Արթնանում եմ ու ձեռքս տանում հեռախոսիս, տեսնում եմ` զարթուցիչի զանգի ժամից ահագին շուտ է, ներսումս ծիծաղում եմ ինձ վրա, որ էսքան վախկոտ եմ, նայում եմ հայելուն, ինձ աչքով անում, ու օրս սկսվում է: Պատուհանը բացելիս մի պստիկ միջատ է բարձրանում ձեռքիս: Մեկ ուզում եմ ձեռքս պատուհանից հանել թափահարել, որ թռչի գնա, մեկ էլ մտածում եմ` որ եկել է, թող մնա, երևի ուրիշ տեղ չունի գնալու: Իսկ եթե ուզում է թռչել, բայց չգիտի` ուր, կամ, գուցե գիտի` ուր, բայց չգիտի` ինչպես, կամ էլ գիտի` ինչպես, բայց այդպես էլ չի հասկանում, թե ինչու պետք է անպայման թռչի հենց իր ուզած տեղը: Նայում եմ ձեռքիս, նայում հայելուց ինձ նայող աչքերին, ու հարցնում` դո՞ւ ուր ես ուզում գնալ, ինչո՞ւ ես ուզում, բա ի՞նչ գիտես` ո՞նց գնաս, բա որ գնաս, ե՞րբ կհասնես, իսկ որ հասնես, ի՞նչ ես անելու, ո՞նց ես անելու, ու էսպես շարունակ էնքան եմ ինձ հարցակոխ անում, որ մոռանում եմ, թե ինչից սկսվեց միջատաքննությունս: Հիմա մի բան հաստատ գիտեմ. ուզում եմ միջատաբան դառնալ: Դրա համար էլ ձեռքս համարձակ հանում եմ պատուհանից ու թափահարում:
воскресенье, 8 сентября 2013 г.
вторник, 27 августа 2013 г.
ԴԻԱՆԱ ՀԱՄԲԱՐՁՈՒՄՅԱՆ ԳՈՎՔ ՊԼՈՒՏՈԿՐԱՏԻԱՅԻՆ
Պլուտոկրատիայում ամեն ինչ վաճառվում է. մարդ, հող, միտք, տուն-տեղ, գիրք, աշխատատեղ: Ինձնից լավ գիտեք: Հայտնի է, որ մարմնավաճառությունը ծլում-ծաղկում է կամուրջների տակ, գրավաճառությունը, հայտնի չէ, ինչը ոնց ու որտեղ է անում, բայց որ անում է, էդ էլ է հայտնի: Հիմա ի՞նչ անենք, կրակն ենք ընկե՞լ, որ համ գրող ենք, համ էլ` պլուտոկրատների ենք դեմ ընկել: Գիրքդ գրում ես` մեկ, պետությունն աջակցում է, որ գիրքդ տպագրվի` երկու, հինգ հարյուր օրինակից քեզ բաժին է հանում իննսուն օրինակ` երեք, գլուխդ պատեպատելով` երկու տարում վաթսունը գրախանութը վաճառում է` վաճառքի մեկ երրորդը իրեն` հարկ ու շահույթ, երկու երրորդը` քեզ, լիուլի բոլ է, մի երեսունն էլ նվեր տուր, որ նվեր ստանաս գրչընկերներիցդ` չորս, մնացած չորս հարյուր տասը օրինակը` գրքահավաք կենտրոնին, որ երկու տարի հետո գնաս ասես` ա'յ բարեկամ, եկել եմ իմ գրքից մի հիսուն օրինակ գնեմ, որ տանեմ շրջանների գրադարաններին ու դպրոցներին նվիրեմ, ասի` հատին ութ հարյուր դրամ վճարիր, էս քսանհինգ օրինակն է մնացել, քսան հազար դրամ տուր, տար, բարով վայելես: Ու դու սուսուփուս վճարես, մի կերպ, թշնամանալով անդորրագիր պոկես, որ փրկագին ես վճարել առևանգված երեխեքիդ ետ առնելու համար` հինգ: Բա հիմա ես քեզ ի՞նչ խոսքով գովեմ, իմ թառլան Պլուտոկրատիա:
пятница, 23 августа 2013 г.
ԴԻԱՆԱ ՀԱՄԲԱՐՁՈՒՄՅԱՆ ՊԼՈՒՏՈԿՐԱՏԻԱ
Մի ծանոթ ունեմ, անունը`
Պլուտոկրատ: Սկզբում, երբ ծանոթացանք, հոնքերս թռան ճակատիս, ու ժպտալով ասացի, որ
անունը շատ եմ հավանել: Ժպտալով ասաց` ինձ էլ կհավանես: Անունը, իրոք, հավանել էի:
Կարծում էի Պլուտոն մոլորակի պատվին են մարդուն էդպես հորջորջել, ու քանի որ Պլուտոնն
ինձ համար սիրելի մոլորակ է, որովհետև Արեգակից հեռու-հեռու է, ամենահեռուն, իր համար
մի կողքի ընկած ապրում է էլի, համ էլ իններոդն է, էլի′ իմ սիրածը, մտածեցի` երևի
ինքն էլ է պլուտոն, մի անգամ էլ աչքիս պոչով նայեցի իր կողմն ու էլի ժպտացի: Ինքը նայեց
ինձ, նայեց թևիս տակ խրած գրքերիս, գրիչի հետքերով մխտռած բլուզիս, կավճոտ մատներիս
ու… չժպտաց: Հենց չժպտաց, մտածեցի` չէէէ~է, սրանից ի՞նչ մոլորակ, էս թզուկ Պլուտոնի
եղունգն էլ չարժե, սա ավելի շատ հույների Պլուտոնին է հիշեցնում: Հա, նույն ինքը` անդրաշխարհի
դռները հսկող Հադեսը, որ նորօրյա թաղ նայողների նման ինքն է սահմանում իր թագավորության
օրենքները: Ինքն է հրամայում, թե իր Հունաստանի մեռյալները ոնց ապրեն իր շվաքում: Մի
խոսքով, էս Պլուտոկրատը, որ չհավանեց գրչիս հետքերը բլուզիս թևքին, կավճոտ մատներս,
որ մազս ուղղելիս, ճակատս խարանեցին, թևիս տակ խցկած գրքերս, որ հին էին ու նոր,
խառը, մի մազ անգամ ինձ չհավանեց, հիմա եմ գլխի ընկնում, որ էս Պլուտոկրատը ոչ էլ հույների
Պլուտոնին է հիշեցնում: Նա հենց ինքն է որ կա, պլուտոկրատը` քսակ իշխանը, որ բադիկ-բադիկ
ճեմում է իր պլուտոկրատիայում:
четверг, 4 июля 2013 г.
