“I know one almost by heart, but let me see.”
He dug in his pocket and brought out a small journal, Bible sized, that had a rubber band around the center. It was a Bible, really, I realized, at least for Jack. He put the spine against the railing next to the river and slowly opened the journal. I’m not sure why, but I had imagined the journal as a big, wide book—like a scrapbook, maybe—but when I saw its dimensions, it made more sense. This was what a man might carry after the war. He could keep it in his pocket, as Jack did, and pull it out when it was time to make an entry. It wasn’t much different from my calendar book.
“I thought it would be bigger,” I said, leaning close to him to see the book.
“A woman should never say that to a man.”
He kept his eyes on the book, carefully paging through it. I bumped his shoulder. I loved seeing the tenderness with which he handled the journal. He did not rush to find the passage, but lingered on each small portion of it. Twice he stopped to show me pictures of his grandfather that were wedged among the pages: a tall, handsome man in uniform, the pictures grayed and cracked now with time. His grandfather’s eyes, in each picture Jack showed me, looked tired and hollow and sad. What made his expressions sadder and more poignant was the attempt, at the borders of his face, at the lines of his forehead, to smile for the camera. But he could not hide his sorrow and his feelings at coming through the horror of World War II.
I put my cheek against Jack’s shoulder. I wanted to watch his hands move slowly over the onionskin pages of the journal. Finally, he found the selection and tilted it for me to see. Then he read. His voice became solemn and quiet and filled with love.
“The swan swam on a small portion of water, its neck bent in a perfect curve. The angle of the morning light threw the swan’s reflection onto the surface so that it seemed to move with a companion, one matched to each slight movement.”
Beneath the passage, his grandfather had drawn a small sketch of a swan swimming among lily pads.
“That’s beautiful, Jack. It’s poetry, really.”
“I think he secretly wanted to write. We talked about it now and then. He read a great deal, mostly nineteenth-century novels. He shared books with me, and each year we read Ivanhoe together. We read it out on the porch at night before bedtime, and I loved that story and that memory. That’s why I guess I gave you such a hard time about your iPad. Have you ever heard someone say that books are places we visit and that when we run into people who have read the books we have read, it’s the same as if we had traveled to the same locations? We know something about them because they have lived in the same worlds we have lived. We know what they live for.”
Jack blushed. It was the first time I had seen him blush, and I liked him for it.
“I like knowing you have that feeling for literature.”
“Well, at least for my grandfather’s journal.”
“Is this the only copy? Would you mind if I held it?”
“I made a transcription. I typed it all in so that I would know each word. I guess that sounds funny. Honestly, I have most of it by heart.”
“That’s not funny at all,” I said, slowly receiving the book from Jack.
The journal had a nice weight and balance. I opened it and saw the inscription. It simply said his grandfather’s Christian name—Vernon, and his military ID number—and his address as Bradford, Vermont, USA. Beside it was an inked sketch of a tank. Whether the tank was German or Allied, I couldn’t tell.
“He was a farm boy, and he was dazzled by what he saw, and he really wrote beautifully. He was also hollowed out, I think. This trip filled him up again. I suppose I was hoping it would do that for me, too. This trip.”
“I’d like to read his journal if it wouldn’t be overstepping.”
“You’d be the fifth person in the world to read it. My mom and dad and my grandmother.”
I returned the journal to him. He put it carefully back together, reset the rubber band around it, and slid it in his pocket. Then he held my hand while we watched the swans paddle gracefully upstream. He told me to look for iridescence in the feathers. He said the legend was that the swans had once lived by eating light, but the gods had found their beauty threatening and made them hunger for grass instead. But the swans had eaten enough light that it could still sometimes be seen within them.
There was no need for a photograph.
There was no need for anything at all.
14
Back at the hostel, I had maybe the best shower of my life. I washed every inch of my body and shampooed and cream-rinsed my hair. Now and then, as I moved under the spray, I thought of Jack. Each time he came to mind, my body gave a small spasm. Jack Vermont. I didn’t even know his last name, although I now knew his grandfather’s first name and that his family came from Bradford, Vermont. For now, Jack was just Jack, my knight with a garbage can lid, my late-night horse whisperer. He had already taken too many of my thoughts.
When I stepped out, I found that Constance had texted me while I was in the shower. She had reached the same conclusion I had: it was weird to be passing through Amsterdam so quickly. We hadn’t seen a thing, really, except the inside of a party, and she had half a dozen sites she wanted to visit. We were leaving because of Amy, I remembered. We had an appointment in Prague, and I couldn’t recall all the details, but the plan permitted only a night and part of a day in Amsterdam. It was a bad plan, but because we hadn’t heard from Amy, we couldn’t change anything. I texted Constance and recommended we stick to the plan. She texted back, agreed reluctantly, and also said Raef called her his Sheila.
Back in the room, I sat on the bed and called my father. It took a long time for my dad to answer. When he did, I could tell he was in some sort of meeting or someplace he couldn’t talk easily. My dad was usually in some sort of meeting. He spoke quickly, in short bursts, and behind him I heard glasses tinkling and other people conversing.
“Hi, sweetheart,” he said. “How goes the grand European tour?”
“It’s great, Daddy. We’re in Amsterdam. It’s a gorgeous city.”
“How long will you be there?”
“We’re leaving today, I think. We’re bopping through because we have to get over to Prague to meet up with Amy’s cousins.”
“Well, that’s good,” he said, and then he evidently covered the phone and spoke to someone else. It was always hard to get his full attention, even long distance, when he was in a business environment. At home, he was a softie.
“Listen,” he said when he came back on, “I talked to Ed Belmont, and he’s really pleased you’re joining his team. It’s going to be long hours, but it will be worth it. You couldn’t learn from anyone better. There’s no limit on that position. But he said you didn’t fill out the paperwork yet. You can’t let these things go like that, Heather. You know better.”