Messiah is late. L. Khachatrian

We all know that because of that ancient inhuman religions millions of people have been killed. And this would continue till today if there was no true prophecy.”

      “And the government,” winked Andok.

      “Glory to One God,” agreed Khoren.

      Yeghishe emptied another glass of beer.

      “Guys, we have got off the subject. Let’s discuss grandparents’ faith later. We have another problem; Gichunts depraves national and social values with his texts…”

      “Which you have definitely read from the beginning to the end,” with indifferent gesture Yeghishe ordered another glass of beer. Andok and Khoren looked at each other.

      “I have lightly looked through it,” stammered Andok. “Nonsense.”

      “The cover of the book is enough for you to understand that it is not worth reading,” continued Khoren.

      “Narek has read it,” suddenly remembered Andok.

      “Right,” rejoiced his friend.

      “I know,” Khoren admitted grimly.

      He really did know and understood far more than those two scatterbrained. Narek was the one to start the youth party movement against Abel Gichunts. He was the one that did not like the ideas of the town’s famous ostentatious writer. In fact, Yeghishe thought, that though there was nothing to like in his texts, only stupidity of the literature would not force Narek to shake off the city. He had other far-reaching objectives. Gichunts was scandalous and famous writer. The protest movement started against him would keep the lost town’s youth wing of the National Party, especially Narek, in the center of attention of press. He would declare that he was fighting against scabrous people like Gichunts, but in fact he would be in the center of media. Everyone would get to recognize him. Then, he would be noticed by the head office of the National Party, especially by the party leaders, who were also members of the big Parliament.

      “They have mentioned several times that they want to renew the party, give it a new breath.” Narek had told Yeghishe a few days before. “They are looking for new faces, new names. If they notice us, they will definitely ask us to go to the capital; me, with my small team, where you also will certainly be included, brother.”

      “I don’t think that the noise raised against a writer will be enough for it,” Yeghishe had objected.

      “Those are details. Do you remember one of the leaders of the party, Mr Isaiah, who visited our town last summer?”

      “The one that promised to rebuilt the Christian church?”

      “Yes.”

      “And he didn’t…”

      “Not Yet. He will definitely. He liked me very much. He said, that the Big Parliament needed true patriots like us. Isaiah is considered to be the second person in the party. He promised when the time comes he himself will introduce our names to the leader. We just need to make some ‘noise’ here. You know, he needs a reason to talk about us…”

      Yeghishe did not say anything that day. He was silent this evening as well.

      While half-drunk Andok and Khoren were disputing about who would be the first to break Abel Gichunts’s fingers, Yeghishe emptied another glass of beer. The broad-shouldered, big-eyed boy with a heavy sight did not look his age, but older. Feeling light dizziness, he stood up, without looking the check he threw money on the table and went out of the pub.

      In the evening the town air had become sort of sweet. The light wind brought pieces of an old liberal song sung by a beggar in the far. The inflections of his odd voice were increasing Yeghishe’s dizziness.

      “Damn,” he muttered. “The beer was disgusting.”

      Yeghishe staggered home. The beggar’s voice was slowly receding; from the veer of the wind the voice was abrading, becoming subtle and turning into a soft voice coming from the lattice of cradle. In his head, Yeghishe could hear his grandmother’s sole song sung in an early sunny day.

      …God with us, revealed in us,

      And heard was the sound of peace,

      And gave command of holy greet…

      Collision

      In the morning, after looking for five minutes at the breakfast, Arshak, with an empty stomach, with the newspaper page titled “job vacancies’ folded in his hand ran out to the street. He took a deep breath; it seemed to him if he stayed at home for a few more seconds he would suffocate. His lungs swelled up from the smell of the ancient town. With his head looking down he went up the narrow street of the Christian district. His eyes followed the straight steps of his feet. He did not raise his head up; he wanted to see nothing in between the craggy houses. If he was lucky he would not see anyone who would stop him and start asking about university life for hours.

      But suddenly he stopped. He heard the bells of the sole dilapidated church of the town. He raised up his head, smiled. This trick would work even millennia later. The bells call for the men; does not matter when and whom. Arshak entered the church. He felt the smell of the incense. He approached the grimed saint image that had almost merged with the wall. He took his folded notebook and the pencil that was smaller than his little finger from his coat pocket and started to draw. The boy was thinking that the image would soon disappear, at least the copy would be kept, for only a few dozen saint images were left in the world, while there was a time….

      “Hello, Arshak.”

      The boy was caught off balance. It was as though the priest appeared from nowhere. It was the same thin man whom Arshak had driven out of the house a few days ago. Arshak noticed that the priest looked as exhausted as his church. He too will soon disappear.

      “Good afternoon,” uttered Arshak indifferently. He continued drawing.

      “Son,” the priest addressed to him.

      “I am not your son,” answered Arshak without taking his eyes away from the paper.