“Please Gimme a Cigarette”

This is the fifth installment of Bedros A. Keljik’s Armenian-American Sketches, which were translated and annotated by Aris G. Sevag. “No Good Comes From Having Children in This Country,” along with a short biography of Keljik, can be found here, the second story here, the third here, and the fourth here.

Everybody in Boston knew Parounag, especially in 1894, when Armenians were as rare as radium, compared with the present densely populated Armenian community.

He was known by his baptismal name, a sign of close friendship, of being a respected individual to a certain extent. Knowing his surname is irrelevant, since the point of my story is the cigarette, and the question of smoking or not smoking.

I can say for sure that the Armenian who was most competent in the English language in those days was Parounag, who had acquired his knowledge through self-study. Whenever we met him, we would all ask him the meaning of an English word or sentence, and he would immediately give an explanation. He was a real student who liked to study, but he was an engraver by profession. When people were asked if they knew him, they replied, saying that he was Kalemkar (Decorator) Parounag and that he earned a large weekly salary. Indeed, he was unique, for $35 a week was unheard of in those days.

Parounag was fond of reading. If we didn’t find him in his room, he would invariably be in the public library — his second home. Having done research in books, he had prepared a decent article in English about old and new Constantinople, which he then read at American gatherings to appreciative audiences. You see, he was a native of Constantinople yet he never mixed Turkish words in with his Armenian, whereas many Constantinople natives were accustomed to speaking Armenian mixed with Turkish. His English was perfect, except when the topic was fish; then it was a different matter. He used Turkish words like stakroz, palamut (bonito; tunny), kalkan (turbot), etc. “Without these names, the fish lose their taste, there aren’t any Armenian equivalents for these names,” he would say. He would walk ten blocks to go to a fish restaurant.

Let me describe Parounag in a few words. At first glance, he left the impression of being a knowledgeable person. He had a large, round, bald head; large eyes, which got even larger when he was involved in thought — psychologically, a characteristic of a clean mentality. He was short, like many Armenians, and broad-shouldered; he weighed over two hundred pounds. He perspired during both summer and winter, and a blessed handkerchief was always under his collar to soak up the sweat.

Like his name, Parounag was a kind man, somewhat conservative, religious yet not fanatical. His foundation was good; he didn’t just want to learn but teach as well. He used to have heated arguments with Rev. Peshdimaljian regarding Darwin’s new scientific theory of evolution, which was the burning topic of discussion for intellectuals in those days.

Although I was much younger than he, I used to get together with him often. Many, many times we sat together, had dinner and carried on long conversations.

He was a knowledgeable and experienced individual.

*   *   *

One hot sunny Sunday in the summer, I met him in Boston Common. “Let’s go together, it’s not even twenty miles’ distance, the bus will get there in an hour,” he said. “Where are we going?” I asked. “It’s got to be a very interesting place; for a long time now, I’ve been invited and I’ve intended to go, so let’s go together,” he replied.

A man named Davis had founded a divinity school in one of the suburbs of Boston. Those who are familiar with the New England of fifty years ago will remember that there were many divinity schools back then. Davis accepted pupils for free, and half of his dozen students were Armenian boys. I don’t remember which denomination his school belonged to. The so-called school consisted of a large old house in the middle of an expansive field; on its facade was written Divinity College. The students learned, ate and lived there. For free, I said, but afterwards we understood that there’s nothing free in this country. The students cultivated Davis’ field; Davis, in turn, cultivated their minds with rigid Puritanical doctrines. Our boys were forced to work in that blessed field every afternoon, following their classes; they plowed, they harvested, they raised vegetables, they took the cows to pasture, they milked the cows, and on Saturdays they loaded the vegetables onto wagons and took them to the nearby country towns to sell. Then they brought back the proceeds to Davis, in payment of the cost of the free schooling. Davis liked Levon a lot and referred to him as “our future apostle.”  Of course, it didn’t hurt that Levon was the one who sold the most vegetables. It was this divinity school that my friend Parounag and I were going to visit on that hot sunny summer Sunday.

