Hakob Karapents

[Rubo]

It was exactly twelve years ego when I had my first one-man show in America of all places at the Armenian center in Watertown. The opening went well. Few older Armenian women objected my nude paintings but I did not take offence since I knew where they were coming from. Towards the end of the evening they’re walked in a strikingly handsome man with eagle nose, white hair, rosy cheeks and a big smile. He introduced himself as Hakob Karapents and shook my hand firmly. He loved my works and proceeded to express himself why. His animated gestures were all the signs of someone who was truly alive and not inhibited in any way. He proceeded to turn off the lights and view the paintings in semi dark, which he found was more dramatic. Needles to say we became good acquaintances and he hand autographed few of his published books of short stories to me.

At the time the Karabagh war was raging and I often shared my fears and anxieties with him but during the whole time he was always confident about Artsagh’s independence almost unconscious firm conviction. He was a true patriot from heart to soul. It is sad that he died rather abruptly from cancer and before his death he often mentioned that he was just beginning to enjoy life…

His work deals mainly with Diaspora contemporary life with added philosophical twists. I greatly enjoined reading him and recommend others as well. He is very little known among Armenian public at large but well known among literary circles.

[Rubo]

The Black Cat

 

By Hakob Karapents

(1925-1994)

 

From Return & Tiger and Other Short Stories

(Translated from Armenian by Tatul Sonentz-Papazian)

 

Sam had never met Mac. They lived on the same street

for almost three years yet they hadn't exchanged three

words. Their acquaintance was tenuous. Driving by, Sam

sometimes saw Mac working in the garden or the yard. They

waved at each other and returned to the inner rhythm of

their lives. Period.

Mac's residence was on the crossing point of summer and

Winter streets, in the north corner, opening its wings on

both streets. Compared to the other homes built in

contemporary style, Mac's house bore a turn-of-the century

stamp. A pyramid shaped wooden structure with three floors

settling on each other's shoulders, it left impression of

crumbling battleship, with tall rods rising on the left and

right and a white pole between them where for twelve months

of the year flew the American flag. Mac had been a Navy

man. He had served in the ranks of the U.S. Marines for

twenty-one years. He had come ashore a long time ago. but

he had brought the strict routine of the sailor to Summer

street. To Sam, it seemed as though Mac continued to

serve on his home-ship.

It was one those beautiful autumn mornings, a Saturday.

Sam decided to put his teaching chored aside and to walk

around the pathways along the Charles river.. He walked to

the corner of Summer Street and as he about to turn right

towards the nearby woods, he heard his name. He turned

around Mac at the far end of his driveway.

"Greetings, Mac," he answered from afar.

"I know your name, but I don't know you," said Mac.

"I'm happy for this acquaintance," said Sam, approaching

and squeezing Mac's iron hand, feeling at the same time the

sally of his blue eyes. Mac was a head taller Sam, Husky

and muscled, paticularly in the neck.

"I often see you drive by," said Mac, "but this is the

first time I had a chance to talk to you. The strange

thing is, that we live on the same street until today

there was no occasion to get to know each other."

"That's true You're busy, I'm busy, we're all running

around," answered Sam, He looked around for a second then

added "Mac, is it true you're in the military?"

"I was in the military," said Mac "Now I'm a doorman."

"Where?" inquired Sam.

"At the Boston Central Bank," answered Mac. "It takes

care of extra expenses. My wife works too. That way, with

my retirement pay we live comfortably. I know you're a

teacher, Sam."

"Yes, I'm a high school teacher," said Sam and

expressed his admiration for the meticulously kept garden

that surrounded the house. Everywhere, the yellow orange

and white chrysanthemum bushes were in bloom. All around

the house, the wooden deck looked like it belonged on a sea

going vessel. Where the ship's prow would be, the 50mm

barrel of a naval gun was set on immobile wheels. There

were two benches on the front deck. one bore the

inscription "Mac," the other, "Mary". Sam noticed, that at

every turn and corner of the house, there were small signs

nailed to the walls bearing various inscriptions, such as

"Exit", "Entrance," "Stairs," "To Reception," "South,"

North," "East," "Storage" and similar other messages.

