A pot of khashlama [a dish of stewed meat (usually mutton)] was boiling in the oven. A group of men were washing their hands and then moving aside to smoke a cigarette. In the house, women were moving awkwardly as they were setting a variety of appetizers and food on the table. A man came out and said to the others to come. The men sat on both sides of the table. The funeral feast began.
The man making toasts raised his cup and made a toast to the deceased, so that he may rest in peace and encouraged the others to help themselves to the food set on the table. “Our society of the past liked to eat and drink a lot. So, please, help yourselves,” said the head of the table.
The cups were refilled. The head of the table wanted to say something when all of a sudden a voice was heard from the other room. “What’s going on there?” asked the head of the table. The voice was heard once again, this time louder: “My son, my king.” Then a woman came in the room and said in a panicked voice: “Mother lost her conscience. Come quickly.” Some men went; one of them put his hand under the woman’s head, brought her back to reality, stood her back up at the altitude of the monument and set the sword in the right position.
The head of the table, who was probably the owner of the house, said with pity: “My mother suffered a lot because of this society.” Then, as if nothing had happened, he proposed drinking a toast to their “brother that had passed away”.
One of the people present, who had probably not participated in the funeral feast and had arrived a little late to the funeral, didn’t get a chance to find out what had happened. He asked the person next to him. “What did she die from?” The person sitting next to him said as he bit a piece of lamb meat and chewed it slowly: “Ulcer.” “Umm…” said the one asking the question, got a piece of basturma (Armenian meat) and put it in his plate. “But the doctor said that her heart and lungs were functioning so well that she could have lived 100 years,” said the person sitting next to him as he chewed and swallowed.
“The last time I saw her she was healthy,” said the questioner.
“When was the last time?”
“If my memory serves me right, it was back in February 2003. Yes, it was in February. I was passing by the Matenadaran and saw her. We stopped and chatted for a while.”
“Yeah, she got sick that day and lay in bed after that,” said someone else who joined the conversation.
“Fine, she got a cold. But what does that have to do with an ulcer?” asked someone sitting in front of the two who was squeezing lemon in his cup of “Jermuk” mineral water.
“True, that has nothing do with it. She just did not take care of herself; she would eat anything she wanted-the loans and grants from America and Europe, the help received from Diaspora Armenians; they contain so many chemical substances,” said one man as he stated his opinion.
“What’s the problem? Was she supposed to starve?” said one of the people who had joined the conversation with amazement.
When this remark was made, somebody from the end of the table said: “Our brother that passed away liked to eat and drink, have fun. On that occasion, I propose making a toast by clattering our cups.”
“It is wrong to clatter the cups on a day like this, but since the toast maker is suggesting, then we’ll do it,” said one of the participants of the funeral feast.
They had not even drunk when the head of the table asked: “How is mother? Stay next to her and throw a blanket on her so she won’t get cold.” A woman appeared between the doors and said looking at the head of the table. “That sword is heavy. Let’s take it off of her these couple of days. Mother is weak.”
The head of the table was pretty drunk and said: “It’s none of your business. Our mother has been with the sword and she will stay with the sword.” “No, I didn’t say anything,” said the woman afraid and left.
After drinking the next toast, the man that had not been at the funeral feast, thus had been late to the funeral and did not know what was going on, asked the old man: “Didn’t you call a doctor or anything?”
“Of course we did. We brought all doctors we could find. There is a famous doctor-professor Demirchyan…
“Yes, Stepan who is the son of Karen,” said the one standing nearby.
“I don’t know about Stepan, but his father was a great doctor,” said the man sitting in front of them.
“You are right. We brought Stepan the son of Karen-he looked at her and said that we should take her to the Opera square, lay her down for him to examine her. Mother said no.”
“Hey, she has just been childish.”
“She just didn’t trust doctors,” said the old man.
“So, there are no doctors…?”
“Of course there are. But none of them know anything.”
“There are good ones. For example, Artashes the son of Mamikon. He is a good doctor.”
“What is he good for? All he does is talk about this and that.”
“If he talks, this means that he knows something.”
“He doesn’t know anything. Out of all the good doctors, the only one that stands out is Aram-the son of Zaven. It’s just that he is too young. How can someone trust his own brother?”
After drinking a toast to for mother’s soul to rest in peace and when one of the women brought coffee from the side room, one of the people present suddenly remembered. “Hey man, there is some Tigran-the son of Karapet. All he does day and night is do séances like Kashpirovski. That could help.”
“That player?” said someone, “I had a pimple on my forehead and it didn’t matter how long I watched his séances, the pimple didn’t go away.”
“You didn’t watch carefully, or it could be that you also watched something else and it didn’t help.”
The table had gotten warm. The people present had forgotten about the occasion that they had gathered. Everyone was talking about something and didn’t pay attention to what the other was saying. The head of the table once again made a toast to the deceased, called his younger son and said-son, sing that song.
“The one that uncle liked?”
“Yes,” said the head of the table as he barely tried to hide his sadness.
The younger son sang the song: “Yeraz tesa es gisher, es gisher, es gisher, yes annma karapner, karapner, karapner, karapner…(I saw a dream last night of swans)…”.