ՎԻԵՆՆԱՅԻ ՀԱՅ ՀԱՄԱՅՆՔԻ ՀՅՈՒՐՆ Է ԱՐՁԱԿԱԳԻՐ, ԹԱՐԳՄԱՆԻՉ ԴԻԱՆԱ ՀԱՄԲԱՐՁՈՒՄՅԱՆԸ
Նոյեմբերի 11-ին Վիեննայի Սուրբ Հռիփսիմե
եկեղեցուն կից գործող հայկական կիրակնօրյա դպրոցի սրահում տեղի ունեցավ հանդիպում արձակագիր,
թարգմանիչ Դիանա Համբարձումյանի հետ:
Ավստրիայի դեսպանատան երաշխավորությամբ
2011 թվականի հոկտեմբերի 1-ից նոյեմբերի 30-ը հայասատանաբնակ Դիանա Համբարձումյանը
հրավիրվել է Վիեննա` որպես §գրող-բնակիչ¦` գրելու իր
նոր գիրքը, որի հիմքում հայի ինքնությունն է, իսկ իրադարձությունների տեղն ու ժամանակը`
Հայոց պատմության հեռուն ու մոտը, Ձիավորը, Եկվորն ու Կինը Հայոց հողում, եվրոպական
խաչուղիներում, մեծ Դարձի ճանապարհին:
Հանդիպումը բացեց Վիեննայի հայ համայնքի
ղեկավար Ռազմիկ Թամրազյանը, ով ներկայացրեց տիկին Համբարձումյանին թե’ որպես հայ ժամանակակից
գրականության ճանաչված դեմքերից մեկը (5 գրքի` պատմվածքների ժողովածուների, վիպակների
ու վեպի հեղինակ, 5 գրքի թարգմանիչ, ում ստեղծագործությունները թարգմանվել են 10 լեզվով,
գրախոսվել հայրենի ու օտարալեզու մամուլում), թե’ որպես վաստակաշատ գիտնականի (բանասիրական
գիտությունների դոկտոր, պրոֆեսոր, Բրյուսովի անվան պետական լեզվաբանական համալսարանի
շուրջ երեսուն տարվա դասախոս, մենագրությունների, բուհական դասագրքերի հեղինակ):
Ներկաները, որոնց թվում կային Վիեննայի
հայ համայնքի անվանի մտավորականներ, հրավիրյալ հյուրեր, քաղաքական ու հոգևոր դասի այրեր,
սիրով զրույցի բռնվեցին տիկին Համբարձումյանի հետ` բարձրացնելով արդիական մի շարք խնդիրներ,
որոնք հուզում են երկուստեք` Հայաստանի ու սփյուռքի հայությանը: Դիանա Համբարձումյանն
իր խոսքն ամփոփեց` մաղթելով իր ժողովրդին սեր երկրի ու պետության հանդեպ, իսկ երկրի
ղեկավար ու քաղաքական այրերին` փոխըմբռնում,
ազգապահպան, մարդակենտրոն քաղաքականություն վարելու կամք ու կարողություն, սփյուռքի
հայությանը` §Մարդու լեզուն մարդու հայրենիքն է¦ սկզբունքով առաջնորդվելու անհրաժեշտության գիտակցություն:
Հյուրերը մեծ հետաքրքրություն ցուցաբերեցին
Դիանա Համբարձումյանի գրքերի հանդեպ` զանազան հարցեր ուղղելով հեղինակին` սկսած բառի
հետ նրա աշխատանքի յուրահատկությունից մինչև գեղարվեստականացման ձևերն ու հասարակական
հնչողության խնդիրները գեղարվեստական ստեղծագործության նյութ դարձնելու նրա գործածած
հնարները: Դիանա Համբարձումյանն իր խոսքում ընդգծեց, որ գրողը չի կարող անտարբեր լինել
իր ժողովրդին պատուհասած դժվարությունների ու դժբախտությունների հանդեպ, չի կարող դրանք
հաղթահարելու ուղիների որոնման մեջ իր մասնակցությունը չունենալ, որ գրողի խնդիրը սթափության
կոչնակ հնչեցնելն է, որ երկրի ու ժողովրդի բացերը ցուցանելը հայրենիքի հանդեպ ճշմարիտ
սիրո վկայությունն է, իսկ ընթերցողի գնահատանքը երբեք չի ուշանում:
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пятница, 31 мая 2013 г.
1964թ. Նոբելյան մրցանակակիր Ժան-Պոլ Սարտրը հրաժարվեց մրցանակից` նշելով. "Երբ ես ստորագրում եմ Ժան-Պոլ Սարտր, մի բան է, մի այլ բան է, երբ ստորագրում եմ` Ժան-Պոլ Սարտր, Նոբելյան մրցանակակիր: Գրողը չպետք է իրեն թույլ տա վերածվելու ինչ-որ ինստիտուտի, որքան էլ հարգարժան եղանակով դա տեղի ունենա":
In 1964 Jean-Paul Sartre was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature, but he declined it, stating that "It is not the same thing if I sign Jean-Paul Sartre or if I sign Jean-Paul Sartre, Nobel Prize winner. A writer must refuse to allow himself to be transformed into an institution, even if it takes place in the most honorable form."
