One for the Eavesdropper: Three Apples Fell From The Sky (2015)
“Armenia” by Anri Marutyan. Flickr © Malser
By Nikita Mujumdar
Three Apples Fell From The Sky was originally published in Russian in 2015, and translated into English five years and a handful of literary awards later.
Perhaps not as universally acknowledged as Jane Austen’s sentiment about single men, it is a truth nevertheless that “life is like the ripples left by raindrops on the surface of a pool of water, where every event is a consequence of what came before it.” The interconnectedness of life forms the basis of Narine Abgaryan’s Three Apples Fell From The Sky (2015), which blurs the lines between the past and the present to tell the story of an Arcadian community spanning multiple generations. The title, derived from a common conclusion to Armenian folktales in which three apples fall from heaven—one for the storyteller, one for the listener, and one for the eavesdropper (or, in this case, the reader)—immediately has a mythical quality to it, one that persists throughout the narration.
The story opens on a sunny afternoon in the little Armenian village of Maran, where the novel’s central figure, Anatolia Sevoyants, is preparing herself for her impending death. Having suffered from an inexplicable ailment for a few days, she is convinced that the end is nigh, and sets about getting her affairs in order. Predictably, the effort is all in vain. Far from being the end of her life, the day turns out to be a new beginning for the elderly Anatolia when she receives an intriguing romantic proposal from her widowed neighbor, Vasily. Descriptions of their courtship are punctuated with stories from each of their respective pasts—Anatolia’s tragic childhood, her unhappy marriage to a cruel man, and the unexpected pleasure she derived from working as the town librarian; Vasily’s complicated relationship with his brother, the premature death of his two sons, and the way in which the illiterate blacksmith had, for years, admired Anatolia’s literary prowess from afar.
While the development of Anatolia and Vasily’s relationship serves as the novel’s primary narrative arc, multiple characters in the form of family and friends are introduced, and all of them are given compendious backstories. These are interwoven with descriptions of life in Maran—the idyllic Saturday morning markets, the communal celebration of weddings, and the community spirit that seems to be shared by every one of the townspeople. In the absence of any political systems, the village is almost fantastically egalitarian, if not very diverse, believing that “in the end, the sky is always identically blue and the wind blows exactly the same wherever you were lucky enough to have been born.”
The citizens of Maran experience a series of strange summers—in the span of a few years, an earthquake wipes out a block of houses in the village; an unnamed war claims an entire generation of men; and they are plagued by drought, famine, and finally a swarm of insects, which take over the crops and compel the villagers to cover their faces with scarves every time they step outside. In some form or the other, everyone in the village is forced to deal with loss, and it is precisely this theme of loss, and the unifying nature of tragedy, that Abgaryan deals with best of all. There seems to be an understanding in Maran that “there are things that ordinary words cannot explain, and the human mind cannot comprehend,” and the villagers weather disaster after disaster seemingly unfazed, secure in the conviction that “life has a way of prevailing against the odds.”
The novel’s coda in particular is unquestionably sanguine. In an interview with The Guardian, Abgaryan admitted that she was inspired by her favorite book by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and it doesn’t take long to notice that the Colombian author’s influence is evident throughout her work. The non-linear narrative is littered with elements of magical realism, including auspicious peacocks, dream interpreters, and soothsayers who can see visions of death. The injustices of old age, forgotten upon the blossoming of an autumnal romance, are reminiscent of his Love in the Time of Cholera (1985). Like Macondo in One Hundred Years of Solitude (1967), Maran is both physically and culturally isolated from the rest of the world, and exists in a historical vacuum, seemingly unaffected by the passage of time. But when it came to Garcia Marquez’s propensity for melancholy endings, Abgaryan was determined to break the pattern. “I wanted to write a story that ends on a note of hope,” she said. “Humanity is in dire need of hope, of kind stories.”
Indeed, “hopeful” would seem to be the best word to describe this fabular tale. Save for one twist, the plot as a whole is rather unremarkable. However, although they may occasionally seem unnecessary or out of place, the stories are charmingly narrated and captivating enough, and there is something satisfying about the way in which all the little details fall together in the end. Even the supporting characters, though one-dimensional at times, are distinct and likeable in their own unique way. Ultimately, Three Apples Fell From The Sky, with its cheerfully optimistic conclusion, is unlikely to be the one book that changes your life as you spend the summer quarantining indoors. But it is a light, easy read, with a heartening message that wouldn’t go amiss with anyone seeking respite from the doom and gloom of the real world and its uncertain future. The story ends as it begins, with Anatolia Sevoyants “not knowing how many wonderful things awaited her,” and there is some comfort in the possibility that this could be true for all of us in this moment.
Nikita Mujumdar recently graduated from the London School of Economics, where she studied Economic History and hung out at the pub. Her interests include historical fiction, 20th century poetry, pirates, the Duchess of Cambridge, and falling in love at Christmas. Follow her on Twitter @NikitaWhoWrites for endless sub-tweeting.
