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aarghhaaaarrrghhh · 6 months ago

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A Summer in a Pioneer's Neckerchief/Лето в пионерском галстуке - Chapter Ten

Masterpost here

Chapter Ten - An Evening of Kisses

Working in isolation and silence turned out to be truly productive. Without expecting it himself, Yurka finished rewriting the lines for Olezhka’s character so quickly that he managed not simply to turn up to the rehearsal, but even to get there a few minutes before it began. Gladdened by the sole thought that the script was finally done, Yurka ran into the theatre.

Inside, it was almost empty. Only two people were present in the hall: Masha and Volodya, whilst the rest of the troupe had not yet finished their communal aid work and were scurrying about the camp with spades, brooms and cleaning rags. Brandishing the pages over his head, Yurka sped towards the stage. Focussed only on not tripping or falling with all his one-hundred-and-seventy-five centimetres of height, he did not recognise right away that something had changed in the theatre.

Stopping abruptly, Yurka looked at the stage and an unfamiliar, stinging sensation made him make a face – Masha was playing the piano, while Volodya leaned over her and listened. Yurka came back to his senses, as though from a dream. His ears pricked up and he almost let the script pages fall from his hands – what Masha was playing was not the Moonlight Sonata at all, but something else, something to Yurka more beautiful, more beloved and far more hated. The unknown sensation stung him even more painfully when he realised with effort and a squeak that it was Tchaikovsky, the Lullaby. The very same piece that he had discussed with Volodya, the very same with which Yurka had failed the exam.

Masha was playing it incorrectly. Masha was playing it repulsively, like she could not see the notes: speeding up where she was not supposed to, then slowing down, then completely missing certain keys. The sounds would blend into a harmony, then twist into a cacophony, and the caterwauling began to give Yurka a headache. But Volodya, judging by everything, liked it. At ease, he stood with his elbows on the lid of the piano and nodded along. Masha, satisfied with herself, lifted her gaze from the keys, looked at him with infatuation and smiled.

“Not bad, but you still need some practice,” said the director softly once she had finished. “But there’s not much time left. Do you think you’ll manage?”

Masha nodded:

“The I’ll start practising right now, while you’re doing the rehearsal. Is that okay?”

“Of course,” replied Volodya.

“Ahem!” Yurka cleared his throat as loudly as he could, in order to announce his presence.

Having taken notice of him, Volodya immediately squared his shoulders.

“Oh, hi! Have you brought the completed script?”

“Yes,” replied Yurka drily.

“Excellent. You know, I’ve found a role for you.”

“Where did you take it from?”

“It was always there. You just never got around to reading the script the whole way through.” And Volodya was in fact right. Fixated on Olezhka’s lines alone, Yurka had completely forgotten about the other roles. “The Gestapo officer Krauz. It’s a secondary role, but an important one. There’s not many lines, but you need to know them by heart by tomorrow. Do you think you’ll manage?” he repeated the same words that he had used with Masha. It made Yurka cringe.

He did not want it. Playing a German, even one killed off over the course of the play, was unconscionable; in his soul, he viewed it as a betrayal, although he understood that he was greatly exaggerating. But all the same, his grandma had lost her husband, his mum had lost her father and he himself, even in photographs, had never seen his grandad. But if he were to refuse the role, he would have to explain all of this to Volodya, and he did not want to get into his ‘pitiful’ – as he called it disdainfully – family history, much less in front of Masha. It was discussed at every family gathering, every encounter with his relatives and friends, each time with new details, so that Yurka, in spite of everything, had grown to feel ashamed of it.

To him, it seemed somehow vulgar, a bit too Jewish, too much like the stories of a thousand other families who lived in Germany and the occupied territories at that time. His grandma had many a time told others and Yurka himself about how she had lost his grandfather, and how she had searched for him afterwards. Yurka knew by heart with what effort his grandfather had tried several times to send her, while pregnant, out of Germany to Russia before the Holocaust began in earnest, how he eventually managed to get her and should have followed after her but disappeared. How she had waited for him and how fanatically she then searched for him among those relatives in Europe who had miraculously survived. How the trail led her to Dachau; she had heard tell of it, and she feared terribly, but in spite of all common sense, to the end of her days she believed that the old man might have made it out.

His grandma died and the story was no longer told, but, evidently, it was Yurka’s turn to tell it. With Volodya, he might have been able to share it, but with Masha – no, not for anything, never.

“Alright then,” mumbled Yurka listlessly as he held out the pages with the script, copywritten from Volodya’s notebook in Volodya’s own hand. He began to drawl dismally, “Are you really from Leningrad? Your city was taken a long time ago and if Fraulein would agree to render a little service to the Hitlerite command…”

“No, not now,” Volodya broke him off. “Learn them by heart first, then we’ll rehearse them. Right now, we’d just get in your way, so… you can go be free.”

“Meaning?” Yurka was dumbstruck, his mouth agape. “What, you’re making me leave?”

“No, no!” hurried Volodya to justify himself. “I’m just giving you a well-deserved day off. You could learn your role, you could simply rest – you have done a lot of work. However, do as you like.”

Yurka, of course, remained there. All his former enthusiasm blew away like the wind and his mood did not merely drop, but crash. Even when Volodya solemnly presented the new script to Olezhka, who had arrived soon after and who thanked them both and began to read through the lines, no kind of cheerfulness lit up inside Yurka.

