Ensemble of Shards

{20} The Soviet Mural

Day 20: Write a scene taking place in an alley.

I was coming out of the alley where my old friends used to live when I saw him standing in the middle of the sidewalk, staring up at something on the building wall. He was the lone rock that stood fast while streams of busy people flowed around him. He was staring intently, with his mouth a little open, as if in awe or contemplation.

Wondering what had captured his attention, I walked towards where I could see what he was looking at and gazed upwards. It was the mosaic in different shades of brown - brown like his curly hair, but dull, unlike his bright brown eyes - with streaks of white and earthy, dark red. I'd seen it so many times above the ordinary shops below - the small department store called "1,001" where I once bought a basket and some stickers in, the phone repair shop, and the smoothie shack. I always liked that it was a small splash of cultured but worn art in the present-day Yerevan scene, but I never examined it closely until now.

The mosaic had a vertical aspect and a rather abstract style, though the motif was organic. There was a flower with circular petals on the top; one side darker and the other half lighter - white outlines with circles filled in pale yellow and a couple petals with a dark red inner outline. Right below it on the lower left were two leaves, also one side dark and the other side light, while the rest of the space was filled with geometric or wavy shapes.

Two AC units were on the bottom of it, slightly degrading its aesthetic presence and ripping away the viewer from any nostalgic reverie the artwork might've triggered, and to its right was a typical four-floor apartment facade in Yerevan, painted in light yellow with simple, white windows. 

It was an old, unexplained piece of art just a few yards away from the elementary school that had a bust of a historical figure in the middle of the entrance - one I thought was handsome because of his wavy, long-ish hair, but I always forgot his last name. With my rudimentary Armenian reading skills, I only remembered that his first name was Stepan. 

I looked back at the man standing below the mosaic - another Armenian who I... okay, let's admit it, found exceptionally good-looking. But I brushed off my old crush on him before it could distract me by remembering a more platonic fact: his lasting impact on my life. 

He didn't know it, but he taught me to do more than take notice of the historical artistic fixtures I saw on my walks in Yerevan. Every tile and brick had a story. Every carved face was more than just some obscure figure to me. He spoke for them. He taught me to listen. Now, because of him, I had to ask, Why are they here? Who made them? What is their purpose here?

So I looked now and wondered if the mosaic was from the Soviet era. After all, the street, Mashtots, used to be called Stalin Avenue. Why else would an apartment or commercial building be adorned by a mosaic? But since I wasn't as well-versed in Yerevan or Soviet mosaics, I drew up a blank. I looked back at him - maybe he could give me an answer.

Perhaps all humans have this sixth sense where they just know and feel that someone is looking at them even if they don't see any trace of this from their peripheral vision. So, he looked my way and gave a start.

"Oh, barev," he said as a surprised hello, and gave a nervous laugh. He lifted his hand in a small wave in his typical way, but one I was used to seeing whenever he passed me by in his shuffling way, not when he was standing still. 

It seemed he could never stand still for long in a conversation with me, nor with anyone else I've seen; he always seemed to be in motion. He would walk off at the first sign of a halt in the conversation, which happened many times to me because I always took a long time gathering my thoughts. These observations all flashed in my mind during the few seconds before I responded.

I smiled and asked, "Hello! How are you?"

"Oh, I'm doing fine, and you?" he said.

"Yeah, I'm good, I was just walking home and- oh, by the way, what are you looking at?" I asked.

He smiled. "Uh, this beautiful mosaic right there," he replied, and pointed.

"Yes, I saw you looking at it," I said. "I used to always pass by it because my Filipino friends used to live nearby..." I motioned back and pointed beyond the alley behind me.

"Oh, wow, really?" he asked.  But before he could continue, I interrupted and asked him, "Do you know when the mosaic was made?"

He frowned, and took a second before answering. "Actually, no, I don't..." he said, putting his hand on his chin. "I should probably look it up... I'll try to find out when this apartment block was built. But for now..." He paused, and put up his hands as if in surrender. "Well, it's one of the mysteries of history."

I chuckled and paused, wondering what to say next. Afraid he would just end the conversation abruptly just like many times before, I suddenly remembered the sculpture in the school behind us and thought bringing it up would save me.

"The statue- I mean... the bust over there," I said, pointing to the object obscured by bushes. "Who was he? Stepan...?" I trailed off.

"Stepan Shahumyan," he replied. 

"Oh yeah!" I exclaimed. "The man, the politician from Syunik. Stepanakert was named after him..."

"Yes, hmm, what else do you remember?" he asked. I balked at the question.

"Sir, it's been more than a year since our final exam," I said, with a hint of shame in my voice.

"You don't remember?" he said. "The Lenin of the Caucasus, the leader of the Baku Commune, and one of the authors of national policy in the Soviet Union..."

He proceeded to give a refresher's course on that important figure. I wondered what the people who passed by thought of this tall man with an American accent talking about their Shahumyan to a foreigner like me. It was as curious as the Soviet mosaic hanging over us.