“Janette’s ’rents are here, though,” Arek says, tenuously. “Not sure if she’ll introduce us. I’ve never met them. Shouldn’t be a big deal, though, right? But if she doesn’t introduce us, I mean, what would that mean?” At some point it becomes clear he’s talking to himself.
I reassure him that either way would be just fine, and that if he does get a chance to meet Janette’s parents I’m sure he’ll make a sterling impression.
“True that, yeah.” He nods, bouncing up and down on his toes.
I realize I should do the same, too. Like, why not? I’ll introduce them to my mom. Plus, that way, the more people I introduceher to, the less weird it will be when or if Erebuni comes by.Just another friend I want you to meet, Mom.
I usher them toward my table. “Mom, Nene, I want you to meet Arek and Vache.”
My mom’s smile is one of total innocence, like she has no idea who Arek is and not like she assiduously stalked him on Facebook.
“Parev, parev,” she says, extending her hand. “Nareh’s told me about her new friends. So nice to meet you,” she says in Armenian.
“It’s been a pleasure getting to know her,” Arek says in his super-charming manner, buddying up close to my mom. It’s like he loves being himself, the performance of every moment. For a split second, after the “aw, cute” wears off, I wonder,Oh no, are Vache or Arek going to mention Erebuni and me?They wouldn’t, right?
Nene points to Vache. “Are you the writer?” she asks in Armenian, and I’m impressed she remembers our car conversation.
“I am,” Vache replies in Armenian.
“My first love was a writer,” Nene says with this devilish grin that I haven’t seen in ages, that I even forgot she had.
Also, excuse me, what? Her first love?
“He was from my village, a talented poet of the Tumanyan style, just as depressing, you know. But beautiful.”
The way she’s speaking is enrapturing. I forgot how she can do this—she can, in her apparent frailty, command the room. I only wish Erebuni could be here.
“I love Tumanyan,” Vache says.
“Yes, it was a shame. He was forced to give up his poetry and work his family’s farm, and I was coaxed, perhaps you could also say forced, to marry a successful businessman in Beirut. ‘You’re our only hope,’ my mother told me. How could a person say no to that?”
Oh, damn, Nene is laying it down. I did vaguely know this, as my mom loves recounting her past and how she came to be, and how she thinks deep down Nene was never that big of a fan of my grandfather. But to hear it from her—oof, feels rough.
But now my mom has her nervous smile on, too stretched. She wraps her arm over Nene’s shoulders. “Mom, please, let’s not tell stories about the Old Country right now.”
I guess Mom is immune to Nene’s charms. Maybe that’s how it is with every mother and daughter. We’ve seen too much.
Nene completely ignores her. She picks up her wineglass and waves it at us. “Don’t let that happen to any of you. Young people, you have so many possibilities.”
For the first time, I get this sliver of hope, like Nene would understand that I have to chase the tougher path, that I don’t want to go and marry the merchant from the city (uh, Trevor) either. Then, just as quickly, I feel hopeless because how the hell would Nene understand sapphic love as something normal? I don’t think they had a word for gay back then. It was probably something likeunnatural. And my stomach churns again.
After some more light chatting some people mention they want to grab some of the appetizers, and so do I, but I’ve got to get to work while I can. I’m supposed to meet Congresswoman Grove before the banquet kicks off.
Mark tried and failed to persuade Congresswoman Grove’s team to change her mind on the interview topic, which I know because my new contact at her office called me, confused. I reassured Congresswoman Grove’s aide that I was still going to be the reporter speaking on prearranged topics. When she asked if she should bother returning Mark’s most recent calls, I replied simply: no.
If I were the banquet planners, I’d put her in the best spot, so I grab my tripod and walk toward the prime-location tables. Yep, good instincts; I see the navy skirt suit and sharply cropped and blown-out hair of the congresswoman. She’s chatting with another woman wearing a gauzy, expensive-looking tunic-and-pant combination. My stomach’s contents have not stopped their whirling.
As I sense a lull in the two women’s conversation, I step into her line of sight, and man, there is something about politicians, especially ones at the top, that feels different than other people. There’s this aura around her like she is exactly where she wants to be, talking to exactly whom she wants to be speaking with, and if you’re lucky to step into her limelight, you will be blessed by it. So I’m feeling a combination of extra good and extra nervous when I introduce myself.
“Congresswoman Grove? I’m Nareh Bedrossian from KTVA News, a fellow Armenian American. Your aide Natalie Martín confirmed your availability for a quick interview. If you have a moment, I would love to hear about the Genocide Recognition Bill and why it’s important to you.”
She gives me such a warm smile I feel like we’re old friends and says, “Of course. I came prepared. I have time to give a short statement now if you’re ready.”
“Extremely ready. Thank you so much,” I say, as I whip my tripod into place as fast as I can without seeming desperate. Because oh my God, I’m going to get to do this—I’m getting an interview, a personalized chat, with an actual congresswoman. Ahhh!
While I’m setting up like my life depends on it, she says, “Isaw your segment on the Explore Armenia cooking class. Very well done.”
What? Sheknowsme?
