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Monday, 25 September 2017

The summer of boys and horse (part-6)

    It wasn't easy, he said, to get the horse to behave so nicely. At first it wanted to run wild, but, as I've told you, I have a way with a horse. I can get it to want to do anything I want it to do. Horses understand me.

How do you do it? I said. 

I have an understanding with a horse, he said.

Yes, but what sort of an understanding?  I said. 

A simple and honest one, he said. 

Well, I said, I wish I knew how to reach an understanding like that with a horse.

You're still a small boy, he said. When you get to be thirteen you'll know how to do it.

I went home and ate a hearty breakfast. 

That afternoon my uncle Khosrove came to our house for coffee and cigarettes. He sat in the parlour, sipping and smoking and remembering the old country. Then another visitor arrived, a farmer named John Byro, an Assyrian who, out of loneliness, had learned to speak Armenian.



 My mother brought the lonely visitor coffee and tobacco and he rolled a cigarette and sipped and smoked, and then at last, sighing sadly, he said, my white horse which was stolen last month is still gone - I cannot understand it. 



My uncle Khosrove became very irritated and shouted, it's no harm. What is the loss of a horse? Haven't we all lost the homeland? What is this crying over a horse? 

That may be all right for you, a city dweller, to say, John Byro said, but what of my surrey? What good is a surrey without a horse? 



To be continued......... 

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