If someone wouldhave asked me to guess what Kiki’s house looked like, I could have told you room by room what to expect and would have been almost exactly dead-on. Imported Italian marble (my mom would be so jealous), a grand wrought-iron staircase in the foyer, a crystal chandelier, a giant entry table showcasing a flower arrangement that would have been tasteful if it were a fifth of the size. Honestly, everything is almost good, but falls short of it, swapping refinement for the whole be-impressed-all-ye-who-enter effect. Then again, maybe no mansion could be said to be tasteful; like, that’s the point.
We’re in Atherton, which is close to my work, but nothing like it. Let me stress: very different from the melting pot of Redwood City. It’s this exclusive incorporated town, mostly flat, and you can buy a dump for six million dollars. Literally a tear-down. I’m shocked Kiki lives here, actually; the town is so white thatArmenians are seen as highly ethnic. And how do I know so much about Atherton? Well, in a town of seven thousand ultrarich people, many of whom are old-money families with connections, when a group of them puts on a three-hundredth-birthday celebration for an oak tree on the single country club’s grounds, they get their local news team to be there. And there’s no better reporter to cover tree birthdays than me.
It’s always an awkward affair, interviewing the moms of Atherton: six-foot-tall blondes, faces pinched and stretched and chemically buffed until they shine like the surfaces of the mirrors they spend so much time looking into. I wear my highest heels but still only scrape five-six, while they treat me like one of their purebred puppies and tell me how tiny and cute I am. Compared to that crew, Kiki is as reassuring to be around as my grandma (oh, she’d hate that analogy).
The party seems to be out back, and oops, I probably wasn’t supposed to go through the house, but whatever, her bad for leaving the door open. I pass portraits of her brood of brats—I’m just kidding, the four of them are very cute, and I’m sure they are bright little creatures, still uncorrupted by the world. And I could have been too harsh on Kiki; it’s hard to have four children, even with boundless wealth.
“Lost?” A man’s voice calls. I swing around to try and ascertain where it’s coming from, and my heart rate shoots up because I’m thinking about Raffi, and what if it’s him catching me alone again, trying for round two. This place is so empty and marbly the voice bounces like we’re in a circus fun house. Then I see him, strolling from a hallway I hadn’t noticed.
He looks like a human thumb, a pleasant one. Cute roundishface on top, sizable belly and thighs, thin calves. He’s wearing a brown button-down shirt paired with darker brown slacks. I know exactly who he is. The priest.
“If you are looking for the bathroom, it is down this hallway, and the fourth door on your left. But the smell, uh, do not judge; it wasn’t me. I would not swear on Jesus himself, because that is a sin, but let’s imagine I did hypothetically.” He winks, then makes the sign of the cross.
He has a mild Armenian accent, sort of like Arek and Raffi, but without the swagger of those two. There’s something about his posture, the cut of his shirt, the downward cast of his chin that’s giving off old-school vibes, like he’s on the verge of giving me mildly condescending advice. He reminds me more of Armenian grandparents than of someone who is in his late twenties. I’m trying to meet him with an open mind, though, and not judge him by the fact that our introductory conversation involves a smelly dump someone left behind.
“Oh no, I’m good. I just got here, trying to figure out where this brandy party is happening.”
And only then does it strike me that the priest is at an alcohol-tasting event. Is that all hunky-dory with the church? I mean, it’s cool with me, but I didn’t know the seventeen-hundred-year-old Orthodox church was down with its deacons socially sipping on a distillation of the blood of Christ.
He seems flustered, probably by the fact that he needlessly brought up the bathroom stank. “Well, may I take you there? I’m Artur.” He extends his hand.
“Nareh,” I say, and we shake. A decently firm grip, not a bone crusher, but one that shows his confidence. I know he and I are never going to happen. Like, the chance that I’ll end up married to a priest is about the same chance that God himself will crashdown upon the earth and command me to marry this priest. But he’s a nice guy, and my mom wanted me to meet him, so there’s no harm in being polite.
He makes a brief gesture indicating he’s going to start walking, and then does. I follow him through the house. “Where are you from, Nareh?”
“Here—well, San Francisco. Born and raised as they say.”
I always sort of hate myself when I say something cliché like that, but it’s also so effortless when you don’t care all that much about trying.
“Oh, very interesting, so you’ll want to stay in San Francisco.”
Is he trying to get new congregants? Kind of a weird question to ask. We pass through a dining room that is head to toe Baccarat crystal, the kind of display you see only on the furniture level of a Bloomingdale’s (which I know because my mom, Diana, and I have often wistfully passed by the Baccarat display at Bloomie’s). The table is stunning, actually, mirrored and gleaming, but the whole effect together is, as seems to be the norm, way too much.
“I—I guess so. I’m open to living somewhere else. But yeah, this is home.”
“That’s excellent. I’m the new Sargavak at Saint Anthony’s Church.”
Yep, I guess he’s trying to recruit me as a follower. That’s cool, he’s always at work; I respect that ethic.
“Right, I thought I heard there was a new Sargavak. Great to meet you.”
We alight to an atrium, like a conservatory, in white iron and glass, and it seems to be what juts us out into the garden. It’s lovely here, verdant tropicals bursting from their planters, leaves as large as baking sheets. No one’s here besides us and the plants,so this isn’t the final destination, but man, I could settle down on one of these teak chaises and hang out all day.
I can’t help it. I whisper, “Wow.”
Artur pushes a door that leads to the backyard, and I’m sad we have to leave this spot. “Yes, God has graced them.”
I am such an a-religious bastard, I don’t know if that’s a priest’s way of saying, “They got lucky” or “They earned their wealth.” Not about to ask. Besides, he has more on his mind, because he asks, “And what do you do, if I may ask? Do you have a profession?”
We’re outside, and damn, a big house doesn’t tickle me so much, but an outdoor area like this, yeah, my envy is turned straight on. There’s an art deco–style pool, a copse of trees that seems to be hiding more backyard, an orange grove, a second house (literally, it’s a normal-size house in their backyard), and a third sizable house in sort of a cottage style that has just a couple of tiny windows at the top. That’s... eerie. We stand a moment while I take everything in. I almost forgot he asked me a question. “Uh, yeah, no problem. Ask away. I’m a reporter for a local station, close to here, actually. KTVA News.”
He nods his head in bobbing surprise. “A reporter, wow. That must be demanding?”
“Yep, I work six days a week.”
“Sundays off,” he says matter-of-factly. He begins to walk toward the no-windows cottage. Our feet crunch under the white gravel path.
“Saturdays, actually,” I say, matter-of-factly.
