But then a ringing sounds from below, and there’s Kiki, clad in a pale gold dress, jingling a bell with a bow on the end. I have a vision of her using that bell to summon her kids to dinner. Hopefully not her staff to attend to her.
She’s showing off all her veneers; even from all the way over here, I can see they’re shiny with spit. “Ladies and gents, the Explore Armenia committee is proud to present our very first Armenian brandy tasting event.” There’s a semi-enthusiastic round of applause and some whistles. “I hope you all enjoy yourselves in my husband, Armen’s, and my brand-new wine cellar. Tonight’s event is put on courtesy of Zeli Winery, our new wine production company. If you’d like to try our wines, everyone today gets a coupon for five percent off your first case.” She gestures to a stack of green flyers at a table near her.
Didn’t take her for a winemonger, or being such a cheap-ass; Kiki continues to surprise. I give Erebuni a look likeAre you kidding me?and she laughs, a couple of exhalations through her nose.
I spot Raffi. He’s wearing a tan V-neck that matches his skinso well he looks topless, and he’s whispering into the ear of a blond girl who looks like a cat. I realize he never said my name; I wonder if he even knows it. The woman he’s with flips her hair, turns from him, and walks off, rolling her eyes. Guess I’m not the only one who can see past that jawline.
Kiki goes on to introduce the brandy expert, who is a shorter man with a goatee in a crisp shirt and tight slacks. He has a mic, so his voice bounces off the walls. “Welcome, all. It is my honor to share with you the elegant art of brandy tasting. According to some sources, Armenians have been distilling wine into brandy since the twelfth century, which means what you are about to imbibe today has most ancient roots.” He pauses, and there are in fact a couple ofOhs.
“In Armenia, they say to drink brandy with your left hand, because it is closest to your heart.”
For being a cynical bunch of survivors, Armenians can be blindingly sentimental. And I love it. Erebuni shifts her weight next to me, and I wish I could hear what she’s thinking.
He continues, “First up we have Ararat, which is made by a company that’s been around for a century and was the preferred brand of Winston Churchill. Please, pick up your bottle and drop a dash into...”
He goes on, but in my mind his voice fuzzes over like someone’s covered his mic, because Erebuni and I, we’re going to drink together. Partake, like he said, in this drink that’s centuries old. She picks up the bottle, her dark purple nails wrapped tightly around its body. “How much?”
“One pinkie,” I say, sticking mine out.
She nods, pours, and the brandy comes out fast, but she yanks the neck up in time. She hands me my glass and for a momentour fingers touch. Mine are so icy that though hers are likely cold, to me they have a hint of warmth to them. I readjust my hand to match exactly where her fingers were, like I’m trying to open a secret passageway by tracing my fingerprints over hers. The glass is etched with slivers of leaves, and I push my fingertips into the grooves. The glass balloons out at the bottom and is slim on top, just wide enough for your nose to peek through.
I’ve had not a drop of alcohol, but I’m already feeling reckless with my words, like wearing her jacket is some kind of permission. “Let’s close our eyes and try to taste the fruit,” I suggest. Communion in shutting out the world; I’m not sure why, but it feels like we’re getting away with something.
We raise glasses, clink them, and the sound is unexpectedly lovely, not the usual crash of glass but the smooth pond ripples of crystal. I sip, and my lizard brain tastes stringent alcohol and a bit of sweetness, but when I swallow, the burning is pushed away, and that’s when the promised flavors begin to appear.
We postulate about the apricots and figs, I pretend at tasting the toasted oak, and when she smiles again, I note to myself that another thing I like about Erebuni is that she finds all my silly jokes funny, or at least she is brilliant at pretending to be amused by them. I remember being goofy with an ex, way back, and he said to me point-blank, “You’re not funny.” In hindsight I can say,Yeah, well screw you. But I stuck with him for another two months. This, now—this is how a conversation should ebb and flow. It’s comfortable but thrilling at the same time.
“I used to think this was BS,” I say. “My dad loved wine tasting in Napa. We’d go with his buddies and their families, and they’d wax on about the notes of elderberry and the crème brûlée finishes. I was underage, but they still slipped me some.”
Erebuni empties the rest of her glass, taking her time, exposing the skin of her throat to me. “Wine tasted like church for the longest time. We’d take communion at school once a month, and the taste of wine bread made me heave. I couldn’t stand wine until my college roommates and I fashioned ourselves into intellectuals and threw Wine Wednesdays in our dorm with bottles of Two-Buck Chuck that we begged the transfer students to pick up for us.”
She stares out toward the barrels, and I would love to see the slideshow running across her mind. “Communion, huh? A Christian witch?” I ask.
“Yes. Don’t get me wrong, I have plenty of dissatisfaction with the church’s views, but I’m a type of Armenian Orthodox. A Wiccan-Orthodox blend. I can imagine what you’re thinking: heresy.”
I raise my glass. “To heresy.”
We taste a couple more brandies, one that’s more chocolatey and nutty, one that’s more woodsy (according to the guy, anyway). By the third tasting my palate is no longer anywhere near refined, and I can only detect, caveman-like, how badly the alcohol burns. Much burn or less burn. Now it’s not only Erebuni’s jacket keeping me warm. I feel the slow wave of alcohol spread over my body, shielding me from cold.
As I look around among the crowd, I remember my mission here and sort of groan about it. It’s a bit hard to pick out the potential suitors, and do I have to actually do this? I want to tell her. My feeling of rashness from before has only grown. I feel like I can tell her anything. Even this. “So my mom sent me to Explore Armenia to find a future husband. I mean, I’m kind of kidding, but she has a list of eligible bachelors I’m supposed to meet.”
An eyebrow arches. “Oh? And how do you feel about that?”
She is always so even, so curious. “I was into it at first, but then, uh, something changed.” And seeing the way her eyes are getting big and not wanting to give her an outlet to ask me what changed, because I am so not ready for this (not as brash as I thought), I say, “But I should keep my promise to my mom and at least say hi to these guys. Can you help me make this fun? We can take notes on them, or, uh, rank them. Gamify the process.” Her face is still unwavering, and I wish I could read her better. That power seems to be slipping from me the more I sip. I try to sound cheeky, because I am too afraid of being serious. “I promise I won’t end up liking any of them, if that helps.”
She takes a mini step closer to me, and it wouldn’t take much for me to lean over and kiss her. Her voice is low, so deliberate. “It does help.” Oh my God, I want time to stop right now. But then she switches registers, the flirtiness gone. “Are you sure? You could just tell your mom you don’t want to.”
She’s right, of course. But I feel like my mom and I have this understanding. And, like, what am I going to tell her?Sorry, Mom, I fell for a woman instead. No, nope, not ready for that. Let me make everyone happy, at least for now. Future Nareh can deal with everything else. “I—I know, but I already told her I would. The time for promises was before.”
This seems to appease her—I mean, who doesn’t want to keep promises to their mother? She scans the crowd below. “Okay, I’ve got you. Who’s on this apparent list?”
I mentally fumble over it. Who the hell is on the list again? “Uh, Sako, this real estate guy.”
She reaches for one of the bottles, and with her usualevenness, says, “I can save you some time there, he’s not interested in women.”
I guffaw. “Oh, huh. Are you sure?”
“One hundred percent. But please don’t spread it around, he’s not fully out.”
