13
The heart of man and the ground of the sea are fathomless.
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—Armenian Proverb
I was agood citizen and took Caltrain down to the brandy tasting (it runs on weekends, thanks to the previously referenced Atherton moms who like to do their shopping in San Francisco), so Erebuni drives us.
I’m semi-shocked that she has a breathalyzer in her car and blows into it before so much as fitting her key into the ignition. If Dad had one that night, would he have used it? Would he have called Mom to pick him up instead? But there was no way he’d ever stick one in his car. He’d be too proud, saying he knew his limits. A pulse of sadness shakes through me, watching Erebuni blow into the tube, thinking how simply Dad’s death could have been avoided.
Before I can ask, Erebuni explains that she’s had too many friends get DUIs, some who didn’t fully deserve it (two beers over two hours, barely a pinkie toe over the limit) and some who trulydid (they apparently weren’t hurt and neither was anyone else, but they quit drinking).
In telling me this she also mentions she’s thirty-one, which, whoa, older woman. When I was a freshman in college, she would have just graduated. At this point, both our brains’ risk centers have solidified, so I feel four years is an okay zone.What a sexy thought, Nar.Though I might be toning my thoughts down on purpose so I don’t make a fool of my libidinous self.
The sun sets so late now, which I can especially feel on the Peninsula, where the afternoon light isn’t blotted out by fog. The twilit skyline feels long and far and the good kind of melancholy. It’s nine, and her car is hot, the air conditioning broken, so the windows are down, and my arms are sticky and hanging out getting wind-whipped.
She has the strangest music on, a haunted harp and a woman’s voice that sounds like a plucked banjo string, and when I ask her who it is, she says Joanna Newsom. A far, far cry from the Top 40, but I think I like it.
We’re in the moors of Belmont, a small city on the west side of the Peninsula, essentially one big hilly suburb. I would not have pegged her as a Belmont person; it’s mostly families settling within the bounds of a decent school district. I tell her as much.
She has her eyes on the road. “I used to live in Russian Hill. Beautiful there, views of the Golden Gate Bridge from my rooftop, and the twenties architecture all over. But I’m from Fresno, and I missed the space. I got so lucky with this spot. You’ll see.”
We wind our way to the top of the hill—she’s a great driver; I barely notice her driving, which is always a good sign—and at the end of a street she pulls into a long driveway surrounded bytrees. It’s getting dark out, but I can still see that there’s a fairly sizable house up ahead, and I’m wondering if I’m in the wrong line of work. She parks away from the garage and simply says, “We’re here.”
I’m trying to decide which would be more impolite, being openly impressed by her big-ass house or pretending I’m unfazed by it. “Whoa, it’s super remote,” I say, pleased that this struck a good balance.
“That one’s not mine,” she says, gesturing to the home. “I rent their guesthouse, and it turns out they’re gone most of the year. They come back around December. I’ve seen them for about a couple months total in the two years I’ve lived here.”
That makes so much more sense. “Pretty sweet arrangement. They should just let you live in the big one.”
I crunch on the gravel behind her. It’s another microclimate here, so windy I can hear the cymbal thrum of all the trees around us.
“It’s okay, I like the cottage. And while they’re gone I can use their patio, which is the best part of their house, anyway. All the views.”
Under the wind and the moonlight, I have the sudden urge to take her arm. I gave her jacket back as soon as we got in the car, what feels like years ago, so I’m bare-shouldered and trying not to shiver. But I’m a complete wimp, and I can’t bring myself to hold her arm. We’re silent, just the soughing of the wind and the crackling of rocks beneath our feet.
We reach a criminally adorable cottage that’s backed up against a forest, with a tousled garden to the side of it. She unlocks the door and steps in. I follow.
She flicks on a light, and her home is thrown into a dark golden relief. She doesn’t move to turn on any more lights, and I’m liking the dim vibe she’s setting up. Makes me hopeful.
“Welcome,” she says, not shy at all, like she’s proud to share this. She sets her bag down and walks into her kitchen.
And, okay, this is not like anyone’s home I’ve been in.
It’s small, and that’s normal, and there’s stuff everywhere, but it’s, like, intentional madness. There’s art and photographs in various sizes all over her walls. Some occult stuff, some black-and-whites, some abstracts, some straight-up cheesy photos of her and (I assume) family or friends. Postcards, charcoal drawings, more photographs on a desk, leaning against the wall. Papers, pads, and candles all over her desk. Two tables completely covered, one with dried herbs (or dried flowers?) and bottles, droppers, more candles.
And then the other table, oh my God. There are amethyst crystals the size of my hand sculpted into Armenian khachkars, which are stylized carvings of crosses in stone. There are chiseling tools scattered nearby and shavings, and a lamp, suggesting she’s creating these crystal khachkars. An Orthodox witch.
I’m drawn to it, walk up like I’m possessed, because I need to see more.
I speak, keeping my voice low with reverence, “I’m seeing this, right? Are these khachkars made of crystal?”
Now, suddenly, she seems shy. She ducks her cheek down into her shoulder and sneaks a glance at me. “I’m still working on them.”
I want to pick one up so badly and feel both the smooth sides and jagged ends of crystal along my fingertips. “What more is there to do? These are incredible. Can I touch it?”
She’s retreated to the kitchen, and I wonder if she’s actuallyfeeling embarrassed about her art. There’s a clank from where she’s standing, and she says, “Of course. Some of the edges might be sharp, though, so be careful.”
