The Mountain

"I'll help you," Kimberly offered. I was shocked and must have looked it. She smiled, "it will make up for all the care you're not going to get from me."

"I can't ask you to do that."

"You don't have to. We love each other too much to end it by ourselves," Kimberly sighed, "we owe it to..."

"Tamara."

"Tamara for making sure we didn't end up hating each other." Kimberley meant it. "I don't think I want to meet her right away, but I can at least help you find her." I chuckled at the qualified help.

"I also need to learn to speak Armenian," I added.

"Is her English not good enough?"

"She doesn't speak any English," I replied.

"How did you...?"

"It was primal," I replied, "we spoke without words, yet we understood everything." Kimberly smiled at me, almost a laugh. "What?"

"What happens if you don't like what she has to say?" I never thought about it.

"Then I shut up and forget I know Armenian," I replied. Kimberley's laugh filled the room. My mom burst in, all smiles.

"So, is everything back to normal?" My mother queried, looking at Kimberly.

"Hardly, Pamela," Kimberly replied nicely, "we have just decided that there will be no war over it." My mother's face dropped. She always liked Kimberly and thought I should have married her years ago.

"Pamela, leave it be," my dad said, forestalling my mother from interjecting her opinion.

"Do you know her last name, or surname, or whatever they use over there?" Kimberly asked, continuing our conversation.

"She told me once, I think," I said, trying to jog my memory.

"You're not helping him in this?" my mother chimed in.

"Yes," Kimberly answered with determination, "yes I am."

"I can't remember, but I think it started with a 'P' sound," I said, ignoring my parents.

"Jonathan!" my mother continued, " you can't do this to Kimberly."

"Pamela, I am doing this," Kimberly responded, "He obviously can't do it himself," she waved her hand over my caged legs and lowered her voice, "and though you would have made a wonderful mother-in-law, we would have been a terrible husband and wife." I watched as my mother hugged the daughter she wanted. Kimberly smiled at me from over my mother's shoulder. It was the she-likes-me-better-than-you smile you would expect from a sibling. I rolled my eyes and kept silent. I loved them both, but Tamara held my heart.

When the drugs wore off, mood swings were replaced by pain. It wasn't a sharp I-can't-function pain. Luckily, I was in a coma for the worst of it. The pain was dull and constant. Moving increased it and stillness was incredibly uncomfortable. At night, sleeping pills were a must. During the day, I took it out on Rick and the other nurses. Being immobile was incredibly boring and being cleaned by unloving strangers was embarrassing. I thought back to the mountain when Tamara had to pee. I now knew what she felt. I wondered if she knew how much I loved her and that it didn't matter to me. I cringed as the night nurse wiped my ass. I truly hoped Tamara didn't feel as I did at that exact moment.

Kimberly came to visit every few days. Always a kiss on my forehead. I would never again know her lips. That was a good thing. They would never compare to Tamara's. Locating Tamara was taxing Kimberly's talents. The embassy had not kept records beyond mine, an American. The Azerbaijani authorities were difficult to converse with and knew little beyond putting Tamara on a bus with transfers to Yerevan, her requested destination.

My parents spent a lot of time apologizing for writing Tamara off. You can't hate the people who dropped everything and flew across the world to bring you back home. From what I could discern, they had run Tamara off. The interrupters were weak, knowing only one language well. My mother, her eyes on me and Kimberly walking down the aisle, probably bordered on cruel. My dad, ever the diplomat, tried to soften the blow with money. From what I could discern, Tamara was irate when they separated the two of us. I could still see the scars of her words in my mother's eyes, even though the language barrier and the interrupter must have weakened their sting.

When the pain finally faded, my alone time was filled with thoughts of Tamara. Sleeping was difficult. I kept waking, expecting a warm body next to mine. I would smile, half in a remembered dream, then reality would destroy it. I missed her horribly.

Doug Finley came by to see my progress two weeks after I had woken. I could see the dilemma in his eyes. He had a useless partner in a company that needed both principles. The firm was not large enough to absorb the loss easily.

"Jonathan, it's good to see you awake," Doug said as he took in my caged legs.

"Doug, thanks for coming to see me," I returned, "I hope the Azerbaijani deal went well."

