1. MEMORY FULL
2. THE FISH
3. HEMISPHERE
4. THE FRIEND
5. I

MEMORY FULL
[Ran out of memory]

In memoriam Khachik Karapetyan
I got home at my usual hour, or maybe even earlier than that. That morning, I had found out that one of my relatives had passed away, a wonderful woman whose son had all but abandoned his elderly mother. I was determined to explain to everyone what a pity this was and how her son never appreciated her. Somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to do any work, nor did I manage to get others to leave off their work and join me for an afternoon of talking for a bit and drinking a few to feel a little better. So finally I gave up and came home. She put the dinner on the table. Did I eat it or not? I went to bed before ten, idly flipped through the TV channels for a little while and fell asleep.
When I woke up and turned on the bed-side lamp, I saw that it wasn’t even midnight; it was eleven thirty. What was wrong with me, why couldn’t I sleep? I’d gotten home at the usual hour, or maybe even earlier than that; I had found out that one of my relatives had passed away, a wonderful woman whose son had all but abandoned his elderly mother, everything was the same at work: insignificant and unpleasant chitchat here and there, but I couldn’t bring myself to work and so I didn’t stay as long as usual, and instead came home early.
I shouldn’t forget the good things though. For example, I finally received confirmation that I was receiving a new, more powerful computer with larger memory space. Now I could be faster at bringing my characters to life, and they would move with more ease and fluidity. They’d live longer.
Also, my payday is only a few short days away. I’ll get a couple of rocking chairs—already found the place that sells them. My brother will send me the money he’s promised, I’ll buy a small summer house, so that I can finally leave this odious place; my beloved will move in with me, we’ll put the rockers on the porch outside, we’ll drink coffee, she’ll knit and chat away under my ear, and I will just sit there and gaze at the sunset—I’m tired.
I tried to reconstruct her face but it didn’t just materialize before my eyes as usual. I tried to picture my most recently created characters, but they didn’t unfold, colorful and mobile, in my mind, as they normally did. I took the first piece of paper I found and wrote down:
And then I was told—you wanted so much to have a son that We sent you an angel to make your wish come true.
He stayed with me for eight years. Then he went away.
This is when I understood that I was given a limited time to drag on my existence.
My branch snapped, I was destroyed in time.
I no longer exist.
When that very same year we went to visit the cemetery, it was snowing. The snow was magnificent, falling fast in large flakes. There was not a single footprint in the cemetery except for one trail that ran to my son’s grave. Then we encountered some seventeen-eighteen-year-old boy. There was nobody else at the cemetery. He approached us himself and asked:
‘It is really true that one has to visit the cemetery on the day after Easter?’
We responded yes.
He went away.
Only much later did it occur to me that this boy was also sent to me as a messenger to let me understand that my son was given to me for only a limited time, at the end of which he went away.
That was a messenger.
And the setting sun was ablaze and looked like a copper coin.

01.16.2001
11:45 PM

As soon as I finished writing this down, I felt a chill coming on. But everyone is chilly in this country in wintertime, nothing unusual about that. I wrapped myself in the covers and sat there, hunched over, until I felt my heart beginning to stop. I asked it to go on working. I talked to it like one ought to talk to his heart, calmly and gently, especially since I always speak calmly. But it stopped. It said there just wasn’t enough memory left. And it demanded that the entire program be shut down.

