Prompt Wednesday #3: War and Peace
Prompt: A character finds an old journal in a thrift store and becomes obsessed with finding its owner. (I’m going to take some liberty with this prompt.)
Max sat at the small circular kitchen table and eyed the whiteboard on the side of the fridge. Then he smiled and fluttered his bushy eyebrows at Gina. Gina put her steaming cup of black coffee to her lips and blew on the steam. And without looking up, she asked, “Whadday want to do this morning? It’s your Saturday.” Max did not answer rather he choose to sit back in his chair, tapping his fingers on his chin. Gina set her coffee down and searched for Max’s free hand until she found it. He waited. The game would only last as long as he didn’t answer. Gina knew better, so she waited too. And after a pause that felt like minutes but was probably mere seconds, Gina sought to motivate her young husband as only a bride can.
“Whatever your choice, remember, I’ve got the shower for Lisa at three. And I need to be back here to wrap my gift and get my car.”
Max smiled again. The game was underway, and only he had the power to end it.
“It’s going to be hot. If we were gonna get outside, shoulda done it sooner,” he quipped to himself.
Silently, Gina approved but added no commentary. Max took a stab at the last of his scrambled eggs and shoved it into his mouth. The eggs were cold and limp as was the toast that followed. Should I keep it up, he wondered. She’s been such a good sport.
“Alright.” He said, finally giving in, and thus losing the game. Slapping the sides of his legs he continued, “Let’s go thrifting. To Cal’s books, then Goodwill, then wherever.”
Gina looked away while hiding her smile with her coffee cup. She’d won their weekly game of “Who’ll Break First,” but more importantly Max had chosen an activity they both enjoyed. She put her coffee down and found Max’s eyes with her own. And reaching out to Max, she took his hand and mouthed the words thank you. He nodded. “Let’s get going.”
After noon, Gina and Max spilled into their front room with bags full of cheap blue jeans, a beach painting for the guest bathroom, and old books. Max loved old books. And today he’d found several classics he’s yet to read: Catcher in the Rye, King Lear, and War and Peace.
“Can you hang the painting in the bathroom, above the toilet? While I’m gone,” asked Gina.
“Yes. I can. In fact, I’ll do it right now.”
Gina welled up as Max went to retrieve his tools.
A few minutes later, Max called out from the bathroom for Gina’s approval. The painting was straight and fit the room perfectly. Isn’t that wonderful, she thought. Then she reached out for Max and hugged him tight. And the couple stood and swayed for a moment. And for the first time in months, Gina didn’t want to go see the girls. And Max did not want her to leave.
When Gina left for the shower, Max let the peace wash over him. The counselor was right. What took years to break was now took years to fix. And despite the trial of the last year, mornings like this were more common than before, like little green shoots from the blackness. Max said a quick prayer of gratitude then grabbed his new used copy of War and Peace.
He turned the book over in his hands and tossed it a bit to feel the weight of it. The Tolstoy novel is famous but rarely read, mostly because of it’s length. Had Tolstoy existed in modern times, in the West, his masterpiece would’ve been divided into four books and five movies with costumed people lining at conventions for an autograph. Thankfully, Tolstoy was unburdened by shareholders and soundbite media. I hope this worth reading, Max thought.
He chose to sit in the brown overstuffed chair in the living room. The sun light poured into the room through the big bay windows, but where he sat was the perfect amount of natural light. And happy with his choice of seat, Max began a more thorough examination of the inside of the book, the front and back covers first. Nothing special. But then on the second blank page inside the front cover, was a note written in what looked to be Russian, spanning the entire page. The date in the upper right corner was written in standard European format (day, month, year.) And this note was written August 5th, 1968. Wow, thought Max. He quickly thumbed through the rest of the book for more. The fuzzy corners and dusty edges made the novel appear more used than it was. This book has never been read, Max concluded. And then, he remembered his neighbor Yergin.
Yergin was in sixties, having moved to the United States as a young child with his parents. Their path to California started with a clandestine car ride from Kiev to East Berlin. And the journey ended three months later in sunny Sacramento. Yergin was barely five, and thus was more American than Russian by the time he graduated high school. By the time he graduated from Chico State, he’d lost his accent altogether. Only when he said his name or when he was caught talking to his mother, did people hear it. Max had heard him on the phone at the July 4th cookout. And now, he wondered if Yergin could read Russian too.