"Truthfully, it took a nosedive," Doug admitted, "they got wind of your problems and attempted to renegotiate." He paused a moment, maybe thinking he should have lied, "some misunderstandings occurred that both sides would have trouble undoing. I think they felt the deal was with you and not us."

"Damn," I said more to myself. I disliked having all that effort go to waste, especially after what I had endured.

"Not your fault." Doug shrugged his shoulders. I knew he felt the investment in the trip was a complete loss. Now I am laid up, costing more than I produce. "We'll find another source in time." He smiled as if it was non-consequential. I knew it was.

"It kind of pisses me off," I said grimly, "I thought it was a done deal. I'm sorry Doug."

Doug smiled. "Just worry about getting better. Have they given you any idea how long you're going to be laid up?"

"Walking in five or six months, fully mobile in a year," I answered truthfully. There was no way I would be returning to work quickly. Doug nodded, and I could see the friend mixing with the business owner. I knew that he would pay a financial toll as I recovered.

"Doug, if we need to sell," I said, "don't wait to spare my feelings." I wasn't sure I was ready to end the business, but I couldn't let him suffer financially without me.

"Not sure we can," Doug said, "the proposal expired thirty days ago. Our numbers have dropped," he added, indicated my legs, "not sure if there is any interest at a reasonable price."

"Shit, I'm sorry Doug. I didn't mean for this to happen."

"I know," Doug sighed, "we'll just have to make the best of it." His smile belied the fears I knew were working their way through our finances. Unlike me, he lived rather high. Insurance on his Porsche probably cost more than my car. "So they tell me you tried base jumping without a chute..." At least we could still laugh together.

++++++++++++++++++++++

Five months after I fell from the cliff, my rehabilitation began in earnest. The tree that had saved my life did so at the expense of my legs. Immobile, my leg muscles had weakened so dramatically that when the pins and cages were removed I could barely bend my knees. The doctor had been correct. My arm had healed much quicker. I had to learn to walk all over again.

Kimberly had practically given up trying to find Tamara. She still visited me and told me of trading emails with this authority or another, but I could tell she had been defeated. I wasn't going to push. She at least had found a trail to Yerevan. My parents said they were looking, but I knew it was a half-hearted effort to stall my feelings while they hoped my desire would wane. My mother had some vision of my future, and it didn't contain an Armenian wife. My father, bless his heart, loved my mother as much as I loved Tamara. I could not pit him against her.

At night, alone in my room, thoughts of the mountain would return. Feelings of Tamara would fill me. Fear of her finding another frightened me. I would not fare well against someone who knew her language. Longing to return to that hopeless hovel with her in my arms swamped reasoning. I would rather die with her than live without her. It was hard to sleep with her in my mind.

I spent six hours a week learning Armenian. My tutor, Ruben Aslanian, was more than patient with me. He was a retired steelworker, born and raised in Southern Illinois in an Armenian household. I was never a good student, and Ruben wasn't exactly a great teacher. We learned together. There weren't any other teachers willing to make house calls on a regular basis.

Ruben would shake his bald head every time I mispronounced a word. He didn't have the skills to describe my error properly, and my ears currently heard no difference. It would take time to become proficient. What Ruben lacked in teaching skills, he made up for with his patience. He had made many trips to Armenia, visiting and supporting his extended family. I soaked up his knowledge of the country as well as the language.

Seven months after the fall, I was able to walk across the room, with two canes, without tiring. It had been a brutal rehabilitation. Entire muscle groups had to be rebuilt and adjust to the newly healed bones. My ankles, spared the brunt of the fall, were the worst. They felt like the first time I went ice skating when I was a child. It was if they had forgotten everything they were taught and fought against me the whole time. My doctor estimated I would be close to 100%, or what would be my new 100%, in a few more months. I moved back to my apartment. My mind began thinking of travel.

Kimberly insisted on driving me to physical rehab every other day. She was feeling guilty for not locating Tamara. The trips made me feel guilty. We had that way about us still. Unable to handle normal life comfortably. With her help, I progressed quickly. In two more months, I was able to jog half a mile on the treadmill without faltering. The scars along my legs became less hideous, more part of me now. Kimberly said I should tell people they were bullet holes. She thought It would be sexier.

