"I'M AN ARMENIAN

New Zealand Listener, Volume 11, Issue 277, 13 October 1944, Page 26

"I'M AN ARMENIAN

Written for "The Listener"

by

R. M.

WHEELER

could wrap up this story, but the only way to write it is the way it happened. "Dance?" he said. "They call me Sam." a dozen ways I There was a rule at the Club that when asked one couldn't refuse, so there was no help for it. Now, I have danced with many of those boys, lads from Wisconsin, and Florida and Dakota, long rangy Texans and Polaks from Minnesota and Jew boys from Brooklyn and the Bronx, but there was never one to equal Sam. Cacophony from the company band, squeaking of the sax and hideous squall of the trumpets, the little corporal with the dazed look in his eyes, on the drums there in the corner, beating them up in a frenzy, louder, harder — crash, boomboom, crash, boom-boom, boom-fah-rah. And Sam? In the midst of all this chaos Sam was a thing inspired, a beast uncaged, ‘a jungle animal. Hunch of his shoulders and set of his jaw, feet going God knows where, rush, whirl, pounce, mad leap. Ah, there’s a wee clear space in. the. middle of the flodr, a tigerish spring and Sam will have you there. Close your eyes, don’t look, it’s coming, it’s coming, it’s come! The top sergeant who looks like Johnny Weismuller, and the red-headed sailor have also seen the space. They also spring. It doesn’t matter of course that Sam lands against the top sergeant and bounces off so that both heels sink into your instep. It doesn’t hurt half as much as you thought it would; you're only glad it wasn’t the gergeant that hit you. And you can still move, after all. Steady, now, steady, that’s better, you haven’t cannoned into anyone for at least a minute. Ah, nicely done, Sam, and it was only the top sergeant after all, as he hurled his woman away from him and charged back into a clinch. His elbow smashes. you in the back as he flings her off again, but it’s all in fun and you don’t mind a bit. tk ; % % HE music is wearing out now. A final screaming cfeseéndo and it subsides. The band collapse and mop their faces. They need to. and I sort ourselves Out arid sit down. It is good to sit down. To have a chair beneath one and a table to prop one’s elbows on. When the music stopped the lion rampant that was Sam ramped no more. He was passive now beyond the point of stolidity. Cigarette? said Sam. Thanks, I said. So you're Sam, I said, surreptiously feeling my instep under the fable. I could feel the blood all right, but my stocking, thank heaven, was intact. And where do you come from, Sam? California, he said, I’m an Armenian. So you're an Armenian, I said. Sure, he said. Sure I’m an Armenian. And you come from California? Lived | there long? Born there maybe? ;

Sure, he said, that’s right. I was born there. In California. Nice place? I said. Sure, he said. And what did you do in California, Sam? Do, he said, iggy California? Yes, I said, in California. Oh, he said, this and that. Which and what? I said. Oh, he said, most everything I guess. Message boy, tool maker, fruit picker, farm hand. I’ve been around. I’m an Armenian, he said. Yes, I said, I know. You’re proud of it, aren’t you, Sam? Sure, he said. Tell me, I said, about your jobs; which did you like best, what do you want to do? He smiled, Sam, the Armenian, with his curly black hair and curious blank eyes in his wide face, dropped his head and smiled. You’d think me crazy if I told you, he said. You’d laugh at me. No, I wouldn’t, I said. I promise, Sam. Tell me. I want to write, he said. He lifted his chin and smacked his hand on the table. Yes, sir. That’s what I want more than anything, I guess. I want to be a writer. He was an Armenian. He was born in California and he wanted to be a writer. I held my breath as I asked the next question. Carelessly, though, I asked it. So he shouldn’t know how important it was. Do you like Saroyan? Saroyan, he said, what’s that? William Saroyan, I said. He writes. He’s an Armenian, and he was born in California and he is a writer. Haven't you heard of him? I was pleading with him almost, but he wasn’t to know. No, he said, no I never heard of him. He warited to be a writer, he was an Armenian born in California, yet he had never heard of Saroyan. But you must have, I said desperately. Next to you, he’s probably the greatest writer in America. The way he says things they ate teal and full of meaning and as you have always known them, and he wraps them up in words to make ou laugh or weep, but to make you a He-But I stopped. It wasn’t . any use. é No kiddin,’ said Sam, politely, I never heard of him. He must be some guy. Yes, I said. But tell me, Sam, what made you want to be a writer? I don't know, he said, I guess I've always wanted to be ore. I guess it’s reading made me want to be a writer. Yes, I said, eagerly, that must be it. What do you like to read, Sam? * (continued on next page)

