The Mountain

"Hello. Petrosian?" I asked as pleasantly as I could. Her expression shifted at my words. There was interest in her eyes and something else. Her face tightened.

"American?"

"Yes," I said, and then repeated it in Armenian. She spoke quickly, too fast for me to understand. I interrupted with the Armenian word for slower. She repeated herself again as if she were talking to a dull child. I caught about half the words. Something about a plane and mountains. I smiled.

"I look for Tamara Petrosian," I said, excited that I was at the right place. I saw anger in her face. I was missing something again. I quickly raised my hands, trying to wipe away the last part and start again. "I am Jonathan," I said, "I look for Tamara Petrosian."

The words that flowed from the woman's mouth came too fast. I heard more people moving in the apartment and prayed that one knew English. Two men, both larger than I, moved behind the woman as she opened the door further. I could see that their presence strengthened her.

"I look for Tamara Petrosian," I repeated to the two men. The one on the left rattled off some words to the woman who nodded. The door in the next apartment opened, and another man older than the first two entered the hallway, nodding at the woman. She rattled off some more words that included a butchered form of my name and plane and mountains.

"Yes," I replied, "I'm Jonathan."

A series of cursing followed. Intermixed with Tamara and something about being wrecked or ruined. Followed by a question that had something to do with Tamara and my happiness. I was scared to reply. I was scared not to reply. I had no idea if I understood correctly. Hesitantly, I nodded. Wrong answer.

The man from the hall hit me square in the face. I blocked the next fist and kept shouting "No" as the other two man came into the hall around the old woman. They were yelling, which drew more people out of their apartments. I remembered the ring and fumbled in my front pocket as a fist found my stomach. The ring box tumbled away as I doubled over and drove myself forward, into my attacker, trying to turn it into a wrestling match. The three men weren't having it.

My arms were restrained, and I was lifted up. I kicked out, trying to move one of the men away from me. I was slammed against the wall, and another fist found my nose causing momentary blackness and a flood of warmth over my lips. I closed my eyes waiting for the inevitable next strike I could no longer avoid.

The woman yelled something. I could only pull out the word 'stop' in her words. The expected fist didn't come. I opened my eyes. I breathed through my mouth since my nose was no longer functioning properly. The woman held up the open ring box and asked a question. I understood the name Tamara, but the rest went to fast, and my brain wasn't exactly running at full speed. There was no way I was going to nod again.

"I don't understand." The words slurred out of my mouth in a horrible rendition of Armenian. The women repeated the question slower. Something about Tamara, the ring, and payment or gift. I slumped against the wall. "I'm not answering," I said in English, "I don't understand, and I don't want to fight anymore. I just want to see Tamara Petrosian."

"She want to know if ring is payment for...pleasure with Tamara," a woman with straight blonde hair, obviously dyed, said in English. I smiled stupidly at her, never so pleased to find someone who spoke English.

"Payment?" I asked. Blood was entering my mouth as I spoke, but my secured arms disallowed wiping it away, "why would they think that?" I shook my head no. More Armenian words were exchanged quickly.

"You American who crash plane with Tamara?" the woman asked.

"Yes, Jonathan Bennett," I said hoarsely. I had to cough to clear my throat, "why do these people want to beat me up?"

"You ruin her life. They say you think her... I don't know word...woman who sell sex," the woman responded with her hands on her hips. I think she thought the same of me. My breath caught in my chest. Tamara must think of me as garbage. My eyes teared up as I looked back at the woman.

"I love her," I said, the words choking, "that ring...I meant to ask her to be my wife." Words began to be exchanged. "Where is she?" I tried to interject. I switched Armenian, "Where is Tamara?" I couldn't bear her hating me.

"They say you lie," the woman said, "you not see her for year. Now you want...buy sex. Hurt her more."

"I was in a hospital," I said quickly, "my legs were shattered. I was in a coma for two months. I had no idea..."

"Slow, slow," the woman demanded. She grasped English better than I grasped Armenian, but she had her limits.

"I was in a hospital," I repeated slowly, "I was in a coma for two months."

"Coma, what is this word," she asked.

"Knocked out, unconscious, asleep," I said until she nodded so I could continue "my leg bones were shattered. I couldn't walk." I signaled for her to translate. More words were exchanged, and I only understood a tenth of them. I was beginning to think Ruben was a lousy teacher.

