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away.”
    â€œAll your pictures of Maria? And of Stepan before he died? All of them? Why?”
    â€œI gave the pictures of Stepan to Martin,” old George said. “He doesn’t have a lot of pictures of his father. I gave him the old home movie film, too. He’s having it converted to DVDs. Did you know they could do that?”
    â€œYes,” Gregor said. “Bennis thinks you don’t look well. Is she right? You look fine to me, but if there’s something wrong—”
    â€œThere is nothing wrong, Gregor, except that I’m hungry, and at the rate you’re going, we’re never going to get to the Ararat.”
    3
    Fr. Tibor Kasparian was already at the Ararat when they got there, hunched down on the window booth that was supposed to best resemble the way a restaurant table would be in Yerevan. Gregor doubted this. He didn’t doubt that his Armenian ancestors had eaten in restaurants, and probably in their homes, by sitting nearly on the floor with their legs folded up underneath them. He did doubt that they were still doing it even in 1965, never mind all this time later, when Armenia was free and there was probably a McDonald’s where the old family tavern used to be.
    He let old George slide down the low bench first and then slid in after him. Father Tibor had coffee already, and there were places set out for all of them, but none for Bennis. Linda Melajian probably knew before they did who would be sitting at this table every morning.
    â€œBennis is the one not coming?” Tibor said.
    â€œShe’s coming, she’s just meeting Donna,” Gregor said. “Something about the house. I’m learning all kinds of things about houses. Did you know there were over five hundred different varieties of bathroom tile?”
    â€œI knew there were a lot, Krekor, yes,” Father Tibor said. “They rebuilt my apartment, you remember when it was destroyed with the church. They were always coming over asking me what I wanted to have. I never knew what to say. I didn’t care which one I had, as long as it was serviceable.”
    â€œThey built bookshelves,” old George said. “I remember that. They wanted you to put all your books on bookshelves.”
    â€œIt would take the entire Philadelphia library system,” Gregor said. “I don’t know if you’ve been over there lately. He’s got them stacked to the ceiling in the dining room.”
    â€œAnd the apartment upstairs is still empty,” Tibor said. “I told them we would never get an assistant. There aren’t enough priests in this country to serve the churches we have, and we can’t always get somebody from Armenia. And it doesn’t always work out.”
    â€œYou’re from Armenia,” Gregor pointed out.
    â€œYes, Krekor, I know. But I wasn’t sitting in Armenia and happy there when they wanted a priest over here. I came over on my own, because I wanted to. I lived in New York for years before I got a church. These men come here, they’re used to there, and all the children now, they’re third and fourth generation. They haven’t got the patience. And I don’t blame them.”
    â€œFather Tibor is standing up for the younger generation again,” old George said.
    â€œ Tcha, ” Tibor said. “What would you think if you were an eighteen-year-old American girl, and you had some priest with an accent telling you you were going to go to hell because you didn’t let your parents pick your husband? Never mind that the parents aren’t interested in picking the husband. It’s a mess.”
    â€œI’m going to have an American omelet,” old George said. “The one with ham and cheese in it.”
    â€œA Western omelet,” Tibor said.
    â€œSay what you want,” old George said. “I didn’t try to pick a wife for Stepan, and he did fine on his own. And I called him Steve as soon