{"id":1288,"date":"2023-07-29T12:27:16","date_gmt":"2023-07-29T08:27:16","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/susannaharutyunyan.am\/?p=1288"},"modified":"2023-07-29T12:27:17","modified_gmt":"2023-07-29T08:27:17","slug":"grandfathers-death-in-my-act","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/susannaharutyunyan.am\/en\/grandfathers-death-in-my-act\/","title":{"rendered":"Grandfather\u2019s Death in My Act"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The clock in the hall showed 10:45. This sunflower-sized Iranian clock was worth a dollar in the market. My aunt had gotten it for free on her way to our house as she was buying coffee\u2014a worthless gift that she didn\u2019t want to take home. I was staring at the plastic disk and the numbers, as big as lies, where the hands had stopped, thinking how much it would cost without the import expenses and taxes. They must have been lying around like trash on the streets of Tehran. But that cheap Iranian clock had marked a cruel transition in a man\u2019s life\u2014it had stopped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt doesn\u2019t work. I stopped it,\u201d my uncle\u2019s wife said with a plaintive tremor. \u201cIt\u2019s a rule\u2014when a man dies, the clocks in the house must be stopped until forty days have passed.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was 11:00 on the clock in my aunt\u2019s room. This one was a Soviet-made clock. My aunt had received it as a prize during her school years for winning third place in a chemistry contest, and she kept stressing that she had earned it and would take it with her as part of her dowry when married. But we weren\u2019t afraid of losing it because it was unlikely that anyone would marry a woman past fifty just for a mechanical clock. Although it really was a good clock\u2014it had announced all of the great Soviet holidays up to the independence rallies in 1988. It had earned its keep by announcing life\u2019s events and had the right to rest, even if it was due to a death.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s a rule,\u201d my aunt said. \u201cI stopped it as soon as I learned about it.\u201d
In my uncle\u2019s room, the clock hands were stopped at 10:07. This one was a handmade clock with an obsidian frame, the black shiny surface of which reflected the objects in our house since 1970. My grandfather had purchased it from the Yerevan vernissage<\/em> when returning from the kolkhoz market where he had sold two tons of pears and his pockets were bursting with money. He had taken pity on the craftsman who had not sold anything that day. And the clock was silent with an underscored gratitude and deference.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI . . .\u201d stammered my grandmother\u2019s sister. \u201cEveryone had lost their heads. I was the first to run to the clock and stop the hands.\u201d
The clock in my grandfather\u2019s room was a pre-Soviet cuckoo clock left by the previous owners of the house. My grandfather used to oil the cuckoo pipes, the silver pendulum hanging from a leather strap, and other metal parts that were in the clock\u2019s belly. Here, someone had caught the cuckoo at exactly 10:00 and stifled its call by tying a lace handkerchief around its beak. The tiny window was torn open and the cuckoo was hanging from a spring, blocking some of the numbers on the dial, while the silver pendulum was innocently still.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe clocks are stopped at different times in each room,\u201d I said surprised. \u201cHow many times did the man die? Perhaps he didn\u2019t die?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo,\u201d my grandmother\u2019s sister insisted, \u201che did. It\u2019s just that everyone found out about it at different times. But, of course, if you don\u2019t know about his death yet, he\u2019s alive for you.\u201d
My grandfather had three surgeries in the winter months. We thought that he might not make it to the spring. But my grandmother refused to become a widow and got ahead of him. She was determined\u2014she had a fever one night and died the next morning.
