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8 January 2025

Exclusive Extract: Ararat by Anna Davtyan

We are pleased to share this exclusive excerpt from Wasafiri 120: Armenia(n)s – Elevation, translated from the Eastern Armenian by Hayk Hambartsum and edited by Deanna Cachoian-Schanz. In this short story, Anna Davtyan explores the power dynamics between a female photographer and a young, male subject and, through this, studies the way we see ourselves – and others – in the world.

You can read and download the full piece for free during the month of January, or read it in the print issue of Wasafiri 120: Armenia(n)s – Elevation, which is available to purchase.


From the valley it emerges like some guardian alpha, a mythic swathe of cloud around its double-crested neck, its slopes shimmering and incandescent from the snow, mirroring, crushing, creedless, inciting, it knows where, it says go, get there, don’t look back, find it, tear into it, burst it. It is cold, further away it is dark and unsmiling. Further, some other place, but now here, upon this winding road at my skirts at the foot of Ararat, I open the sun, it says, before you.


      The sun opens up onto a rush of autumn fields heavy with colours, and the red groves succumb to the heat and flames. The highway, E117, heads straight, potholeless, smooth, tearing the way, running blue through the frothy reed heads. Everywhere there are reeds, their summer freshness lost and transformed into light-crowned fables in the autumn. The vineyards are already buried, submerged under heavy lumps of soil and the mountain’s breath. 


     E117 runs straight out from the young photographer woman’s heart and stretches ahead of the car with its welcoming asphalt. The camera’s placed by her side; in it, two photos of Ararat that convey nothing. She hardly knows where she’s headed. On her phone, Google Maps shows the way to a T but it doesn’t say what’s going to happen at the end of the journey.

 
     She’s on her way to photograph a boy named Spartak. His figure intensifies along the road — a worthy subject for her photo series and with whom she’s managed to exchange but two words. She zeros in on him in her mind, positions him in different scenes that are supposed to portray male sexuality, of which, presumes the photographer woman, men themselves are not even aware. At least those she chooses to photograph. She goes like an explorer, getting ready to pin her camera’s eye on him, to grasp him before he does, to measure his new masculinity. She casts away thoughts of exploitation; a photo is only for perceiving.


     From the highway she has to turn on the road that leads to Artashat, then from there reach the village that lies just below Odzasar — Snakemountain. One by one she reads each road sign she encounters, her heart pounding from the light. Can she photograph whatever she wants? Why is she driving towards this valley of an unknown world?


     After three hundred metres turn right, says the woman’s voice through the phone. She turns. The winding road enters Artashat.


     The road leading into town is well-maintained and between the opposing lanes there’s a central reservation lined with round trees still such a green-green. Her eyes fall somewhere, on something that’s neither a pool nor a fountain, but some kind of watery surface lodges in her visual memory. From then on, the landscape abandons all its townliness and the rows of squalid, run-down outer-district buildings, kiosks, and people crossing the road from every which way begin to appear. She passes through a funeral procession, her eyes searching for the coffin.


     Radio Europe begins to rustle as the road leading to the village emerges, but still there are reeds with their tall swaying torsos. She puts on a CD. She sways with them. She passes the village graveyard. It’s a flat, uninspiring graveyard with no shade. Just an island of finely cut stones.


     In red letters, the lengthy name of the village arches over the entrance. She stops to smoke. She’s arrived.


     She calls, ‘Spartak? I’m already in your village.’


     ‘Come straight up the road.’


     There are so many speed bumps on the asphalt and they’ve been built so carelessly wide that she’s forced to break every twenty metres, then let the car climb with its forward torque over the bump and drop with a thud on the other side. In her head, she curses the builders.


     Spartak is standing at the edge of the road, not like someone in waiting. Like a languorous season that unhurriedly awaits its turn. His hands are in the pockets of his blue tracksuit; on his feet, dark blue house slippers. He points plainly to the house and walks behind the car. The photographer clumsily parks the car, going back and forth a few times, squeezed between a tree and a mound of sand. She thinks that when she gets out, she should hug him but the boy, his head hung, climbs up the house stairs. Perplexed, she follows him.


     The boy’s mother steps out from the kitchen, greeting her warmly. The photographer utters some words, places her things on a chair, extends her hand with a smile. The grandmother appears from the kitchen door; a firm, azure, flaxen-haired Russian woman, and the photographer woman realises in alarm that Russian will need to be spoken. The boy doesn’t get involved in the scene, he stands aside coolly, leaning on the flimsy kitchen wall. Getting acquainted, saying nice things to one another is their concern, and he has utterly no interest in partaking. He stands watching from under his brows, just waiting ...


Cover photo by Julius Drost on Unsplash

Anna Davtyan is the author of a collection of poems, Book of Gratitude (Actual Art, 2012), and a multigenre anthology, Bouquet (Metro, 2023). Her first novel, Khanna (Metro, 2020), focuses on women’s issues in present-day Armenia. Her second novel, Zora, has just been published (Metro, 2024).
Winter 2024
Wasafiri 120: Armenia(n)s – Elevation

From poetry and fiction to newly released book reviews, art, and interviews – cover to cover – our 2024 winter special issue, Wasafiri 120: Armenia(n)s – Elevation, guest co-edited by Tatevik Ayvazyan and Naneh V Hovhannisyan, shines a light on modern Armenian identities and experiences. Alongside personal stories of love, loss, and memory, the volume speaks to current global issues – displacement, fragmentation, and conflict — all with eloquence, and all, ultimately, for elevation. This is your jukebox issue of contemporary Armenian writing, with varied content for varied tastes.

. Jonathan Cape Beautiful City

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