Once the whole troupe had gathered in the theatre hall, the kids began to split off for their individual scenes of the play. Volodya was expertly directing the young performers, Polina and Ksyusha were giggling about something with an intrigued look, while Yurka, dejected, sat in his habitual spot in the first row and fought the urge to cover his ears with his hands. Masha clattered on the piano as she learnt the composition, while Yurka could not listen to somebody else perform his competition piece.

He had played the Lullaby so many times before that he felt himself not the performer, but its composer. It had resounded inside his head for so many hours, he had spent so many hours at the piano, committing it to memory and experimenting with it, searching for the ideal sound and trying to guess how the composer himself had imagined the piece. He had given so much of his spirit to the Lullaby that it seemed to Yurka to be his own. And now someone else was playing it!

Masha. She was playing it back in her head, getting the feel of it, attuning the beat of her heart to its tempo and rhythm, making it the music of her own soul and time. And worst of all – she was only playing the Lullaby to please Volodya, so that he would like her. And he really did like it! He was constantly pulling away from the rehearsal to go up to Masha, nodding along with satisfaction and saying something quietly. To Yurka, it seemed he was praising her.

It appeared that Yurka was the only one who understood that Masha was not playing it how it should be, that she was playing poorly and completely incorrectly. He knew that he could play it far better and that Volodya would like it even more. But to force himself to even approach the keys was like death to him.

And Masha played and played. She finished, began again from the top, finished again, began again. In the end, Yurka could not withstand it.

He bounded up onto the stage and just about restrained himself from slamming the lid and crushing Masha’s fingers.

“Stop it!” he cried out. “That’s enough playing, I said!”

Masha pulled her hands away from the instrument and stared at Yurka in fright. A tense silence reigned in the hall. Everyone present abandoned what they had been doing: Olezhka froze while looking through his script, which he had rolled up into a tube to use as a spyglass, Volodya – whilst in the middle of taking a seat, Polina and Ksyusha – with their hands over their mouths, Petlitsyn – with an accordion in his hands. Everyone turned their heads and observed Yurka raptly. It did not matter to him. He was no longer in control of himself.

“Masha, this is nauseating!” he shouted in irritation. “You’re playing a lullaby like some kind of polka! Where is your accompaniment flying off to? Why is it swallowing the main motif? You know what else? Here,” he jabbed his fingers at the notes, “should be softer. And why aren’t you using the pedal? Can you not feel the music at all? Don’t you understand how this piece is meant to go at all?!” He paused for breath and slightly quieter, but far more wickedly, he strained through his teeth, “Masha, you’re a complete hack!”

For the first couple of seconds, while frozen, she digested what she was hearing, then her lips began to quiver. Yurka read ‘You’re one to talk’ on them, but Masha could not bring herself to say it out loud; she just gasped helplessly. And then she began to cry quietly.

“Cry as much as you like, it won’t change anything!” declared Yurka and right after felt he was being grabbed by the elbow and pulled aside.

“Let’s get out of here,” hissed Volodya, dragging him from the stage and, after that, towards the exit from the theatre.

“Yura, what was that about?!” Volodya burst into anger. “What am I meant to make of it?”

But Yurka, scowling, kept silent.

“You’ve gone and done it! Don’t you think that that was too much?” said Volodya, slightly more calmly.

He leant back against the wall and closed his eyes, tired. Yurka felt such an emptiness open up inside him that he did not have the strength to even raise his voice.

“Enough lecturing me,” he snapped back inertly. “Is this why you asked me to leave? You knew that I’d shout at her?”

“Yes,” replied Volodya simply.

“Am I that predictable?” This thought brought Yurka’s spirits even lower: could he really be so straightforward that even his most personal, deep reactions could be guessed in a heartbeat?

“No,” replied Volodya without thinking. “I just don’t care what you say.”

Yurka lifted his eyes, full of surprise, at him. It seemed that Volodya foresaw that reaction of his too, since he immediately bowed his head without looking. An uncomfortable silence hung over them.

Yurka did not know what to say, nor whether something needed to be said in the first place. One thing he did know was that he did not want Volodya to go away then. But he needed to return to the rehearsal, while before his departure, he would, of course, give Yurka his reprimand. So it went. Even though only a couple of minutes before, Yurka was asking Volodya not to lecture him anymore, he still gave the counsellor cause:

“Do you even realise that you acted cruelly?” Volodya at last bestowed his gaze upon him. It was direct – eye-to-eye – and severe like never before.

“Cruel?” Yurka snorted. “It was Masha who was acting cruelly. She doesn’t understand what she’s playing at all, Volod! This is classical music, it’s complicated, it can’t be understood in ten minutes! You can’t just take the notes, look at them and play. You need to feel it. You need to submerge yourself in the music, envelope yourself within it, let it pass through you. My heart bleeds when I hear Masha’s spasming! It’s enough to make Tchaikovsky himself turn in his grave!”

Volodya listened to him, raising and lowering his eyebrows now and then.

“Do you understand?” asked Yurka with his final breath. “You don’t understand anything… You need to leave with music, like I did, to understand–”

“I understand in principle,” said Volodya. “Probably not as well as you, but still… It’s hard for you, but that doesn’t change the fact that you treated Masha very badly. Yur, you know the only person who knows anything much about your musical past is me! And Masha has nothing to do with it. When the roles were given out, she was assigned to play. Now what am I supposed–” he faltered. “No, I’m not going to kick her out.”

“I’m not asking you to kick her out! Don’t give her the Lullaby, I can’t listen to it!”

“And what if we don’t give it to her? Since it’s so hard for you to listen to her playing, play it yourself! You know this composition, you can do it better–”

“No!” Yurka broke him off abruptly. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Why?”

“Because! I can’t, and that’s it!”

