She had uttered the word needles in such a menacing way that everyone at the table felt the chill. Only the Dipsomaniac Cartoonist watched her with an impish sparkle in his eyes, fully enjoying the show.
"The needle is repeatedly driven in and out of the skin with a rhythm that approximates three thousand times a minute," Asya continued. She took out a cigarette from her pack, repeatedly pushing it back and forth as if illustrating the act, until she finally lighted it. The new girlfriend of the Nonnationalist Scenarist of Ultranationalist Movies tried to smile at the overtly sexual gesture, but something in Asya's eyes stopped her halfway through.
"Blood poisoning and hepatitis are only two of the many fatal diseases you can contract at a tattoo parlor. The artist needs to break open a new sterile package each time and wash his hands with hot water and soap, and on top of that use sanitizing liquids and wear latex gloves…. Theoretically, of course. I mean, come on, who would bother with all that fuss?"
"He did all that. The needles were new and his hands were clean," the new girlfriend remarked in Turkish with a tinge of panic.
Asya did not yield, continuing in English. "Yeah, good. Unfortunately that's not enough. How about the ink? Did you know that not only the needles but the ink has to be renewed each time? You have to use fresh ink for each session, for each customer."
"The ink.." Now the new girlfriend looked really concerned.
"Right, the ink!" Asya decreed with certitude. "There are many infections that can surface after a tattoo operation just because of the ink. One of the most common ones is Staphylococcus aureus, which sadly"-she frowned-"is known to cause serious cardiac damage. "
Though she tried not to lose her cool, upon hearing this piece of information the color drained from the face of the new girlfriend of the Nonnationalist Scenarist of Ultranationalist Movies. Her cell phone beeped just then but she didn't even look at it.
"Had you consulted a physician before getting it done?" Asya asked with a concerned expression that she hoped would prove persuasive.
"No, I didn't," the new girlfriend of the Nonnationalist Scenarist of Ultranationalist Movies said. Her face now turned grave, etching new lines around her lips and eyes.
"Oh, really? Well, never mind, don't worry." Asya flung up her hands. "Almost certainly nothing bad will happen."
And with that she leaned back. The Dipsomaniac Cartoonist and Armanoush smiled, but none of the others reacted in any way.
Deciding to join the game, the Dipsomaniac Cartoonist turned to Asya with sly amusement and asked, "But she can have it removed if she wanted to, right? It is possible to have it removed, isn't it?"
"It's possible," Asya instantly replied. "However, the entire process is painful and daunting at best. You can choose one of three methods: surgery, laser treatment, or skin peeling."
With that Asya took an almond from the pile and peeled off the skin. Everyone at the table, even Armanoush, couldn't help but stare at the almond with horror. Pleased with her audience's reaction, Asya tossed the peeled almond into her mouth and chewed heartily. The eyes of the new girlfriend of the Nonnationalist Scenarist of Ultranationalist Movies grew wide as she watched Asya chew the almond.
"I personally would never recommend the third. Not that the others are any better. You need to find a good-a very gooddermatologist or cosmetic surgeon. It costs a lot, but what can you do? Each visit is a ton of money and you need to pay for several visits. Even when the tattoo is removed, there will be a visible scar left behind, not to mention skin discoloration. If you want to get rid of that, you'll need another cosmetic surgery. Even then there is no hundred-percent guarantee."
Armanoush pinched herself not to laugh.
"Well, why don't we drink?" the Dipsomaniac Cartoonist's wife broke in with a tired smile. "And what better reason do we have to drink than Mr. Tiptoe? What was his name?… Cecche?"
"Cecchetti," Asya corrected her, still lamenting the day she had been intoxicated enough to give the group a speech on ballet history.
"Yes, yes, Cecchetti." The Exceptionally Untalented Poet chuckled and explained to Armanoush, "If it weren't for him, ballet dancers wouldn't have to tire themselves out walking on their toes, you know?"
"What was he thinking?" someone added, and then everybody laughed.
"So tell us, Amy, where do you come from?" the Exceptionally Untalented Poet now asked Armanoush over the customary muttering in the cafe.
"Actually, Amy is short for Armanoush," Asya interjected, still in a provocative mood. "She is Armenian American!"
Now the word Armenian wouldn't surprise anyone at Cafe Kundera, but Armenian American was a different story. Armenian Armenian was no problem similar culture, similar problems-but Armenian American meant someone who despised the Turks. All heads turned toward Armanoush now. Their stares revealed interest tainted with alarm, as if she were a flamboyant gift box with unknown content. Inside the box there could be a present as exquisite as the outside, or there could be a bomb. Armanoush squared her shoulders as if steeling herself against a blow, but, being regulars at Cafe Kundera for so many years, the group had too deeply absorbed the sluggish characteristic of the place to get excited for long.
Asya, however, did not let the excitement wane. "Did you know that Armanoush's family was Istanbulite?" she said in between chomping on two almonds.
"They were made to suffer all sorts of pain in 1915. Many died during the deportations-died of hunger, fatigue, brutality…."
Pure silence. No comment. Asya pulled the strings a bit tighter under the concerned gaze of the Dipsomaniac Cartoonist.
"But her great-grandfather was killed before all that, mainly because"-Asya turned to face Alnianoush, though her next statement was directed less at her than at the members of the group "he was an intellectual!" She sipped her wine slowly. "The thing is, the Armenian intelligentsia were the first to be executed so that the community would be left without its leading brains."
It didn't take long for the silence to be broken.
"That didn't happen." The Nonnationalist Scenarist of Ultranationalist Movies shook his head vigorously. "We never heard of anything like that." He took a puff on his pipe and amid the swirling smoke looked Armanoush in the eye, his voice now dwindling into a compassionate whisper. "Look, I am very sorry for your family, I offer you my condolences. But you have to understand it was a time of war. People died on both sides. Do you have any idea how many Turks have died in the hands of Armenian rebels? Did you ever think about the other side of the story? I'll bet you didn't! How about the suffering of the Turkish families? It is all tragic but we need to understand that 1915 was not 2005. Times were different back then. It was not even a Turkish state back then, it was the Ottoman Empire, for God's sake. The premodern era and its premodern tragedies."
Armanoush pressed her lips together so hard that they paled. She had so many counterarguments, she didn't quite know where to begin. How she wished Baron Baghdassarian were here and could hear all this.
Armanoush's pause was instantly filled by Asya's interruption: "Oh yeah? I thought you weren't nationalist!"
"I'm not!" the Nonnationalist Scenarist of Ultranationalist Movies exclaimed, raising his voice a couple of octaves. To keep his temper, he began to stroke his beard. "But I do respect historical truths."
"People have been brainwashed," his new girlfriend rallied in an attempt to both support her lover and take revenge for the tattoo discussion.
Asya and Armanoush now exchanged looks. Within that fleeting moment the waiter appeared again and replaced the empty carafe of wine with a new one.