The Last Drive

2026-02-03 - 07:37

Listen to the AI generated audio article. Your browser does not support the audio element. Based on a true story, with fictionalized details. “Hey goddess, you love writing about Armenian women, so why don’t you write about the world’s most famous dominatrix who’s Armenian? Have you heard of her? Her name is Catherine Robbe-Grillet!” said N, my long-legged, slim and effortlessly elegant friend, who used to work as a dominatrix in Armenia and St. Petersburg, guiding clients through consensual power-play scenarios that sometimes involved moral or psychological humiliation. Now he’s simply making beautiful custom-made leather bags and other leather goods, if you know what I mean. Minutes before, we were speaking of geopolitics, then somehow jumped to our favorite lipstick shades — Anastasia Beverly Hills Royal Red for me, YSL Rouge The Bold for him — and then here, to BDSM. “When she was young, her husband, a famous French novelist and sadist, gave her a contract that stated she would be subjected to ill-treatment, humiliation, and torture, of course for a certain amount of money,” N continued, noting that he’s very sure she wasn’t afraid of any of those things because of her Armenian genes. “Come on honey! Where do you think our dark past and bloody family stories are stored? In the body and psyche. You think that doesn’t appear in our sex life?” I realized it was the first time I had encountered someone explicitly linking genocidal trauma to the specifics of Armenian sexuality. It made me wonder whether the stories we grew up with, of Armenian women covering their faces with mud or concealing their beauty to avoid rape, have shaped women’s self-perception even today. Perhaps this inherited fear still teaches restraint, a quiet dimming of brightness. While I was busy with my own theories, N continued: “Aside from that, our women are tough as hell, they’re afraid of nothing... except the skvozniak.” I laughed. Anyone with an Armenian mom or grandma knows about the dreaded skvozniak, the Russian word for a draft. In Armenian households, it became a mythical, sneaky draft that finds its way through every crack and corner, ready to ruin your life or at least your neck. Moms and grandmas are experts on it. N continued speaking in a velvety-soft voice that carried layers of childishness, sarcastically sharp intellect, and deep care. “Okay, so Google Catherine and read about her. She’s still alive, 95 years old, and lives in an old 17th-century château in Normandy. By the way, her family name was Rstakian. I was so excited to read about her in Vanity Fair! Since that day, I’ve dreamed of meeting her. One little chat would be worth a million workshops and would, you know... elevate my soul.” I was already googling the article to see Catherine’s face when a memory surfaced: my late ex-editor, Vahan Ishkhanyan, whose work was among the first to reflect on the rights of sexual and religious minorities in Armenia, had also shared stories about Catherine. He once asked if I would be interested in doing an interview. For some reason, I don’t remember what happened next. N cut through my chain of memories and doubts, speaking as if more to himself than to me. “So, if you ever find her, let me know, we’ll travel together. I have very special leather boots for that case, and by the way, since we wear the same size, I’ll get ones for you too!” He paused for a minute, then continued. “Do you still collect your weird stories from Yerevan?” I carefully agreed, wondering why he called my stories weird. I mean yeah, they’re mostly about people who wobble on the edge of instability. But I don’t think that’s too rare in Armenia. We just don’t talk about it. Anyway, I nodded, intrigued to hear N’s story. He was the best supplier of those. My favorite was about one of his local “slaves”— men who pay about 50,000 AMD per hour for moral or physical humiliation. This one found housework deeply degrading, so cleaning became part of his submission ritual. He scrubbed N’s apartment and paid for the privilege. N hasn’t paid for a cleaner since. Meanwhile N sipped his green tea, adjusting his posture as though preparing for a stage cue. “Then let me share one about a cabaret, a taxi driver and Aznavour’s song.” One more pause, a long breath, and another sip of green tea; his casual habit of speaking as though we’re already at the midpoint of a novel. “So, goddess. Listen! It was late night, closer to morning. I just left a party with a friend. We were going home and called a cab. The party’s theme was cabaret and we were dressed accordingly — boas, colorful scarves, and glitter. We called a GG [Armenian Uber].” He deliberately takes a deep breath, letting my mind conjure its own versions of the story while he keeps silent. “He arrived with such outdated chanson music that we both laughed. The scene already felt cinematic, and I was sure this drive was going to be memorable, though I wouldn’t know exactly how.” He smiled. “Our cabaret style charmed him so much that he switched the song to something different, Edith Piaf’s ‘Milord’. Since we were in a great mood, we started singing along, though we knew no words and just went lalalala. We opened the windows and waved our scarves and boas.” N’s elegant gesture sent his imaginary scarf floating, briefly stirring the air. “Then Aznavour comes on! And it’s that very song about the homosexual, which he always performed with really interesting gestures, touching his neck and so on... I forget the name of the song though.” I immediately recognized it as Comme Ils Disent (translated: As They Say). “I asked the driver if he knew what this song was about and immediately received a punch from my friend,” N continued. “He punched my knee very hard, but the words were already out. I couldn’t take them back. The driver said it’s his favorite song and he’d love to finally know what it’s about!” I gave him a proper setup and context. I explained that the song was released