“And what do you suggest we do? You don’t like how Masha plays, you don’t want to play yourself–”

“Oh, let Masha play, just not that piece!”

“But it suits us perfectly! And Masha suits us, while you… You need to ask her forgiveness!”

“Is that so! I not asking anybody anything! Ever!”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘They’ll make the offer themselves and give everything themselves!’”[1] Volodya rolled his eyes and suddenly shook his head and smiled: “Oh, what a child you are.”

“You’re a child! I’m not afraid of apologising. It’s just that Masha, she… she drives me mad!”

Volodya laughed joylessly and spread his hands.

“Wherever you look, all the girls are driving you mad.”

“Not true!” exclaimed Yurka, though, to his horror, he understood that Volodya was right.

Yurka wanted terribly to be mistaken, he wanted to like someone else as strongly as this spiteful, malicious, always-right-about-everything counsellor. But no. Then and there, Yurka was not truly attracted to anybody, apart from him. Then and there, Volodya was not actually mistaken. Yurka decided to at least let him think he was. But he had not yet decided to lie.

“I liked one,” he confessed honestly. “Anya. She stayed here last year, but she didn’t come back this year.”

“Ah… so there it is,” Volodya’s smile changed from arrogant to artificial. “And there’s absolutely no-one this season?”

“Well… no, probably not.” Yurka reflected, but suddenly, obeying some mad impulse rather than common sense, he almost spilt his own guts: “That is… there is somebody, but I don’t exist to… her.”

He cut off his own air supply with his own words. His head span, he felt sick, and a sticky fear squeezed his neck. The thought Now! Tell him now. You’ll never get another chance like this! battered around his head. But he could not make his mind up. Silent, he looked Volodya in the face intently.

He finally wiped the smile off his face. Volodya looked Yurka in the eye just as fixedly, but, unlike him, it was not soft; not asking, but demanding.

“Who is she?” he asked seriously.

“A girl from my block,” replied Yurka.

He could not tell Volodya the truth because he himself did not know the whole truth. In the depths of his soul he hoped that it would all pass.

But still, if he risked it and told him – what then? Not directly, but abstractly, somehow. That would not hurt anyone, after all. In the end, what the older comrade said in reply to Yurka could come in useful in the future. Yurka, to tell the truth, did not have close friends – only ‘the kids from the block’, but with them it was all just a laugh, there was nothing personal or honest. True, Yurka was not entirely honest with Volodya either, but that was another matter – that was out of necessity.

“Do you just like her? Or… or is it more than ‘just’?” the voice Volodya made was cold and hoarse, so alien and the tone so harsh that Yurka did not recognise him.

That tone of voice fit neither Volodya’s face nor the situation. However, the situation seemed somehow unreal to Yurka: the camp, the pioneers, the summer, the heat. But inside him – cold. It was as though Yurka was not there, but in some sombre November instead, and was watching Volodya and himself from the sidelines; it was like he was watching two films simultaneously: the image from one of them, the sound from another.

“More than ‘just’…” he sighed and turned away, not in the state of mind to withstand Volodya’s gloomy look.

“Mm… That’s good,” he replied evenly.

“Good?” Yurka’s jaw dropped. “There’s nothing good about it! I– It’s like– I’ve probably fallen in love– I don’t know, I’m not sure. It’s just that nothing like this has ever happened to me before. And there’s nothing good about it! It��s hard for me, I don’t get it, and it’s not very nice, either!”

“But why have you decided that you don’t exist to her? Have you confessed to her?” Volodya dragged his sneakers along the asphalt. Yurka saw neither his face nor his pose – he was examining the bushes.

“No. That would be pointless,” he whispered sadly. “She’s from a different hmm… circle. She’s never fancied someone like me before and she never will. She simply doesn’t notice me; she sees me, but she doesn’t see me. It’s like I don’t exist to her. But there’s nothing really to blame her for, nor me either. That’s just how it’s turned out.”

“Of course, neither her nor you are to blame for anything. But you know, I don’t quite believe that you can not pay attention to such a troublemaker as you,” Volodya’s tone shifted, becoming warmer.

And this warmth, his words and Yurka’s understanding that Volodya honestly wanted to support him gave him courage. Yurka determined to ask the most important question:

“What would you do in my place? How would you behave? Would you confess to her, knowing for one-hundred percent certainty that it’s unrequited?”

“And what would you lose if you confessed?”

“Everything.”

“It’s not worth thinking so categorically.”

“I’m not thinking categorically, that’s just how it is. If she found out, then her attitude towards me would change and nothing would be the same as before. And that means that I’d be losing what I have now. And we’ll never have anything better than what we have now.”

“Is it all really that hopeless?”

“Completely,” Yurka nodded, and he hurried Volodya: “So how would you act?”

Volodya took a breath and cracked his knuckles. Yurka lifted his gaze and saw Volodya adjusting his glasses. Not like usual – by the sides, but the way he did it when he was nervous – prodding himself absurdly on the bridge of his nose.

Sensing himself being watched by another, Volodya turned away from Yurka and expressed himself stiffly, without forethought:

“If I were in love, then I would be focussed on making my beloved happy,” Volodya emphasised the final word. “I’d be more focussed on their happiness than anyone else’s, even my own. Therefore, I’d only do what would do them good. And if that meant not getting involved, then I would not get involved. Even further, if that person would be better off with someone else, I’d not only step back, but encourage them to find that somebody else.”

“Doing like you say is probably right and good. But then how are you meant to live?”

“Go on living like you have,” shrugged Volodya.

