#63- Pashinyan- The Other Side of the World

ՆԻԿՈԼ ՓԱՇԻՆՅԱՆ. ԵՐԿՐԻ ՀԱԿԱՌԱԿ ԿՈՂՄԸ
63. մեռած հոգիներ

Մեր գնացքը ռուսական տրանսպորտային տերմինաբանությամբ կոչվում էր «հՍՏՐօռ», այսինքն` արագընթաց:

The other side of the world- N. Pashinyan


63. Dead Souls

Our train was called, according to Russian transportation terminology, “hSDRor” meaning, rapid. It had gained that name, however, not because it was rally rapid like the Japanese and German trains, but because it stopped at the stations of major cities only.

In the beginning, my cabin mate and I showed complete indifference toward each other. I knew only his name, Pavel Ivanovitch, and he knew my name. Then I went to the restaurant wagon, had a light supper and returned to the cabin. Pavel Ivanovitch had lain down and was reading the newspaper. I sat before the window, but it was dark and nothing could be seen. I had bought some newspapers at the station, and started reading. All of a sudden I felt like cognac. I opened my suitcase. I wanted to pull out the half-empty bottle, but thought maybe my companion might like to drink, too. So I took out a fresh bottle and put it on the small table with a little thud. Pavel Ivanovitch got up, pressed the little button to call the attendant, and asked him for two glasses. When the attendant brought the glasses, Pavel Ivanovitch asked him to bring black and red caviar sandwiches. I opened the bottle, filled the glasses; we raised our glasses, said “let’s go”, and downed it. After the first, you don’t eat anything.

Just as it was pleasant to watch football with the Argentineans and have a meal with the French, it is pleasant to drink with the Russians. They do it as naturally as inhaling and exhaling, with such ease that you can’t help but envy them. After the first glass we were quiet and didn’t speak much. Then the attendant, Madvei Ivanitch brought the bite-size caviar sandwiches. Pavel Ivanovitch filled a glass for Madvei Ivanitch and told him to drink it. The latter didn’t resist. I offered him a caviar sandwich. Madvei was surprised:

“After the first one?”

We filled Madvei’s glass again; he drank and gulped a sandwich. Despite our expectations, he didn’t linger and went to his work. Pavel and I drank another each, with the caviar. We said almost nothing, and in that silence, the bottle was emptied. The caviar sandwiches were finished, too. I thought, well, so much for today. But after a short break Pavel Ivanovitch stood up, took out a bottle of Russian Standard Vodka and put it on the table.

I was horrified:

“Pavel Ivanovitch, we began with cognac today; keep the vodka for tomorrow, and we’ll continue with cognac,” I said and took out the other bottle.

“And how was I supposed to know that you had more,” said Pavel Ivanovitch and returned his vodka to the suitcase. Then he called Madvei, told him to bring some red fish from the restaurant wagon. His order was taken care of quickly; this time we were free of Madvei with just one drink. We kept drinking and saying, “let’s go”; it was really pleasant. Armenian cognac with bread and red fish—is there anything more agreeable? We had opened the window; it was very cold, and we were drank in silence.

I remembered my old dream. My dream was to be in a distant Russian village, where people live in wooden houses, and be hosted by an ordinary, welcoming Russian peasant family. I dreamt that the family would set a table without silly modern frills, and we would drink, we would really drink with peasant Russian boys. I don’t know how I got to have this dream, but it’s really a very old dream. When I told Pavel about it, without losing a moment, he said, “We’ll do it.”

We were quiet for a long time and drinking. The second bottle was gone, too. Pavel got up and brought the Standard Russian Vodka again:

“Pavel, today we started with cognac, let’s finish with cognac,” I said and brought the half-empty bottle:

“How was I know you had more?” murmured Pavel.

I was already at the point where I couldn’t drink any more; I was only pretending that I was. Pavel finished the bottle very quickly and felt that he was thinking of the Russian Standard again:

“Pavel, I don’t have any more cognac, but today is cognac day,” I said, belching.

“Are you saying it’s enough? The Vodka is too warm. It should have been put on ice,” said Pavel, regretfully.

