Chapter 24

Sensual.

That’s what I am. That’s what we are, I told her. It’s different than sexual. Sexual is all appetite, greed, desperation. The hungry ravenously pouncing on a meal. Sensual is just the opposite – patient, appreciative, aware of everything. It just means we pay attention to our senses. It’s the reason I won’t eat a steak if it’s overcooked. The reason why something that hurts isn’t necessarily negative; rather, its educational.

Sight.

The color of a magnolia. Subtle, blushing. As your eye travels further and further from the base, the flower grows more swollen, pinker. As it moves further out into the polluted atmosphere, it responds by tainting its own purity, flushing deeper and deeper and cooler and cooler. Responding to the forced maturity that has been so brazenly thrust upon it by an early spring.

People went crazy, she said. There were bodies lying in the street, and the stink of them filled your nose. Buildings just collapsed, crushing not only the people in them, but those who desperately watched. Unforgiving concrete, tumbling in on itself, entombing mothers, daughters, husbands, wives, friends and lovers. The misery of the soviet union, defined by the drab, slab-like apartment buildings, dotting the land. Pockmarks on the pride of nations, misery without a foundation.

We lived in an apartment at the time, my 5 sisters and I with my parents. When the ground began to shake, my father was at work. I was trying to protect Alla, my little sister. Something fell off the wall and hit me on the back of my head. That’s why I can’t use my eyes properly. She stared from behind thick lenses, trying to help her eyes focus on the dreary world in which she lived. Black and white, grey and brown. It used to be as beautiful as Paris, she tells us.

Armenians have thousands of traditions. For valentine’s day, the women would cook salty biscuits, crusty and dry. They were supposed to absorb all the moisture in your mouth, and leave a strong aftertaste of salt. Without drinking anything, they would go to sleep. In their dreams, a man would bring them a glass of water. That man was to be their husband. I met women who married abusive, alcoholic, chauvinistic pigs simply because he was the man who brought the fateful glass of water in their unfortunate valentine’s dream.

Anna and I decided that to understand the people, we had to participate in their traditions. And I’ve come to the conclusion that our poorly contrived excuse to eat salty biscuits and dream about boys was actually a pretty legitimate way to immerse ourselves in the culture. All day we talked about how we would make the crusty spit-suckers, because you couldn’t make them in less than the precious hour we were given as “us time” every night. In the end we downed 3 pieces each of garlic bread, complete with butter, garlic, basil, and of course, piles of salt. So much of it didn’t ever dissolve. It was surprisingly delicious; warm comfort on one of the many cold nights.

6:30. The alarm goes off. We roll off our beds, already exhausted by just the thought of the day that awaits us, and routinely kneel and pray. The morning passed as usual; Anna got in the shower first, wearing sandals that flopped against her heels. They’re supposed to protect your feet from disease. The inches of accumulated filth the water had to pass through to reach our heads had grown usual, so much so that we prevented disease from below while being showered with it from above. The morning was mundane, common. She blow dried and straightened her hair, glossy and long. Separated her eyelashes with a needle. It always scared me when she did that. We even crawled back into our beds, trying to garner any warmth from the thick blankets as we explored holy writ. When it came time for us to study together, we each remembered the adventure of the night before.

In her dream, a tall, strong man had led her through a maze of her past, arriving finally at the drinking fountain of the church. She said his hands were big and strong, and that her own felt warm in his. We spoke of pasts, presents, and futures that would lead her to the handsome protector of her dreams. We giggled like schoolgirls and speculated, both of us avoiding the monotony of the day; we moved on to my dream.

I was relaxing on the beach in my dream, in a turquoise bikini with braided straps. I remember feeling warm and happy as the sun and I connected in an almost pagan way. I do not wonder that the Egyptians worshipped a sun-god. As I lay there, different men kept bringing me water. As the dream progressed, the beauty and size of the glasses increased. First, a humble Dixie cup. I refused that water without giving its bearer a second look. Next, there was a shaded glass, that was pink at the bottom and grew clearer until it was completely transparent around the rim. I don’t remember who carried that cup either. After, a tall bespectacled man came bearing a square glass with frosted sides. These I all refused with little, if any, consideration. Finally, a man came with a glass so ornate, so irresistible that I snatched it from him without a second glance. The cup was large enough to require both hands to grasp it. It was turquoise, bulbous, and had a long, thin stem attached to a cone-shaped base. There was sugar on the rim of the cup, pineapple cleaving to it in its last moments on God’s green earth. A pink umbrella floated to one side. As I snatched the cup from him, drinking and gulping and sloshing the life’s water down in my extreme thirst, I woke up. But not before I looked up and saw two jewels staring back at me.

The glimmer of hazel eyes. Brown encircled by green. One of those magical moments when you realize what the blind are craving. Those eyes were compassion, patience, love, desire, understanding, intelligence; everything I crave in a man. Everything I want in a companion.

Helen Keller once said “if, by some miracle, I were granted three seeing days, to be followed by a relapse into darkness…. I should want to see the people whose kindness and gentleness have made my life worth living.” At that moment, those hazel eyes became my deepest desire. Find someone who can look at me with the same intensity of feeling and clarity of judgment with which my dream eyes saw me.

I thought I had found it in Mike. That morning when I startled him, woke him up.

Pinks, oranges, yellows. Science can explain them by examining the way light scatters. Tell us why the sky burns the ocean every night. But science has yet to explain why people cross continents to stand and watch it. Why lovers swoon and children grow silent at the sight. Or why my heart burns with it every time.

Men are very responsive to sight. Something every woman learns very quickly. Sex sells. It may seem like a compliment, but “she has a great personality” is the kiss of death to any man’s interest. It means the sight of her is not worth mentioning before her personality. That it is inferior enough to be unmentionable. “She’s cute”, in the right tone of voice, means “not worth looking at.” Not worth anything.