Zohrab

[arabaliozian]

Krikor Zohrab's DELIVERANCE,

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Introduced by Stephan Zeytountsian

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Krikor Zohrab wrote "Deliverance" (original title "Jidin Bardkeh") in 1892. Ara Baliozian, modern day Armenian writer, translator and critic describes Zohrab as a unique figure in modern Armenian literature; a master of the short story, an influential journalist, editor, educator, an internationally respected jurist and charismatic leader.

Zohrab’s Deliverence can be compared with Arthur Millers’s “Death of a Salesman”, which was written half a century later in1949. However, unlike Miller’s story, which is based on the great Depression that also spelled financial ruin for his father, a small time manufacturer, Zohrab’s story depicts the story of an Armenian merchant in Constantinople during the final years of the Ottoman Empire, where as well as the economic recession, Armenians faced systematic discrimination.

Sadly, Krikor Zohrab's name remains totally unknown outside Armenian circles.

Please read on. You will be impressed by Ara Baliozian's translation:

Krikor Zohrab's DELIVERANCE

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Translated by Ara Baliozian, e-mail: [email protected]

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It was a large, black leather bag and he carried it with him wherever he

went. Like two constant companions, they were in separable. It was with

that bag that he brought home the bread, fruit, meat, and all the other

necessities of life. Many years of sweat and toil had gone into that bag.

The daily difficulties and problems that one encounters while engaged in

the struggle for existence, also the joys, sorrows, memories and above

all, the anxiety of no longer being able to provide for his family they

were all there in that bag. It was not so much a bag as a bottomless

vessel that like a condemned soul in Hades he tried to fill but was

destined never to succeed. Like the man, the bag had its good and bad

days; nay, it seemed to have a soul and a destiny of its own. And it was

that very destiny that the man served. Thirty years later, when

misfortune with its steel talons, gripped and bound him in chains, the

man realized at last that the bag had been his master and himself its

slave. Housep agha was a corpulent middle aged man with a graying

beard. A former prosperous merchant, then a modest shopkeeper, he was now

a poor middleman, a peddler who for a small commission went from door to

door and from store to store, carrying samples of linen and other low

quality fabrics, receiving orders, and delivering merchandise.

Others may speak of the law of demand and supply, but Housep agha knew

that as far as he was concerned that was no law but just another device

fate had contrived in order to frustrate his efforts to earn a living.

Ah! if only he were alone, with no one to look after but himself. He had

two daughters however, young girls both in their early adolescence, with

all the sweet dreams and expectations of youth. He loved them with all

his heart, and they were his only source of happiness. And yet, in their

presence, he felt oppressed because beneath their wistful, innocent

smiles he perceived an unspoken reproach. Like a man guilty of an

unpardonable crime, he would come home with his head bent low, always

trying very hard to conceal his despair with a smile.

They lived, all three of them the two girls and their father (the mother

having died many years ago of consumption) on the heights of Scutari,

in a small house which they rented for 200 piasters a month. The late

lamented mother's picture a youthful, emaciated woman now hung on the

wall of the tiny room facing the street. Many years had gone by since her

death but her memory continued to live and they spoke of her every day.

At night, after his daughters retired, the poor peddler would linger

before her image in its gilded frame and implore for a little help

from the other side of the grave. His strength, like his wealth, had now

dwindled almost to the vanishing point. Every morning he ventured forth

holding his bag with weak, quivering hands, and when, in the evening, he

returned home, the bag would be, more often than not, only half full.

At dawn, as he waited on the dock for the ferryboat, he was sometimes

given small orders by merchants, out of pity as it were, and he felt like

a beggar accepting charity. On occasion he plucked up enough courage to

join in their conversation and voice his own views, which needless to

add, were always in complete agreement with the speaker of the moment.

And when the time came for them to move, it was Housep agha who would

invariably stand aside respectfully for every one else to pass first.

Whenever any one of the merchants would say something to the effect that

he had been deceived in a recent deal, Housep agha would get angrier than

the man who had actually sustained the financial loss, heaping insults

on the swindler, calling him a thief and a man fit only for the

hangman's noose. Other times when the company was in a more agreeable

frame of mind, he would entertain them with jokes and pleasant little

tales with the expectation of thus receiving a few more order. Everyone

liked this fatherly man because he was never rude like so many others in

his line of work and tended to accept adjustment in the price without

haggling and protesting too much.

Housep agha may have had many problems, but so did the prosperous

merchants, whose early morning conversations revolved more and

more often now around ways and means to minimize costs and increase

profit. The Persian tradetheir main source of profitwas down.

Everyone was getting smart these days. Low quality and defective

merchandiseboth items with large profit marginswere no longer in

demand. What to do? There were some expensesexport duty, for instance,

and salary for the office personnel about which they could do nothing.

