I have not been fond of the Americans I have met. Most of the brothers in the Armenian Quarter of Jerusalem are from the Republic of Armenia, with a small number from Turkey and Europe. I myself was sent here from the town of Goris at fourteen. Goris is not far from the border with Iran. From a distance, I understand, it looks sweet, a small hill town, like something out of a black-and-white picture book of Switzerland. But to live there, with its Soviet government buildings in ruins, full of stray animals and refugees, its streets gray with sluggish men, is another thing.
I was good at school—and unlike many boys in the town, I was at church every Saturday and Sunday. At first I must have attended out of idleness, but after time, I believed. I am good at languages, my brothers always said, and as the youngest I could always be spared. When our parish priest suggested I come to Jerusalem to study, my parents readily agreed — to be a priest, so they said, but really to get an education. And yes, I will be ordained in less than a year, God willing, and may stay here all my life, or perhaps, if I am very diligent, be sent to a parish abroad.
The new Patriarch had been encouraging more Westerners to train in the Armenian Quarter. So when Father Oshagan introduced us to the new subdeacon — he would be teaching English at the high school for a year, possibly more, and learning to serve at the altar — I did not immediately take to him. His name was John, “Hovanness,” in our language, but everyone called him Onnig, “Johnny.” In the East, being a subdeacon is a great honor. In the West, they will ask any willing male who can stumble through a passage of Scripture, however badly, to train for the diaconate. This American was only another boy with a loudly-colored backpack and shorts: in our eyes, dressed like a toddler. One of us, surely, but barely.
His Armenian was also like a child’s, with many Turkish words, clearly learned in a grandmother’s kitchen. To us, he complained that Israeli security searched him twice, forcing him to disrobe down to his underclothing. He made much of this, as if somehow his American passport was supposed to give him magical powers. But that examination is something we have all experienced, even the Patriarch: some people like to show their might in this world. This young man was nobody special.
And he made careless mistakes — not only in the language, which he got fluent in quickly enough—but in almost every gesture. He assumed that a smile and his good nature would get him through any awkwardness, but here, that is not so true. He would rush to the sacristy, sloppily putting on his robe—these are brocade, and expensive, and they do tear—without his glasses or his stole, or pick up a prayer book without checking whether it was the correct one, then have to search about for what was needed. He genuflected clumsily before the icons. (Before Brother Sahag corrected him, he actually pushed himself up from the carpet with both his hands.)
But his English language students adored him. You could hear them from the end of the building. They clapped and laughed, they shouted and jostled and yelled out answers to his games. He taught them songs: American pop songs, folk-songs — I could not distinguish —which he picked out on a little stringed instrument, like a tiny guitar. With us, the poor man was almost an idiot, but I knew at other times, he was a different soul. I could hear it.
He had the opportunity, almost daily, to serve at the altar. And he clearly wanted to. But he seemed at once too eager to take on these roles without being able to perform them. He was eager to use the liturgical fans, which we call Kshosts. But Onnig almost put Brother Matteos’s eye out with one of them.
I understand many of our younger brothers serve at the altar as automatons, knowing that they have understood everything. At their worst, they will roll their eyes at the smallest mistake: any little hesitation, any slightly off note. Onnig offered us chance to be better than that. And indeed sometimes he went the wrong direction, or put out the wrong candle, or had to be reminded to do the simplest thing with a point and a nod. He never did learn to sway an incense-burner properly —too often it gave off sparks—and he always put too much charcoal in, so that it smoked like a cigar.
I was instructed to meet with Onnig twice a week to iron out these little problems, and also to instruct him in using the Zhamakeerk, the Book of Hours, the volume of all the daily services that frankly is confusing enough for those who read Classical Armenian, with sections sometimes skipped and sometimes not, abbreviations and customary responses often obscured in the text. If Onnig had any chance of becoming a full deacon, and there is actually an oral examination for the position, he would have to know the book down cold. It was then, of course, that I grew to like him.
You know Americans, remarkable for their frankness. We Armenians are frank, too. We too are enormous talkers. We talk about money far more, and about religion far less, than we should. Americans are frank in a different way: all about individual feelings, thoughts, “relationships,” and “the Future.” No people in the world think of their little Futures so much. Onnig had planned enough Futures for a caravan: a career in business, or in the law, or perhaps in a university, or maybe attending seminary in his own country. It was easy, too, to imagine Onnig as a family man. During a certain point in the service, the acolytes, always boys, are allowed to rest behind the altar, sitting on the floor. Onnig would sit down right next to them, rustle their hair and say “Good Job!” in English, whether or not the job had actually been done well. He knew all of their names.
But my own future has been entirely arranged. I will stay in the Quarter or one of the Holy Places all my life, and if not, will do what I am asked.
To Onnig’s mind, I didn’t really have a future, and he expressed something like regret.
“Didn’t you ever think of doing anything else?”
The answer was no, not really, or not at least, since I was very small.