(continued from previous page) Oh, most anything, I guess. But I'll tell you who I think are the two greatest writers. Tell me. Rafael Sabatini and P. C. Wren. Percival Christopher Wren. He’s an English writer. Do you know about him? Yes, I said warily, I know about him. i Boy, if I could write a story like P. C. Wren or that guy Sabatini I sure would be proud. I should be mighty proud. Yes, I said. But I'd like to show you some of the things I've written, he said. Some of my experiences on Guadalcanal. I think you'd be interested in those. Yes, I said, yes, I’m sure I would, % * » ‘THE company band was crashing into action again. Dance? said Sam. I wriggled my toes. I was not quite sure if I still had any. Sam glanced down. What’s that on your foot? he said. My foot? Evidently it was still there, I was glad about that. I felt relieved. Oh, I said, Nothing much. Something I spilt on it at supper, probably. Nothing to worry about. Well, he said, it sure has made a mess of your stocking. Yes, I said, it has. Well, shall we dance? All right, Sam. But take it easy. None of that cave-man stuff, you know, no jitter-bugging. It’s too exhausting. I can’t cope. Besides it takes years off my life, and I want to live a long time. Gee, he said, you talk crazy. But you're swell. Let’s dance! bd * a E danced. I found to my astonishment that I could still hobble round. It was easier going now, the floor was less crowded, the tempo of the band had subsided. After all, I reflected, they couldn’t keep up that fever pitch all evening. They were tender and romantic now. So was Sam. He nestled close and brought his cheek perilously close to ~ mine. I edged away. ~ A moment later he was breathing down my neck, toying with my ear. Hey, I yelled, lay off. That ear is mine. He couldri’t hear. The band was shrilling up again. It blared inconsiderately. Whad’ya say? he bawled. I said, leave go my ear and look after your feet. For pity’s sake watch where you're putting them. Oh sure, he said. * * + IN it was all over, I limped back ‘ ‘and sat down. A nasty hack on the ankle this time, and the toes of my shoes irreparably scored by the marks of G.I. boots. But otherwise nothing to complain about. Sam mopped his face. Right on the beam, he said. You sure are a cute little jigger. You don’t dance half bad. (continued on next page)

SHORT STORY

(continued from previous page)

No, I said, so they tell me. Silence for a space. Sam drummed with his fingers on the table and hitched his chair closer to mine. As I was saying, he said, about those stories I wrote. There was one... No, I rudely interrupted, don’t talk about that any more. Let’s talk about something different. Tell me about your family way back in California. Your mother and father. Are they Armenians too? Sure, he said, they’re Armenians. Whad’ya think? I wouldn’t like to have told him what I thought, not at that precise moment. Are there any more of you at home, I said, any brothers and sisters? Sure, he said, four brothers, three sistéers; Eight, God help us. What do they do? I said. What do they look like? Do they look like you? I guess so, he said. I couldn’t say. You sure ask plenty of questions, don’t you? he said. Yes, I said: I've an enquiring mind. It’s a good thing to have. All writers ought to have’ one. Have you? What? he said. An enquiring mind. "You're crazy," he said. Maybe I am, I said. But it wasn’t till you came along. I was a sane and rational being with a nicely enquiring mind and a nimble pair of feet and now... You're crazy, he said. Don’t start that over again, I said. All right, he said, let’s dance. No, I said, I couldn’t. Let's sit. * x os W E sat. In silence. Sam drummed on the table and hitched closer to me every minute or so while I kept wriggling backwards out of reach. Silence still. Something wrong somewhere. Sam eyed me up and down. I felt I had failed him somehow. Obviously he was disappointed in me. I could bear it no longer. Listen, Sam, I said. I’m going to talk to La. See, over there. Over at that table. I’m going to talk to La. Now. But he didn’t get it. : That’s good, he said. So you’re going to talk loud. It’s about time you said something. You've been sittting here all evening not saying a thing. No, Sam, I said. I’m going away. I’m going to leave you. I’m going to talk to La. Over at that table. See, the tall brown one, lighting a cigarette. That’s La. I’m going to talk to him. Good-bye, Sam, He looked at me. Those blank dark eyes in his wide face. ‘What do you want to talk to him for? I’m an Armenian. I want to be a writer, he said. I know, I said gently. Yes, Sam, I know. And J left him there, the empty words still framed upon his lips.