in the 1970s and was truly provocative—homosexuality was still taboo then, even though it had been legal in France since 1791. I started from the very first line: I live alone with mum... in a very old flat Then I quickly described the life of the song’s character, moving toward the part where he performs after a striptease show. I could feel my friend’s heart sinking with each word that came out of my mouth, but you know me honey, I’m not afraid to push public discussions. That’s the only way you clear the air!” I quickly googled the Aznavour song and played it in the background. N appreciated the gesture and continued. “So, I got to the final part, describing this man’s night life, his connections with men, how free they are at night and how lonely he feels, and I could feel something shift in the driver’s expression. I couldn’t tell whether he got upset or aggressive. I was a bit drunk on champagne and maybe exaggerating but something felt different. The driver quickly turned off the song, not even giving it a chance to finish. And for a while we drove in dead silence...” After another dramatic pause, N shared more details: “I had already prepared my pepper spray and also started blaming my love of speaking to drivers. It’s a curse, you know it. But a few minutes later, he finally broke the silence and asked if I was okay with those people, meaning homosexuals.” N shifts his sitting position, putting more pressure on his left hip, as if sitting in a small car. “My friend slowly reached his hand into his purse for the pepper spray. I could feel the tension in the car. But instead of answering something safe and generic, I responded in my male voice, clearly understanding the tension and the fact I was dressed like a lady: ‘Yes sister. I’m okay with myself!’ I said proudly. Then, before he could say a thing, I asked him, ‘Are YOU okay with those people?’ He replied in a calm, sad tone: ‘Oh, I’m not even okay with myself, brother.’” N paused again and I felt sad about what the driver had said. “Yes, darling, it felt as sad as you’d imagine,” N continued. “We went silent for a while. My friend was nervously texting on the phone, still holding the spray. But then the driver turned the music back on, saying he liked it when we were singing all together. So we did. The car felt fine again, happy. But after a few songs, the driver’s voice couldn’t be heard, he went silent. The playlist kept moving forward, and we listened to nearly all of Aznavour’s repertoire. That’s when I realized we’d missed my block and hadn’t stopped. My friend was pale as a wall, and the driver, through the mirror, looked like he was either angrily squeezing his eyes or asleep.” N’s voice became more nervous and tense. “I whispered to my friend, ‘Oh, damn, we got a narcoleptic here!’ Then, softly, in my warmest possible mother-like voice, I asked him to stop. When he didn’t, I touched his shoulder and said louder, ‘Stop the damn car!’ But he didn’t say a word, he slumped over the wheel.” I kept nervously squeezing my coffee cup, clearly feeling that it was cold and just acting as an emotional support tool. “He was dead,” N said. “I quickly jumped to the front, stopped the car, and thanked God the streets were empty. We called the cops, trying to explain, though we didn’t fully understand what had happened. The police arrived. The younger officer listened with distrust, staring at our outfits—the boas, the colors, the glitter. It was obvious he didn’t believe us. The other, more experienced, stared at me differently, then said something like, ‘Some people have a great talent for attracting trouble.’ He continued that everything was certainly strange but not suspicious, took my phone number, and left.” Silence. Our phones sat on the coffee table, nervously waiting for N to continue. Online communication holds no space for silence. N took a deep breath and spoke. “My friend fell asleep immediately when we were back home. I couldn’t. I kept thinking about the man, the song, and what exactly had happened in that brief, strange night.” I set my cold coffee cup on the table and freed my hands to applaud N’s storytelling skills, his ability to attract stories worthy of an Almodovar film. N gracefully accepted the applause, placing his hands on his chest, and concluded, “So, that was the story. If you want to write it, it’s yours! But I have no idea what lay beneath it. Was he hiding his identity and felt relieved in our company, or was it just a stupid coincidence? I have no answers... but I know one thing for sure, the human heart never stops beating just like that, honey...” Comment Cover photo by Roubina Margossian. LIFESTYLE Telling Times From the passage of time to escape rooms and ski slopes, this month’s issue of SALT brings together stories that move between reflection and play, the intimate and the unexpected. The eclectic blend on offer explores multiple layers of life and living, from the curious to the unapologetically offbeat. When Bach Meets Narekatsi: The Armenian Viola Ani Gevorgyan Feb 2, 2026 Through photos, Ani Gevorgyan traces the creation of the Armenian viola through the work of Grigor Arakelyan, an instrument that bridges Bach and Narekatsi, tradition and innovation, and seeks to reshape Armenia’s musical landscape by reconnecting it with its medieval roots. Read more Tsaghkadzor and Myler: Two Resorts in Conversation Maria Gunko Jan 30, 2026 Two Armenian ski resorts reflect different visions of winter leisure. Maria Gunko explores Tsaghkadzor and Myler as a dialogue between continuity and change, tradition and anticipation, and how their coexistence is reshaping expectations, culture and the future of winter sports in Armenia. Read more Time: Passed Lilith Margaryan Jan 29, 2026 Why does each year feel shorter than the last? Lilith Margaryan reflects on time, memory and the pressure of constant renewal, arguing that slowing down, noticing change, and building foundations may be the most meaningful way to grow. Read more