“That isn’t what she did,” Gregor said, but he could see it was time to give it up. “Tibor is going to meet us there this morning. He’s got something or the other to do, I don’t remember what. He’s probably on Facebook.”
“I’m on Facebook, Father Tibor is on Facebook, Bennis is on Facebook. You’re not on Facebook, Gregor. You should do something about it. Social networking is a very good thing. At least it keeps you from being bored.”
“I’m too busy trying to launch the space shuttle from my phone,” Gregor said. “Do you want a coat? I know it’s only the beginning of September, but it gets chilly in the mornings sometimes.”
“Stop fussing about me,” old George said. “Everybody fusses about me. It’s Labor Day. It isn’t raining. I’ll be fine. Give me a minute to put this away.”
Gregor gave him a minute. Martin and Angela had bought old George this apartment. They paid for a maid service to come in and clean twice a week. The place was spotless, but it looked oddly blank and impersonal. There was something different.
Old George came out from the back, carrying his wallet.
“I know what it is,” Gregor said. “I know what’s wrong with this room. You moved all the pictures.”
“I didn’t move them, Gregor. I put them away.”
“All your pictures of Maria? And of Stepan before he died? All of them? Why?”
“I gave the pictures of Stepan to Martin,” old George said. “He doesn’t have a lot of pictures of his father. I gave him the old home movie film, too. He’s having it converted to DVDs. Did you know they could do that?”
“Yes,” Gregor said. “Bennis thinks you don’t look well. Is she right? You look fine to me, but if there’s something wrong—”
“There is nothing wrong, Gregor, except that I’m hungry, and at the rate you’re going, we’re never going to get to the Ararat.”
3
Fr. Tibor Kasparian was already at the Ararat when they got there, hunched down on the window booth that was supposed to best resemble the way a restaurant table would be in Yerevan. Gregor doubted this. He didn’t doubt that his Armenian ancestors had eaten in restaurants, and probably in their homes, by sitting nearly on the floor with their legs folded up underneath them. He did doubt that they were still doing it even in 1965, never mind all this time later, when Armenia was free and there was probably a McDonald’s where the old family tavern used to be.
He let old George slide down the low bench first and then slid in after him. Father Tibor had coffee already, and there were places set out for all of them, but none for Bennis. Linda Melajian probably knew before they did who would be sitting at this table every morning.
“Bennis is the one not coming?” Tibor said.
“She’s coming, she’s just meeting Donna,” Gregor said. “Something about the house. I’m learning all kinds of things about houses. Did you know there were over five hundred different varieties of bathroom tile?”
“I knew there were a lot, Krekor, yes,” Father Tibor said. “They rebuilt my apartment, you remember when it was destroyed with the church. They were always coming over asking me what I wanted to have. I never knew what to say. I didn’t care which one I had, as long as it was serviceable.”
“They built bookshelves,” old George said. “I remember that. They wanted you to put all your books on bookshelves.”
“It would take the entire Philadelphia library system,” Gregor said. “I don’t know if you’ve been over there lately. He’s got them stacked to the ceiling in the dining room.”
“And the apartment upstairs is still empty,” Tibor said. “I told them we would never get an assistant. There aren’t enough priests in this country to serve the churches we have, and we can’t always get somebody from Armenia. And it doesn’t always work out.”
“You’re from Armenia,” Gregor pointed out.
“Yes, Krekor, I know. But I wasn’t sitting in Armenia and happy there when they wanted a priest over here. I came over on my own, because I wanted to. I lived in New York for years before I got a church. These men come here, they’re used to there, and all the children now, they’re third and fourth generation. They haven’t got the patience. And I don’t blame them.”
“Father Tibor is standing up for the younger generation again,” old George said.
“Tcha,” Tibor said. “What would you think if you were an eighteen-year-old American girl, and you had some priest with an accent telling you you were going to go to hell because you didn’t let your parents pick your husband? Never mind that the parents aren’t interested in picking the husband. It’s a mess.”