Yergin was out in his garage tinkering on an old Volvo when Max announced himself.
“Hey Ginny, how’s it looking?”
“Ah, Max, how are ya? The alternator is shot and it probably needs a new exhaust manifold,” replied as he leaned away from the car and began to clean his greasy hands on a rag.
“I wish I knew more about cars. Seems like a manly thing.”
”Me too,” laughed Yergin. “What can I do you for?”
Ordinarily, Max would play the polite game before getting down to business, but Yergin didn’t need smalltalk.
“I bought a copy of War and Peace.”
”Oh? Did you read it?”
“Yes, well. No. I mean, I am,” answered Max, trying too hard to be honest.
“What I mean is, I was just about to start reading it when I found an inscription on an inside flap. I believe the note is in Russian. When you have a second, could you read it and tell me what it says? Not right now, but whenever.”
Yergin stuffed the rag into his back pocket and lit a cigarette. Then he leaned against the Volvo and looked as though he might speak. He started and stopped several times, motioning his hand with each attempt. Max thought the scene was both comical and dramatic.
“What are the odds you found an english copy of War and Peace with a Russian inscription?” he finally asked.
“Low? I guess. What are you getting at?”
“It’s nothing. Just a thought. Let’s get a look at your book. Bring it over, I’ll clean my hands while you’re gone.”
Five minutes later, Max found Yergin on a wooden bench on his front porch, puffing away on a cigarette. And as soon as Max began to hand over the novel, Yergin’s face drained and Max felt the wind blow at his back. Yergin tamped his cigarette out on the concrete slab beneath his seat and tossed the butt into a bucket. And he clutched the novel with both hands. Max sat down beside his neighbor and remained quiet. At first, Yergin sat there, the book still in his hands, held at chest level. Then Yergin turned to Max with wide eyes and shallow breath. And though it wasn’t dirty, Yergin wiped the cover and set the book in his lap. He let his head sink and he stared at the object like a lost treasure.
“It can’t be.” he whispered as tears formed in his eyes.
Max remained quiet and focused.
Slowly, Yergin turned the front cover to the blank first page and then to the second. A visible shiver shot through him and he raised his hands in surrender. And then, just barely aloud, “It is.” Then the old man took out his spectacles, flattened the page with his left hand, and began to read. “Privet, syn. My tebya ochen' lyubim.” Yergin closed his eyes and drew a deep breath.
With tears streaming down his face, he turned to Max. “This is for me. From my dad. He gave me this copy for my sixteenth birthday. I never read it. I’ve never read these words.”
Max didn’t know what to say. “Good. Right?” he said, hedging his bet.
“Oh yes, Max. Very good. Do you mind if I keep it for a little while. I want to read the rest of the note. Alone.”
Max nodded and placed his hand on Yergin’s shoulder. “Take all the time you need, brother. No explanations needed.”
“Thank you,” whispered Yergin as he dried his eyes and lit another cigarette.
Max nodded once more and got up to walk home. Can’t wait to tell Gina about this. She’ll love it. And as Max was about to step off the porch, Yergin caught him by the hand. Max turned to see Yergin’s snotty yet stern face glaring up at him. Max sat back down on the edge of the bench and waited for Yergin to speak.
“Don’t ignore the people you love, Max. This book, this note from my parents to me, is a gift. A true gift, in my old age. But it’s not normal. Write the notes and read the notes. You understand?”
Max nodded and fought back the swell in his chest.
“Do you?” asked Yergin again, more for emphasis.
“Yes.” replied Max and as he eased off the bench.
Back in his brown chair, Max was overcome thinking about Yergin and his parents. And then, for a long stretch, he thought about Gina, his lovely wife. He thought about how he loved her and hated her. How she looked in sweatpants and knew when he needed a real massage. How she made excuses for being late and rolled her eyes when he mentioned it. And he concluded he loved and hated the important people in his life at one point or another. Probably the way real love works, he thought. And then he thought once more about Yergin and his parents. And with a laugh he whispered to the himself “write the notes and read the notes.”