It took us an hour to get there. The bus stopped at a station near the college, and we got out. Levon and Vahan, two of the Armenian students, were waiting for us and immediately took us to the reception room of the college, which also served as Rev. Davis’ office. The furnishings and decoration were complemented by a few wing chairs covered with horsehair cloth, and Biblical refrains from this or that prophet’s book hanging from the walls.

Davis was just the opposite of Parounag. He was a huge, bony man more than six feet tall, with blue eyes and thick eyebrows. Like the preachers of his day, he wore a beard and was sullen-faced. He was dressed in a black suit and black tie, and the buttons on his collar came together on the nape of his neck. Davis and Parounag looked at each other as if they hadn’t seen one another for a long time and were meeting anew. Davis wore a phony smile; when he spoke, he looked in another direction, instead of looking at you. He had a little bit of a superiority complex since, after all, we were Armenian and he was American.

The conversation began just as I had anticipated. The missionaries sent by the Board Society and the victories scored by them, the history and ancient standing of our church, the Turks’ Moslem religion and their way of life—these were subjects which Parounag knew and explained well. After a long, one-hour conversation, Davis said, “Brother Parounag, I find you to be a kind, Christian and intelligent chap but, ever since you came into this room, it smells of tobacco; apparently you are a heavy smoker.”  “Yes,” said Parounag, “I smoke. Although I’ve tried to quit the accursed smoking habit so many times, up till now I’ve remained its prisoner.”

“Too bad, too bad,” said Davis. “I’m going to pray for you so you will receive new strength to fight and quit that disgusting and ungodly habit for good.”  Davis quickly rose to his feet, put his hands — oh boy, what hands, they were as heavy as lead! — on Parounag’s round bald head and commanded brothers Levon and Vahan, as well as me, to bring our hands together and rest them on the head of this large trapped bird. Parounag, caught off guard, was looking at us with bulging eyes, as usual, but he had no way out. My first thought was that everything was over and that Parounag was being ordained a preacher by Davis. And why not, for Parounag had a much more developed mind than Davis and had fully digested religious matters.

Davis started praying. One of his hands was resting on our hands, while the other was lifted upwards as he continued praying. Only Parounag knew how long this prayer lasted. The poor fellow was fidgeting under the weight of our hands and the pressure of the hot air. I could individually count the beads of sweat which were oozing from Parounag’s thick and fatty neck and, forming little bubbles, were then absorbed in the blessed handkerchief that was permanently wrapped around his collar.

The prayer seemed interminable to us. It reached the point where we heard the Armenian words of extreme protest being uttered by Parounag, and Levon softly said, “The man is fainting.”  Oblivious to Parounag’s tormented state, Davis was continuing his prayer out loud. When the prayer ended, we grabbed poor Parounag by the hand and lifted him up. He had taken on a pitiful appearance, his cheeks bright red and his eyes expressionless.

Davis blessed him again and was now certain that he had been given the will power, whereby he would finally shake free of that accursed tobacco and ungodly habit. There seemed to be something in Davis’ voice and expression indicating that even he did not believe in what he said; his prayer and blessings were kind of ordinary things which he offered to every visitor. In the final analysis, he was a typical preacher.

We departed. Levon and Vahan followed Parounag and me. We reached a tree near the college where the bus stopped to pick up passengers. Dripping with perspiration and exhausted, Parounag stretched out under the shade of the tree, pulled the ever-present blessed handkerchief from his collar and said, “Please just gimme a cigarette, I’m going to pass out.”  We offered him a Sweet Corporal, one of the well-known brands of the day. Parounag fully savored the cigarette: puffs of smoke gushed from his nose, mouth, ears and even his large eyes; he lazily watched the serpentine wisps of the blue smoke which proceeded to dissipate in the air.

“I didn’t like this man Davis,” he said. “His prayer wasn’t worth anything.”