ONE PERSON’S CITY
Dedicated to my friend Tigran Kirakosyan
Every evening, when the mute and unmoving heat softened a little, and people flooded the street like ants, he would hold a box of pens and walk from one street to the next in the area around the Opera building, saying, “These are good pens, really good ones… Take three for a hundred drams…” with the hope of grabbing the attention of passers-by. He would walk from one person to another all evening, holding out the box… But it was rare for a person not to avoid the old man and reject his pleas; just a few people took pity on him. Although he was fifty-three years old, his ample beard and worn-out clothes made him look like an old man. He always wore the same clothes – a gray, slightly loose pair of pants and a thick, drab coat that
