One of them had barely lit the fire when the one sitting farthest away spoke up, breaking the silence. “What good books are you guys reading?” He was holding a cigar.
Every eye around the fire glanced at the eyes across from them, wondering who would budge and say something.
“I’ve read some Russian literature,” said someone who’s face I couldn’t see. Her eyes were fixed on something she was fidgeting with in her lap. She seemed to know her answer was not, in fact, an answer, as did most everyone sitting around the fire. All heads turned back to the man, who had a blank look on his face.
“Crime and Punishment, Brother’s K, War and Peace? Which ones?”
Shoot. She slowly glanced up at him, examining any features she could make out in the dark. Why do you care? the furrowed eyebrows on her face were saying.
She tried to read him as he sat there away from everyone, like a stick next to a pile of sticks. He was sitting back; His brown loafers propped up on a log in front of him. He reminded me of college.
“Only excerpts of Crime and Punishment.” She stared into the fire, her left hand shading her face from the heat … and potential judgement.
No one said anything, except a bird that was chirping somewhere off in the woods. But it didn’t know any better.
Someone else spoke up, though, saving the other from practically melting into her chair from humiliation. He was sitting across from her, holding his bottle of beer dangerously close to the flame. He had a beard.
“Yeah… I’ve never liked any of those books,” he eyed the far-away man through the flames, which lit up a little smile on his face. Either way it was a good interception, and everyone quickly forgot the girl’s response.
All eyes turned to the far-off man, who stared piercingly into the soul the beard man. “Seriously?” he said. “You’ve probably read a minuscule number of books in your life. You think you can have an opinion like that?”
All eyes now turned to beard man, who, one could tell through the beard, looked surprised. He seemed to not be expecting something like that.
“Whatever man. It’s getting late” he said. He let his bottle go into the flame, and its crash let out a puff of smoke and sparks. He nudged the guy sitting next to him, rose from his seat, and left. The guy he nudged looked back after him with a confused look. He seemed not to know the beard man. The far away man chuckled to himself. Everyone else just stared into the fire.
For such great literature, no one seemed to want to talk about it. This was odd.
There was a bit of silence before everyone heard what seemed like a rumble. It was actually a whisper, coming from the man sitting closest to far away guy. It had a low, disgruntled “I hate you but I’m scared of you” tone. But no one understood what he said.
“What did you say?” a voice said.
“Those authors get Russian history all wrong,” the man blurted out. “That’s… yeah. I think they get it wrong.”
A few sat back in their chairs, relieved to have the tension meet its match, ready to be entertained.
“You must be joking,” came his response. “Russia’s history is complicated- The great oligarchs’ orthodoxy and nationalism were by far superior to the ruling despots of the age… it could not be more complex.”
His words sat there in the silence. Everyone, perhaps even him (though I doubt it) saw that this was in fact no response at all, but a comment. Brown loafers seemed pleased enough with it though, taking another puff of his cigar and eyeing the moon, like it had something to say too.
“Okay. I mean, we could talk about what you mean by that. But, and I may be wrong, I find much of the Russian literature I read, War and Peace especially, to generalize on a lot of the ideas and philosophies actually surfacing 19th century Russia.” His voice had become strong, but not intense. Things went silent again. The man added, “I teach AP Euro.” For context, I guess.”
The far away man looked uneasy for the first time (At that moment he’d lost his footing on the stump and his left loafer fell off, revealing a much-too-white sock.) He sat up quickly and put it back on. I think someone snickered, but I couldn’t tell.
A dog barked and broke the silence. It was far away man’s dog. He reclined up, his head whipped to look towards his house (we were on his property) and looked at his watch. The night was over.
It was only 9 o’clock, but Brown loafers was the only one with a watch.
They left the fire to die out on its own.
I drove home, picking up where I left off in my audiobook. I think it was called Brothers Karamazoo. It’s a nice story. I made a mental note to suggest it to the group next week.