"Yes," said Mac, "I have to maintain order, otherwise I

end up with chaos. I keep a log, where the daily chores are

written down. Do you know how old this house is?"

"No, I don't. Maybe forty?"

"My wife is 50 years old, and she was born in this house

Mary's grandfather built this house in the year 1898"

"I didn't know that," replied Sam.

"The house has seven bedrooms. We change bedbrooms

every week"

"Really?"

"That way we have a different bridge", said Mac.

"What bridge...?"

"Captain's bridge, said Mac with a far away look in his

eyes. His gaze landed on Sam's balding head. "Would you

like to take a walk on the lower deck?"

"Why not?" replied Sam, swallowing hard, "I'm very

impressed with these orderly surroundings."

In the middle of the garden, a sundial was set on a marble

pedestal. A the four corners of the hung glass tubes of

various size, meteorological gauges, a new, green painted

weather vane, two marine telescopes mounted on tripods, a

bell with a cord, as well as lifeboat hanging on the the

east wall. "I trim the lawn with pair of scissors,

declared Mac.

"Why?" asked Sam.

"That way, I can cut deeper and the grass looks like a

carpet. Isn't that is so, Mac."

"And here is Mary's garden," announced Mac, basking in

the victory of still blooming rosebushes.

"Why that small cross?" asked Sam, walking towards a

mound rising between two bushes.

"That's the black cat's grave," answered Mac solemnly.

"Which black cat...?"

"I found its carcass today, in the street," said Mac.

"Looks like it was run over by a car."

"Poor kitten!"

"I brought it home, wrapped it in canvas, dug a hole,

buried it and put a cross on the mound."

"Poor kitten! Sam's sympathy deepend. " Whose cat was

it?"

"I don't know," know said Mac. "I found the carcass

right in the middle of the road."

"Apparently it belonged to one of the neighbors. You say

was a black cat?"

"Yes. it was a small black cat."

Sam couldn't imagine how, person as strict Mac could

have such a soft heart. They're right, when they say that

a person's appearance is deceiving, you expect one thing

and something else turns else up.

"do you own a cat, Mac?"

"Once I had two cats, now I don't have any. To tell you

the truth. I prefer dogs."

"I've never seen a dog in your yard." said Sam, "Where

do you keep it?"

"I don't have a dog. Years ago, I owned German

shepherd, now it's just me and Mary."

"I have a black cat, called Manhattan," said Sam.

"Manhattan...?"

"Yes, Manhattan. I found it on Madison Avenue, in New

York, abandoned, sick, emaciated. I bought it home, Betty

fed it, took care of it, now it's become the apple of

her eye ."

"Animals are like that, said Mac putting his hand on

Sam's shoulder. "One gets so atrracted to them, you'd

think they're member of the family."

"What are you going to do now, Mac?"

"How do you mean?" "I mean, how are you going to let the

owners of the black cat know what happened?"

"I haven't given it a thought, a thought," said Mac

"They are going to worry, start looking."

"If they do worry, " said Mac seriously, "why did they

leave that cat unattended?"

"Sam felt a gradual complexity emerge in his assessment

of Mac, he found himself faced with new revelations every

step of the way. Every time he felt that things followed a

normal course, he was faced with an outlandish, uncharted

inner world. Automatically, Mac took off his naval cap,

put it back on and said:

"Man and beast are the same."

"How so?" said Sam surprised.

"I mean, they have the same right to live. Man is a

latecomer. They were all here when man appeared and became

a menace to all. If we continue this way, someday we'll

wake up alone on this planet."

