"Good enough? Ah!" He made all eight fingers crack like castanets, "Much too good! How could I live there safe and comfortable—eggs and bacon—clean shirt—good shoes—an apartment with a bath in it—easy work—good pay—books to read—kindness—freedom—how could I accept all that, remembering my people in Armenia?
He ran his fingers through his hair, and stared in the fire again—remembering America perhaps.
"There was a time when I forgot. All young men forget for a while if you feed them well enough. The sensation of having money in my pocket and the right to spend it made me drunk. I forgot Armenia. I took out what are called first papers. I was very prosperous—very grateful."
He lapsed into silence again, holding his head bowed between his hands.
"Why didn't you become a citizen?" asked Will. "Ah! Many a time I thought of it. I am citizen of no land—of no land! I am outlaw here—outlaw in the States! I slew a Turk. They would electrocute me in New York—for slaying the man who—have you heard me tell what happened to my mother, before my very eyes? Well—that man came to America, and I slew him!"
"Why did you leave Armenia in the first place?" asked Gloria, for he seemed to need pricking along to prevent him from getting off the track into a maze of silent memory.
"Why not? I was lucky to get away! That cursed Abdul Hamid had been rebuked by the powers of Europe for butchering Bulgars, so he turned on us Armenians in order to prove to himself that he could do as he
