ÇÝã ï»ë»É ¿ñ áõ Éë»É, áí ÇÝã ѳëï³ï ·Çï»ñ ϳ٠ÑáñÇÝáõÙ ¿ñ, ·áõݳ½³ñ¹áõÙ, ¹½Ù½áõÙ, ×ÇßïÁ óùóÝáõÙ, ëáõïÁ ×ßïÇ ï»Õ ³Ýó ¿ñ ϳóÝáõÙ, ÇÝùÝ ¿É Çñ å³ïÙ³ÍÇÝ Ñ³í³ï³Éáí` áõñ³Ë³ÝáõÙ, ïËñáõÙ áõ ³ñóáõÝùáïíáõÙ ¿ñ, ѳé³ãáõÙ áõ Ëáñ Ñá·áó ¿ñ ѳÝáõÙ, ѳ٠¿É ½³ñÙ³ÝùÇó µ»ñ³ÝÁ µ³óª ³Ï³Ýç ¿ñ ¹ÝáõÙ:
ÐÇÙ³ ¹áõ ݳÛáõÙ »ë ÙÃ³Ý Ù»ç áõ áãÇÝã ã»ë ï»ëÝáõÙ, ÑÇßáÕáõÃÛ³Ùµ ·ïÝáõÙ »ë å³ïÇ ï³ÏÇ ë»Õ³ÝÁ, áñÇ ÙÇ áïùÁ, ѳ’, ³çÁ, å³ïÇ ÏáÕÙÇÝÁ, ÑÇëáõÝ»ñ»ù ï³ñÇ ³é³ç Ïáïñí»ó, »ñµ »ñÏáõëáí å³éÏ»óÇù íñ³Ý áõ ÙÇ ÏáÕÙ ù³ßí»óÇù, áñ Ùáñ³ùñáç¹ ì³ÝÇÏÁ ßñç³Í ³ÃáéÝ»ñÁ ß³ñÇ Ó»ñ ßáõñçÁ, áñ ·Çß»ñÁ ùÝÇ Ù»ç ãÁÝÏÝ»ù: ´³Ûó áñ ¹»é ãùݳÍ` ÁÝϳù, ÑÇßáõÙ »ë, áõ áñ ¿¹å»ë ¿É ãѳçáÕí»ó Çñ³ñ ë»ÕÙí³Í ùÝ»É ë»Õ³ÝÇÝ, ¿¹ ¿É »ë ÑÇßáõÙ, áõ áñ áã áù ¿¹ ·Çß»ñ ãùÝ»ó, ù»½ÝÇó Éë»Éáí` ÝáõÛÝÇëÏ »ë »Ù ÑÇßáõÙ: ºÕµáñ¹ ѳñë³ÝÇùÝ ¿ñ: Þáõñç¹ ³Ù»Ý ÇÝã óóËí³Í ¿ñ ·áõÛÝ»ñÇ, Ñáï»ñÇ, ѳٻñÇ áõ Ó³ÛÝ»ñÇ ·ííáóáí: ÐÇëáõÝ»ñ»ù ï³ñí³ ÏÛ³Ýù¹ ³éç¨áõÙ ¿ñ. Ñá·ë»ñ¹, ¹³éÝáõÃÛáõÝÝ»ñ¹ áõ Ññ×í³ÝùÇó óÝͳÉáõ ųٹ ù»½ ¿ÇÝ ëå³ëáõÙ:
ÐÇÙ³ Ùáõà ¿, áõ óñïÇó áëÏáñÝ»ñ¹ ßËÏßËÏáõÙ »Ý: ¶³ñÝ³Ý Ñ»ï óñï»ñÁ ϳÝóÝ»Ý: ÎÉÇÝÇ: ØÇ ùÇã ¿É ÑáõÛë¹ ãÏïñ»ë, áõ ³Ù»Ý µ³Ý ï»ÕÁ ÏÁÝÏÝÇ: ºë ¿¹å»ë ¿É ã¿Ç Çٳݳ, û ÇÝã »Õ³í »Õµáñ¹ ѳñë³ÝÇùÇ Ñ³çáñ¹ ûñÁ ¨ µáÉáñ Ùݳó³Í ûñ»ñÇÝ ÑÇëáõÝ»ñ»ù ï³ñÇ ³ÝÁݹٻç, »Ã» ¹áõ ãå³ïÙ»Çñ, å³ïÙ»Éáí ·ñÇ ã³éÝ»Çñ: àõ ÑÇÙ³ ù³é³ÏáõëÇÝ»ñáí ͳÍÏí³Í ¿ë ÃÕûñÇ ÏáõÛïÁ, áñ ë¨ÇÝ ¿ ï³ÉÇë ³ç³ÏáÕÙÛ³Ý áïùÁ ç³ñ¹í³Í ë»Õ³Ýǹ íñ³, ù³ÝÇ áñ ·ñã³Í³Ûñ¹, ë¨ Ã³Ý³ùÇ Ù»ç óó˻Éáí, ß³ï ³ÝËݳ áõ ѳٳéáñ»Ý »ë ×éé³óñ»É ¹ñ³Ýó »ñ»ëÇÝ, å³Ñå³Ý»Éáí Ó³ÛÝǹ ÃñÃÇéÝ áõ ëñïǹ ½³ñÏÁ, ÇÙ Ñáñ³Ï³Ý ï³Ý ÝÏáõÕáõ٠ѳݷãáÕ Å³å³í»Ýáí Ó³Ûݳ·ñÇãÇ å»ë íÝ·íÝ·³Éáí` ³ÝËݳ í»ñ³ñï³¹ñáõÙ ¿ ³Ýó³Í áõ ÏñÏÝí»É ëå³éݳóáÕ ùá å³ïÙáõÃÛáõÝÁ, áñ ݳ¨ ÇÙÝ ¿, Ù»’ñ å³ïÙáõÃÛáõÝÁ:
ºñµ ѳݹÇåáõÙ ¿ÇÝù, ѳëï ÑáÝù»ñǹ ï³ÏÇó Ååï³Éáí` ³ëáõÙ ¿Çñ. §Ðdzó»’ù, ¹éÝ»ñÁ ÷³ÏíáõÙ »Ý¦: ºë ÑÇÙ³ Ëáëïáí³ÝáõÙ »Ù, áñ ¹áõ áã ÙÇ ÝÙ³Ý µ³Ý ã¿Çñ ³ëáõÙ, »ë Ñ»Ýó ÑÇÙ³ áõ½»óÇ, áñ ¹áõ Ååï³ÛÇñ, áõ ùá ÅåÇïÝ ³ë»ñ. §Ðdzó»’ù, ¹éÝ»ñÁ ÷³ÏíáõÙ »Ý¦: ºñµ ѳݹÇåáõÙ ¿ÇÝù, »ë ³ÛÝ ½·³óáÕáõÃÛáõÝÝ áõÝ»Ç, áñ ¹áõ ÇÙ ³ñÛáõݳÏÇóÝ »ë, ³ë»Ýù` Ñáñ»Õµáñë áñ¹ÇÝ Ï³Ù ·áÝ» Ñáñë Ñáñ»Õµáñ ÃáéÁ: ¾¹åÇëÇ ÙÇ µ³Ý: ¾¹ Ýñ³ÝÇó ¿ñ, áñ Ëáë³Í¹ áõ Ùï³Í³Í¹ ³ñÓ³·³ÝùíáõÙ ¿ñ ÇÙ Ù»ç áõ í»ñ³¹³éÝáõÙ ù»½` µáÉáñ³åïáõÛïáí: ºë ¹³ ѳëϳÝáõÙ ¿Ç, µ³Ûó áã ÙÇ Ï»ñå ã¿Ç ϳñáÕ³ÝáõÙ µ³ó³ïñ»É, ÑÇÙݳíáñ»É áõ å³ï׳鳵³Ý»É ½·³ó³Íë ·áÝ» ÇÝùë ÇÝÓ, ¿É áõñ Ùݳóª áõñÇßÝ»ñÇÝ: ¸³ ß³ï ÝÙ³Ý ¿ ÇÙ ³ÛÝ »ñÏíáõÃÛ³ÝÁ, áñ Ñëï³Ï ѳëϳÝáõÙ »Ù ¸ñ³ËïÇ ³ÝÑñ³Å»ßïáõÃÛáõÝÁ, µ³Ûó ³ÝϳñáÕ »Ù µ³ó³ïñ»É ³Ù»Ý ·Ýáí ³ÛÝï»Õ ѳÛïÝí»Éáõ Ù³ñ¹áõ ï»ÝãÁ, áñ ·ÇïݳϳÝÝ»ñÇ Ñ³Ù³é ç³Ýù»ñÇ ßÝáñÑÇí ѳëϳÝáõÙ »Ù Ù³Ñí³Ý ³ÝËáõë³÷»ÉÇáõÃÛáõÝÁ, µ³Ûó ·ÉáõË ã»Ù ѳÝáõÙ å³ïÅÇ ³é»ÕÍí³ÍÇó, áñ, ÝáõÛÝÇëÏ, ë»÷³Ï³Ý ÷áñÓÇó »ÉÝ»Éáíª Ñ³ëϳÝáõÙ »Ù ·»Ý»ïÇÏ ÑÇßáÕáõÃÛ³Ý ³½¹»óáõÃÛáõÝÁ Ù³ñ¹áõ ë»é³Ï³Ý ÏÛ³ÝùÇ íñ³, µ³Ûó ÇÝÓ Ñ³Ù³ñ ³ÝÇٳݳÉÇ ¿ ë»ñÁ, áñ íï³Ý·³íáñ ÷áñÓáõÃÛ³Ý ¿ ï³ÝáõÙ ëÇñáÕÇÝ áõ ѻóÝáë Í»ëÇ ³ÝÑñ³Å»ßïáõÃÛ³Ùµª ½áÑ å³Ñ³ÝçáõÙ:
ºë ÑÇÙ³ ·Çï»Ù, áñ Ù»Ýù ÅåïáõÙ ¿ÇÝù (Çñ³ñÇó Ñ»éáõ) ³Ûë ÏÛ³Ýùáí ÑdzݳÉáõ Ù»ñ ϳñáÕáõÃÛ³Ý íñ³, µ³Ûó ÙÇÝ㨠ÑÇÙ³ ã·Çï»Ù, û ÇÝãå»ë ¿ÇÝù ÝáõÛÝ áõÅ·ÝáõÃÛ³Ùµ ½·áõÙ ³ÛÝ ó³íÁ, áñ ½·áõÙ »ë, »ñµ ¹éÝ»ñÁ ÷³ÏíáõÙ »Ý ùÃǹ ï³Ï, ³é³í»É ¨ë, áñ ϳÝ˳½·áõÙ »ë` ѳçáñ¹ ãí»ñÃáí »ÏáÕ ·Ý³óùÁ ù»½ ãÇ µéݳóÝÇ Ï³é³Ù³ïáõÛóáõÙ:
Ø»Ï-Ù»Ï ¿É ÇÝÓ ÃíáõÙ ¿, û ùá Ó³Ëáñ¹ سÝáõßÝ ÇÙ Ù³ÛñÝ ¿ »Õ»É, ÇëÏ ¹áõ` ÇÙ ³Ý÷áõÛà ѳÛñÁ, µ³Ûó ëå³Ý»ë` ã»Ù ϳñáÕ µ³ó³ïñ»É, û ÑÇÙ³ ÇÝãáõ ³Ý½áõëå ó³ÝÏáõÃÛáõÝ áõÝ»Ù í³½»í³½ ѳëÝ»É óñïÇó ³é³í»É ÙÃÝ³Í ë»Ý۳Ϲ, ëåÇï³Ï³Í ·Éáõ˹ ·ñÏ»É áõ ûñáñáó³ÛÇÝ »ñ·»É, ù³ÝÇ áñ ½·áõÙ »Ù` ¹áõ ÇÙ ÃáéÝÇÏÝ »ë, Ç٠ѳñ³½³ï ³ñÛáõݳÏÇóÁ, áí ÇÝùÝ Çñ»Ý ÑáßáïáõÙ ¿, áñ ÇÙ ë˳ÉÝ»ñÁ ãÏñÏÝÇ, áí ³ÝÇÍáõÙ ¿ ÇÝÓ` سÝáõßÇÝ ÇÙ å³ïÏ»ñáí áõ ÝÙ³ÝáõÃÛ³Ùµ ëÇñ»Éáõ ¨ ÏáñóÝ»Éáõ ѳٳñ, áí ˻ɳ·³ñíáõÙ ¿ ÇÙ ÃáéÝÇÏÁ ÉÇÝ»Éáõ ³ÝËáõë³÷»ÉÇ å³ïÅÇó: ºë ·ÅíáõÙ »Ù ù»½ ·áõñ·áõñ»Éáõ ³Ýϳñ»ÉÇáõÃÛáõÝÇó, µ³Ûó Ñ»éíÇó Ñ»éáõ Ñå³ñï³ÝáõÙ »Ù ÃÕûñǹ ÏáõÛïáí, áñ ë¨ÇÝ ¿ ï³ÉÇë ³ç³ÏáÕÙÛ³Ý áïùÁ ç³ñ¹í³Í ë»Õ³Ýǹ íñ³, ù³ÝÇ áñ ·ñã³Í³Ûñ¹, ë¨ Ã³Ý³ùÇ Ù»ç óó˻Éáí, ß³ï ³ÝËݳ áõ ѳٳéáñ»Ý »ë ×éé³óñ»É ¹ñ³Ýó »ñ»ëÇÝ: ø»½ ã»ë ËݳۻÉ, ùáé³Ý³Ù »ë, ³Ý·³Ù ÇÝÓ ã»ë ËݳۻÉ:
ºë ÑÇÙ³ å³ñ½áñáß ï»ëÝáõÙ »Ù, û ÇÝãå»ë ÇÙ ³Ý¿³ó³Í Ù³ñÙÇÝÁ ÓáõÉíáõÙ ¿ ùá سÝáõßÇ` í»ñÙ³ÏÇ ï³ÏÇó Ñ»ï½Ñ»ï» ¹áõñë ëÉɳóáÕ Ù³ñÙÝÇÝ, ÇëÏ ¹áõ ³ñ¹»Ý ³ÝϳñáÕ »ë ï³ñµ»ñ»É Ù»ñ Ñá·ÇÝ»ñÁ: ¾¹ ·áñÍÝ ÇÝÓ ¿É ¿ ¹Åí³ñ ïñí»É: ¶áÝ» ë³ ãųé³Ý·»Çñ:
2010
THE SON OF A MAN
TRANSLATION BY LILIA TSARUKYAN
EDITED BY DR. ALFRED G. MUELLER II
By spring the frost will be gone. It will be. If you do not lose your hope for a little while longer, everything will get in its place. You’ll see. Radishes, lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, and garlic will appear on your table side by side. Yes, yes, I know you can find them now, too, but I am talking about the cheap ones that allow you to stretch your money, with a clear conscience put all you bought into a bag, and go home swinging it happily. I understand quite well: you do not complain of anything. In the evening you do not pray before going to sleep, but there is an expression you learned by heart which you always repeat: “It is not that bad if it stays like this, thanks God.” When yawning, you do not put your hand over your mouth. There is no one to see you: who do you need to hide your toothless gums from or to put an end to your stinky bacilli for? I feel that your body is getting weaker. Your eyes are half-open, but you can’t see anything in the darkness. There is only one thing to do: to find by memory the table under the wall, one leg of which, yes, the right one, broke fifty three years ago when the two of you lay on it and piled the chairs around you so that you did not fall in your sleep.