My lessons progressed with Ruben to the point I could hold simple conversations in Armenian. Nothing elaborate, but a little more than 'where's the bathroom.' It was his last lesson that made my heart jump.

"I may have found her, or her family at least," Ruben stated with a smile as he entered the door. He was excited and now, so was I.

"Tamara? Where?"

"In the outskirts of Yerevan, in old soviet era tenet housing," Ruben stated, rubbing his bald head. He always did that when lessons went well. Good thing he didn't play poker. "My family thinks it is Tamara's family, they're not completely sure, but how many families claim plane crash survivors?"

"They talked to them?" I asked, pulling a chair out for Ruben.

"No," Ruben answered, "it is kind of third-hand knowledge. I didn't ask them to go Yerevan. They just spoke to friends of a friend." He shook his head, "I didn't ask them to travel there. I could try."

"No," I said, my smile growing, "I'm going there one way or the other. This, at least, gives me a place to start."

"I only know the building," Ruben qualified, "It's a long trip if it isn't her."

"Then I'm knocking on doors," I said proudly, "If it takes years, well...then it takes years. I'm not losing her again."

"Armenian women have a certain strength to them," Ruben warned, "are you sure? You chase her that far, and she'll know she owns you."

"She already knows," I said and smiled, "We own each other."

The very next day, I went shopping. It wasn't the most expensive ring in the world, but that wasn't me, or Tamara. It was a pretty thing, platinum band with a solitaire setting. I wasn't sure it was a wise thing to do, but if she was still single, I meant to rectify it. I closed the black ring box and put it in my pocket. If she wasn't single, I could always carve my eyes out with the diamond and try out another cliff.

Doug tried hard to talk me out of traveling to Armenia. He was adamant that I would find her with another man or worse, uninterested. He spent a lot of time trying to talk me into going to South America. There was a strong interest in handmade Peruvian pottery and thought my time would be better spent acquiring a supplier. We had angry words on the subject. He seemed to think he could change my mind, not understanding my level of commitment. The only thing that ended the argument was promising to travel to Peru after I found Tamara.

My mother was despondent. Not so much that I was getting back on a plane, but that I was pursuing a woman that didn't quite meet her criteria. My father, on the other hand, organized the trip and bought the plane tickets. He had been feeling guilty about not being more charitable to Tamara when they had met briefly. My parents treated her poorly, trying to undo what they thought was me sowing wild oats. I kissed my mother and, for the first time in a long time, hugged my father.

"Find her," my father whispered in my ear. Soft enough that my mother couldn't hear. I felt he wanted to say more, but he left it at that. His love was stretched between the two of us. He was forever the diplomat.

++++++++++++++++++++++

My three plane hops to Yerevan landed where they were supposed to. I let out the breath I was holding each time the wheels touched down safely on a runway. I grabbed my one bag and walked out of the airport with single-minded desire and note with unverified information.

Tamara Petrosian

Kurkjian building III

Yerevan was not Chicago. No grandiose downtown with glass and steel skyscrapers. Yerevan looked old, a throwback to the 50's with mostly cement buildings rarely more than ten stories high. The city was backed by snow-covered mountains that brought back memories. Part of the same Caucasus chain that Tamara and I survived.

I took a cab to the Marriott located downtown. The area was well cared for and prepared for tourists. Art, green space, and impressive architecture were all around. It was not an unimpressive city. My lessons with Ruben served me well. I had no trouble understanding that I was being overcharged for the ride. The cabby smiled at the dumb American, who paid the fee without question. The conversion math for the Dram was difficult, and I didn't have my head adjusted to the new monetary system. From what I could quickly figure, his overpayment was a hell of a lot less than a Chicago cabbies underpayment.

I spent some time, after checking in, with the concierge. It took a few minutes for him to locate the Kurkjian buildings, a twenty-minute trip away. He marked a map for me and also pointed out some choice eateries. I wasn't hungry for food. He called me another cab and the doorman instructed the cabbie where to go and what to charge. I laid out tips that I hoped weren't too small or large. The large smiles told me they were still on the large side.

