In this room there are—if Facebook RSVPs are to be believed—eight men I’m supposed to track and hunt. But when I glance into the crowd, everything’s a blur and no single face stands out.
I’m keeping close to Erebuni as she directs me to a table with seven seats taken, only a couple free, and my heart seizes up because meeting new people, no matter how many times I do it, is scary. But then I remember I’m like a mercenary here, on a job. Plus, I can just reporter them; if all else fails, I’ll ask them polite and mildly probing questions about themselves. My brain starts to prickle, like Johnnie and his cane are walking all over it.
“Hey,” Erebuni says to what I assume are her friends, which is only three of the people at the table (not seven, thank God). “This is Nareh. Nareh, some of the best people I know.” I shiver when I hear the way she says my name, the tongue dancing in her mouth,tap-tappingthe syllables resolutely. My name is a fairly popular Armenian one. She knows other Narehs; I’m sure there are other ones at this party. But I love the way she says it, like I’m settled into a boat, flowing down a tributary.
Erebuni motions to a woman wearing a dove-gray cocktail dress, with narrow shoulders, large eyes, and a discerning, prideful gaze. “Here’s Janette.” She pronounces theJannot the American way but like the Frenchzhahn. Janette and I shake hands, and she reaches her arm over in such a dainty, royal fashion. I hope my grip doesn’t hurt her fingers. My dad taught me early on to “shake like a man” so that people would take me seriously—oof, a lot to unpack there—and I only modify it to spare limp-fish shakers from physical pain.
“Parev, Nareh,” she says in pristine Armenian, confident with a tinge of haughty. I “parev” her back and try to sail over the word and not let my American accent show. Understanding Armenian is one thing, but years and years of lack of use mean that AmericanR’s and harsher tones have crept in.
“And Vache,” Erebuni continues.
Sitting next to Janette is Vache, who I recognize from Facebook stalking. I liked his seventies-style aviator dad glasses, which he is sporting now, along with a worn-looking purple-and-red-checkered shirt. He might have been one of the guys I asked my mom about, but she didn’t know his family origins, so pass (for her anyway; doesn’t mean I’m not potentially interested).
“Hey,” he says, and waves. I give a small wave back, trying not to look eager.
Okay, I like this Vache guy. Oneheyand I’m already feeling chill vibes off him.
“And finally,” Erebuni says, “Arek.”
Oh God, this guy is on my mom’s list. Arek, the engineer at some cloud tech company. He wasn’t the hottest one—that distinction belongs to Raffi, my mom’s favorite—but he is cute, despite not being my type. He’s wearing a shiny black shirt and a gold chain with a cross that hangs around his neck. It’s not, like, movie-prop huge, but it is prominent and statement-worthy. I do like that he’s bucking convention of the type of people I usually see in our tech segments.
Seeing him in person, one of the potential suitors, makes it all real. I feel twin lightning bolts of energy, one a flash of excitement and the other anxiousness. Because I’m doing this—something new, starting fresh.
“Nareh jan, hello. Nice to meet you. Come sit.”
He’s got that typical Armenian American accent, and I swear he’s going to drop a “bro” any second. But his friendliness feels genuine. I tell myself to relax. It’s not like I have to kiss a prince before midnight or something. I’m just meeting people.
He stands and offers his seat to me, which I try to refuse, but he sits in the empty chair beside it, I suppose so I won’t have to be stuck on the edge. Everyone is looking at me eagerly. I slide into his warmed chair, between Arek and Vache, and smile shyly.
“Barev, barev.” Arek smiles back. He must speak Eastern Armenian, since hisP’s aren’tP’s at all, but sonorousB’s. It’s a whole thing, but because the Armenian empire was once so large, and because we were fractured into so many diaspora communities, there are two dialects, eastern and western. My family, who originally lived in Turkey (historic Armenia), was forced out and landed in Lebanon. Armenians in that western area of the Middle East speak Western Armenian. Arek’s family must be from modern-day Armenia, Iran, or Russia. Behind the pronunciation of one letter, you can start to intuit so much about the history of an Armenian person. I flush thinking about the concept. Or maybe the heat is coming from the whisky.
Erebuni slips into the open seat next to Janette, and I hold my breath because I feel like I interrupted their happy quartet and am bringing stranger energy into the mix. Also I wish I could be sitting next to Erebuni, who is the only person I “know,” but no such luck. Then Arek grabs the wine bottle on the table and pours me a glass of red. He slides it right in front of me with a grin. I have to cool it after this drink because I am driving back, but I take it and thank him.
“Excuse me, Ere, what is the story behind this beautiful stranger you’ve brought into our presence?”
Thank goodness I reapplied my foundation, because I know I’m sporting tomato cheeks.
“I’m just... Nareh. Haven’t been to events in a while. Thought I’d, uh, ‘explore Armenia’ again.” They’re smiling politely, but it’s too polite, and I hate being boring. Punchline, what should I add? I armor up and say with false annoyance, “And my mom forced me.”
That gets some chuckles, and Vache raises his glass. “With you on that. Armenian moms, the closest thing we have to Catholic guilt.”
We all cheers, and the little hairs on my arm prickle with that alcoholic warmth. A group of new people, full of endless possibilities. This is going to be a good evening.
I continue, “Luckily she didn’t make me go to any of the serious events. I mean, obviously they’re important, but sometimes it feels like we’re so obsessed with the genocide. Like I can’t have one conversation with an Armenian person without them dragging in the genocide.”
The music is still blasting loud as ever, but it feels dead silent in here. Vache and Arek are shifting in their seats, and Janette looks actually haughty now. Erebuni, though... curious? She’s the only one looking right at me. My heart feels like it expanded into lung territory, and my entire upper body is one booming heartbeat. I reach to grab the rectangular pendant dangling from the end of my necklace and rub my fingers against the bumps of the jewels dotting the sides of it. See, this is why I never say what’s on my mind. People don’t want to hear what I think; they just want some sanitized version. I put on my most obsequious face and hope I sound sincere because I don’t care about what I said, I just want to do damage control.
“I’m sorry, that sounded worse than I intended. What I mean is—”
Erebuni interrupts (and thank God, because I was about to invent everything after “what I mean”). “No, I understand. There’s genocide fatigue. Year after year the same thing, no resolution, no change. Importantly, no recognition from Turkey or the US. But that’s why there need to be some of us out there fighting, prodding both our people and odars, trying to help everyone understand that ancient history isn’t just that. It has real damaging effects in the present.”
I’m nodding so hard, mostly performatively, because let’s face it, I’ve humiliated myself. I’m processing what she said, and some of it seems right. It’s hard not to feel that fatigue she’s talking about, but it was a horrible thing that happened in the past, and we as a culture need to move on and focus on the present. Still, I’m embarrassed as hell right now. My fingers haven’t left the pendant, and the bumps on the side are digging into my thumb.
“And that’s why I urge you to come out to the talk in two weeks, ‘Genocide: Turkish Identity and American Liaisons.’ Took a while for me to organize and convince Dr. Markarian to fly in for it. I’d love to have you there.”
I freeze. I foolishly assumed my cheeks couldn’t go redder than tomato, but I’m pretty sure they’ve been pulverized to ketchup. I turn to Arek. “I’m sorry, did she use the wordorganize, as in she organized it?”
He smirks. “Havadah.”