It was on your brother’s wedding. Kith and kin of both your mother and father had gathered. Everyone who could came. There were your two uncles from your father’s side with their wives, three aunts from your father’s side with their husbands, three uncles from your mother’s side with their wives, five aunts from your mother’s side, three with their husbands and two with their sons, your grandmother from mother’s side, grandmother from father’s side, two of your uncle’s sons, the daughter and son-in-law of your aunt from your father’s side, your paternal godfather and godmother, their son and daughter… I cannot remember all. Everyone simply crammed in, and it was crystal clear that there would not be any place to spend the night, neither in any of your father’s four rooms, nor in any of your three rooms. But there could never be a word about sending the guests to a hotel. Who has ever sent a relative to a hotel? It was as shameful as a son leaving his father’s house to live with his father-in-law.
You left your father’s house and, before owning this house, you wandered a lot. But on your brother’s wedding day, you already owner this house and that very table was put under that very wall. The two of you lay down on the table so that your uncle and aunt’s sons - Aram
First, you lay down, then Manush turned off the light, put her foot on the chair and stretched along the table and when Vanik leaned the chairs against the table, Manush snuggled next to you, nearly lying on top of you. It was at that very moment that the right leg of the table—yes, yes, you remember it quite well—the one facing the wall, bent under your weight. You swung on the table for a couple of seconds as if you were in the hammock tied under the peach tree growing in front of your house in the countryside, and Manush, putting her hand over her mouth, squealed as the leg of the table—snap—folded under her.
