The answer was in the negative. (Though he did wear that combat fatigue from my dream awhile ago.)
I went uphill and from ten am till noon stayed at the Club of Frozen Hearts. Ahlya the Typist disclosed her major wish—to escape from down here by a helicopter. Rita the Secretary talked botany. 'Even trees in the woods have nationality,' shared she melancholically, 'as for those growing on the borderlines betwixt states, they are mere half-castes.'
(…why, privately, I also have certain daydreams of a quiet place in some peaceful country for the entire family but:
Krishna doesn't recommend anyone to care too much of one's family;
three years ago, in a private talk, I promised to stay in Karabakh till my death; and
I'd rather die of a bullet than in the wake of some ecological disaster…)
At lunch the mother-in-law (Voice of the People and Transmitter of the Local Radio New) voiced the public shock caused by the murder of a dentist last night.
(…silly indeed – to perish by hand of a gold-seeking criminal compatriot at the time of struggle for national liberation....)
One page from ULYSSES.
The mother-in-law baked lavash breads and I was sent with a share of them to the Carina's. (Orliana had received a supply from her mother-in-law.)
Soon after my return, Anichka rushed in with the invitation from the landlord and landlady to come to their balcony and marvel the view of the great fire in Krkjan. All hurried out and upstairs.
A few minutes later Roozahna ran back dancing and chanting hilariously, 'Turk's house is on fire!'
(…poor imp, she thinks houses have nationality…)
Yoga. Supper.
All have gone over to the Underground. I am reading from Montaigne by the candlelight.
A long and winding road to a far-off water-spring is still ahead.
So long, all and everything, and—in the way of incantation—Good night.
December 21
Yester night in the middle of that long and winding road of water-bringing I viewed a splendid wartime fireworks. Against the background of the full moon floating in the starry skies—three languid fireballs of yellowish-tailed Alazans shimmered in their flight among the red-lit sequences of tracing bullets that dashed in hurried stitches across the missiles' trajectory in vain tries to make them burst while in the air.
There also was some shelling in the night. Though I can't tell how much of it.
Yesterday in my talk with Samvel, the head of the pipeline construction firm, he was looking at me from the eyes of Valyo, a bricklayer from that same firm. While marshaling my arguments, I couldn't get rid of the thought that he had not only the same color but—most oddly—the very same expression in his optics.