“Doing all that for them, sacrificing yourself? That’s insane, or something…” snorted Yurka. It looked like Volodya really was too mature, while he was a complete child, since he did not understand him completely. Or did he not want to understand? Or was he scared of such a fate?

Volodya replied stiffly:

“Why did you decide upon the word ‘sacrificing’ in particular? A sacrifice is voluntary, you don’t have to make it. But this is something completely different – you don’t have a choice, nor any other way out. Yura, think about this: if you had everything you wanted and you were completely happy, but she was unhappy, how would you feel? You wouldn’t give a damn if your beloved was suffering!” Volodya said resolutely, with bitterness, pronouncing each word louder than the one before. “Yur, know that if, while doing something for your loved one, you’re worried that you’re not getting something, then you’re selfish. In which case, I have good news – that’s not any sort of love, because in love there is no egoism.”

Yurka listened to him attentively but could not find what to say. One thing became clear: if Yurka were to have Volodya’s intelligence, he would have gathered without any hints that what he had was not any sort of ‘love’, but rather a load of childish prattle. It was all so logical, all so simple, all so real!

A wave of relief washed over Yurka, and he felt instantly lighter. Following the relief came a firm conviction that his feelings for Volodya would certainly pass. That everything was alright, that it was all temporary, that he would absolutely be restored to peace with himself, he just needed to wait.

But that would come after, while right then Yurka needed something with which to reply. If only so as not to end the conversation on such an unpleasant note.

Barely restraining his smile, Yurka mumbled the first thing that came into his head and immediately regretted it:

“You’re talking about, like… you know, what’s it called – unrequited love? But you didn’t get that from thin air, right? You’ve gone through similar?”

“I have,” replied Volodya, without looking at Yurka. After a brief pause, he crossed his hands over his chest and crossly rasped out, “And I am.”

An avalanche of double-edged emotions rained down on Yurka. He was glad that Volodya trusted him, glad that he had found out something new of his, something hidden from others. But at the same time, he was racked by a fierce envy, that it was a girl and not him.

“Why aren’t you with her?” mumbled Yurka, deflated.

“Because it’s the right way.”

“But where did get the idea that the person you love would be better with someone else instead of you?”

“I didn’t ‘get the idea’, I know it.”

“But wouldn’t she be better off with someone who’s ready to do anything for her sake, who loves her so much?”

“With someone else, yes. But not with me.”

“But why?”

“Because I’m not a saint, Yura! Don’t make me prove something to you. I’m not going to, anyway.”

“Have it your way… Fine,” Yurka paused, and then he remembered and repeated Volodya’s questions in a wooden voice, “Who is she?”

“I won’t say. It’s too personal,” he replied harshly.

“Don’t you trust me? You said I was your friend.”

“Think what you want, I won’t say.”

“Give her a name, at least. We’ll need to call her something the next time we ta–”

“We’re not going talk about her anymore.”

Yurka wanted to be hurt, but he could not. He understood excellently what it was like to be afraid to reveal even a first name. But, on the other hand, Volodya’s actual answer of ‘I won’t say’ made it sound like it was impossible for him not to think about her.

Volodya might have answered in an unspecific way, like Yurka had: a girl from his block, or a classmate, or just given a random name. But no! He chose to say ‘I won’t say’, as though her name or a couple of words about her characteristics might concretely give away a specific person. And what was this secret for? What, was she a famous person, or… or did Yurka know her? Was she a friend? From the camp?

His line of thought was interrupted by Volodya:

“That’s enough about me. Are you really not interested in anyone else, huh? There’s a lot of pretty girls around.”

“There aren’t any like her. And what’s it to do with me? Even if I liked someone else, they wouldn’t like me back,” he shrugged. “I’m not like you. Everyone’s gone crazy for you.”

“Oh come on, it’s not everyone,” questioned Volodya sceptically.

“The majority. Our theatre isn’t a theatre, it’s the Vladimir Davydov harem!” Volodya burst out laughing. Given heart by the smile that flitted across his face, Yurka started trying to prove it: “I told you how the girls begged me to bring you to the disco.”

“I remember something like that, yes,” answered Volodya, further lightening up a little bit.

“Because of it, Ksyusha has to kiss me in front of everyone… on the cheek… twice!”

“Oh-hoh!” Volodya clicked his tongue.

“Uh-huh! But I’d forgotten about that until now somehow…”

“Do you want to?”

“And how!”

Volodya thought about it for a couple of seconds.

“Listen,” he pronounced quietly, making his mind up on something. “Since that’s the deal, do you want me to come to the disco? Right this very night?”

“Of course I want you to!” Yurka pictured the expression of shock Ksyusha would have when he told her that he had upheld his part of the bargain and was now waiting for her to do hers.

“Then it’s agreed! As soon as we’ve finished, I’ll go convince Lena to get changed. For now, let’s go back to the rehearsal; there’s still another half hour ‘til the end.”

“You go,” Yurka waved his hand. “Firstly, I’ve got time off today, and secondly, I’m not really needed. I’ll go get some fresh air before the disco. Let’s meet at the carousel by your dormitory.”

Volodya nodded to him and left for the theatre, while Yurka wandered towards the construction site, towards his secret stash. He needed to change the hiding place for the cigarettes with which he had been caught by Pcholkin. Perhaps it was not inconsequential that he had talked more than once about some kind of hoard; what if he had meant Yurka’s cigarettes? Yurka did not dare return to the scene of the crime during the daytime, but now was the time for it.