Everyone in the house started fussing. They bustled in from the rooms, the corridor, and the kitchen. Some got out of their beds, some climbed out of chairs and armchairs, and others got up from the sofa and floor and ran in the direction of the noise. Manush shoved her head under the quilt so as not to see anyone. Her childish, white-skinned feet stuck out from under the quilt and hung between the warped table and the legs of the upturned chair. You jumped up and sat on the windowsill in your white sleeveless shirt and black pants. Before Vanik turned on the light, the house had already burst into laughter. Your aunt’s sons were rolling on the floor holding their stomachs. Your aunt’s large bosom was heaving under her black-and-white striped nightgown. Your uncle looked at you and then at Manush’s body gradually sliding out of the quilt and his eyes filled with tears from laughter. He squeezed his clenched hand to his red moustache to prevent from choking. Your grandmother, who had her white thin and long plaits hanging till her waist, had forgotten all sense of shame and, with the hem of her nightgown raised to her knees, standing with her legs wide apart, feeling fear and surprise, stood in the doorway and muttered sympathetically, “Ouch, ouch”.
Laughter and cackling, screeching and coughing blended together. Nobody closed an eye until morning. Resting against the pillows, their legs stretched along the chairs, leaning their elbows against the floor, they were telling each other what they remembered; who saw and heard what; who knew for certain what happened or even what they concocted, embellished, created, fictionalized, and wanted to be true. And they cried, moaned, sighed, and listened agape.
Now you are looking into the darkness and do not see anything. You find the table under the wall intuitively, one leg of which—yes, the right one, the one at the wall, which broke fifty three years ago, when the two of you lay on it and piled the chairs around you not to fall off in your sleep. But that you fell before you went to sleep you remember quite well and you remember as well that you did not manage to sleep pressed together on the table and that nobody slept that night. Even I remember from your words. It was your brother's wedding. Everything around you was swirling in a mix of colors, smells, tastes, and sounds. Your life of fifty-three years was ahead of you yet: your worries, bitterness, and hours of triumph were still awaiting you.
It is dark now, and your bones crack from the cold. By spring, the frost will be gone. It will be. If you do not lose your hope for a little while longer, everything will fall into its place. I would not have known what happened the next day, the day of your brother's wedding, and all the other days of fifty three uninterrupted years if you did not tell me or did not write it down. And now this pile of papers blackens on your table with the broken right leg, as you dip the pen into black ink and crack it on their surface ruthlessly and persistently, maintaining the thrill of your voice and the beating of your heart, murmuring like a recorder with a worn out tape in the cellar of my father’s house, reproducing that old story of yours, which is now also mine…our story.
When we used to meet, you would tell me, smiling under your thick eyebrows, “Rejoice, the doors are closing.” I confess that you did not tell me anything like that. I just wanted you to smile now and your smile to tell me: ''Rejoice, the doors are closing.'' When we met, I felt like we were related, like you were my uncle's son or at least the grandson of my father's uncle. Something like that. What you spoke and thought echoed in me and returned to you in due course. I understood that, but could never explain to myself, rationalize, or justify what I felt, let alone to explain to others. It is very much like the duality that haunts me, the one in which I clearly realize the necessity of Paradise but cannot explain the desire of humans to get there at any price; the one that due to science’s obstinate efforts I understand the inevitability of death but cannot fathom the mystery of the punishment; the one in which I understand from experience the effect of genetic memory on the sexual life of humans but do not fully comprehend the kind of love that drives a lover to endure a dangerous ordeal demanding a sacrifice like in a pagan ritual.
I know that we smiled often at our ability to appreciate life, but I have no clue how we could feel the same pain with the same intensity, the one you feel when a door slams at your face and you know that the next scheduled train will not find you on the platform.
Sometimes I think that your unlucky Manush was my mother, and you were my negligent father. But kill me if you will, I would not be able to explain why I have this unrestrained desire to run to your room now, which got darker from the frost, hug your grey head, and sing a lullaby because I feel that you are my grandchild, my dear relative, who beats himself up so as not to repeat my mistakes, who curses me for having loved and lost Manush in my image and resemblance, who gets angry at the inevitable punishment of being my grandson. I go crazy at the impossibility of caressing you, but from afar I am proud of the piled papers, which blacken on your table with the broken right leg, because you, dipping the pen into black ink, have cracked it on their surface ruthlessly and persistently. You have not spared yourself, and you have not even spared me.
Now I clearly see how my disappearing body blends with Manush, gradually sliding out the quilt, and how you are not able to differentiate our souls any more. It was hard for me, too. Wish you did not inherit this at least.
2010
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