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The Return of Kikos
“Oh, poor Kikos, oh . . .”
–
a group of close women
or you, I’m merely an imagined son of a made-up
mother. We definitely know each other. My name is
Kirakos but everybody calls me Kikos, for short.
Hovhannes, the God of our house, has delivered the news
of my death to the entire people. But our kind, wise Creator
did not release my soul. If he had come to my funeral feast,
my soul would rest in peace and wouldn’t yearn to be
reborn. If he had raised a glass to my soul and said, “Kikos,
poor wretch!” people would follow suit, “Poor wretch, poor
wretch!” But it didn’t turn out that way, and perhaps so
much the better.
For a long time, after him, I had been looking for somebody
to tell the real story of my life and I found him at last. His
name is Armen and he is the author of these lines. We have
a complicated relationship. We don’t get along well
together. My author wants to overcome the story of my
death because he is convinced that the future success of his
people depends on reliving Toumanyan’s fairy tales.
*
According to him, Armenian time has stood still in the
*
Hovhannes Toumanyan, famous Armenian writer
F