THE FISH

The three of us were sitting on round high stools, the kind that get narrower at the top and have a wooden circle wrapped around the middle part of their spindly legs. We were on a bridge, close to the banisters, looking down and talking about those people. Far below us was the river, the right bank of which ran up a steep, almost vertical slope covered in thick vegetation, and the left bank—in trees, whose openings revealed faded wooden split-level houses. The highway supposedly ran behind those houses.
“They mostly lived by fishing,” said the person seated to my left, whom I don’t remember.
“It seems that the fish must have been plenty at the time, and they lived worry-free lives,” I chimed in, saying whatever I could about the subject.
“It’s been a hundred years since they’ve fished.”
“Why?” I said, getting worried, because I quite enjoy having fish for dinner despite an avowed lack of interest in fishing itself.
“They did it so that the river could recover its stock of fish,” said the person on my right, who was a medieval Turkish traveler.
I looked down more closely and noticed that in many places the river had turned into a swamp, completely stagnant, and covered in reeds and other plants all the way to its midpoint. Of course, nobody cared about the river or had gone near it for a long time, which would probably mean that it was now full of fish teeming among the reed-stalks. I even squinted to see if I could make out any traces of their movement in the water. At that very moment, the person sitting to my left pointed with his hand towards the left bank of the river, where, on a tall willow, a fish was fluttering.
“Look, a flying fish!” he exclaimed.
The fish flew up even higher without ceasing its fluttering for a single second and in a minute or two it almost reached us. With an abrupt movement of my hands, I caught it. It was a regular fish, thirteen-fifteen inches in length, and the only extraordinary element in its appearance was that the lower part of its body was completely straight instead of being slightly rounded. It wasn’t moving so much, so I loosened the grip of my first and showed the fish to the two people sitting with me.
“What a marvel!” said the Turkish traveler. “I’d only heard if this fish before.”
It was just one fish, and it was too small to be shared by three people, but since it was such an unusual find, I didn’t just want to gift it to my companions. I eventually got tired of it and decided to toss it back into the river. But, as I quickly discovered, it was firmly glued to my hand. With tremendous effort, using my left hand as a lever, I pried my fingers off its body, but it was still stuck to my right palm; what’s worse it started dragging me towards the river. I pressed it against my leg and, with a lightning-fast movement, finally unstuck it from my hand. But it fastened itself to my jeans right above the knee and continued to pull me, with surprising strength, towards the water. Since I was sitting on a high stool, and the wooden banisters on the bridge were rather low, any further movement could have proven fatal.
“Help me,” I implored my neighbors in a soft voice.
“It sure looks like a regular fish. And, against the dark-blue of the jeans, you can really see its scales,” said the person seated to my left, whom I don’t remember.
Suddenly, with the fingers of both his hands hooked, the Turkish traveler tore the fish from my leg. The fish started fluttering around in the air in front of his face. The Turk had fine, curly hair that grew thicker on the sides of his face closer to his chin. If that fish ever got stuck in the traveler’s hair, he would have never been able to rid himself of it.
November 28, 2000

HEMISPHERE

One could see it from very far away. And it caught one’s eye. Because of this, it seemed that no matter where I went, I kept approaching the huge hemisphere. As the saying goes, my step took me there of their own volition. It was the largest building I’d ever seen, and it was immaculately white. For as long as the foliage enveloping the pavilion that I’d been frequenting in the recent months was still green and thick, I could only picture in my mind what was on this side. When the foliage turned yellow and red, the white of the walls began to sparkle through the openings between the trees.
I looked over my shoulder and saw that I was alone, as always. It seemed that voices couldn’t even reach this part of the pavilion, or, rather, they did reach it, but they came out muffled, as if pressed into the sand by some invisible hand. Whether this was strange or not, but the hemisphere had only one door, tiny, almost unnoticeable in comparison to the size of the building. I looked back again, but the alley of trees was empty; only an ordinary-looking street cat was walking towards me.
I was curious to see what I would discover, so I’m not sure why I kept delaying the moment when I entered the building. Before entering it, however, I first had to decide how to go about it. The handle on the hemisphere’s door was built in, like on a car-door, and I didn’t immediately work up the courage to pull on its horizontal lever made of some artificial material, so I started searching around for a doorbell. But there was nothing even remotely resembling a doorbell anywhere near the door. The hemisphere had no windows for me to bang on, so that someone from the inside could let me in; I also figured that the doorbell couldn’t be placed very far from the door, so I saw no point in searching for it in other parts of the building.
I reached with my arm and probed the top right corner of the door, where the bell would normally be located. At some point it went off inside with incessant tinkling, like it behooves a bell; it emitted none of the various musical or animal noises, which one can consider doorbells only with great reservation. I pulled my hand away from the door, but the ringing continued inside for a few minutes. If somebody answered the door, I’d have to explain that it was their fault and that their doorbell must have gotten stuck in its box. I would also add that one could occasionally call me stubborn but never impolite.
Unfortunately, nobody answered the door. I touched the invisible doorbell again, hoping that I would accidentally locate it again, and, by pressing it one more time, shut it off.
The doorbell stopped going off on its own. I waited for a little longer, and the door opened. It simply moved back and slid to the left. I entered, and the door silently closed behind me. In the large domed hall where I found myself everything was white. There could have been throngs of people inside, but I couldn’t see them because the hall was divided up by tall, thick, white partitions. When I examined these closely, I discovered that they were made of ice.
I had entered winter! Somewhere nearby, I could see trees completely covered in frost, and here and there, there were puddles of slush on the floor. I don’t know where it could have come from since I’d entered from a completely dry autumn.
I unhurriedly moved forward. When I unexpectedly turned around, I saw that I was being followed by the same ordinary-looking street cat.
I thought that it would be nice to have stairs on the outside of the gigantic hemisphere, even if just a fire-ladder, the kind usually attached to the sides of buildings. One could climb it, carefully holding on to the sidebars, to the top of the hemisphere and see how many seasons one has left. The hemisphere of spring would probably be dark blue, the autumn’s—red, and the summer’s would be the color of agate. The summer’s hemisphere could have also been completely transparent, but in that case people might lose count of the hemispheres.