After coming back from the little paved path, he skirted around the theatre building, climbed through the bushes that grew behind it and got through to his second secret spot. The second was no match for the first, small and cramped as it was. There was a piece of cement that had come loose, only lightly fixed in place, which, if shifted aside, revealed a small crack in which cigarettes could be hidden. But Yurka had not yet managed to get away from them.

Group activity time should have been just about finishing. Knowing that the pioneers were now disappearing off to their own places, whether to the huts or to the sports areas, and that it was empty out on the streets, Yurka took a packet of filtered Javas and a box of matches out of his pocket, lit up, took a drag and breathed in with pleasure. Although he had promised Volodya that he would not smoke anymore, then, after such a shock emotionally, he simply needed to calm his nerves post-haste. He wanted to come back down to his senses a little bit and then figure out who Volodya’s secret, unknown girl was, or whether she really was unknown.

Besides the pioneer girls coming there to relax over the summer, there were only two girls in Lastochka – both of them counsellors, Lena and Ira Petrovna. Yurka refused to even entertain the notion that it could be the frankly unattractive, very chubby Lena. He knew that it was bad to think like that, he was ashamed of his opinion, but he could not help himself, they did not suit each other at all, no way. Besides, Volodya exclusively acted down to business when he was with Lena. Yurka understood that he could not take her completely out of the equation, but against his will, his thoughts turned to Ira, more attractive in his regard.

But even the Ira theory fell apart at the seams, since the courteous Volodya would never offend his beloved. On second thought, though, as he remembered his words, that he would be able to push the one he loved away if it were for her own good, Yurka could not rule out that Volodya might have said that on purpose. It emerged that Ira might really have been his crush.

A vision of Volodya going to meet with Ira Petrovna at night while everybody was asleep struck Yurka. In the darkness and the silence, the mask of calmness fell from his face and Volodya became completely different - candid, fervid and agitated, he whispered to her about his feelings. Perhaps he even kissed her, hugged her, asked her to take it easy with him…

Yurka choked in disgust. Without grasping where such anger had come from, he balled his hands up into fists. He just barely held back from punching the wall of the theatre and scratched his nose with his fist instead.

But, on the other hand, why would they hide it? Yurka knew from the camp gossip that neither Ira nor Lena had boyfriends. Was it because of Zhenya? Was something in the way of her and Zhenya breaking up? The answer was obvious – Volodya himself was in the way; he himself said that the one he loved would be better off with a different person.

Other than that, what was the big deal? She was a counsellor, he was a counsellor. If they did not go round acting out in front of everybody, no-one would even think of judging them. Surely it could not be that Volodya was just worried about the rumours? And even if he were worried, he already knew that Yurka knew how to keep secrets. Volodya had revealed to him secrets that could get him kicked out of Komsomol, and that was just the America story! A romance with a counsellor was not even close to that kind of thing. It could not be a worse secret than that with which he had already trusted Yurka. So, it was not a counsellor. But who was it then? A pioneer?

For a romance with a pioneer girl, Volodya would have to pay even more than just getting kicked out of Komsomol. He would ruin not only his own, but, worst of all, her reputation for their whole lives to come. Those kinds of things were not joked about, secrets like that, not even torture could get out of someone, especially when the fate of one’s loved one – and it was precisely that which Volodya was worried about – was at stake… Yurka would also have kept quiet, were he in his place. He kept quiet about himself, after all.

But all the same, who was she? If she really was a pioneer, then who was she?

Clutching the cigarette between his teeth and screwing his right eye up because of the smoke floating into it, Yurka chucked his stash back into the hiding spot, covered the gap with the piece of cement and left the bushes. His gaze fell by chance on a window through which the whole auditorium of the theatre could be made out clearly. What was happening in there made his eye, already tearing up from the smoke, begin to twitch nervously.

It was like Yurka was watching a silent film. The troupe left the hall in an orderly fashion and again, the only ones remaining inside were those same two – Masha and Volodya. She had not yet calmed down; she was sitting in a chair in the first row and, hiding her face in her palms, she startled. Once the door was closed behind the last of the actors, Volodya took a seat next to her. He said something into her ear. Yurka expected that he would get up and leave, but the counsellor remained sitting next to her. As he continued to speak, he patted her on the shoulder and her hair. It looked… romantic. Too romantic, intimate even – as though they were a couple.

And what if they really are a couple? thought Yurka, and the strange burning sensation stung him more painfully than ever before. From a tiny spot in the pit of his stomach, pain began to spread through his guts and under his ribs and began to burn and swell and pulsate like an abscess. Not having the strength to watch them any longer, Yurka angrily stamped out his cigarette butt and stormed off towards his troop.

***

He went into his room, fell on the bed, stared at the ceiling and forced himself with all his might to calm down. As soon as he remembered his saving mantra – that these feelings would certainly pass – he began to feel lighter. He was an egoist, after all, and that meant that his feelings weren’t really real, they were just whims. Most likely, Yurka missed Anyechka so much that season that he accidentally switched all his attention onto the only nice person close to him – Volodya. Who would have figured? Thus, the counsellor had become the object of Yurka’s strong, but friendly affection. In place of Ana – Volodya. How ridiculous.

A crowd of guys from the first troop poured into the bedroom, making a racket as they talked about how Alyosha Matveyev had almost brought the basketball net down. As he laughed along with all the others, Yurka felt how with each passing minute his anger and hurt left him, while his mood, on the other hand, returned to normal. But he still would not have called it good – echoes of his vexation still played inside Yurka – though on a night like that, his mood should have been excellent. Counting on it improving, Yurka went straight away after dinner to make an appearance in the girls’ hall to tell Ksyusha that he would finally be bringing Volodya that night. And he did not miscalculate.