In 1964 Jean-Paul Sartre was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature, but he declined it, stating that "It is not the same thing if I sign Jean-Paul Sartre or if I sign Jean-Paul Sartre, Nobel Prize winner. A writer must refuse to allow himself to be transformed into an institution, even if it takes place in the most honorable form."
воскресенье, 26 мая 2013 г.
воскресенье, 12 мая 2013 г.
The Green Field by Hrant Matevossyan Translated by Diana Hambardzumyan
The Green Field
by
Hrant Matevossyan
Translated by Diana Hambardzumyan
The lightning struck the rock with a dry crackle. It
ricocheted, and buried itself in the green ground. The rock was hard; the
lightning could sever no more than a few tiny pieces of stone from it. The
green ground under the rock was the cemetery of all the lightning bolts that
cracked in that valley: all summer and spring lightning bolts were buried under
the rock, and the nearby oak tree was terrified by each crack of lightning and
expressed its oak-like gratitude to the rock; after all, the rock was absorbing
all the lightning bolts that fell into the valley and burying them, thus saving
the oak from incineration.
A minute ago, as the lightning circled over the valley
and the hills, thinking about cracking but not yet, the foal’s mother summoned
the little foal with a gentle neigh. His mother knew that the lightning was
bound to crack and would frighten the foal. The little foal thought that his
mother was calling him to suckle. He pricked up his ears, moved them around,
and began to listen to himself, trying to decide whether he wanted to suckle or
would rather smell the grass and flowers and get to know them one by one. And
it was exactly at that moment that the lightning cracked. The foal was
frightened and tried to run to his mother, but he was too frightened to see
where she was and instead ran in the opposite direction. His mother wanted to
go to him, but the rope around her neck prevented her. And she neighed again to
the little foal.
The foal was one month old. This was his first
experience of lightning in his month-long life. He sheltered himself under his
mother’s breast. From this vantage point he pricked his ears and listened to
the rain drumming on the oak leaves. He gazed at the rock, then at the wild
rose bush, then at the oak tree. He blinked his eyes and forgot all about his
fear of the lightning crack, as if he had come to his mother to suckle. Shaking
his curly black tail, the foal went under his mother’s belly. The old mare put
her leg back and loosened the milk veins so her foal could suckle freely until
he had enough.
He was a star-spangled foal: covered with starlets
like grains of frost. His legs were thin and long. His rear right shin was
white. His body seemed covered in frost, his rear right leg with snow. His neck
was also thin and long. His head was small; there was a round blaze on his
forehead, like an aster. Deer, kids and lambs, and the mare, too, who had had
many foals, came to drink from the brook in the valley, but this foal was the
most beautiful creature in the green field. His mane and tail were black. It
was impossible to tell what kind of eyes he had, as he always shied when we
approached him. It is safe to say, though, that the foal’s eyes were extremely
beautiful: horses’ eyes are always beautiful, and reflect their surroundings.
The oak tree, the flowers, the wild rose bush, his red mother, and the entire
green valley were now mirrored in the foal’s eyes.
He was a bit skittish, and was skittish because he was
still tiny. A raindrop rolled down between his legs; this frightened him, and
he ran away from his mother. She did not call him back. The rain had stopped.
No more lightning would crack, and the sun had come out.
The green field gleamed in the sun. The rich, moist
light glinted off the only oak tree in the valley, the wild rose bush, and the
mare’s wet back. The brook that flowed from the gray rock and disappeared
through the green valley glittered as well. The brook reeked of lightning, and
the foal was a bit scared. The wild rose also smelled of lightning: the foal
leapt once or twice, then was scared and stopped. He gazed at the wild rose and
ran over, one leg behind the other, to smell it once again.
The mare knew all the scents and aromas of the valley.
She knew the scents of all the valleys and hills, but she knew best the
fragrance of this valley, as she was often tied up here and had examined her
surroundings. The lightning flash was momentary, displaced by the sun, and now
it would vanish with the dew. The fragrance of
thyme did not really belong to this valley; the wind had borne it down
from the hills. The mare grazed and smelled wet sheep wool. She thought the
sheep grazed on the other side of the hills; this meant that there would also
be sheep dogs.
On the other side of the hills the sheep were grazing.
The wet valley grass is tasty. The water of the brook is tasty too. The old
mare kept thinking: the sun is getting warmer, the foal is frightened, but
he’ll grow up in the kindly warmth of the valley.
The mare raised her head: the oak tree stood
still, the rock stood there as if it were sleepy, and the foal was smelling the
wild rose. The sun was getting warmer, the grass was tasty; it was a good time
to graze. The mare lowered her head to eat; she tore off a couple of mouthfuls
of grass, but something was not right, and she raised her head.
Standing still in the green valley, holding her head
high, the old red mare surveyed the valley for a long time and listened to its
silence. Everything was exactly as it had been before: the oak was standing
still, the rock was dozing, and the foal was gamboling near the wild rose. And
it was a good time to graze, but the red mare did not lower her muzzle to the
ground. She threw up her head suddenly, whinnied, and pricked up her ears to
catch all the secret voices of the valley. Widening her nostrils, she drank in
the strange fragrances of the dale. Butterflies were fluttering, bugs were
singing, the brook was babbling, and the foal was stretching his neck as he
chased butterflies around the wild rose. The old red mare wanted neither to
hear those voices nor to see those sights. But a danger lurked in the valley.
No omen of that peril was in the air, nor it was seen in the dale. The smell of
that danger was not borne by the wind, but the mare was unable to graze.
The old red mare started to get angry. She was getting
angry because there was an adversary in the vale, but the enemy was neither
felt, nor heard, nor seen.
