The brown coat suited the man, who looked like an Englishman a lot. In Chaxkadzor’s rest house, where my mother and me were having a rest, people tried to guess who is he with their staring looks. In the afternoon a nice-looking and mysterious stranger came in, when my mother and her friend Tereza were having coffee and talking about fashion. My mother asked with excitement “You are aware of everything. Luiz who is he?”
“How I know, maybe he is an Englishman,” I babbled my shoulders. My mother and Tereza groaned and drinking martini in a breath went out from café. We gathered in the fir-wood round the fire to talk and to sing. The flames of the fire were rising to the sky. The fiery tongues of the fire were rising to the sky with cracking and crimson miracle was outlined around it. We were laughing, singing and having fun.
Suddenly a human outline was seen in the path. He was our mysterious familiar, who was walking towards us. He entered the lawn, sat comfortably in one of the stumps and unexpectedly asked in English; “Who speaks English here?” We pointed out mother’s friend Tereza. The Englishman and Tereza were talking for a long time. Everything was so wonderful; both pleasant causing drowsiness temperature, magnificent flames of dry firewood and the round dance of fiery bunch. The fire calmed down slowly. Bird’s singing voices and miracle whisper of night was heard from distant.
The Englishman had already gone announcing thanks to everybody. Mother, Tereza and me entered our three-placed room and immediately slept. I woke up from daybreak’s caresses in the morning. The golden flames of sun reached my pillow decorated with flowers and were playing with me. I stood up from my place immediately and went to the table to drink water. A thick note-book was placed near the glass. Prompted by curiosity I opened the note-book and was surprised. There were pictures and paintings with Armenian motives and English commentaries.
The most astonishing was the name of Harry Dickens (Charles Dickense’s family tree) written in the last page of the note-book in a nice manuscript. Taking that astonishing note-book I rush away at full speed like a bird and reached an old beech. Near the beech was a bench in which my mother and her close friend were sitting.
“What is this?” I cried, “is that Englishman who descended from the famous English writer Charles Dickense’s family tree near us?”
“Oh, my darling,” Tereza interrupted me, “he went to the airport to leave England in the sunrise. He gave this note-book and address as keepsake.”
“It’s a pity knowing about it late,” responded I in a sad voice, “ if I knew it I would talk to him.”
The old beech was mournful as well. It seemed that the leaves swinging by wind were whispering;
“You will see him, you will see.”
An eloquent silence reigned in the rest house. An unusual feeling covered me. It seemed to me that I was talking with Charles Dickens in my ideas and enjoy his succulent humour. Chaxkadzor left behind. The forest rumours disappeared in my memory’s golden chain. I was closed in my room and took Dickense’s two books from my bookcase. One was “Great Hopes,” and the second was “David Copperfield.”
I was opening the book named “Vain hopes” and reading the following; “When my sister ordered a new cloth for me, he demanded the tailor that the cloth look like a peculiar template and I would have no possibility to move my body members.”
It seemed that a healthy and wonderful sense of humour broke out through the lines and I attentively read the story of the orphan’s tragic life.
The novel “David Copperfield” made a tremendous impression on me. I was reading the episode when David running away from his stepfather went to his grandmother. “When I began crying my grandma stood from her place in a minute, seized by the collar and pushed me her room. At first he opened a big drawer, take some bottles and began pour out liquid from every bottle in my mouth. It is supposed that he took the bottles without choosing them because as I remember I swallowed both vinegar and oil. After this happy conditions interesting events began and Dicken’s humour enraptured the reader.
In the light of lampshade I was thumbing the pages of the notebook that the Englishman had left. Tereza interpreted in a soft voice commenting Armenian orders.
Harry was really a wonder and had a delicate sense of humour. I saw pictures of Erevan in the note-book. Though Harry was not a master in drawing he had a acute observation like a drawer. Dirty puddles caused by rain, Yerevan’s streets reminded of Boffini’s dump, bumpies, yards and sidewalks completely deprived of greens, shops and stalls with dirty windows.
Harry wrote instead of Dickens; “The half of Sevan would clean Yerevan’s dirty suburban streets and sidewalks. His following generalization was very interesting; “ On the eve of Christmas the human flood robbed and took year’s accumulated poor quality food. One could think that in the city an enormous dragon lived who must be feeded.
Here we could remember William Tekeyan’s “Vanity Fair” definition.
Harry wrote; “ Why are people proud of their property, position and post, if that all is short-lived.”
Of course, I was agree with him. On the last page of the notebook I read; “ Armenians are possessers of old and wonderful traditions. There are a lot of geniuses in them. Famous English poet George Gordon Bayron learned The language of that people. Going to Mechitarist Congregation he inquired about Armenian’s traditions and linguistic culture. Glory to the Armenians.”
I closed the note-book and famous English writer Charles Dickens revived before my eyes. His literary monuments were overfilled with humanity, kindness. And his violently outpouring humour gave a relax to the reader and made their life easy.
We saw Temza river and Hayd Park in my ideas. Charles Dickens was walking in the bank and was thinking about human happiness. And Harry became a talking interpreter of his thoughts.
The old beech tree’s murmur was heard from distant;
“You will see him.”
“ Of course, I shall see him his address was written in the note- book.”