There was noise, uproar and shouting in the hall. All the girls, even Masha, were scattered to the four corners of the room and pressed up against the walls, leaving a space in the centre of the hall for PUK girls, who were almost at blows with each other.

“Why did you throw away my hair spray?” shouted Ksyusha, infuriated.

“‘Cause there wasn’t any left!” a pale Ulyana justified herself. Clearly she had not been expecting such a reaction from her friend.

“There was! There was still some in the bottom, just enough for my fringe!” Ksyusha’s fringe, wound round a roller, wobbled in time with her chin. “Go, now, get it out of the rubbish!”

“Girls, I looked in the bin, it’s not there,” Polina tried to make her friends make peace. “Ul, maybe they’ve not thrown the trash cans out yet? Will you look there?”

“Climb in the bins yourself!” Ulyana fought back, pale not from fear, like Yurka had thought at first, but from rage.

Having overheard this, he immediately cheered up.

“Girls, come on, don’t fight,” Polya tried to calm them down again. “I asked my mum, she’s bringing more hairspray, two cans full. She’ll bring them for sure!”

“When’s that gonna be?” Ksyusha almost cried. “Lastochka’s birthday’s only on Friday, and what are we supposed to do until then?”

“The way I’ve combed it, this do will last even without hairspray!” assured Polya the peacemaker.

“Ksyu-u-sha!” Yurka poked himself out from behind the door. “I have news for you. Some bad, some good. Which should I start with?”

“What?” all three asked in unison. The rest of Yurka’s troopmates stared at him, eyes squinted in intrigue.

“Alright, then the good. Guess who’s coming to the disco tonight?”

“What?!” Ksyusha almost sat down. Her shaggy fringe fell in her face in one layer. It seemed that the good news was bad for Zmeyevskaya. “Why are like this, Konev? Why tonight? Why not yesterday, or the camps birthday, or any other good day when I have hairspray?!”

“You don’t have to say thank you,” Yurka decided to be magnanimous. “You owe something instead of a ‘thank-you’, remember? And that’s the bad news.”

“Why are you like this, Konev?” she screamed again. “Yes, I remember, of course I do!”

“And that it wasn’t just once, but twice, you haven’t forgotten?” No longer capable of holding himself in check, a very wide, malicious smile spread across Yurka’s face.

All the girls besides PUK shot bewildered looks from Yurka to Ksyusha and back again. This did not make the shameless Zmeyevskaya blush even a little bit, while Yurka went red. But not from shame, but from a barely restrained laugh – she was already very entertainingly distressed.

“I said already – yes! Ulya, why oh why-y-y did you throw my hairspray away?!”

***

The apple trees around the dancefloor were strung with electric lights. The lights glowed, sparkling and playing about, painting over the deep evening blue with yellow and red. Music was flowing from the loudspeakers. The superintendent Sanych was in control of the apparatus set up on the stage. The counsellors on duty patrolled the discothèque with bands on their arms, while the pioneers were already dancing in full swing.

Here and there, familiar faces from the older troops were glimpsed. The guys – all dressed up, groomed and smelling of cologne – shot searching glances from side to side. The girls – all made up, dressed in the latest fashion, and, down to the last one, with their hair in a big bouffant – languished in anticipation, coquetting, batting eyelashes and dancing modestly.

So as not to draw attention, Volodya together with Yurka spent ten minutes standing on the sidelines by the apple trees, observing everybody. But once the counsellor rounded the row of chairs in the far corner of the dancefloor and came out into the light show, it was like a breeze swept through the crowd. The first to notice them was Katya from the second troop. While pointing out Volodya, she leaned in to one friend’s ear, then to another’s, and the news spread at the speed of sound. Not a minute went by before Volodya was surrounded by the twittering PUK girls, Masha and a couple more of the bravest girls. Yurka even pitied him a little bit – despair could clearly be read on Volodya’s face.

After extricating himself with some difficulty from the meddlesome women, he grabbed Yurka by the shoulder and took him aside. He sat down on a chair and caught his breath.

“What’s the matter with you?” Yurka asked him. “Don’t you plan to dance?”

“Why?” he was surprised.

“What do you mean ‘why’? We’re at a disco, that’s why. People dance there. It can be fun!”

“Not really, when you don’t know how to dance,” Volodya put himself down.

“Well let’s just jerk around to the music. Look, like Matveyev’s doing over there.”

Alyosha Matveyev considered himself a progressive kind of guy, therefore he danced unusually as well: complex and jagged, he began by spinning himself on his head with both hands, imitating either a broken marionette or a functioning robot. Then he flopped to the asphalt a twisted about with his legs. Alyosha himself had once explained to Yurka that this was not at all a seizure, but a dance: “It’s very fashionable in Moscow, Leningrad and the Baltic states right now, it’s called ‘breakda-a-ance’. It’s just so cool! Gosh, what a complicated dance.” Yurka decided, given the situation, to ask Volodya whether the youth of the city knew about this. But, seeing his clearly sceptical look, he decided to ask him sometime later.

“Well no, I’m certainly not going to ‘jerk’,” hemmed Volodya.

“You’re kidding! What, you’re not going to dance at all? Not even the slow dance?”

“Who do I have to dance with?” Volodya reddened.

Yurka burst out laughing.

“Do you mean, who don’t you have? Look how many there are out there hoping for a chance! Every girl here is dreaming that you’ll ask her.”