"You family try pay her. Send her away." the blonde woman stated. The expression of the older woman was just this side of evil. I had no answer for this, but the truth.

"My father and mother were foolish," I said, "they didn't like me with Tamara." More words were exchanged. I noticed the grip had lessened on my arms. I stood up straighter but didn't make an attempt for freedom.

"Why not family like her?" the blonde woman asked. I could see this was going to drag out. We had a fairly large audience in the hallway.

"She doesn't speak English," I answered, then added more truth, "because she is not American." I was going to get it all out in the open while I had an interrupter. I watched the black haired woman's face soften as more words were exchanged. She was nodding to the blonde woman as she rattled off her response.

"She not like you. You not Armenian." The blonde woman was holding back a smile. I felt as if I had crossed some line. The we-no-longer-want-to-kill-you line.

"Is she Tamara's mother?" I asked. The blonde woman nodded. I thought for a second then took a risk. The truth was working so far.

"Tell her, if Tamara asks me to leave, I will leave Armenia," I said slowly, "until then, I don't care whether she likes me or not." The blonde woman smiled at me. She turned and exchanged more words. She was still smiling when she turned back to me.

"She not hate you now," the blonde woman chuckled. My arms were released, and the two men attempted to brush me off and straighten my shirt. I was sure my face was a mess. Tamara's mom held out her hand and smiled when I took it. She pulled me into the apartment while she called out some instructions that involved the name, Tamara. I suspected the men to be Tamara's brothers. One responded to his mother and took off down the hall. The other two entered with me. Thankfully, the blonde woman entered as well.

Unlike the drab hall, the apartment was plush. Red seemed to be the main color, with large paintings covering the cement block walls. An accordion divider, as tall as a man, was used to block off a portion of the Soviet boredom on one wall. The divider had an intricate medieval scene with a red flowered border. I was led to a red couch that was sitting on a very fine throw rug. I started to sit down and then reconsidered when Tamara's mother scolded me. I didn't understand the words, but the tone was clear. She pointed at the floor where I stood and walked off. I stood still as ordered.

"My name Viktoria," the blonde woman introduced herself.

"I'm Jonathan," I returned, "I owe you my thanks." I felt a little foolish standing in the center of the room, under orders, with the others moving about examining me.

"No problem," Viktoria said, "you good entertainment." She laughed, which forced a smile to my lips. She looked a lot friendlier without the scowl on her face.

"I'm glad you decided to stay. I'd like to avoid more misunderstanding."

"I would not miss,' Viktoria responded with a sly smile. I saw something there in her face. I was the butt of a joke, or I was missing something. Maybe both.

"Yana," Tamara's mother said, pointing at herself. She had returned with some towels and pot full of water.

"Yana," I repeated. She smiled as she lay a towel on the couch and indicated I should sit. I did. She didn't seem like someone you said no to. Especially since two of her enforcers had taken chairs, sporting the same interest on their faces as Viktoria. She knelt in front of me and placed the pot on the floor. She pointed to one of the men, "Garik," then at the other, "Davit." I nodded to both who smiled back.

"Tamara's brothers?" I asked Viktoria. She chuckled while nodding. A few words were exchanged between the brothers of which I understood little, but the tone indicated humor.

"They say sorry," Viktoria snickered, "they thought you insult sister." I knew the interpretation was missing something. I had heard the word American and something less than favorable.

"You are a diplomat," I told Viktoria. She looked confused. The word was too much for her, so I let it go by waving my hand and smiling as if it didn't matter.

Yana dipped a washcloth in the water and brought it to my face. She spoke in a tone one would use with a child as she began to wash under my nose. I almost reached up and took the cloth from her, but Viktoria shook her head no. The cloth came away bright red, with more blood than I had expected. Yana turned to Garik and spouted a command that had him bounding off.

After rewetting the cloth, Yana returned to my face with more tender words. Her free hand would tilt my face this way and that with no thought as to my fighting it. It took a few more dips of the cloth to clean my face to her satisfaction.

Garik returned with what looked like toilet paper. Yana grabbed it without a word, tore off a section, rolled it, and promptly stuffed it up my left nostril. Obviously, she thought it should be lodged all the way in my brain. I gasped at the final push and Davit laughed. He rattled off a statement that had Garik joining him. I looked at Viktoria, who smiled.