Standing in the green valley, the gray rock, the
luxuriant oak, the old red mare, and the wild rose bush watched, and listened
to the silence. For the rock there was no danger in the green valley, because
there would be no more lightning that day. The oak remained vigilant, but
everything seemed to be all right for the tree: again because there would be no
lightning and the sun was warm. It was all right for the wild rose, too,
because the foal’s muzzle did not reach beyond one or two flowers. And the old
red mare sweated with tense expectancy.
The valley was betraying the mare: there was an enemy
in the valley, but the valley was not giving up the enemy’s voice or the
enemy’s smell. The old red mare dared not move towards the foal. She was afraid
of covering over the secret sounds of the enemy with the noise of her own
footsteps. The old red mare dared not breathe. She was afraid of covering over
the cautious breathing of the enemy with the noise made by her own lungs. The
old red mare did not blink her eyes. She was afraid that the enemy would jump
from place to place as she blinked, and she would not see him move.
They stood so still in the green valley: the rock, the oak, the wild rose,
and the mare. The rock was dozing. The acorns of the oak were filling with
juice, safe within their armor, and everything was all right for the tree. The
wild rose had opened its calyxes to the sun and was lapping up the sun, and the
old red mare was quivering with anger. Never, not even once, had the valley
betrayed her in such a way. Perhaps it was the lightning that prevented the
mare from smelling the whereabouts of the enemy somewhere nearby, and the
enemy’s scent was hidden behind the burnt smell of lightning.
The foal looked at something and turned to his mother.
His mother did not see what he was looking at; it could not be seen from where
she was. The foal looked again at whatever it was and again turned his head
towards his mother, who was standing with her head high, her eyes burning.
The foal stretched his neck, raised his muzzle, and
walked towards the thing. Just then his mother smelled the detestable stench of
a wolf. His mother neighed and lurched towards the foal as she saw the wolf
detach itself from the ground in a long, smooth leap.
The short, nervous whinny of the mare was heard on the
other side of the hills. On the other side of the hills, close to the sheep,
the sheep dogs became all ears for a moment, waited a bit to catch other
voices, and then calmed down.
The red mare dashed to the foal; she recklessly hurled
herself towards the wolf and foal, but fell. She was an old mare; she had fallen
many times before, but never so unexpectedly. She fell, but stood up
immediately. Her fall was caused by her own powerful rush and by the rope. The
rope throttled her and prevented her from flying to her baby.
The foal escaped somewhere, far from the wild rose.
The foal wanted to return to his mother. Making a long circle, the foal strove
to get to his mother, but the wolf always barred his way, forcing him to go
farther and farther away. The rope was strangling his mother. The foal jumped
over the wolf to get to his mother, but the wolf caught him by his hind leg.
The foal fell down. The foal squealed and jumped up.
On the other side of the hills the sharp, shrill cry
of the foal was heard, and the sheep dogs became more vigilant; among the sheep
dogs a black-muzzled dog, Topush, grew even more watchful.
The foal squealed and jumped up, just as his mother
sprang to her feet, with all her weight and fury stretched out towards the wolf
and the foal. The rope broke and whipped his mother’s legs. His mother rushed
forward as fast as she could run, with all her strength, all her fury, and all
her love. She was a very swift mare, but in all her life she had never raced
like that, as if flying. On the other side of the hills, the muffled clatter of
her hoofs was heard. Then on the other side of the hills there was nothing more
to be heard, and consequently the sheep dogs and the little shepherd calmed
down. The mare left the foal so she could free herself from the rope without
stamping on him. As the mare began to attack, the wolf ran away a little. But
the mare kept coming, and the wolf retreated a bit more. Her muzzle pressed to
the ground, the mare approached slowly, threateningly. The mare kept coming;
the wolf was a blur on the ground; she jumped up and suddenly, as the mare
turned around, she fastened herself to the mare’s nostrils.
The mare turned around, and the wolf jumped up and
stood in front of her. Keeping the foal under her breast, the mare turned
around again, and the wolf circled with her. The wolf circled ceaselessly, and
the mare turned around ceaselessly. In two short dashes the wolf appeared under
the mare’s muzzle, but the mare managed to turn around again and kick. The wolf
took a long sprint and appeared under the mare’s muzzle, and the mare did not
manage to turn around fully. The wolf was able to scratch the mare’s nostrils,
and the mare was able to stamp on her with her front leg. The wolf stepped
back, but did not escape; she sat down and looked at the mare, and the mare
looked at the wolf. And the wolf realized that the mare would defend her foal
to the end, and the mare realized that the wolf would not leave. The mare was
covered in sweat, but the wolf was also tired. The wolf rushed back at once.
After that the wolf leaped continuously at the mare’s nostrils, and the mare
turned around continuously and kept her foal continuously under her breast.
It was already evening; their movements had slowed
down. The wolf was slowly circling the mare, almost plodding, almost crawling,
and the mare was slowly turning around where she was, with difficulty,
sometimes sliding and almost collapsing. Their eyes had darkened, and they
hardly saw each other. They had gone deaf with fatigue.
The little shepherd appeared at the top of the hills
and looked at the sunset. The sunset was red. And in the sunset only the oak
tree in the valley was beautiful – but what the little shepherd saw was so
abominable that he was unable to speak: the wolf was hanging from the red
mare’s nostrils, and the old red mare could not stamp on the wolf; the old red
mare was about to buckle.
“Hey, boy!” was heard from the opposite hills, “that
wolf is strangling that mare, hey, you there! . . . where are the dogs? Hey!”