And it was so. Looking around, Yurka caught a different girl’s look of interest every second. In large majority, they were looking at Volodya, with hope in their eyes. But what if? every other girl was probably thinking. What if it’s me he asks to dance?

But Volodya shook his head:

“It would be ungallant to only dance with one of the girls; what if the others get angry with her? So… Yeah, and anyway, I didn’t come here to dance, I came here to see Ksyusha kiss you. Go call her, she’s over there,” he pointed out where the PUK girls were standing. “I’m here, which means you’ve upheld your part of the bargain. Let her now settle her debt,” Volodya was evidently in a good mood: he chuckled as he said it.

Yurka hemmed and headed towards the girls. He was He lacked for neither courage nor impudence.

“Ksyukha!” he called loudly. “Here I am!”

All three stared at Yurka in surprise.

“What?” Polina did not understand. “What are you– Ah!”

“Aha!” mimicked Yurka. “A deal’s a deal. I brought him, now do good on your promise.”

“But there’s a three-year-wait on the promise!” squealed Ksyusha. She clearly did not want to do good on anything.

“No, girls, that’s not what we agreed. Ksyusha, if you don’t kiss now, I’ll get Volodya to leave. Oh yeah, how’s that? But…” Yurka took a theatrical pause, “if he stays, then… what if he asks one of you to dance?”

Yurka was sure that that would not happen, but Polya and Ulyana’s eyes glittered with piqued interest. The only one not aglow with enthusiasm was Ksyusha. But Ulya stepped in: she took her by the elbow and led her to Yura.

“Go on,” she whispered, nodding in his direction.

“Hey, no!” Yurka stopped the girls. “In front of everyone, you promised. Let’s go the middle of the dancefloor….” He extended a hand to Ksyusha. “Shall we dance?”

She sighed and, with a sullen look, plodded after him.

“Her hair light in braided plaits, and her eyes, Blue as a bottomless sky, spring is in her smile, A slim, sweet, very beautiful girl…” the passionate little ditty Happy Kids poured from the speakers.

“The song could be about you,” Yurka aimed for a compliment. Ksyusha smiled abashedly.

Their awkward body movements were difficult to call dancing. The only thing that Ksyusha would allow was to hold each other by the shoulders, pioneer-style, and step in time to the music, keeping a half-metre apart from each other.

“Why do you hate me so much?” Yurka asked her.

“I don’t hate you, but it’s your own fault. There was no reason to fling yourself at Vishnevsky,” she grumbled angrily. “It’s because of you that he hasn’t come back, you know.”

“It’s not because of me. For the whole of last season he was bragging about how his father would take him on a trip to Bulgaria for the whole summer,” replied Yurka drily.

At that, Ksyusha seemingly burst open. She flooded him with questions, but Yurka not only did not answer them, he did not even listen to her.

He took a stealthy look at Volodya, standing at the end of the dancefloor. Sprawled out on his seat, he crossed his arms over his chest and smiled as he watched them.

Now and then, Yurka could the envious looks of the other guys. Vanka and Mikha practically burst into applause when they noticed that he was watching them.

The song finished, but Ksyusha was in no hurry to leave, nor to kiss him.

“Hey, come on,” Yurka hurried her. “What are you waiting for? Twice!”

“You don’t happen to have his address by any chance?”

“No. Kiss me!”

She rolled her eyes, sighed and came closer. Yurka helpfully turned to the side and presented his cheek, so that Ksyusha, standing on tiptoes, could reach him. Before she gave him a peck, she began to hold her breath. Yurka happily screwed his eyes up shut: the first tender contact on his cheek, a two-second pause, then the second, even nicer. He liked it very much.

When he opened his eyes, he saw her only from behind – Ksyusha was hurriedly returning back to her friends.

Vanka and Mikha, awestruck, feverishly waved their hands, beckoning Yurka to themselves. He obeyed.

“How?” exclaimed Vanka. “How’d you manage that?!”

“Why are you so lucky?!” plaintively whined Mikha, green with envy.

“And how’s that?” Yurka feigned surprise.

“Well… It’s Ksyusha! She’s a real dragon! Just don’t tell her I said that, alright?” Mikha caught himself. “She thrashes me with a towel, while you… she… She kissed you!” he demonstrated as though Yurka did not know.

“Uh-huh,” echoed Vanka. “We can only dream about stuff like that…”

“Oh, me too, a real beauty,” Yurka brushed him off. “We’ve seen better.”

“That’s right! That’s the way it has to be with them!” Mikha made a show of boasting, but immediately in a frightened whisper, “Just don’t tell her I said that, alright?”

“But still, how? Is there some kind of trick to it?” Vanka was perplexed.

Yurka shook his head.

“Nuh-uh. I earned it,” and, proudly sticking his chin up, turned away and strutted towards Volodya.

But Volodya was no longer at the chairs. Yurka looked around in confusion.

Maybe he’s gone up on the platform to make peace with Ira? He’d hardly go off back to his troop without some warning. Certain that Volodya was somewhere nearby and that he just had to find him, Yurka set off for the far side of the dancefloor and climbed an apple tree – the same one he had hung the lights up on back at the beginning of the season. He pulled himself up a branch and threw his legs over another, feeling like a pirate on a mast, and began to survey his surroundings.

The people below buzzed about: some were asking girls to dance – Yurka envied them somewhat, it took such adrenaline! Some were having a perfectly good time by themselves, without a partner, and some were stomping on the spot, alone and agitated, like, for example, Mitka.

The leader of the camp’s Pioneer Dawn stood below a tree decorated with a red banner and watched Ulyanka, now turning pink as a piglet, then, when the bulb went out, going white as chalk.