But they could lower the middleman's commission, perhaps even

eliminate the middleman altogether. Why the need of a middleman anyway?

Why not order the merchandise directly from the textile plants and sell

it to their clients themselves? There were other compelling reasons to

justify this more efficient method of operation. Not being an authority

on fabrics, a middleman lacked first hand knowledge of the properties,

quality and value of a piece of merchandise. Neither was he in a

position therefore to explain these things to their clients. Hearing

this kind of talk Housep agha would shake like a leaf, and his bag would

shake along with him. Whereupon the merchants would hasten to reassure

him:"Housep agha, you've got nothing to worry about. What we are saying

doesn't apply to you, of course. After all, you are our man . . " The

poor peddler would heave a deep sigh of relief. But his business kept

going down and his debts piling up everywhere all the same. And since he

took good care of his appearance, no one could guess the desperate

situation he was in. The bag had now become a useless appendage, but

Housep agha continued to carry it with him wherever he went. At

home he did his best to appear cheerful.

"How's business these days?" the older daughter would sometimes inquire

"So far so good," he would say with a forced smile. "Things could be

better, of course ..."

"Promise to come home sooner today," the younger one would add, "so that

we can all go out for a walk together." As always, the miserable wretch

promised them whatever they wanted. Poor orphans he thought, spending the

best years of their lives in utter destitution. Imagine a journey whose

best view is a long. dark tunnel with no end in sight.

As always, early that day too, Housep agha left for

Constantinople/Istanbul on the first ferry, carrying with him that black

monster with insatiable appetite that he hadn't been able to satisfy for

thirty years now, holding it in a tight grip as if to suffocate it.

He found no work in Constantinople/Istanbul. He had spent his last coins

on the fare and the time to return home was drawing near with horrible

speed. What am I to do? What am I to do? He kept asking himself. He even

saw that question looming before him in massive letters. He kept on

walking, feeling all the while the emptiness of the bag under his arm.

Then he imagined himself back home with his two daughters beside him. For

an instant he forgot his troubles. He was once more the prosperous

merchant of the old days, and they were about to leave the hut on the

heights of Scutari for a mansion in a wealthy district. At last he would

give them what ever their youthful hearts desired new clothes, new

hats, everything and seeing their joy he was happy once more. Ah

happiness! he thought. How simple it was, and yet, how unattainable!

Then, the weight of the large, empty bag brought him back to his senses.

He decided to try his luck on a few more stores. But is was all in vain.

Wherever he entered, he was invariably met with stony, hostile glances.

He felt intimidated and could not bring himself to tell anyone that he

didn't even have enough money to buy a loaf of bread for his children.

Instead he wandered aimlessly up and down the streets in complete

silence, gazing at store windows, marvelling at their contents,

especially the jewels and little ornaments glittering with all kinds of

precious gems. He thought of his daughters again. He would never be able

to give them any of these things. His daughters! What time was it? It

was getting dark. He broke into a run. He was late. What was he doing

there, loafing idly in the streets anyway? He must do some thing. Ask

someone for help. Yes. He would do just that with the first familiar face he saw.

Where were they? All the people he knew? At last he recognized a face a merchant whom

he had known in the old days, when he was himself a successful

businessman. But ever since he had fallen on hard times, the other had

ignored him completely. and they were no longer on speaking terms. At

this point he saw another familiar face coming towards him. That man owed

him a favor once, recently, when he had been in trouble, Housep agha

had helped him. Yet now, as he hurried past, he pretended he had not seen

Housep agha. And what about that man over there, smiling at him now?

Just a derelict, alas! even more destitute than he.

Housep agha advanced as far as the Galata Bridge, then he stopped. It

occurred to him that since he didn't have the required ten paras, he

couldn't walk across the bridge. At this point he also noted that

something was amiss. What could it be? he wondered. After examining

himself carefully, he realized what it was. His bag. He must have dropped

it somewhere. He retraced his steps, on the trot, confused, flustered,

totally disoriented.

That same night a corpse was seen floating and swaying gently on the

surface of the water. It was the body of a corpulent, middle aged man

stretched out on his back, with wide open eyes fixed on the heavens where

the full moon shone like a huge silver coin. Barely visible below the

surface of the water and drifting along with the body, there was a black

leather bag with its strap coiled tightly around his neck. As inseparable

in death as they had been in life, the bag sometimes pulled the head be

low the surface, but the head surfaced again with a jerk, as if

struggling to free itself from the bag's fatal grip. Later, when the body

was dragged out on the shore, it was discovered that the bag now looking

like a permanently bloated and satiated belly contained nothing but

stones.