The little shepherd opened his mouth to scream, but
was unable to make a sound. The little shepherd only waved his hands. The sheep
dogs became more focused and watched. The sheep dogs— Topush, Bob, Sevo,
Boghar, Chalak, and Chambar— saw what was happening and ran away. Black-muzzled
Topush was an experienced dog; he was used to sneaking quietly up on his prey
and catching it. Now he was running quietly. Boghar, on the other hand, was a
young dog, still a bit frightened of wolves; that is why he kept up a barrage
of barking from a distance, trying to scare the wolves away so he would not
have to fight them. Boghar continued to bark. Boghar was a fast-running
dog—sometimes he even ran ahead of Topush—but he did not dare to leave the pack
and go on alone. He stopped and barked, waiting for Topush. He ran alongside
Topush, but he soon got ahead again, and again he slowed down.
When the mare was about to fall to her knees, the wolf
heard the dogs barking in the distance, as if in a dream. The wolf did not want
to believe that the dogs were coming to attack her. That would be too much for
her: her torment, which had lasted an entire day, could not be in vain, forcing
her to return to her three hungry cubs empty-handed.
When there was no longer any strength left in her and
the pain in her nostrils was beginning to diminish, when her eyes had
completely darkened and her ears had become completely deaf, the mare heard the
dogs barking in the far distance, and she thought the dogs were barking at her
and her foal. Fate could not be so cruel. Her foal could not live for only one
June. The old mare knew that the dogs were near, even though the dogs’ barking
sounded quite far because of the deafness brought on by her fatigue. The old
mare knew she should be patient a bit longer; she had to be patient just
a bit longer, until the dogs arrived. But it was so hard to breathe. What a
burden this life had become!
The dogs’ barking exploded in the wolf’s ears again,
and again the wolf did not believe that after such a tormenting success she
would end up such a failure. Her cubs hungry at home, her nipples empty . . .
Her neck was torn, her ears were torn, and the wolf let go of the mare’s
nostrils. Her paw was seized. She did not have the strength to free her paw.
The wolf wanted to sleep and sleep. She had no strength left for a fight; the wolf
wanted to die, to relax. The wolf became blurred and pressed her throat to the
ground so the dogs would not be able to seize her by the throat. The dogs were
tearing her back and neck, yanking at her ears, and she was defending her
throat and relaxing under the pack of dogs.
The wolf bit a paw, and one of the dogs jumped aside,
whimpering. The wolf stood up, and the dogs surrounded her. Standing among
them, the wolf looked at the dogs, and they were many, and it was difficult,
too difficult; it was impossible to get rid of them and plod home, where her
cubs were waiting for her. With open fangs the wolf looked at the dogs, the
dogs looked at the wolf; for a moment they looked at each other, and the wolf
did not know what she was going to do, and the dogs did not know what they were
going to do. And it made one of the dogs’ flesh creep; it hurdled itself
through the air, hit the wolf with its breast, and knocked her aside. The wolf
almost fell down, and realized that the most dangerous dog was the one with the
black muzzle.
“Hey you, boy! Who are you? Hey, you! Go help those
dogs, go help those dogs strangle the wolf! Hey, you!” they called out from the
opposite hills.
The mare was barely standing. The mare’s head was
getting heavier and drooping. The mare felt the foal suckling and could hardly
rejoice at the foal’s suckling. The mare’s head bent down, her forelegs also
sagged, and the foal was still suckling. The mare sprawled. The foal was now
standing near the mare, waiting for his mother to rise, but his mother did not
rise. The foal nudged his mother’s belly with his muzzle, but his mother did
not stand up, did not move. The foal sat near his mother’s belly, and his hind
leg ached badly, and he began to suckle. And his mother’s milk was still
flowing, was still flowing in full flood; she was suckling her foal for the
last time; he was already an orphan, her most beautiful foal, a star-spangled
foal with a curly black mane and tail, with a white shin, with a blaze on his
forehead. He was a bit foolish, but that was because he was still so young.
The wolf, at least, could escape. If she did not
escape, her cubs would become orphans, and they were completely helpless, they
would die, and the wolf was able to escape. It was not so much an escape as a
gradual retreat, step by step, leap by leap, a few leaps followed by a few more
leaps. After a few leaps, when the dogs reached her and were about to seize
her, the wolf turned around, her flesh creeping, and opened her fangs; the dogs
paused, and the wolf took a few more leaps towards safety.
The big black-muzzled sheep dog could not grab hold of
the wolf’s throat, and the wolf could not bite and frighten him, but the
black-muzzled sheep dog was not chasing her any more, as a tuft of hair from
the wolf’s neck had dropped into his mouth and the black-muzzled dog was
lagging behind, wiping his mouth in disgust, sneezing and vomiting. The
black-muzzled dog was not chasing her, and the other dogs were not dangerous,
as they were not experienced hunters.
The dogs lost the wolf, and then lost her footsteps,
but they were circling, running, getting frantic, and howling in the green
valley, where the rock had darkened now, where the oak tree stood still and the
wild rose had stretched forth a couple of its calyxes to collect the dew, where
the body of the old red mare was lying. The foal stood beside his mother,
worried, as if he already understood what had happened.
The whole valley was light green in the sunset, and it
was black, jet black round the old red mare. The red body of the old mare was
lying within that black circle. That black circle was the fighting ground of
the mare and the wolf; that black spot had been trampled out by the mare.
Looking at that black spot, trampled, ruined, devastated ground, one could see
how long the old mare had circled with the wolf around her.
That black circle remained black for about three
years; for about three years the grass did not grow there, and the white
skeleton of our good old mare lay in that black circle. Then green triumphed.
Green grass grew in that circle, flowers bloomed in the spaces between the
bones, the grass rose, grew luxuriant, and the green valley is now in full
green.
From the top of the hills you see the green valley
fully green, the oak tree standing majestically in the green valley, the rock
listening to the rustle of the clouds, dozing, the wild rose holding its five
calyxes to the sun, and the tethered star-spangled horse grazing in the green
field. His rear right shin is white, his legs are long, his mane and tail are
sun-burnt and dark, there is a white aster on his forehead. When he takes a
step, his rear right leg twitches a little, as if from a nervous tic, because
of the old scar.
