A Pitiable Man
The first time I was introduced to Nshan I could immediately tell that I would dislike him. He was a cowardly sycophant of a man who spoke too much, often with his false teeth missing, and was drunk more. He was also my father's accountant.
After he left that day, my father turned to me and said “That man killed my dog.”
Apparently, in a bid to pocket a small sum of cash, he took the money my father had given him to buy food for the dog and returned with some rotten meat that managed to poison and eventually kill the poor animal.
For a year after, Nshan was not allowed in the house. The year after that, he was allowed in the apartment, but was not invited to sit. When he was once again invited to sit, he managed to show up whenever my father was about to eat, an amazing feat, considering my father had no set time for lunch or dinner.
I once witnessed him eat half a kilogram of cheese in one sitting. The cheese in question was on the expensive side, which I had purchased for myself as it lacked the salt that other similar cheeses were loaded with. Knowing this, Nshan would have cuts of it on his dinner plate, which he ignored, in favor of cutting more pieces off the block, attempting to hide the fact that he was stealing my cheese.
I asked my father why he kept this man around.
“He’s the thief you know,” he responded.
My father pitied him to a degree. He told me about how neither his wife, nor his children had any respect for him. I suspected this was a result of the man having no respect for himself.
Once, he picked me up in a cab to run some errands for my father at city hall. Once we were done, he had me drop him off at the Goom Market, a bazaar for meat and produce. As we arrived he asked if I had a cigarette. I said no. He then proceeded to pull a pack from his pocket and light a slim, before exiting.
When he was gone, I pulled my own pack out and lit one for myself. The driver, unsurprised, said “So you did have cigarettes. It’s good you didn’t give it to him.”
I asked why.
“Because that man is a piece of shit,” he responded “I was driving him around for two hours before we picked you up, and he didn’t pay me.”
This was neither the first, nor last time Nshan would stick me with the bill, and dealing with him made me feel used and dirty.
There was one occasion that stood out more than others. My father, his friend Hambardzum and Nshan were seated at our dining table drinking homemade mulberry vodka. I was downstairs, but I could hear them laughing loudly, many of the jokes coming at Nshan’s expense, as this was one of my father’s pastimes.
Nshan began telling a story about the end of communism in Armenia. How he had entered a chocolate shop during the turmoil and took advantage of the shopkeeper’s confusion to fill his pockets with stolen chocolates, claiming he had taken so many that the small confections were bursting from his suit as he walked.
Hambardzum, a Joseph Stalinesque figure and veteran of the first war with Azerbaijan, lifted his right hand and pointed his index finger, half of which was missing due to a grenade, at Nshan and with all seriousness said “When Levon became president he should have rounded you, and all the thieves like you, up and had you shot.”
“You’re right Hambardzum jan, you’re right,” Nshan agreed, “He should have, but he didn’t.”
And they all began to laugh.
After he left that day, my father turned to me and said “That man killed my dog.”
Apparently, in a bid to pocket a small sum of cash, he took the money my father had given him to buy food for the dog and returned with some rotten meat that managed to poison and eventually kill the poor animal.
For a year after, Nshan was not allowed in the house. The year after that, he was allowed in the apartment, but was not invited to sit. When he was once again invited to sit, he managed to show up whenever my father was about to eat, an amazing feat, considering my father had no set time for lunch or dinner.
I asked my father why he kept this man around.
“He’s the thief you know,” he responded.
My father pitied him to a degree. He told me about how neither his wife, nor his children had any respect for him. I suspected this was a result of the man having no respect for himself.
Once, he picked me up in a cab to run some errands for my father at city hall. Once we were done, he had me drop him off at the Goom Market, a bazaar for meat and produce. As we arrived he asked if I had a cigarette. I said no. He then proceeded to pull a pack from his pocket and light a slim, before exiting.
When he was gone, I pulled my own pack out and lit one for myself. The driver, unsurprised, said “So you did have cigarettes. It’s good you didn’t give it to him.”
I asked why.
“Because that man is a piece of shit,” he responded “I was driving him around for two hours before we picked you up, and he didn’t pay me.”
This was neither the first, nor last time Nshan would stick me with the bill, and dealing with him made me feel used and dirty.
There was one occasion that stood out more than others. My father, his friend Hambardzum and Nshan were seated at our dining table drinking homemade mulberry vodka. I was downstairs, but I could hear them laughing loudly, many of the jokes coming at Nshan’s expense, as this was one of my father’s pastimes.
Nshan began telling a story about the end of communism in Armenia. How he had entered a chocolate shop during the turmoil and took advantage of the shopkeeper’s confusion to fill his pockets with stolen chocolates, claiming he had taken so many that the small confections were bursting from his suit as he walked.
Hambardzum, a Joseph Stalinesque figure and veteran of the first war with Azerbaijan, lifted his right hand and pointed his index finger, half of which was missing due to a grenade, at Nshan and with all seriousness said “When Levon became president he should have rounded you, and all the thieves like you, up and had you shot.”
“You’re right Hambardzum jan, you’re right,” Nshan agreed, “He should have, but he didn’t.”
And they all began to laugh.
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