I somehow threw myself in the restroom, splashed cold water on my face, and then thought, I shouldn’t sleep with the burden of so much cognac. I got rid of it and laid down to sleep. After a while, Pavel did the same thing. I opened my eyes in the morning to see Pavel hunched over by the table, with a large glass of vodka before him. He was looking at the vodka glass with a horrified look: then he looked up at me:

“Do you want some?” he asked.

I shook my head. As if mad at my negative answer, Pavel raised his glass and forced himself to drink. He got up as he was drinking and exhaled loudly; put the glass on the table and went to the bathroom. Twenty-Twenty five minutes later he emerged from the bathroom shaven, freshened up; there was no trace of his earlier condition. I, too, got up, took a bath, and we went to the restaurant wagon for some coffee. We drank the coffee and talked. It turned out that the chef of the restaurant wagon was a Georgian. I called the waiter and asked if we could order some kebab; “of course,” he said, surprised. Pavel and I decided to have kebab for lunch, or whenever we felt hungry:

“How many bottles of Standard do you have?” I asked.

“Five,” sad Pavel.

“Not enough,” I said, teasingly.

“I have money, too,” Pavel said with a serious tone.

Hunger knocked on our door very quickly. By then we had put the vodkas in the refrigerator, and Madvei was brining them in ice-cold bottles. We asked to have the kebab brought to the cabin. I was waiting impatiently for those hoers d’oeuvres because I really miss the Tchalaghaj of the Armenians; I miss the craziness of the Armenians; I miss the road-side inns where you would have a ball with the guys, get drunk, devour the food, ask for the same song to be played over and over again, danced to the tune of the day over and over again like idiots, and then you couldn’t leave on time because we would go back and forth to decide who could win the right to pay the bill:

“Ah, how well we drank, the whore.”


***

Pavel made a living by dealing with election issues. He said that their job was to verify election lists, and to make sure of the realization of monitors’ mission during elections. Naturally, this would interest me and I wanted to hear the details of his activities. During the question/answer period, however, I felt that he didn’t want to expand too much on the topic.

I figured he didn’t want to think about the problems at work. But that which Pavel didn’t want to reveal willingly, he revealed with the help of Russian Standard Vodka. When we had had a bottle and a half and I had asked him how they verified voters’ lists, Pavel Ivanovitch asked me an unexpected question:

“Have you heard of Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol?”

“Of course I’ve heard of him,” I said

“Have you read ‘Dead Souls’?”

“I have.”

“So, my brother, I, too, deal with the buying and selling of dead souls,” confessed Pavel unexpectedly.

For a moment I didn’t really understand what he was saying. I thought ‘he’s drunk, he’s confusing things.’ But that wasn’t so. It turned out that he wasn’t really confused and did really deal with the buying and selling of dead souls. This is what he did. There are names of many souls on voters lists. Pavel Ivanovitch created the list of those dead souls by voter precincts and sold them to interested parties, the interested parties being political parties, candidates running for parliament, various election headquarters, which gain percentages through the votes of dead souls. Of course Pavel Ivanovitch doesn’t do this voluminous work in vast Russia all by himself. He has a public organization, which, according to its charter is responsible for removing inaccuracies from voters lists and the realization of the observer mission during elections. Well, they removed the lists of dead people, deleted a few, and then kept the rest with them. But during the monitoring they made sure that the dead appeared at the polls. Needless to say, in all this they cooperated with the corresponding bodies of government. the income from the sales was enough for everyone:

“And are there a lot of dead souls on those election lists?” I asked.

“God has given; he doesn’t spare. In many villages the living are fewer in number than the dead,” recounted Pavel happily.

Something like disgust rose in me, but I continued the conversation to get more information:

“And do you have a lot of customers?” I asked.

“Russia is a big country. When the presidential elections are over, elections for the parliament begin; when the parliament is finished, the provincial parliament starts; provincial parliament is over, the municipal parliament starts and so on. And we bring our humble contribution to the politics of the Fatherland.

I couldn’t take it any more:

“Do you at least understand that what you’re doing is a low, villainous act?”

“What do you mean, villainous? If I don’t do it, someone else will,” Pavel Ivanovitch explained, undisturbed.

“ Do you mean that you prefer to be a villain, rather than leave that honor to others?”

“Yeah—just don’t preach me, okay?” he said, upset.

I went to puke. I was trying not to notice his presence in my cabin.