The people we passed along the way could have been from any western city in the world. No distinctive clothing like you might find in the mid-east. Jeans, khakis, and a suit here and there. Women wore pants as well as dresses. It was the normal structures that were different. They were boring. Every now and again we would pass something unique, but all in all, the city had a lot of drab architecture.

Green spaces were the exception. The people seemed to treasure the parks and the grasses between their boring buildings. That's where they put most of their effort, and it was wonderful. I always loved the Chicago parks, but they were far apart compared to the integrated system they had in Yerevan.

We arrived at, what the driver indicated, was the Kurkjian buildings. A set of four zig-zagged five-story buildings that reminded me of an accordion. The cabby pointed to the one in front of where he pulled over and said something too quickly. When he repeated it slowly to my confused face, I understood that it was building three. I thanked him and paid him the agreed upon fare plus a much smaller tip than I gave the concierge. I received a polite thank you, but no smile. The proper tip was somewhere between the two.

I stepped out of the cab and realized I had just walked out into a huge risk. I turned to ask the cabbie to wait, but he was already driving off. I shrugged to myself; it couldn't be as bad as falling off a cliff. I moved toward what looked like the main entrance. The building was a cinderblock structure, gray with little in the way of adornments. Definitely a boring Soviet-era structure.

The people I passed were not friendly, or unfriendly. They seemed to ignore my presence as I ambled, obviously new, toward the entrance. I was kind of hoping someone would ask me if I needed help so they would be committed to trying to understand my poor Armenian. Sadly, I made it to the doors unaccosted.

Though the buildings housed a lot of people, there was no formal information desk. A wall of flushed mailboxes were along the entrance wall, most without names, just numbers. The hall ahead was lined with doors leading to the individual apartments. I should have hired an interrupter. I had some glorious dream of Tamara seeing me from afar and avoiding language altogether. Now that I was there, the dream faded and reality set in. I waited by the mailboxes, thinking someone would be along. It was better than knocking on random doors.

A young girl with bushy black hair walked toward me. I was terrible with ages, but I guessed ten. She moved deftly to the other side of the hall to avoid me with the most distance she could put between us. Of course, I was a stranger. She opened a mailbox using a key and retrieved a few letters.

"Hello," I asked in my piss poor Armenian, "I am looking for someone." I tried to remember all my lessons, but the look on her face said something other than I intended came out. She hurried past me. "Please," I added. She ran faster. I shrugged my shoulders and waited for an adult.

It was only a moment later when a rather burly man came down the hall from where the girl had disappeared. He had a few days growth on his face and was wearing sweats and t-shirt. "Hello," I started.

"American?" the man spat in a deep accent. I nodded as he slowed. A series of words left his mouth at a speed I couldn't understand. I assumed his one word of English was 'American.' By his tone, I don't think he liked Americans.

"Please, slowly," I sputtered. I understood something about children and scaring or frightening. He then asked if I liked children. I nodded. Humorously, Ruben had taught me a few swear words. This man wasn't laughing when he screamed some I understood and others I didn't. I was missing something. I raised my hands, fingers wide, trying desperately to remember the words for 'I don't understand.' Another door opened, and a man emerged, obviously known to the first. They had a brief conversation where the word 'American' was used in less than favorable terms.

"I am looking for a person," I said, happy I could assemble the words. I should never have trusted my language skills. The new man looked at me.

"Tamara Petrosian," I added.

"You look for Petrosian?" the man asked in broken English. I nodded. He smiled, "he think you after...daughter," he added, pointing at the burly father.

"No," I said, looking at the first man. I vehemently shook my head to emphasize the point as the new man translated. The first man grunted and dismissed me with a wave of his hand. He was rambling about Americans as he went back down the hall. I sighed. Nuances were everything.

"Petrosian... floor three," the man said and pointed way down the hall, "three-nine-eight." I smiled and held out my hand in a way of thanks. He ignored it and went back his apartment. Americans weren't popular in this building. I walked down the hall until I saw stairs going up.

I took a deep breath and knocked on 398. I heard movement behind the door and waited for a moment before the door open. An old woman, heavy set with her black hair loose and wavy, answered without a smile.