The Doves of Ohanavank Read Online Free Page A

about.
    Now I understand the wisdom behind those words. And I believe that it was his ear of the heart that got him killed. Without that ability, he probably would not have been so suspicious and would have let Ayvazian take me the first time he asked. But even after refusing to give me up, without his third ear, he probably would not have accepted Ayvazian’s invitation to visit him for a day in Martashen, which gave Ayvazian the opportunity to take him to Sevajayr and kill him. He saw the danger in going, but he saw a bigger danger to all of us in refusing Ayvazian twice in the same week. Of course no direct threat was made; he heard it with his third ear.
    The only other man I know who can use his third ear is Edik Laurian. Al Barmaka may have the gift, and he did tell me something similar once, but I was not really paying attention at the time. As I think back about specific moments with him, I have to admit that the man demonstrated a rare ability to listen, even to unspoken words. But there were also moments when he was just like any of my other clients—totally third-ear-deaf.
    Edik is different. It seems that he is always listening with all three ears.
Always
. That must be an incredibly exhausting way to live. I am not sure I could handle that, twenty-four hours a day.
    Avo has invited
Khev Gago
and Edik Laurian to my birthday party. This is not a party like the ones they have in the city, but rather a family gathering with friends coming to eat and drink. The only difference from any other day is that there will be more people at the table and better food. There will be nothing to mark it as a birthday, other than possibly a toast or two. The fancy parties with decorations and presents in colorful wrapping paper with bows and ribbons, which have reached certain well-to-do homes in Yerevan, have not reached Saralandj yet, and I am thankful for that.
    It is ten a.m. and I am still in my nightgown, lying on my parents’ bed. The others have been up for hours, but have not come into the room in order not to disturb me, forgoing their morning coffee and breakfast. I have grown to cherish my morning hours alone. I did not know what solitudewas when I was taken from home at sixteen. Not only did eight of us share a cramped bedroom, but we could at anytime barge into our parents’ room for any reason. The concept of privacy simply did not exist, so we never sought it and wouldn’t know how to miss it. But during the months that I spent in my own villa in Al Barmaka’s estate I developed not only a keen sense of privacy, but also an appreciation of solitude. Solitude does to the soul what sleep does to the body—it restores it, mends the wear and tear, pacifies the inner storms, creates a space that is yours.
    This is all the time alone I’m going to get today, until late at night when everyone leaves and I go to bed. My sisters, and maybe even Avo, would want to bathe before the guests arrive, and then they have to start preparing the feast. This room will go through various transformations, as it is set up for its various functions one after the other. At the end, it will look its best as the dining room, cleaned, tidied, and made to accommodate around a dozen people in the space and at a table that can reasonably accommodate no more than four or five diners with any measure of comfort. That will not affect anyone’s joyful mood; here, the more crowded a room at times like this, the more festive the atmosphere. Space is irrelevant. It is all about sharing joy, not space.
    I decide to get out of bed. Although the fire in the stove has been out for a few hours, the lingering embers have kept it and the pot of water over it warm. My rings are on the table, and I debate whether I should wear them both. One is the simple thin band that belonged to Araxi Dadik, my great aunt whose fabled beauty I am supposed to have inherited. She died in Siberia way before I was born. My mother gave me the ring the day I left home. She