There was a long, sweaty wait on the tarmac at Amsterdam and it was dark by the time the Tupolev touched ground in Armenia. In Findhorn's highly strung state, it seemed to come in at a hell of a speed. Yerevan Airport was a massive, concrete, solid structure, unadorned with the shops and restaurants of Western airports. Findhorn and Romella joined the queue trickling one at a time through a short passageway. An overhead mirror gave the uniformed girl a view of the passageway as she flicked through his visa and forged passport. She fixed a puzzled stare on him, and went through the documents again, slowly. He tried to look casual while his insides turned to jelly. Then she had stamped his passport and he was through and wondering why, if Armenia was an independent country, the immigration officials were Russian.
A bus with a cracked windscreen took a handful of passengers into Yerevan, along pitch-black streets lined with brightly lit market stalls. Beds were made up at the side of the stalls: it seemed that the owners slept al fresco beside their merchandise.
The Hotel Dvin was another massive tribute to the Soviet concrete industry, and there was another queue as names were checked at the reception desk and passports were taken. The noisy American was making a big thing of being a regular visitor, calling everyone by their first names in a deep, loud bass. Findhorn tried to get away at the elevator, but the man caught the door as it was closing. A woman at a desk seven flights up gave each of them a key. Romella had the room opposite; at least the American was further down the corridor. Findhorn tossed briefcase and holdall onto the bed and opened the balcony doors. He looked out over a dark city, letting the delicious, cool wind blow over him for five minutes. Then he slipped quietly out of his room. He returned two hours later, rattled and frustrated, had a quick shower and flopped into bed. He slept badly.
In the early morning Findhorn found himself looking out over the same scene he had seen in former Soviet bloc countries from Poland to Slovakia. A jumble of shacks, corrugated iron roofs, piles of rubble. A couple of mangy dogs prowled around, and a cock was crowing from somewhere inside a tree-packed garden. To his right the snowy peak of Mount Ararat, seventeen thousand feet high, floated in the sky, its base hidden in a blue haze. Around half past seven women with plastic bags began to emerge along unpaved tracks, and a few identikit cars trailed exhaust smoke along the potholed road.
Findhorn had a breakfast of grated beetroot, hard-boiled eggs, carrots and coffee. There was no sign of either Romella or the American. The girl at the reception spoke good English. She was courteous, had plenty of class and no need of deodorant. 'I'd like to hire a car, please,' said Findhorn.
'I've fixed it.' Findhorn turned. Romella, breathing heavily, as if she had been running.
'How are we for time?'
'Assume we're out of it.'
'I don't trust that American.'
They waited without conversation in the big, drab foyer. The American appeared, still in green jacket and trousers, with a small black bag over a shoulder. 'Hey ho!' he waved in passing. 'What did I tell you about the women?'
After ten minutes a small man with Turkish features and a Clark Gable moustache appeared. Romella gave her instructions with the help of a hand-drawn map. Then Findhorn and Romella were ushered into the back of a black Mercedes.
'I thought we'd start at the Geghard Monastery.'
'That letter from Anastas?'
'Yes, transcribed by some priest. The Petrosian family must have been known to people there.'
'Except that the priests are almost certainly long gone, along with Anastas.'
The driver was fiddling with the ignition. The engine coughed into life. He paused to light up a Turkish cigarette, and then took off without bothering about such refinements as rear mirrors, signals, or looking over his shoulder. He took them through earthquake-ravaged streets and past drab high-rise slums bedecked with washing. Twelve flights up, someone had knocked a hole in the side of the building, presumably to get fresh air into his flat. Children and dogs played in the dust. The sun was up and the air was getting warm.
Then they had cleared the city and were onto a steeply climbing road, with a good surface, and the traffic was light. Soon they were passing through mountainous country with high open vistas and steep gorges lined with fluted basalt. To Findhorn, the country had a vaguely biblical look about it. Away from the pollution below, he noted that Mount Ararat was in fact connected to the ground rather than floating in the sky. The road was deserted. After an hour of driving, Romella checking landmarks against the map, they passed a couple of girls carrying water in big Coke bottles, pushing a donkey ahead of them. Then there were calves at the roadside, drinking at a pipe flooding the road with water.
Mountains rose steeply on either side of them and the road became winding. Romella said, 'We should be there soon,' and in another fifteen minutes the road ended at a dusty little square with a couple of coaches and half a dozen parked cars. A trio of men in traditional dress welcomed them with a short, frenetic number played on drum, bagpipes and flute, and they walked up a steep, cobbled path past a handful of women selling sticky sweets and little brochures. The monastery was partly built into striated, precipitous mountainside.
At the arched entrance, Romella said, 'This may call for some delicate treatment. Remember Armenia was communist not so long ago and people don't necessarily open up.'
'I can take a hint.' He left Romella to disappear along a cloister, and strolled around the sparse, earthquake-cracked structure for about twenty minutes before taking a side door in a wall, and climbing a narrow track which wound steeply upwards. He sat on a rock and looked down on the monastery. Their driver was leaning against the side of his car, chain-smoking. A handful of tourists were wandering around the courtyard. The women with the sweets just sat. Presently Romella emerged, looking around her, and Findhorn climbed smartly back down the hill.
In the car, Romella said, 'Gna aya chanaparhov tas kilometr u tegvi depi zakh.' It was the first time Findhorn had heard her speak Armenian.
She sat back in the car and said, 'It's our lucky day. Lev's brother is not only alive, he hasn't moved house in his entire life. Lev and Anastas were brought up in a shepherd's cottage not far from here.'
They drove back about ten kilometres before Romella tapped Clark Gable on the shoulder and issued another volley of instructions. The man grunted. In another kilometre, around a corner, was a track leading to what looked like a shepherd's cottage. They turned along it, bumping over rough ground, past a tethered goat, and drew to a halt beside a dirty grey Skoda.
Out of the car, they stretched their legs. Flies were everywhere.
The man who opened the door was over eighty. He was white-haired and stooped, with a white moustache and deeply wrinkled skin. But his dark eyes were alert, and full of curiosity. Findhorn spoke in English, Romella translated into Armenian. They first established that the old man was in fact Anastas Petrosian, and they had hardly started when the shepherd waved them in. Inexplicably, Clark Gable seemed to think the invitation extended to him. He wandered into the room, his eyes taking in everything.
They sat in a small, cluttered room around a rough-hewn table. The room smelled of pipe tobacco. A small, ancient bureau was covered with photographs: a young woman and children, separately and together, a young man, a near-Victorian photograph of an elderly couple. The shepherd disappeared into a kitchen and reappeared with bread, cheese, four tumblers and a bottle containing some golden liquid.
'First,' said Findhorn, 'forgive me, but I don't speak Armenian.' There was an exchange between Romella and the old man. The shepherd smiled, as if the idea of a foreigner speaking Armenian was crazy. 'I'm a historian,' Findhorn lied. 'I'm interested in the life and works of your brother, Lev Petrosian.'