The horse with the aster on its forehead raises his
beautiful head, and the rock, the oak tree, the blooming wild rose, the green
valley, and the white clouds in the blue sky are reflected in his eyes.
“Is that the end?”
“It is.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Say that the mare didn’t die.”
“I can’t say that the mare didn’t die, because the mare
did die. When the little shepherd ran down from the top of the hills, the mare
was already dead; the foal was sad, standing near his mother. When the shepherd
who had called out “Hey, boy!” came down from the opposite hills, the mare was
completely cold, and the old shepherd and the little shepherd sat near the old
red mare for a while and considered how they would raise the foal.
“So how did they raise him?”
“With another mare’s milk.”
“No, say that the mother didn’t die.”
“I can’t say that the mother didn’t die, because all
summer long I fed the orphaned foal with other mares’ milk.”
“Do you want to know what I wish?”
“Tell me.”
“I wish the shepherd on the other side of the hills
had been on top of the hills, and had noticed the wolf sooner.”
“The shepherd was on the other side of the hills and
noticed the wolf as soon as it appeared on the crest of the hills.”
“How did the mare die?”
“While they were sitting beside the body of the old
red mare, the old shepherd told the little shepherd that the mare’s heart had
stopped because of her fear for the foal, and disgust, and fury.”
“Was she disgusted with the wolf?”
“Yes, with the wolf.”
“I wish the dogs had strangled the wolf.”
“I can’t say that the dogs strangled the wolf, because
our black-muzzled dog had swallowed wolf hair and was about to die himself.”
“Were you the little shepherd?”
“I was, the mare was ours, and the foal was our mare’s
foal.”
“Has the foal grown up now, and is he tied up in the
green valley?”
“Yes, he has grown up, and is tied up in the green
valley.”
“Does he remember his red mother?”
“It’s possible that he remembers his red mother,
because horses can remember.”
“Well, tell the story again.”
“Lightning struck the rough rock with a dry crackle,
was thrown aside, and buried itself in the green ground. The gray rock was
tough; the lightning could not have broken more than a few small shards from
its rough surface. Only the oak tree was a little frightened, because lightning
strikes and burns oak trees, and the long-legged, star-spangled little colt was
very frightened: a boy foal is called a
colt . . . he was so frightened that he wanted to run to his mother, but
he didn’t see his mother and was running in the other direction. And the old
red mare let the foal know where she was by neighing gently . . .”
¡
¡all rights reserved for translation, Diana Hambardzumyan
четверг, 9 мая 2013 г.
The Earth Shuddered LEVON KHECHOYAN
The Earth Shuddered
by
Levon Khechoyan
Translated by Diana Hambardzumyan
They forbade us to enter
the church with weapons. Free candles were passed out to us, for the salvation
of our souls. We lit the candles inside the church, leaving our weapons outside.
Then we took their
villages with meteoric rapidity. We approached the town; the town also fell. We
went in and out, running through broken telegraph poles, full-length portraits
of leaders, unwound wires, metals, and villages with strange smells which
surrendered one by one. The success of our attack was accomplished by the
swiftness of our thrust. Headquarters and the generals forbade the reporters to
follow us into the villages. Despite their complaints, they were forced into
cars and sent back. The prisoners and wounded were driven to the rear in
groups.
We slept in sleeping
bags in wet, dry, cold, and warm weather. We woke up before dawn; with the
tanks ahead of us, the earth shuddering beneath our feet, and in our ears the
screech of metal wheels over caterpillar treads, we entered the steppe. Taking
the village opposite us was not a difficult task, but we did not want to lose
our guys. We stopped and, ignoring the forked tongues of the snakes that jetted
out like blue-red electro sparks, slept in the yellow pumpkin fields.
At dawn the generals and
commanding officers, the map spread out on their knees, confirmed the position
of the village. Once again advancing through the telegraph and electrical
poles, giant portraits of leaders, unwound wires, smashed metals, and disparate
smells, leaving those who had fallen or injured to the ambulances heeling us,
we crossed the cotton fields and, the earth shuddering beneath our feet,
entered the village.
Somebody called out. I
heard the voice from behind. I turned around but there was no one there. Then
one of their woman soldiers, who was seated on a Shilka[1]
and destroying our tanks, was abandoned by her comrades; disappointed, she
surrendered. We took her diary out of her pocket. It contained some lines about
the sun, bastard generals, suppliers not supplying bread, and how many of our
tanks she had destroyed with her contraption. She unbuttoned the sleeve of her
jacket, which was adorned with green leaves, rolled it up, and exposed the
infected injection wound on the transparent blue vein.
“First give me a shot .
. . I’m not afraid.”
We were sitting here and
there around her. One of us was eating an apple. The apple exploded in his
mouth; the apple tree was nearby. I knew what this woman wanted. On my arm,
too, the indistinct scar under my skin had not yet healed; it lingered on like
a cloudy, colorful dream, and ached. We all knew what she wanted. We also knew
the secret of seeing nothing with glassy eyes. Around her, restraining the
reeling pain of our swollen legs and spines, we went on with our smoking.
Someone who had joined
us from the other detachment said, “Are you having fun? What are you waiting
for? Take her away and plug her three holes—and look at what veins she has!
Take her and do it—women like her love things like that.”
The woman stretched out
her arm. I saw the transparent blue vein. I heard the apple and pomegranate
exploding in their mouths. A voice came from behind again, and I turned around,
but there was nobody there. I did not understand what I had missed, and refused
any longer to hear the commanding officer from the other detachment. Kamo was
injured in the arm and was vomiting. I went over to cheer him up.