November 30, 2000

THE FRIEND

Seven o’clock on a winter evening is far too late for these kinds of things. And it would be ridiculous to have it earlier in the day, say at four or five. I have to go since I’ve been waiting for it for the past twenty days now, but as I direct my steps there, the closer I get, the more I regret my decision. The last few hundred feet are the hardest, because people are huddled up in groups around there. Three people over there, leaning against the wall, five people under the tree, ten sitting on the concrete blocks of the construction site, and a few walking back and forth among them. Women are standing in pairs, waiting for their dates. Some children—whose?—are playing among the tree-trunks in the dark.
I am walking with my head held low, but I know I shouldn’t hang it too far down; on the other hand, if I lift it too high, they’ll think I’m putting on airs. Good think I’m alone, although that only bodes well here, outside—inside, it’s imperative to have at least one companion.
I can hear coarse laughter, but why should I care. I know it’s can’t be at my expense, because I haven’t done anything laughable. But if these spiteful people have ever seen me do anything ridiculous, they’ll wait—a month, if they have to—until I pass by them again, so that they can laugh derisively in my face. Brutes! They are loudly exchanging opinions, but I know it has nothing to do with me. No connection whatsoever. If I keep thinking about it in the days to come, I’ll probably be able to figure out what they’re saying, but it’s probably best if I don’t.
I’ve reached them, I am passing them by, I’ve finally passed them! Now, I’ve really left them behind! The entrance is very well-lit, and people are crowding around it. They are also staring at me—if not all of them, then most. How am I supposed to sell it here, in these circumstances? How? But it costs money and shouldn’t be tossed away. I’ll make one circle and come back to sell it. But wait, I can’t make a circle, I don’t have the backbone to walk the same path for the second time; the first was bad enough. I can’t, and besides, I don’t have time. And yet, if you enter on time, they start with a terrible delay. But if you get there late, you find the entrance closed.
To sell or not to sell, to sell or not to sell? I doubt anyone will want just one. They’ll try to convince me to sell them both, but I won’t agree to it. I can’t, I don’t want to sell mine, too.
But if she wasn’t planning to show up, why couldn’t she have told me from the get go? Of course, her explanation is—you didn’t ask me before you bought it. Not to mention the fact that you’d rather be caught dead than walking across the street with me. “No, not any street, just a couple of places, why is it to important?” “Well, if that’s important to you, this is important to me. Besides, when have you ever taken me anywhere yourself?”
That much is true, I never take her anywhere. What torture this fear can be!
I’m not going to sell it. I don’t care if I lose money on it; it’s not just my money, after all. I approach the entrance crowd but I don’t want to push my way through them, and I don’t even think I can. Excuse me, I say, excuse me, but nobody hears me, I must be speaking very softly. A little while later somebody comes outside to make an announcement, everybody surrounds him, and I approach the guard.
“We can’t let you in looking like that.”
“Looking like what? I look fine.”
“There’s nothing fine about the way you look. You can’t go in.”
“What’s not fine? Sure it is!”
“It’s not! Have you seen yourself in a mirror?”
“C’mon, please let me in!”
I despise myself for begging, and I knew all along it was going to end like this: I will come here in the evening, beg and despise myself. But if I don’t beg, they’ll close off the entrance pretty soon, and those people gathered around the announcer will turn back, pushing me out of the place.
“Why won’t you let him enter?” asks some man.
“How can I let him in looking like this?”
“What about his appearance? He looks fine.”
“I know how to do my job, he doesn’t look fit to go in, don’t play the nice guy here.”
“Show me, where does it say that he can’t go in looking like this? If you don’t let him through, I’m going to file a complaint against you.”
What a nice man, really, nobody had asked him to intervene on my behalf, and yet he has. Thank you, I mutter under my breath, and enter. I have nothing out of the ordinary on my person.
Everyone in the anteroom is staring at me. I enter the hall: there’s general commotion, but many of those who have already found their seats, stop their conversations with each other and look at me in wide-eyed amazement. Under their stares, I barely find my seat and sit down. I’m curious to see whether there are any familiar faces in the crowd but I know that everyone is waiting for me to turn around, so I sit there, motionless. There are three free seats on one side of me and four on the other. Wouldn’t it be nice if it just started right now! Another few more minutes pass: it’s definitely time for them to start. Another five minutes pass by. Shouldn’t they really be starting? A few people whistle. Just a couple more minutes, and it’ll start. Almost everyone is clapping. That’s really no way to behave, I must say.
Here they come, two people approaching me from one side and four on the other. They immediately suggest that, if I’m by myself, I should switch seats with two of their friends. These two friends of theirs have tickets in the last row, but now they are standing right here, by our row, waiting for the others to pressure me into swapping seats with them. Why should I? Just because I’m here by myself? Of course, I’d probably feel more comfortable in the last row because nobody would be staring at me from behind, but it’s too far, and why should I be moving just because they told me to! Please swap so we can all sit together. I don’t understand why it’s important for all eight to be sitting together. I’m not leaving, do you hear me, not leaving! Let us see the stamp in the back of your ticket. You bought these three days after we bought ours, why did those jerks they tell us they had no blocks of eight seats available? How should I know, go ask them, I needed two seats and purchased two tickets.
Since you’re being so rude, we don’t want someone who looks like this sitting next to us. What’s wrong with the way I look? Everything! I look fine! If that’s fine, then what’s considered looking bad? Well, if you think that something’s wrong with it, then tell me what’s so bad about it. If you keep pushing it, we just might. Well, tell me! And we will!
“What’s the matter? Why can’t you leave this man to sit in his place in peace?” says a friend of mine who’s approached us from behind.
“We want to swap seats with him so that our friends can sit with us.”
“Well, if he doesn’t want to swap, why should he?”
“Ok, fine, we’re not saying anything, let him sit where he is, although it’s not right to be showing up in this place looking like that.”
“It’s not your business to be deciding what he should or shouldn’t look like.”
I look over to my friend’s usual seats and see his wife waving to me. I wave back at her, pointing at the empty chair next to me, letting her know that I’ve come by myself, but she sent regards. My friend’s wife nods to indicate she understands.
“Hey, did you think you had no friends and get scared?” asks my friend.
I probably did, I don’t know.
He goes back to take his seat next to his wife. I sit there waiting for it to start, and it’s about to. It should be starting any minute now, I think.
November 12, 2000