The relatives and neighbors sitting around the coffin on the day of the funeral wept and envied her that she lived and died without suffering. They brought in my grandfather when the priest was saying a prayer. My grandfather was an old and proud man. He walked slowly and heavily like a bear, making the floorboards squeak under his weight, clutching his walking stick in his hand. He was going to give her his final farewell, without a single teardrop, almost expressionless. Leaning over his walking stick, he walked with a composed, calm, and slow gait. Step, step, step . . . . He was moving his body like a snail, pushing the walking stick against the ground, stopping after every other step, taking a breath, then tearing the stick off the ground with a trembling hand and placing it a bit further, his hand trembling on the walking stick while the stick trembled sympathetically. The priest was swinging the censer back and forth, giving us all a headache from the pungent smell of incense.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhen a woman survives her husband, she isn\u2019t as wretched,\u201d our neighbor said, looking at my grandfather\u2019s slumped shoulders. \u201cLook at him–he has turned completely into a motherless child. Lucky is the man who goes before his wife.\u201d
\u201cMy brother has no one now,\u201d grandfather\u2019s sister intoned between sobs. The duduk player gathered air in his cheeks and slowly blew into the hollowed-out apricot branch with finger holes. The air between the mouth and the tip of the instrument matured from grief, turned into melody, and wept bitterly, reminding everyone of the irrevocable loss. The women howled in collective lament, not for my grandmother but for my grandfather and his state of misery.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCalm down!\u201d the priest ordered. \u201cListen to God\u2019s word,\u201d and he started to pray with all his might and proceeded with the ceremony. My grandfather was unable to stand like that for very long. He slowly sat down on the chair in the back, and the priest made an approving sign with his head.
\u201cLook at him,\u201d grandmother\u2019s sister whispered in my ear with resentment. \u201cHe won\u2019t even spare a single tear. And for such a woman like my sister!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe\u2019s a strong man, what do you want?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat does strength have to do with it? A good partner is as dear as a mother. Is teardrop too much? She had endured her dragon sisters-in-law, her monster mother-in-law, and for fifteen years had taken care of her terminally ill father-in-law. If nothing else, she gave birth to six children . . . . But look at him!\u201d she threw an angry look at my grandfather. \u201cI\u2019ll be glad when you\u2019re dead, you rascal!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cStop talking, the priest is looking at us!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo, but just look at your grandfather\u2019s face! No pain, no sadness. See how calm he is? He must have something on his mind. He won\u2019t stay alone for too long. He\u2019ll marry!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My room had been locked that day. I had some love letters and money hidden in the room, so I had locked it and had taken the key with me, and so the clock had been ticking away, unaware of what had happened. My grandfather was alive in my tiny fourteen square meter room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHurry!\u201d grandmother\u2019s sister ordered. \u201cStop it before anyone has seen it–otherwise they\u2019ll harass you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I had devised my own clock. I had seen how they do it on the television show, Skilled Hands<\/em>, downloaded the animal signs from the internet, glued them on the board, then painted the board green, peeled off the animal signs, producing stencil images, and affixed the hands . . . Capricorn was on the twelve o\u2019clock line and Cancer was on the six o\u2019clock line.
I took the chair, put it under the clock, got on it, stretched, and pressed my palm against its cold metal hands. It made its last tick under my palm. That\u2019s it, my grandfather is no longer alive.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAfter grandma\u2019s funeral he kissed me over twenty times,\u201d I said emotionally. \u201cI\u2019d say good-bye, move away, and he\u2019d call me back and kiss me again and again. I was laughing, telling him that I wasn\u2019t going to the army. Little did I know\u2014he was the one going! I even got a letter from him. \u201cHe\u2019s so antique,\u201d I thought to myself. \u201cWho writes letters in the age of internet, telephone, and fax machines?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat did he write?\u201d grandmother\u2019s sister inquired.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe wrote . . . just a few lines: \u2018I had decided to die in mid-October, but I didn\u2019t want to ruin the harvest season. I thought to myself, let them work, let them store away their harvest for winter so they can eat at the funeral repast with a calm conscience and mention me kindly. Nothing will happen if I die ten days later. But ten days later they brought a dead man from Moscow. I thought, we can\u2019t have two funerals in one day. People won\u2019t know which funeral to attend. The man who had died in Moscow was young, and it would have been unfair if I shared his portion of tears. The day of my death was confirmed then for the first week of November, at 9:30 in the morning.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo . . . at 9:30,\u201d the old woman looked at the stopped clock with guilt.
 I recalled my grandfather\u2019s pitiful state at my grandmother\u2019s funeral and her sister\u2019s hissing at the old man barely leaning against his walking stick.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe poor man had decided to die. And you were saying he was going to marry!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, yes, didn\u2019t I say that he wouldn\u2019t be alone?\u201d My grandmother\u2019s sister wouldn\u2019t give in.
\u201cIsn\u2019t it the same? Was he alone? He managed his life pretty well.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Translated by<\/strong> <\/strong>Shushan Avagyan<\/strong><\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The clock in the hall showed 10:45. This sunflower-sized Iranian clock was worth a dollar in the market. 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