It Was Not Simple, Then

She was not a puzzle, but she often took the long way to learn about herself.  Perhaps it was her riddled face; or her soft voice even when in pleasure.  Or just when out of it.

… The Michigan River ran through town.  In the early morning I followed the inviting aroma of drip-coffee and deep-fried donuts which wrapped around the bend of the river without rush or anticipation.  In winter times, the cold of the snow added a touch of added familiarity – even if sleep walking, I knew I was in Chicago.

Bare legs show character and comfort.  It always surprised me that she liked herself in bare legs, while questioning all decisions she made about her reaction to daily happenings.  There is something charming about bare legs and wool-lined high boots, in Chicago, winter time.  Something of an anticipation.  Being half-way compliant; being a bit of a rebel.

There was an Armenian restaurant on North Michigan Ave.  A hole in the wall place, named after a historic troubadour Sayat-Nova.  The carpets on the walls were Persian; the anis-distilled drinks from parts of Asia Minor; and the food eclectic at best.  Yet, she had learned to eat with her fingers, from an Armenian boyfriend.  A man who worked at the Chicago Times, and who liked to solve her puzzles. 

So, I ordered lamb kebabs.  Fried eggplant, rice with cardamom and clove. Half a bottle of Lebanese Arak, pickled cauliflower and olives.  They also had ground lamb stuffed grape leaves, but I thought it would be too stereotypical to have these at the same table as the rice.  I was dining alone, not only at my table but at the restaurant that night.  Sayat-Nova was not doing very well and I felt like the last customer to eat the lamb and pickles.  I felt like the last man to have told her that there is something charming about bare legs and boots in winter, in Chicago.

… That was in 1983, and the winters have changed in Chicago.  Global warming perhaps.  Or because now one cannot smoke in restaurants.  The river is still running in an unassuming way, and the donuts are deep-fried but free of trans-fatty acids.  The Chicago Times now can be read on a phone’s tiny screen, and the Armenian man is probably retired.  North Michigan Ave is always busy, but Sayat-Nova may be long closed.  After all, the carpets on the walls were Iranian, and the stuffed grape leaves came out of a jar. 

As I followed the smell of Starbucks coffee around the river bend, I wondered if she still ate with her fingers.  If she can wear boots in winter time, and if she ever remembered how pretty was downtown Chicago under the gently falling snow, long past midnight.  When she asked me if she was my puzzle, and I said no.

June 9, 2010

©Vahé Kazandjian, 2013