"They have memories," Viktoria answered the unanswered question. I guess Yana was used to bloody noses. A few moments later, I had two wads of toilet paper stuffed up my nose and Yana was satisfied I wouldn't bleed in her house.

"Thank you," I said in my best Armenian. She smiled and then gave her boys a stern look. I guess they were sparse with their thank-yous.

"Where is Tamara?" I asked Viktoria. Viktoria had a conversation with Yana that seemed to make Garik and Davit smile. I understood that she was coming, but missed all the nuances and the part that was making Tamara's brothers smile.

"Armen will bring," Viktoria said. I assumed Armen was the older brother who lived next door. I wondered why Tamara wasn't here.

"She doesn't live here?"

"Down floor," Viktoria replied, pointing at the floor. I guessed that meant downstairs.

"She has her own apartment?"

"No," Viktoria said and didn't elaborate. Thoughts entered my head. I should have known that Tamara had gone on with life. I was bedridden, so it didn't occur to me to move on. The sly smile on Viktoria's face had me prepared for a surprise. One, I suspected, I might not like.

Tamara's brothers started conversing as their mother left the room with the dirty towels and water. Viktoria found humor in what they were discussing. I knew it had something to do with me. I looked between Viktoria and them with concern.

"What are you talking about?" I asked when the pressure got to me.

"Not important," Viktoria replied. She said something to the brothers, and they all started to laugh. Yana returned with a scowl that halted the laughter quickly. She spoke, and all discussion stopped. She sat down next to me on the couch and patted my knee.

"Tamara worry," Yana said slowly, in simple Armenian words. Probably the same words found in an Armenian first-grade reader. The look in her eyes was loving, almost parental. I assumed she meant that Tamara was worried about me. "She can't find," more simple words.

"I had trouble finding her as well," I said in English, then looked at back at Viktoria. She interrupted my words, which brought a smile to Yana. We waited, and I listened to brief conversations where I understood one word in ten. The talking ended when the door opened.

Armen walked in, and a worried eyed Tamara followed. I stood when I saw her. She carried a bundle and didn't approach as I neared. She carried a child. Viktoria was looking between us, her eyes wide with anticipation.

A series of thoughts ran through my mind. Tamara was a nanny; possibly she found another job downstairs. No, the way she held the child spoke of love, not duty. She had it close under her breasts as if it belonged there. Of course, she found someone else. The watery eyes fit. She was too pretty to be alone. She had too much love.

The expression on her face denied another love. I had seen that expression before. Once, in the hovel, she held out a pot with embarrassment. The look was near the same but held more concern. Her eyes searched mine, and I saw something there. Our time together had allowed me to read slight changes in her expression. The way her shoulders curled toward me and the way she resettled the child in her arms. Entire sentences were there, and my throat thickened. It was my child, our child, she held.

I moved forward, more hesitant than I should have. I wasn't prepared to be a father. Tamara saw my nervousness and her eyes swelled. Her hand pulled the cloth away from the baby's face, letting me see it unobstructed.

The child was sleeping, it's skin perfectly pale. It's mouth was moving rapidly like it was feeding from a breast. There was a calmness about it. Something so perfect. I felt my eyes fill. It didn't matter if I was ready or not. The desire to wrap the child in my arms and protect it from the world was overpowering. I looked up at Tamara.

"I never thought anyone could be as beautiful as you," I said in English. Viktoria unnecessarily translated. I could see that Tamara understood when her smile grew. I added my arm to help cradle the child and found Tamara's lips. They were as soft as I remembered. A year did not diminish the love I felt in them. I ignored the conversation that erupted behind me as I lost myself in Tamara and our child.

"I love you," I whispered in Armenian. Ruben at least taught me that well. I felt passion when our lips merged again. A felt the desire grow as it had in the hovel so many months ago. Tamara pushed me away gently, a smile holding a promise for later.

"Mother here," Tamara whispered slowly. I smiled back, knowing that she felt the passion as well. I held out my arms and without hesitation, she placed our sleeping child in them. "Milena," she told me my daughters name.

