History
The lady sat on the bench, staring at the picture, just like she did every Saturday, a half smile on her lips. A museum guard came by and nodded to the other one standing by on a corner, and then sat on a free seat to her left.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he whispered. “May I ask you an… odd question?”
She turned to look at him, blinking as if she had been elsewhere.
“Excuse me? Oh, you’re a museum guard… Sorry, are you supposed to interact with visitors like this?”
The guard nodded. “Indeed, but I’m off duty,” he said, and pointed a finger to his companion. “And I’m Italian, and too direct, or so I’m told,” he smiled. “Davide,” he added, and extended his hand.
The woman looked at him, and offered hers. “Irina.”
Davide turned and looked at the picture. “It’s about this painting. I’ve noticed how you come in every Saturday and sit here, and stay watching it for a long time.” He noticed how she looked at him, but kept talking. “Many people do that kind of thing, and we guards tend to notice patterns. The odd thing is…”
Davide hesitated.
“Why this painting?” she offered.
“Yes. Far be it from me to underestimate any painter, but we do have other, more… famous works of art in the museum. Those are the ones who attract people, not this piece. Yet here you are, every week. And I’m too curious for my own good, to be honest,” he smiled.
“Yes you are, Davide”, she said.
They stayed there in silence for a couple of minutes, focusing on the painting. On the canvas, a peasant Russian couple looked on their son, who was playing with a curious-looking wooden toy made of interacting cogs and wheels. She spoke up.
“Look at the boy in the painting, then look at me,” she said. “Carefully.”
Davide made it so. He stared at the boy, taking in all the details that he already knew by heart. Then he looked at her, and tried to do it the same way, as if she was part of a painting. He saw the line of her jaw, her nose, almost from the same angle the boy was painted on.
And he knew.
“That boy is my grand-grandfather, Alexei,” Irina said. “His family left Russia to come here when he was ten. In fact, that was less than a year after the painting was finished. I used to come here with my grandfather, Pavel, when I was little. He always said I looked exactly like his father in the painting.
“My grandfather was born here. Russian was not his first language, though he spoke and wrote it. He married another Russian immigrant, my grandmother Irina,” she smiled, her gaze always upon the painting. “I’m named after her. My mom speaks Russian but barely reads it, and my dad is Irish. I can hardly speak it now: I can only remember the songs my grandfather used to sing to me.
“This painting is all I’ve got left of him. Of Russia. Of a land he loved, even though he never set foot on her.
“So, every Saturday I come here and watch the painting, like I did when I was a child. And I remember my grandfather telling me the stories his dad, the engineer boy on the canvas, told him, and I see history in there. The history of my family. My history.”
Davide stayed silent, then nodded, even though Irina’s eyes never left the picture. He stood.
“Thank you,” he said. And he walked out.
~~~~
This is my entry for the Weekly Writing Exercise: June 8–14, 2015 at the Google+ Writer’s Discussion Group.
This week was strange: I had the idea for the story the next day the challenge was published, but my week was so hectic I didn’t have time to write it until Friday morning. Aside from that, it came out pretty much as I thought it would. A completely different story from what I usually write, I’d say.