Then, again, the earth
shuddered beneath our feet. We were widely scattered on the endless yellow
steppe. We tried to call to each other in friendly tones, without knowing where
everybody was. We advanced, beating the thin dust under the metal caterpillars,
and entered the valley of the Arax—the shores of our dreams! Our tanks were
churning up the water. The sun stood in the middle of the sky, firing piercing,
intense heat and burning our heads. Then I heard the same voice for the third
time; it came from behind. I realized I should hide in a shadow, but there was
not a single black spot on the yellow steppe—every shadow melted under the
luxuriant, warm light of the sun. The small, grey, charred hills were steaming.
In these boiling hills they could not find a guy from the other detachment. No
one appeared on the distant plane of the steppe, which stretched far and wide.
All the radios that connected the detachments, all the binoculars searched for
Serob and could not find him. The air was howling. We smoked quietly. Our
nostrils were clogged with dust, and our breath was warm and saturated with
nicotine.
They showed us the
village. The generals and those who gave orders by radio said “Take that
village and establish a base there.”
The earth shuddered
beneath our feet; again we went through metals, unwound wires, telegraph and
electric poles, giant portraits of leaders, and different smells. The villagers
had seen us approaching, and had fled. No one remained when we entered the
village. Our commandant said, “Check the houses one by one; see if there isn’t
somebody hiding.”
Their dogs tore us
apart. Behind every padlocked door there were sheep dogs. They snatched at our
guys as soon as they entered the houses, and we in turn raked as many as we
could manage with fire when they jumped at our throats. Then, in the evening,
our scattered detachment began to turn up from everywhere: from behind bushes,
trees, houses, out of shadows and darkness. They came with the dust of the
steppe on their eyelashes and beards. They came from the four corners of the
village, one on a donkey, another on a horse, bearing a bunch of grapes, figs,
apples, pomegranates from the valley and booty from the endless expanse of
yellow desert. They called out to one another so the stragglers would not be
lost.
As we gathered in one
place and spat the sticky dust from our mouths, we noted that our water flasks
were empty. We sensed the danger at once; none of us had noticed a spring in
the village. Our thirst intensified. We poked around all over the village but
found no water. Our men went away and fetched dry, insipid watermelons from
behind the steppe and the charred, seething hills, but they did not quench our
thirst. We were all dejected again. We tried to put the house with green and
dark green verandas in order, to make it our quarters. Lone mosquitoes from the
swarms that milled about kept eating us. The guys went all over the village
again, looking for water, but in vain. Many of us grumbled and complained.
Someone arrived from another base, in the neighboring village, looking for
Serob. He addressed our commander: “We haven’t been able to find Serob, no
matter how hard we look. Haven’t you seen him? He was in the right flank,
constantly advancing.”
We wanted him to leave
us in peace and go away. We gave him a juicy pear. There was dust on his
chapped lips. As he bit into the fruit, a worm emerged from it; noticing
nothing, he bit into it again. We waited for him to go away.
“I brought him here; he arrived with me. His
wife is going to have a baby in a couple of months,” he said. His drowsy eyes
were closing. “Well, I’m going. If you see him, let us know.”
Then Gegham arrived.
“There mustn’t be any water in this village. How do you expect to find a spring
on a steppe? I’ve discovered a well,” he said.
The commanding officer
did not want us to drink that water. He repeatedly refused, knowing that wells
were the best places to poison people.
“Be patient;” he said,
“they may supply us with water from the rear; we’ll find out by radio.”
We switched on the
portable radio. Again somebody was asking about Serob. We yelled at the
operator, “Switch it off, you idiot! have you ever made contact with it?
Whenever you’re needed, you’ve always had diarrhoea! Switch it off!”
“Let me connect you through the night
line—it’s always free—and seventy nine may be vacant,” the operator replied.
Amid all the radio
interference, both noisy and soft, someone was still searching for Serovbeh[2]
in a monotonous voice. At that very moment, I heard a voice from behind again.
I turned around, but nobody was there.
The guys were still yelling
at the radio operator, “Switch it off, switch it off . . . !”
Our thirst was getting
more and more intense. We needed water, and the commanding officer gave in; it
was he, though, who drank the first glass of boiled water, and we loved him
longingly.
Seven more days went by.
The mosquitoes had left running wounds on our bodies. When our men returned
from the night shift they could not sleep because of the flies and the
toothache caused by the muddy, sour-tasting water. Many had eyes that were
inflamed with ruptured capillaries; their sleeplessness, the dust, and the
endlessness of the steppe had caused their blood pressure to drop.
More days went by. From
all around the village, small and big, colorful cats and packs of dogs of
various breeds showed up and filled our quarters; they had been injured by
bombardments but survived. They meowed, wailed, and gnawed each other’s throats
for bones. From our hands they snatched pieces of leftovers from the meals
prepared by our cook. During the day they ate our bread, and at dusk they left
us, sat before the open doors, licked their wounds, and barked violently at us,
or turned the flames of their sparkling eyes to the sky and barked at the moon.
We were irritated; our nerves could not stand it.
At night, for those of
us who were on patrol in the village and around the base post, the natural
silence was broken by the concealed displacements of their scouts and by the
tracer shots sent up to help our friends in the dark, mixed with the meows and
wails emitted by flabby, soft bodies, small and big, beneath our feet; the
sounds of their rushing swiftly here and there, tormented in pain; and the
enemy’s footsteps. We were unable to distinguish the sounds one from another.
All through the night the winds that blew from north and south kept beating,
banging, and screeching against the open and closed doors and windows of
hundreds of houses. Although we were aware that the doors and windows were
about to bang behind us, it made us jump all the same. Its voice was becoming doubled,
as if blowing up inside us once more; furthermore, the night was spilling out
under our feet like water from a shattered glass, on which we would tread as if
walking barefoot, knowing full well that the blade of a sword was whirling
around us in the dark. The pomegranate tree irritated us too. Suddenly, in the
silence of the night, pomegranates fell and with a huge whack split the dense,
fluid darkness. Groups of cats and dogs of various breeds started to invade our
quarters. We knew that we would not be able to get rid of them; we had already
tried that the day we entered the village. While raiding the houses, we shot
the sheep dogs that leapt at our throats, and in order to get rid of the
unbearable stench that their decaying flesh spread over the village, we poured
gasoline from our vehicles on them.