The apocalyptic image was shocking. Stunned for moment,

Sam, feeling his loneliness in the world, decided on the

spot to walk in such a way no ant or insect would be

trampled. When Sam looked up, Mac's were digging into him.

"What do you teach in school, Sam?"

"Physics"

"Then you must have a better understanding of the

importance of the coexistence of human and animal worlds.

Has it ever occured to you, that you and I could have been

born a cat or a lizard?" said Mac, jowls drooping like an

aging lion's."

"No, never crossed my mind ."

"Let's drop it," commanded Mac. He pulled down his cap

and took leave of his neigbor.

That evening, Betty returned at five o'clock and

discovered that Manhattan had not come back from his

daily escapades. She came out on the balcony, half

leaning on the railing, and yelled "Hey kitty-kitty-kitty,

hey kitty-kitty..." several times in a sharp voice, then

turned to her husband. "This is the first time, that

Manhattan is late for its meal."

"It's not the first time," answered Sam. "He's often

late Right now, he's probably at a gathering with other

cats."

I am the one who feeds the cat," said Betty. "I know

that he's never late for a meal. something must have

happened to him."

"What could possibly happen? Sam tried to disperse the

dark clouds in his wife's mind. " It's a cat. When it

starves, it will come home.

"Manhattan isn't just a cat !" retorted Betty.

"What is it then?"

"He's a member of our family! "affirmed Betty.

Sam immediately recalled Mac's words and the dead cat's

grave between the rosebushes. A black shadow passed across

his mind. With a brisk motion of his hand, he pushed aside

that dark thought and returned to Betty. "Why are you

worrying yourself needlessly? I'll go right out, find

Manhattan and bring him home."

Sam walked back and forth; from Summer Street, he

entered Winter, from there he took Main Street, then kept

looking around the wooded areas next to the Charles

River. Gradually, doubt pemeated the shadowy recesses of

his subconscious, brooding on the navel of an impenetrable

darkness. He thought of going and speaking to Mac, to hear

details about the black cat lying beneath the mound

among the rosebushes, but he couldn't muster the necessary

gumption to ring his doorbell. Besides, what guarantees

were there? The neighborhood was full of black cats.

Sam returned home, told Betty about his meeting with Mac

and the black cat buried in his gaden. Betty's gray eyes

opened wide; she collapsed in the armchair, her frail

shouldeers shaking.

Dusk had turned into darkness, when Sam And Betty came

out of the house. They walked down the street to Mac's

house, entered his garden, and stood over the small mound

rising among the rosebushes. Betty stroked the cross and

the grave, murmured a prayer, and returned home.

Sam and Betty couldn't sleep all night. Betty's crying

kept Sam up. His efforts to relieve the woman's pain

proved futile. "My poor Manhattan, my innocent little

black kitten," wept Betty, mentally reconstructing

Manhattan's last minutes, the ferocious onslaught of the

tires and the poor cat's screech of terror on the

stone-cold pavement. Betty put the entire blame on Mac for

the tragedy. "He was the one chasing after Manhattan,

endangering his life," she accused in between sobs.

"What are you talking about, Betty? Mac is a very decent

fellow, he would never do a thing like that!"

"He's the one who killed Manhattan, and buried him in the

garden to fertilize his stupid rosebushes!"

Betty, what are you saying?" repeated Sam, not believing

his ears.

The night had descended on them like a nightmare. Betty

was inconsolable. So was Sam. His wife's sorrow hurt Sam.

The house had lost its joy of yesterday. Shadows had

settled on the furnishing and their souls. Sam approached

the window and looked outside. The darkness was

impenetrable. He tried to console his wife, somehow.

At dawn, when Sam and betty stared at the wall with

sleepless eyes, they heard some scratching. They rushed

downstairs, opened the front door. It was Manhattan, with

his tail between his legs.

 

November 1993, Boston

[vava]

Very nice story Rubo. Karapents is a new author to me, thank you. I will look for his book.

 

Thanks again...