The Armenian

I went into the hut and waited for the Armenian

I began to realise that I didn’t know what to expect. I hadn’t really thought about it. I’d been operating on autopilot, and some kind, thoughtful part of my brain had protected me from thinking, REALLY thinking about what might happen next.

The hut wasn’t what I’d expected either, but as I wasn’t sure what to expect, I’m not even certain how I knew that. When you have no expectations, either everything is a surprise, or nothing is. There’s no cognitive dissonance. Everything is just the way that it is.

This realisation did give me some comfort, and I decided to just roll with it. The hut had been nestled at the end of the long garden, with trees behind and a small porch protected by an awning. There were several pots of herbs placed deliberately on the wooden porch, and a watering can hung empty above them, as if being poured by an absent-minded ghost.

In the hut there was a table with a wooden chair either side, a sofa and an armchair. The sofa and armchair seemed almost embarrassed to be in the room, as if they had accidentally wandered into a strange religious ceremony but leaving would now draw too much attention. They sat in the corner, trying to simultaneously fit in and disappear.

The walls of the hut were adorned with various photographs on two themes; the first were pictures of a large, imposing man, standing with other men, holding fish. The fish were varied in size and shape, and the backgrounds vistas for each photograph were also different.

Curiously, all the men captured in each photograph were smiling bar one, and it was a different man each time. Closer inspection revealed to me that this rule was universal and unbroken. I moved slowly around the room examining each fishing photograph in detail, expecting an “aha!” and “there you see!” as I found the one photo that either showed two unsmiling men, or the one that showed smiles upon them all.

Discovering this strange rule took my mind briefly away from the second thoughts I’d been having about meeting with The Armenian.

The other theme was historical in nature. There were twenty or thirty photographs of people in elaborate costume. The photos ranged in age, but most seemed to be from before people truly understood photography. They were mostly portraits of people in military uniform and national costume, although it took a few seconds for me to make the link between the costume and who I was about to meet.

I wasn’t sure if they were relatives, or just a case of national pride, but it made me uncomfortable to think I was being watched by so many of his fellow countrymen. I took a step back into the centre of the room, as though this was somehow more respectful. I looked out of a small window by the door, and wondered where my host was.

I hadn’t even notice him come into the room.

One minute the chair in front of the table was empty; the next, The Armenian was standing in-front of it with his hand extended.

I shook his hand firmly, and warmly, taking his hand in both of mine. His hand was warm and strong. The thick covering of hair was unexpectedly soft. I didn’t want to let go. However, when his arm failed move, I realised that he was simply gesturing for me to take a seat. I released his hand slowly, making a slight bow to give the outward appearance that my actions had been entirely deliberate. I retreated, shuffling back in the direction of the sofa, before my shins bumped against it, and I could shuffle no more. I sank down meekly.

The Armenian sat upon one of the small wooden chairs. This was an awkward distance from the sofa: too far to speak softly, but too near to shout. It felt like the perfect distance to sit from someone else who was already in a dentist’s waiting room.

“You know who I am?” he asked.

“I... er, you're the Armenian.” I said, edging forward on the sofa with some difficulty. I was aware that this motion now looked like I was satisfying an itch precisely between my buttocks, so I stopped. Then realised that I was still in the no-mans-land of sofa comfort, so I nudged forward again, and again stopped too soon. This forward-stop-forward action now removed any doubt in anyone’s mind that I was wiping my arse on the sofa.

The Armenian didn’t seem to notice; or maybe he didn’t care. It wasn’t as if it was a particularly nice sofa, and given how out of place it seemed, I wondered if this wasn’t even the worst the sofa had experienced.

“You know what I do?” he asked, more deliberately. I leant forward intently, and cleared my throat.

“I do.”

The Armenian relaxed back into the wooden chair in a way that seemed impossible. The straining creak of the chair was a protest that would go unanswered, and the chair settled into a resigned silence.

“What can I do for you, then?” he intoned. This didn’t seem like a question, rather a declaration that whatever I asked, so long as I had the means to pay for it, would be done as certainly as the sun rises.I’d practiced this in front of the mirror many times. Each time I went further with the request. I ran through the rehearsals in my mind one last time: “I want... I want you... I want you to kill...”

I looked out of the open door to the house beyond. I thought I could make out the owner standing in the window of the orangery, and wondered how many times he’d sent people down to the Armenian’s hut. I wondered about their relationship. I wondered how many people had been here, lost on the sofa, about to ask something terrible.

“I want you to kill me.”