Siro by David Ignatius (classic novels to read .txt) 📗

He sang several verses, full of genuine if well-dramatized emotion.

“It’s a beautiful song,” said Anna. “What do the words mean?”

“I am singing about my grandfather’s village, called Moush, in Turkish Armenia. Now there is no more Moush. People all gone, all dead. But we sing this song to our sons, so they will know what it was like. The song says:

Get up, my boy, let us go to our homeland.

We will drink from our own water and milk.

I will satisfy your longing.

Get up, my boy, let us go to Moush, the land of our fathers.

Even if it is in a dream, let us go and come back.”

Anna closed her eyes. The ribbon of asphalt rolled under them, bringing them closer to the enclave where the borders of Turkey, Iran, Armenia and Azerbaijan all meet. A highway laid over the bones of the dead.

“Sing me another song,” she said. “It makes me forget about my problems.”

“You bet. But this is a sad song.”

“That’s okay. I like sad songs.”

Samvel’s voice was even deeper and richer this time, like the bass pipes of a great church organ. He sang only four verses and then stopped, overcome by the emotion of the song and the moment. “I am sorry,” he said. “It is hard for me to sing this song.”

“Translate it for me,” said Anna. The more she saw of Samvel, the more he seemed to embody his countrymen—at once so robust and so sentimental. These Armenians were like small boats with too big sails, always in danger of becoming swamped.

“I should not have sung this song. The words will make you too sad. It is a song about death. This song says:

Everywhere you go,

Death is the same.

But I am jealous of the man,

Who can die for his country.”

“What is that song?” asked Anna. “I think I heard a friend of mine humming it once in Paris.”

“It is our national anthem,” said Samvel.

A few miles farther, Anna saw a sign in Russian pointing to the village of Kiarki. She looked around her. In the distance, to the southeast, were the jagged sawtooth mountains that marked the border with Iran. They were almost crimson in the morning sun. Ahead was the border with the Azerbaijani enclave called Nakhichevan. It was a ramshackle crossroads marked by a traffic circle, an army garrison and, on separate sides of the border, two derelict wineries. Anna felt that she had come at last to the very armpit of the world, this remote place that was at once in the shadow of Turkey, Iran and the Soviet Union.

“Kiarki,” explained the driver, in case Anna had missed the sign.

“Slow down,” she said as they neared the village.

She looked around for signs of anything unusual. The houses were small, one-floor bungalows, perhaps a bit messier than those in the neighboring Armenian villages, but otherwise identical. Many of the houses had grapevines in the front yard, growing up metal pipes that stretched from the street to the roof. A few women sat in the shade of these vines, preparing food. And there were children, dozens of them, playing in the streets and in a small park near the center of town.

“It’s dirty here,” said Samvel as they neared the town square. “Turks.”

“Is this the only road from Yerevan?” asked Anna.

Samvel nodded. “There is small road, on other side of town, but it only goes to next village.”

“Stop the car,” said Anna. “I want to get out here.” Samvel steered the car off the main street of the town and stopped about forty yards from the square. From where the Zhiguli was parked, Anna would be able to see any other car arriving from Yerevan on the main road.

She covered her hair with a simple scarf and got out of the Zhiguli. Samvel got out with her. She surveyed the road, up and down. Behind them was only dust. Nobody seemed to have followed them into this windswept little pea patch of the Caucasus. She looked toward the town square—with its little bust of Lenin alongside a drinking fountain—and to the streets beyond. There was no sign of the militia, or the army, or the KGB. It was all calm and ordinary—as numbingly ordinary as only a border outpost in a remote region could be. She saw no sign whatsoever of Aram. The only odd thing was how few adults there were in the streets. Maybe they’re all out working at the collective farm, thought Anna.

“What you want to look at?” said Samvel. He still thought visiting Kiarki was a stupid idea. Why spend a minute visiting Turks when there were so many Armenians nearby? But he was trying to cooperate.

“I’d just like to walk around,” said Anna.

Her immediate problem, in fact, was how to stay put; how to contrive some way to stay right where they were until Aram arrived. She had an idea, one that would require good acting—especially to convince a histrionic character like Samvel—but was worth a try. She walked gingerly across the pavement, testing her ankles, toward the fountain and the bust of Lenin. As she climbed the stone stairs toward the monument, she took a sudden, terrible tumble—twisting on her left ankle, falling hard on her hip, and then rolling over on her shoulder.

Samvel was horrified. He came running over to Anna, calling out to her in Armenian and English. She lay on the ground, moaning and holding her ankle.

“You need doctor?” asked Samvel. “I take you to doctor.”

“I don’t think it’s broken,” said Anna. “It just hurts like hell. Let me try to walk on it.”

She stood up and dusted herself off. Samvel offered his arm as a crutch, then his shoulder. Anna leaned on him and limped along, marking each step with an “ouch” or an “argh.” The ankle did, in fact, hurt slightly, but it was the hip that had really taken a pounding. She walked back to the car, making just enough of a show of agony to impress Samvel, but