Free An Armenian Sketchbook by Vasily Grossman

think that a work of art, if it is anything more than a hack job, brings us closer to nature, that it deepens and enriches our being. We think that a work of art is some kind of key. But perhaps it is not? Perhaps, having already seen a hundred images of Lake Sevan, I thought that this hundred-and-first image was just one more routine product from a member of the Artists’ Union.
    I have to say that the paintings by Saryan[ 33 ] that I had seen in Moscow did nothing to help me sense the reality of Armenia. My own perception of Armenia is different. To sense Armenia’s tragic landscape and its misty, ancient stone I found I had to erase from my soul the brilliant joy of Saryan’s paintings. Maybe poetry and painting can be harmful. Maybe they can limit the soul rather than deepen it.
    That day, however, the Minutka restaurant did have trout. This meeting, at least, really did take place.
    The restaurant, a single-story wooden building with a terrace, stands a little above the lake, at the foot of a mountain. The plank floor in the vestibule creaks loudly as we walk in. We enter a large, chilly room. There are fifteen tables with white tablecloths. The windows look out onto the lake, but the room is somewhat dark—because of a covered terrace that goes all the way around it.
    We go up to a serving table. There, under a glass cover, on round and oval dishes like ancient shields, lie marinated green and red peppers, fresh herbs, stuffed eggplant; beside them stand tall bottles of wine and cognac. This was the trout’s escort, its entourage—its drummers, pages, and maids of honor. The trout itself was evidently waiting behind the half-open door. A few minutes later, a smiling gray-haired waiter took up his position behind this table, and a tall pale young man with curly disheveled hair came into the room. You could see at a glance that he was a poet.
    The young poet was delighted, overawed, to meet Martirosyan. I was introduced. The two of them continued talking in Armenian, which I did not understand. But I did understand that they were saying something good and important. Martirosyan and I sat down at a little table by the window, had a quick look at the lake, and then turned towards the kitchen door through which the young poet now disappeared.
    Martirosyan summarized the poet’s words: They had a fresh trout in the kitchen. It had been caught that morning. They were going to boil it for us, in water from the lake. This would lend the fish a particular taste. We would be drinking cognac and Jermuk mineral water.
    It grew quiet. The blue lake was silent outside the window, and we were alone in the empty room. The waiter from behind the serving table came up noiselessly and placed on the table a carafe of some yellowy-green liquid that looked like a young wine. Martirosyan explained that this was a special kind of wine vinegar, very soft and delicate. Then the noiseless waiter brought plates of salted peppers, eggplant, and fresh herbs. Then a bottle of cognac, which he uncorked. He opened a bottle of Jermuk, poured us each a glass of iced water, said a few quiet words in Armenian, and walked noiselessly away. We remained silent; we could hear the popping of the swift bubbles of gas in our now-clouded glasses.
    We each sipped our water, tasted the fiery herbs and the still more fiery peppers, then gulped down more icy water. Everything was quiet. The waiter approached again. He inspected first the table and then us; he could, I felt, have been the organizer of a bullfight inspecting his bulls before releasing them into the arena. With the help of a napkin, he wiped a few nonexistent crumbs off the fresh white tablecloth and went back behind his serving table. We remained silent.
    The kitchen door was noisily flung open. A short, very stout woman in a white gown appeared; she had black eyes and a pink face. Then came the sound of laughing voices—both men’s and women’s; there was a sense of restrained excitement. Then