Milena fit her perfectly. She was so light and so comfortably asleep in my arms. "Milena is beautiful," I said carefully in Armenian. I guess I got it correct when Tamara blushed with pride. I turned back to the couch with my bundled treasure. Yana was beaming like her daughter. I now understood why she thought I had ruined Tamara. They had thought I left Tamara with a child to raise on her own. In some ways, I deserved a bloody nose.

"You like surprise?" Viktoria asked me as I sat down with Tamara. I could see the thrill in her eyes. She had been waiting for this all along.

"She's perfect," I replied. I looked at Tamara. "They're both perfect." Viktoria chuckled while she translated. Yana responded, and Tamara shook her head. I looked between them both and then at Viktoria.

"Your family not like you now?" Viktoria asked. I smiled at the thought. They were convinced I had to choose between Tamara or my family. I guess my parents didn't make a very good first impression with Tamara.

"I think Milena changes everything," I said. I placed Milena in Tamara's arms making sure Milena's beautiful face was exposed. I pulled out my phone and snapped a picture. I had no idea what ungodly time in the morning it was back in Chicago, but I sent a text nonetheless. A picture of my daughter in her mother's arms. The words simply said, 'your granddaughter.'

I sat back on the couch and greedily took back the sleeping baby. I wanted so much for her to wake up, but I didn't want to disturb her sleep. All my thoughts were jumbled. Milena changed everything. Tamara curled into me, and I made room. She liked me caring for Milena. Like I had any choice. God knows how much more of myself I would lose when Milena opened her eyes, which I prayed was soon.

"I am so sorry I wasn't here for you," I said to Tamara. She understood, but Viktoria translated anyway. "She is so wonderful. I can't believe we made her," I added. Tamara smiled and tucked herself closer. Viktoria started to translate and Yana interrupted with some quick commands that sent everyone but Tamara and I scampering away. Yana smiled at me and left to what looked like the kitchen. The woman was smart.

I wrapped my arm around Tamara, and we shared Milena between us. Our child slept as we found each other again. All my reservations were consumed by her lips. It didn't matter that my Armenian sucked. It didn't matter that I didn't have clue-one on how to raise a child. Tamara and I would fuck up parenting together.

My phone rang. I pulled it out and smiled at the caller ID. My mother always kept her phone close when I was out of the country. It didn't matter how old I got; she worried all the same. "Mother," I said to Tamara in Armenian. She nodded as I put my mother on speaker. Even if Tamara couldn't understand, I didn't want to go private right now.

"Sorry to wake you, mom," I said, "you're on speaker with Tamara and me."

"Oh," my mom stuttered, not expecting a public conversation. I heard some shuffling, probably putting on her robe as if we could see her. "I...she's beautiful, Jonathan...so beautiful."

"She is incredible, I'm holding her, and I still can't believe it," I replied. I gave Tamara a quick kiss to ease her mind. I could tell she was apprehensive.

"Jonathan...I did things I regret," I could hear tears in my mother's words, "I didn't...I thought...I wasn't thinking. I am so sorry, Tamara." I translated as best I could. I am sure it came out something like, "Mother sorry." Tamara nodded and wiped at her eyes. I think she could hear the grief in my mother's voice.

"Oh, Jonathan, I'm so sorry," my mother continued. I thought it was done with. "Tamara tried to find you, and I told the embassy things when you were unconscious. I don't want her to hate me." I looked over to Tamara and saw her stiff face. She was tolerating my mother, not forgiving her.

"Did you know where Tamara was?" I asked. I was trying not to be angry, but this could be an issue. God only knows what Tamara thought of me during that time.

"I'm am really sorry," my mother admitted without saying so. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. My anger flared, but the child in my lap refused to let me show it. Right at that moment, I hated my mother. I reached forward and disconnected. The strain building in my shoulders faded with the end of the call. If my mother knew, then most likely Kimberly knew as well. I moved Milena fully to Tamara's lap. I dropped to my knees in front of her.

"I'm so sorry, Tamara," I said in English. There was no way I could say it clearly in Armenian, "my mother didn't understand. She was a fool." I paused for a moment, looking into her dark eyes. Her family's initial reaction to me made complete sense. I would have beaten myself up. "I love you," I said in Armenian. Her forgiving smile was so lovely. She reached forward and pulled me up to her. She may not fully understand what transpired, but she understood my current desire. Her lips forgave me in so many wonderful ways. I was hoping I would learn to forgive myself and maybe even my mother.