Dancing Fountains

Act VIII

Yerevan, the pink city of my birth, radiates the color of tufa stone buildings reflected in the rain puddles and apricot blossoms in the spring. The white cotton clouds above, and the blanket of snow below, turn pink in the winter. Pink rain drizzles in the fall. The mirage that rises from asphalt-lined roads in the summer has a pink hue.

Before the special holidays every year, the city enters a beautification phase. The decorations on International Labor Day, on May 1, and on November 7, the day when the Red Revolution defeated czarist Russia, impress young and old alike. During the preceding weeks, the city changes from pink to red. The billboards along the highways that stretch from the outskirts to the city center turn red. Banners the color of blood appear on the facade of every government establishment. Slogans on them pop out in brilliant white: Glory to the Soviet Socialist Revolution! Long Live Lenin! Glory to the CCCP!

Women in floral print robes, aprons with big pockets, and headscarves sweep the street gutters with particular enthusiasm. Whenever I look out the bus or a tram window, I see them close up as they sweep and chat. While Armenian women hang their heads to hide their faces, Molokan women stop and wave at us, the passengers, when the car nears. They always have a smile on their blushed, round cheeks; their blue eyes sparkle like the sky after a monsoon rain.

As the holidays approach, my teachers talk up the achievements of the Soviet people. "We should all feel proud," they say.

On one of those holidays, Papa takes our family to the city center.

"Let's go see the fireworks," Papa says.

I bolt to my room to put on my brown corduroy bell-bottoms and Hungarian peasant blouse, which I wear on outings. We shuffle into the Volga: Harut in the front, Mama, Frida, and me in the back. Papa's car offers a privilege that many children in my neighborhood do not have. I can't wait to go back to school and raise my hand when Comrade Arakelyan asks if any of us saw the fireworks.

Four semi-circular pink tufa buildings encircle Lenin Square, the circular space around which the entire city is built. The very tall gray statue of Lenin, one hand by his side and the other bent at the waist, stands on an even higher pedestal to the west.

"They say the hands change position every month," Mama says, turns her head, and studies the statue at length after we pass by.

"Nonsense," Papa says. "THEY know nothing." A second later, he adds with doubt in his voice, "But then again… who knows?" His solemn tone weighs heavily in the car, along with the smell of gasoline and the sadness that replaces amusement on Mama's face. He's done it again. Papa has a way of dampening the mood. I try to divert my attention, make a mental picture of Lenin's hands to check them out next time we pass by. With my heart thumping, I bite my lips to keep from letting out a sound of excitement at the sight of the dancing fountains. Papa doesn’t like commotion.

The fountains—the first-ever in the history of the Soviet Union—change in color, frequency, and height to the melodies of classical music heard through the loudspeakers. I can't wait to get out.

Not stopping, though, we drive by hundreds of moms, dads, and children who cheer in awe at the fireworks that dazzle the night sky with color and elaborate design. Stop the car, please! My heart screams. But Papa has made a decision. No one can argue.

"They're idiots!" Papa says. "Not safe out there. You never know where a spark will land."

We drive off, my heart a deflated balloon, on my mind's eye, the position of Lenin's hands. Moving hands? Totally possible! If fountains can sing, then hands on the statue can move. I decide that THEY are right and Papa is wrong.  I want so much to be among THEM.

The next day in class, Comrade Arakelyan asks if anyone went to see the fireworks. Ruben and Susanna cut each other off and share their excitement. I don't raise my hand.

At the age of eleven, I realized that the world around me was not what it seemed, and that my family's values conflicted with what I was taught at school and what I was expected to believe.

My father's car separated and protected us from THEM—the masses of people, the "fools" who fell for gimmicks like a show of lights and fire.