“God has given me my place,” I said.
However clumsy he was, it was nearly eight months in that Onnig, who had become something of a mascot to those who liked him, really began to go astray. In our community, a teacher is a respected person: badly paid, but then all the Armenians here are badly paid. Onnig was spending less time in the Quarter. Sometimes he could not be found. He was seen a few times heading outside the Old City. This did not affect his classes, whose delight could still be heard nearly in the street.
We close the gate to the Quarter at ten; once outside, no amount of banging will get you in. There are few windows to the rest of the Quarter; the walls cannot be scaled. I took to calling his cell phone from the school telephone just before I went to bed, to make sure he would be home. Running to make the gate at the last minute causes a scene. And it is not kept quiet.
Of course, by then he hardly needed my lessons. But we both wanted, we said, to practice my English and his Armenian.
But it was more than that.
“Brother Arakel,” he asked. “Will you ever marry?”
“At this point, I think not,” I said. “I will ordain as a celibate priest.” Armenian priests can marry —most do —but they must marry before they ordain. And if they marry they can only be parish priests, not bishops or brothers.
“But don’t you want to be with a woman?” asked Onnig.
I could not reply.
“Have you ever been with a woman?”
“I’m sure you have,” I said quietly. “But the answer is no.”
Onnig gave me a pained look, as if he had been bitten by something sharp and small. It was a look of surprise and pity, I suppose, though what, if anything, should be so surprising about my answer? And why ask me at all?
There was only one explanation. He had a girl friend.
We do not actually “date” in our culture, but if Onnig were developing an interest in one of the young women here, all would embrace it — except perhaps for the fear that he might take her away from Jerusalem, and we would lose another person, and potentially a whole family, to emigration. The Aunties here had certainly speculated about him, even made inquiries about his own family: a small one, I understood, in the Philadelphia suburbs. His family was said to be quite successful.
He brought this girlfriend innocently into the Quarter one day. I knew this because all the children came running to tell me.
“Brother Hovanness has brought someone to sing with him.”
“He’s not a Brother. You should call him Teacher,” I said.
Onnig stationed himself in the second courtyard with a young woman and a gaggle of children, just off the plaza to which tourists are limited. He broke out his instrument, the miniature guitar— for us, ostensibly, but really for her. She looked more or less like an American: no makeup, dressed for summer but knowing enough to put a shawl over her bare shoulders. His students gathered around him with awe. And admittedly no one has laughed so much until they have heard “Rock-Around-the-Clock” and “Bye-Bye Birdie” sung first in English, and then in bad Western Armenian, accompanied by his absurd little guitar. Yes, even I know these tunes.
But to see this girl with him made something in my chest tighten, as if I were ill. It was not really about the trouble that might come. I could not fathom it. He knew enough, at least, not to walk hand-in-hand or arm-in-arm, which in some sections of the city might get you stoned. He did not know enough not to bring her into the Quarter at all. It pained me to see her.
She even attended a few Masses—discreetly, or so she thought. She covered her hair with a loose veil just the way our women do, putting it off the shoulder. But one could tell straight away she was not one of us. I think she thought — or Onnig thought —that she could ingratiate herself in this process. Or perhaps she wanted to see Onnig serve at the altar, as if it were theatre. Certainly there was something valiant about her trying. Our services last three hours, sung top to bottom in Classical Armenian. Most everyone stands for the entire Mass, though they sit on the floor for the sermon. There are no pews, just a few benches in the back reserved for the very old. This girl did not quite get the forms right, falling into line just a little behind everyone else. She looked around too much, not keeping custody of her eyes. Every once in a while she would put her arms behind her back, which, in our community, we consider bad-mannered.
Meeting with Onnig to go over a particularly obscure portion of the Book of Hours, I asked, “Onnig, who is the girl you are with?”
“Her name is Eva. She is a graduate student at the university.”
“Where did you meet?
‘You know—in town,” and he waved his arm. He meant outside the Old City. “Is she one of us?’
“One of us? Armenian? Of course not. She’s American —well, at least her parents were.”
I gathered my thoughts.
“You mean, then, she is not American.”
“Not really. No.”
“She is an Israeli Jew with American parents?”
“Oh, but they are completely secular. Her parents made aliyah when she was a toddler. And she went to high school in the United States.”
I lowered my voice. “You know, Onnig, this cannot happen. Everyone will know about it.”
“We will be discreet.”
“Discreet? In the Armenian Quarter? Already you are the only American in the place. You might as well wave a flag.”
If Onnig had continued with bringing her to the Quarter now and then, in the attractive disguise of a sing-along, I suppose he might have gotten away with it, though everyone still would have known. She could even have attended as many Masses as she wished. Tourists often visit and stare about like her, though they never stay for the entire service.
***
It was only three days later that Father Oshagan sprung upon me just as I was closing my classroom for the day.
“Get your American friend and bring him to my office.”