On the twentieth day all
of us were infested with lice. At dawn, as we sat along the wall wiping lice
from our vests and crushing them with our thumbnails, the guy from the
neighboring village base came again. His lips were chapped He was still looking
for Serovbeh: “We couldn’t find Serob, no matter how hard we looked,” he said.
“Haven’t you seen him? His wife is going to have a baby in two months. He
arrived here with me,” he repeated as before.
We wanted him to leave
us in peace and go away. We gave him some soup. As he ate and dipped his bread
in it, his drowsy eyes were closing.
“Well, I’m going; if you
see him, let us know.”
That day, from their
hiding places in the gardens and the steppe, thumping down the deserted village
streets on their horseshoes, came donkeys, mules, and old horses with broken
hoofs; they had been abandoned during the escape. Crazed with thirst, they
moaned and dug up the earth around our water containers with their hoofs, swallowing
whenever they found something in the shade that was wet, persecuted by the
swarms of blue-winged flies attracted by the moisture of their eyes. They
glared at us and neighed continuously. We saddled them and had our pictures
taken posed suitably on their quivering backs and puffing out our chests.
When Shahen and a few
others came from the post and told us to set the house opposite our shelter on
fire, the commanding officer objected: “No, you mustn’t do such a thing. Don’t
do it, that’s all.”
Shahen did not seem to
agree: “You say we mustn’t, but that makes being on patrol impossible. The roof
is tiled; when the tiles move a little or rattle their wings or whatever, it
sounds like a man walking. It goes on like that all night long; right across from
our base. The house has got to go. Otherwise we’ll get used to the noise and
one day the enemy will climb up on the roof.”
Karo and I were on
patrol together, and were talking about wanting a woman.
“There’s one inside of
me. I haven’t seen her yet, but one day, I’ll go to the half-ruined cathedral
with her, near the pool of blood,” he said, “and she’ll give herself up to
you.”
“No”, I said, “she would
betray me under pressure.”
And the bats passed
swiftly through the night.
“It’s weakness, filling the veins…otherwise,
how do you get to know that what hasn’t happened yet is going to happen?”
There was a noise; it
came from far away. We went forward and, holding our breaths, we entered the
vegetable garden of a two-storey house from different sides. A famished sheep
dog had a calf by the throat. On our way back, we smelled the strong aroma of
an oleander tree.
“I heard a voice from
behind four times,” I said.
We remained silent, and
then it was he who spoke first: “It’s the tension. The big village we entered .
. . anyone who goes there can hear everything you say. It’s quite impossible.
It’s your brain inventing things. When you’re upset, the brain likes to concoct
things . . .”
Suddenly, the darkness
turned red. The house opposite our night shelter had been set afire. From the
tiled roof hundreds of doves surged up into the air. The beating of their wings
exploded in the red dark of the night. As we were running there, I again heard
a voice from behind, and stopped. I did not want to go on.
Then the commandants and
generals at headquarters issued the order not to desecrate any cemetery. And on
the radio somebody was still searching for Serovbeh, in the same monotonous
voice. The next day they brought a French reporter who had arrived at headquarters;
all of us rushed outside. We heeded neither her speech nor those of the
deputies in white shirts and glasses. We ogled her white teeth; moist lips;
warm fingers; fine hair falling on her shoulders; supple, waving, delicate
waist; and breasts swaying beneath her almost transparent red dress. Her
sonorous laughter poured down through the intense heat onto our heads.
She said, “Give me a
fig.”
The guys fetched some
figs.
She said, “Give me a
pomegranate.”
The guys picked some
pomegranates.
She said, “Give me an
apple.”
The fascinated guys
fetched apples.
She said, “Give me some
grapes.”
The guys broke the vines
in their haste to pick grapes. Shirak first stretched his hands up to heaven,
then, holding his head, he addressed her: “Oh, sweet Mother, good heavens, do
you want a fig leaf, desire a fig leaf . . . ?”
And not until then had
we laughed, not giggled until then, and we realized how furious, long, and
brutal the fighting had been. The wave of laughter and giggles had come and
opened up our faces, sleepless, beaten by rain and wind, at nights smoked by
the wheel fire and by day scorched by the sun. And at that moment we all saw
the shade of Andrey from our detachment, who had fallen under enemy fire in the
distant mountains a year before, come up to us, strike, and pass through us.
The commanding officer alone was sad.
When we were left alone,
we went out to walk in the depths of the steppe, falling into the precipice of
the night. We heard our own footsteps and the echo of our speech. For us the
distant, starless sky was like the seclusion of a well that is covered with a
lid, and it agitated us, and our conversation became incomplete, half-spoken,
and inexplicable. The night was lightening. From somewhere in the village,
still hidden, a cock crowed, admonishing the darkish shadows and the opposed
forces of light to return to their places. We returned and switched on the
radio to demand food from headquarters. And somebody in a tedious voice was
again searching for Serovbeh on the radio. Without asking for bread and
cigarettes, we hastily switched off the radio and sat at the table Everybody
had already slept. In front of us were numerous green and dark green (unlike
our souls) house doors, on the other side of which was darkness. We drank some
wine. The commanding officer’s eyes were longing and sleepless, the night was
dark and deep, like the well, and he asked: “We’ve reached the valley of
dreams—what do you think, have we reached it yet?”
Again our conversation failed, and we poured more wine. I heard a
voice from behind again. From somewhere in the village, still hidden, a cock
crowed. It was getting light; it was already the fourth day since we had set
the tiled-roofed house on fire, and for four days the doves hung from heaven,
without ever landing, circling above us over and over.
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