Which means, “believe it.” Not with attitude, but it’s clear they’re old friends and he’s proud of her work. Also, neato. I’ve insulted her left and right, and now all I want to do is reverse-step into a bush Homer Simpson style and disappear.
She has taken a sip of wine and sets her glass down. “I’m on the planning committee. Mostly to set up the lecture series since my real job is at the Genocide Education Foundation.”
This is getting better and better. How many times can a person die in one night? She organized the actual lectures I dissed a minute ago. Mertzur indzi, kill me now.
Oh my God, she’s the woman from the website. An Explore Armenia board member. I never expected her to be so tall, so I didn’t make the connection with the haircut and the mystical makeup. If only I had been taking ginseng supplements like my great-tantig Berjouhi had insisted were crucial for sharp memory, I wouldn’t be in this mess. My eyes fix on the pomegranate centerpiece, hoping it will help me escape this rigamarole of embarrassment.
Her voice shifts, lighter. “But the rest of the committee lets me have a say on tablecloths and charger plates if I want to. Which I do. If I see anything gold at the banquet, heads are going to roll.”
Arek laughs. “Who doesn’t like gold? Especially us. We’ve got first and last names with ‘Vosgi.’ You’re causing great offense to the Vosgis in our community.”
The mood has noticeably leavened, everyone’s postures more relaxed. The music filters back into my ears, sounding friendlier now, reminding me this is a party. Erebuni jokingly calls Arek a scoundrel in Armenian.
I ask if they’ve all known each other awhile and hope to God the question is innocuous and doesn’t somehow lead to me spitting all over Erebuni’s life’s work.
Arek pipes up. “We grew up together in Fresno.” He gestures to Erebuni. “Then these guys went to college together.”
Vache adds, “Janette and I are from the South Bay originally.” Ah,that’s why I didn’t see them around the occasional barahantes. They lived an hour south of San Francisco. Then Vache mentions something about how his freelance work would be better suited to LA.
“Freelance?”
He nods. “I write. Food journalism. Its native origins, how it ties to identity. Food subcultures.” I’m gaping at him since that sounds absolutely amazing and I could talk to him all day about this. He must be reading the look on my face because he adds, “Don’t look too impressed. I’m also a barista by day, out of necessity. Monocle Coffee, you know it?”
“Rings a bell. I’ll check it out.”
I glance at Erebuni to see if I can read whether or not she’s annoyed with me, regretting bringing me to her table. But no, she’s leaning back in her chair so contentedly, like she could close her eyes and drift off with a smile. Then she picks up her glass and takes a sip so slowly it’s like she’s beckoning the wine into her mouth. My heart jumps up to my throat and I immediately switch my gaze to Vache, who’s been talking.
“Hipster grandmas?” he says, “Generous tippers.”
“He’s being modest. Our boy is basically a genius,” Arek says, and reaches behind me, straining to clap Vache on the back.
“That word is terribly overused. I believe it should only be employed in extraordinary circumstances,” Janette says, her voice pinched. Then I see a hint of a smirk. “Which is why, of course, we should apply it to Vache and his writing.”
I chuckle. Well, I’m officially surrounded by a bunch of super-accomplished people, brought together by someone whose important work I belittled.
I ask, “And I’m guessing Janette works at the World Bank or the IMF?”
Erebuni and Vache smile, causing a warm neon-pink glow inside me, but Janette looks confused. “Why would I work in international finance? I’m an immigration lawyer.”
She doesn’t seem to get that that’s not any less impressive (and, like, she deals with international stuff, so it’s not a major stretch, and man, my intuition is spot-on). I guess it doesn’t matter since I’m still equally intimidated by her.
Arek says, “Everyone here is trying to make the world a better place. But not me. Impossible to believe, but I didn’t go into cloud computing for the social impact. It was the money, baby, and the money is good.”
I laugh, then throw up my hands. “In that case I feel a bit better that all I have to contribute here is that I’m a lowly reporter. Local news for Redwood City. Fluff pieces mainly.”
Arek looks stunned. “Whoa. Why haven’t we seen you? An Armenian on the news?”
“Because no one under fifty turns on actual TV channels unless they’re watching a game,” Vache says. Then quickly adds, “Damn, I didn’t mean that to be a dig. It’s a demographic thing. I bet our parents know you, and I mean that in the best way possible.”
Honestly, I’m smiling on both the outside and the inside since now that I’m not the only one making gaffes tonight.
Arek continues, “I don’t care. Now I’m going to be looking for you. Gonna google you, Nar, and find those fluffers.”
I do love that he called me Nar. This is a gift some people have, many Armenians in particular, to make you feel like one of them right away. I wonder if it’s because there are so few of us in the world.
“Me, too,” Erebuni says in a small voice.
Then something in her shifts, and she feels almost a little false, or desperate, as she asks, “Why isn’t anyone dancing?”