I found Onnig on the next floor, chatting away with his students, and patted him on the shoulder to tell him that we were wanted.
He had no idea what was coming.
Father Oshagan asked me to sit down. He left Onnig standing. He spoke roughly in Armenian, “Teacher. Avakian, whom did you bring into the Shrine of Varak?”
The Shrine of the Holy Cross of Varak is not usually shown. It is deep in the Quarter, and it holds many things important to our faith —so important, I cannot tell them here.
“Just a friend, father.”
“Mrs. Cheknavorian told me you took someone there. A girl.”
That part of the Quarter is a complete warren of rooms. The most direct way to the Shrine, and certainly the only one Onnig would have known, goes right though Mrs. Cheknavorian’s parlor. We only show carefully selected diaspora Armenians there, groups from trusted churches with trusted pastors, for the reasons I have mentioned.
“It’s just a friend, like I said,” Onnig demurred.
Armenian has few gender markings— the same word means he, she, and it — and Onnig took advantage of this peculiarity of our language to be especially avoidant. “She,” (but this could mean he in Armenian) “is studying Oriental Orthodox Christianity at the University.
“It’s his girlfriend,” I said in English, not exactly helpfully.
Father Oshagan snorted right back in English: ”He. She. It. . . . Girl Friend.” He switched to Armenian, “I don’t care if it’s a girl. I don’t care if it’s a goat. You had no right to take a foreigner (he used the word odar, more like a stranger, a non-Armenian) into the heart of where we live.”
“I don’t understand. What can be wrong? We didn’t touch anything. She studies our culture,” Onnig said.
“Because, you khent!” (fool!) growled Father Oshagan —here he pressed his outrage button to English again. “Because she is a spy.”
The Israeli government does indeed spy on us: how many souls attend services, and on what holidays, and where they come from. In the great old days, before 1967, there were so many pilgrims from Arab countries that cots were set up in every apartment during our holidays. And surely, many characters in the present government would love to catalogue the property here.
But I do not think that Eva could actually have been a spy. If Eva were a spy, with her inept gestures and her gawking, she was a bad one.
“She’s not just a girlfriend,” said Onnig. “She’s my fiancée, or will be, I hope. I am going to ask her to marry me.”
Father Oshagan stared at me.
My face was an empty plate. It could not be possible.
Father Oshagan groaned. “She is a Jew, yes? And you are an Armenian Christian.”
”I know we cannot marry in our Church. We will marry before a judge. She is secular. I am sure will our children will be raised as Armenian Christians, or whatever.
“Or Whatever.” Father Oshagan turned a shade of violet I thought not possible in a human being, like the lining of a Bishop’s robe. “There is no ‘whatever’ in our religion. The True God is not your personal preference, willing to re-make himself at your convenience. Asdvadz Jushmareed.” True God. And the law does not allow it.”
Father Oshagan was right on many counts. The Church has rules about what other Christians it can marry: other Oriental or Eastern Orthodox or Roman Catholic, surely. Perhaps even, before a pliant priest, with an Anglican.
But the government’s rules are even stricter.
“Onnig, my friend,” I said as mildly as I could. “Here, there are no mixed marriages. They do not exist. It is not possible, according to the laws. You cannot marry ‘before a judge.’ Even Israeli citizens have to go to Cyprus. Did your friend not tell you this?”
***
I understand he married Eva civilly in Nicosia, then again in a mixed ceremony in his own city. I wonder if she converted, perhaps for her like changing a set of clothes. Their picture was even in the Philadelphia newspaper. We all saw it.
***
Somehow, this reminds me of another story. About a year before I left Armenia, I had a very close friend. Like Onnig, he was a few years older than I. His name was Simon, one of the older sons of a family even larger than my own. His mother even had a pretty little medal from Soviet days for having had so many children.
He and I and the other boys used to have all sorts of secret schemes, and spent a lot of time in Old Goris, just to the west of town. Old Goris was a cave-village, from when the people had lived in the rocks, often built out with walls and porches. It was only under the next-to-last Tsar that New Goris, the city we actually lived in, was built. Nobody lived in Old Goris when we were children. But that Goris was a paradise for boys. With complete cave houses, a decrepit church, it was a huge playground from the past.
Simon was the leader of our group. A glance from Simon and any number of the smaller boys would come running. I was his special favorite. We had long conversations in the dusk before we would run home to the New Goris. Simon did not finish school, but one day was sent straight to a factory job in Russia.
I was desolate. I would light candles in the church praying for Simon to return. My parents asked me to talk to the Priest about what had happened. And in a few months, thanks to God and his Saints, I was sent to Jerusalem.
***
Onnig no longer serves at the altar, though I suppose he must be a subdeacon still. Once you are made a subdeacon, I do not think you can be un-made one. Onnig and Eva have a baby girl. He sent me her picture in a letter, apologizing for the trouble he had caused, and describing how happy they were. The baby was as attractive as all babies are said to be.
I do not think he goes to any church.