Samovar

I was rearranging the Chekhov shelf when the shop door-chime jingled. I turned around and spied a young man entering, his eyes blinking in the low light. I watched him intently as he ordered tea at the espresso counter from Yegor, who wore his usual smirk while pouring tea for the newcomer. The man walked slowly about the cramped book shop. He circled oddly around different sections of the shop, eyes swiveling around, taking in all his surroundings. I noticed he would glance over his shoulder suspiciously every few minutes, as if demons lurked among the book shelves or behind the espresso counter. His routine became somewhat boring to me, and I shrugged and returned to work, placing Chekhov anthologies in their proper place. I put the strange man and his wanderings out of my mind. 

I was checking the alphabetization of the Chekhov section when I heard a man say in English, “Excuse me.” I turned around and saw the young man facing me, delicately holding his tea cup by it’s tiny porcelain handle.

“Can I help you?” I replied in Russian, glancing impatiently back at my pile of un-placed books.

“Yes, are you someone I can talk to about selling books here?” He replied in fluent Russian. I felt my eyebrows raise in suspicion. 

“You want to work here as a book seller?” I said. “I’m afraid we aren’t hiring now.”

“I’m sorry, I meant I would like you to sell my books here. I’m a poet.” He said, looking intently at me.

“Ah, I see...” I said, smirking slightly. This man did not have the air of a poet. He certainly didn’t have the physique. He was built like a boxer.

“I do war poetry” the man continued, as if answering a question. He gingerly raised the tea cup to his lips, not breaking his gaze from me.

“Are you a warrior then?” I asked sarcastically, my smile growing broader. I knelt down and started placing books back in their places. Anthologies here, short stories there.

“I served in the U.S. Marines. I was in Iraq all ten years. I was one of the first in. Last to be out.”

“And you write poetry! An interesting passion for a soldier.” I said, not looking up at him. I knew he was still staring at me, not rudely, but with calm conviction.

“It’s the only sane thing to do in Iraq. Fight or write poetry.” He said. I put the last book in it’s place, stood up and said.

“Come, sit over here with me.” I motioned graciously to an unoccupied table in the small cafe section of the old book store. He walked over and sat down slowly. He placed a small backpack on the table. I sat down opposite him. “Yegor Vlasich, bring this man another tea. And something for me, Americano, please.” I said loudly. Yegor grunted from behind the counter. The wail of espresso filled the cramped store. 

The young man waited in silence, looking around slowly at the shop. I followed his gaze to the old literature section with the weighty volumes of Tolstoy and Dostoevsky. His head swiveled languidly to examine the contemporary literature section, which was dwarfed by the volume of older writing in the surrounding shelves. Old books of poetry and novella’s were stacked on top of each other on most of the shelving. Ancient engravings hung on the walls, faded and torn with age. I watched as he turned around to see the sagging espresso counter, with it’s contrasting massive jars of tea leaves and the shiny new espresso machine, sitting in sleek counterpoint to it’s surroundings. He gazed out the windows, which were warped with age, each surrounded with elaborate tracery. Eventually he turned to me. “How long has this book store been in business?”

“One hundred years.” I stated simply, letting it sink in a bit. “It has survived the communist revolution, two world wars, the fall of communism and a myriad other troubles. You can read the world’s upheavals in the books here like growth rings on an old tree. We have the communist manifesto, Mein Kampf, A Farewell to Arms, The Master and Margarita, Slaughterhouse Five. We have it all. All here in this old place.”

I sat back in my old wooden chair and breathed in the old musty smell of books and the sharp acidity of coffee. “You can smell it. One hundred years of knowledge. One hundred years of quiet conversations, spilled tea, old books opened and closed. Stories told and stories forgot.” The young man looked at me skeptically, then inhaled deeply. He closed his eyes. 

“I’m Thomas, by the way.” He said, eyes still closed. “Thomas Hart Lowell.” 

“Ivan Fyodorovich Vasnetsov.” I replied. Yegor walked over with my coffee and Thomas’ tea. He placed them down carefully in front of us. 

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything transcendental.” He muttered sardonically. 

“Nothing of the sort.” I said. I turned to Thomas. “So why should we sell your books? What’s your...pitch, as the Americans say.” He opened his eyes and reached into his backpack. He withdrew three small books, all unassuming and dully colored. He pushed them to my side of the table.

“I’ve published three collections of poems in America. They’re not selling especially well. I suppose war poetry is a kind of niche market back home.” He said.

“And why come to Russia to peddle your wares?” I asked.

“Because I admire the Russian soul. I believe your people will appreciate the voice of my work. I studied in Russia before leaving to Join the Marines, so I feel like I have a good understanding of your culture.” He said, and sipped his tea.

“Ah, yes. The Russian soul. You’ll find, Thomas, that the Russian soul is tired from conflict. What makes you think your war poetry will find a home here?” I asked. I took one of his books and flipped through it. Thomas took a long time to respond. I waited somewhat impatiently.

“Well...my poetry does not glorify war nor does it dwell on it entirely. It is war from my point of view, from the people’s point of view and that of the enemy.” He sat back in his sagging wooden chair and looked patiently at me. I read some of his poems in the ensuing silence. He was good. His work was subtle, rich, and moving, action filled yet slow and somber. It switched in tempo from funeral march to battle cry, contemplative to celebratory. I noticed my eyebrows were raising incrementally as I read. Eventually I snapped the book close. I sat, pondering, and eventually spoke.

“Did you know I was a warrior once too?” I said. I sipped my coffee. Thomas shook his head. I placed my coffee down gently on the stained old table. “Yes, I fought and killed. You’ve no doubt heard of the Soviet war in Afghanistan”

“Yes I’ve heard. America funded the Mujahideen. We helped defeat you.” He said quietly.

“Yes, you and other nations lined up to buy stinger missiles for the freedom fighters. You know I’ve seen a Mujahideen take down a Russian helicopter with one of those missiles? He grinned like an idiot right afterward. I was too slow to take him down before that. His little group of fighters was too well hid in the mountain rocks. So I snuck up on them with my squad and I shot him right in the heart.” I pointed at my chest. “Right here, in the heart. The seat of love and emotion. Blasted out by a hot bullet.” He looked away at the book shelves, embarrassed or contemplative. “I don’t blame you, Thomas. Your government feared us. They would do anything to stop our military. And now the Taliban are killing your troops and destroying your helicopters with the guns you bought them so eagerly.”

“Death comes full circle.” He said.

“There is no karma is war, my friend.” I said. “There is no justice. No reason”

        “Only poetry.” He said. We sipped our drinks in silence.

Painting by Aleksandr Mikhailovich