I

To Vahram Martirosyan

It was almost midnight. It wasn’t very late; on occasion, I’d returned home as late as three in the morning. On the other hand, it was pretty late considering that I’d promised to be home by 5 o’clock that afternoon. So I decided that the most sensible thing to do would be to hang back and linger at the party for a little longer until everyone at home fell asleep. I figured it would be easier to explain my tardiness the next morning. But eventually we ran out of alcohol and people started taking off; after all, I couldn’t just wander around outside, waiting for my family to fall asleep.
When returning home later than promised, I always avoided looking at the windows, and, vainly keeping my hopes up, directed my eyes elsewhere. As soon as our windows caught my eyes, I averted them, but I usually managed to notice whether the lights were still on or not. Because sometimes they would just fall asleep before I got home; why not now?
This time, too, I tried to avoid the windows, but discovered that the living room lights were turned on. Then I took another look and noticed that my room’s light was on as well. Why had they turned on the lights in my room? The only thing I could hope for now was that they hadn’t turned on the vacuum cleaner; that was my one and only wish. I could only pray that at this late hour they didn’t have the vacuum going and moving from room to room under the pretence of cleaning up.
As I made my way up the stairs, I listened carefully for any noise. Nothing unusual, just the regular noises of the hour. I halted on our floor and tried to shake myself out of my stupor. Something felt uncomfortable—could it be that I’d tightened my belt too much? Or was it the alcohol making its way to my throat? I loosened the belt just in case, rested for a little while, and only then tried to open the door. I knew that if my attempt to unlock the door from the outside with my key was successful, it would mean they’d all gone to sleep, resigned not to see me until the next morning. If this was the case, then they’d be happy that I at least made it home before midnight.
I always wear my keychain attached to my belt, and I try not to remove it every time because the iron latch on it doesn’t bend well and might break one of these days. But it’s not easy to unlock the door with the keys attached to my belt because the first turn of the key is usually effortless, but on the second rotation, it gets jammed between the other keys in the stack. When this happens, I usually rotate myself in order to be able to move the key and unlock the door.
It’s true that I always somehow manage to unlock it. At the last second, just as I begin to think it’s hopeless, the key budges a little, I slightly tilt my body counterclockwise, and, next thing I know, I’m inside.
I inserted the key into the keyhole; luckily, the inside key had been removed. I swiftly turned it twice, leaning against the door.
I couldn’t hear the vacuum-cleaner. I removed my coat in the hallway, and on my way to the dining room I saw that the door to my room was ajar. I popped my head in (the light was still on) and saw myself sitting inside. I wasn’t in my usual spot by the computer but by the small coffee table. I was sitting opposite the table— not backwards on the chair but sideways. I was wearing a green polyester winter coat that made rustling noises, a black ski-hat, and I had a red scarf wrapped around my collar. I was also wearing brown pants and large matching sunglasses. I knew that I never owned any of these things. None was in my taste; in fact, I quite hated all of them. Not even mentioning the straight, flat strands of hair that were sticking out from underneath the ski-hat, which looked nothing like my black and curly hair.
I noticed that I (my double on the chair, that is) was sitting with my legs crossed, with one of my trouser-legs riding up my calf and exposing a narrow line of my flesh between the trousers and the boots—my calf, like the rest of me, turned out to be made of pink gutta-percha.
At first, I wanted to go in, but then decided against it and headed to the guest-room instead.