“Let’s take a little break,” Sanych distracted Yurka from his contemplation of Mitka when the song playing came to a close. The pioneers began to ululate. “Olga Leonidovna will now announce the results of Capture the Flag, and then we’ll have a ladies’ dance!”[2]

Olga Leonidovna took the stage for precisely one minute and, without any foreword, vociferously announced into the microphone, that according to the results of the count, friendship was victorious!

Some scattered applause was heard. But as soon as the first sounds of the hit song of ’86 – the Alla Pugachova song The Ferryman – was heard, whispers of liveliness passed through the guys, while the girls began to look around all at once. They were searching stubbornly for someone.

The fifth troop’s counsellor, guessed Yurka. And, after following where the majority of their gazes were directed, he really did find him.

He was standing beside the platform, hidden by a tall column – that’s why Yurka did not recognise him right away. Just as he had supposed, Volodya was talking with Ira Petrovna. From a distance he could make out neither her voice nor the emotions on her face, but Yurka saw that heading slowly and uncertainly in their direction was Masha. She stopped and, twisting her hands behind her back and shifting from foot to foot, said something to the both of them. Volodya nodded to Masha. Ira clapped him on the shoulder and, smiling, departed. Volodya bowed slightly to Masha and offered his hand gallantly.

Time became thick and soupy. Frozen in an uncomfortable pose, Yurka watched how Volodya slowly, very slowly led Masha out into the centre of the dancefloor. How the girls followed them with jealous looks. How he carefully took her by the waist from a distance… Inside, Yurka again felt a burning wave of anger and hurt rising up.

The pioneers parted and Volodya and Masha circled the dancefloor alone. Yurka watched them in confusion. A fantasy painted itself before him – they were as though in a circle of light, with dozens of multicoloured lamps, and all the stars and the moon shone only on them, highlighting–

‘Jealousy’ – his conscience obligingly whispered to him the name of the burning sensation. It was the same terrible feeling that Yurka had experienced that day as he spied on them through the window of the theatre. It was jealousy, and now the jealousy was biting him harder and more painfully than ever before.

Traitor! Liar! fulminated Yurka. He said he wouldn’t dance with anyone, and he lied! And he’s not just dancing, he’s hugging her! And with who – with Masha! With that stupid chicken Masha! A friend, he called himself! What a friend he is!

At the same time, from the speakers, Pugachova was singing slowly, and, as it seemed to Yurka, drawlingly:

“Many are the farewells on the earth, and the different fates, At dawn, the ferryman gives hope to people, They need the left bank, then the right, Lovers are many – he is alone by the ferry.”

The song approached the end, while she kept repeating over and over again:

“Lovers are many – he is alone, lovers are many – he is alone…”

And I’m alone – dangling from a tree like a monkey, like an idiot! Yurka began to see only red. He grabbed an apple hanging nearby, gripped it and tore it off. Without aiming, he launched it at Volodya. He was sure that it would miss, that the apple would splat against the ground and fly to pieces, splashing them with its juice. But it made a practically arc and… struck Volodya squarely in the shoulder.

What happened next took place in a matter of seconds.

Yurka put together that he could not in any circumstance remain in the apple tree, since if they caught him there, he would be kicked out of the camp and off to Hell! He had never climbed down from a tree so quickly. With the agility of a circus acrobat, he darted down and with the speed of an Olympic runner, he disappeared from the territory of the disco.

More accurately, Yurka only thought that he had disappeared. After three minutes he stopped and, red as a crab, looked around. Not far off, there stood a low, windowless building. Yurka turned around the corner. He caught his breath leaning against the whitewashed wall and only then caught a whiff of the sweet odour of lilacs and heard the hum of the control room.

“Yura!” rang out a challenge from not far off. “I know you’re there! I saw you make the turn.”

How did he catch up? thought Yurka, irritated, but he decided that there was no point in running off again – if he got away that day, he would still have to own up the next.

“I’m here, I’m here!” he responded.

Volodya approached him. Adopting a very guilty look, Yurka hung his head between his squared shoulders. But he could not say from looking at him that Volodya was angry, more so confused. He rubbed his bruised shoulder with his hand and looked at him quizzically.

“Why’d you chuck an apple at me?”

“Forgive me,” begged Yurka sincerely. “Truly, I didn’t mean to, I thought it would fall. Does it hurt a lot?”

“Well… I can feel it…” he shamed him. “Why were you climbing up the apple tree?”

“I was looking for you, and you get a better view from up there.”

“And…?” Volodya drew out, expecting further elucidation.

“I was mad at Masha,” he confessed honestly. “She asked you to dance and you accepted.”

“So what?”

“You said you weren’t going to dance with anyone! And you went with her in particular, when you know very well how much she irritates me!”

“Yura, I don’t understand what’s the matter,” Volodya rubbed his eyes in exhaustion. “Explain normally.”

“The problem is that I saw today in the theatre – the way you were comforting her!”

“You were spying on us?”

“Yes, I was spying!”

“What for?”

“What difference does it make? First you hug her and stroke her on the head, now you’re dancing… What next? Do you like her?”

“No,” replied Volodya firmly. “And what’s Masha and I’s business got to do with you anyway–”

“But you said that we’re friends!”

“Of course we’re friends, but what’s all of this for? Yura, somethings been going on with you for the past three days. I ask a question, you shut up. Then you lay into Masha. But what you’re doing now is way too far!”

Yes. Yurka understood that he was behaving extremely strangely. In his head he understood. Volodya and his relationship with Masha should not stir up such a hurricane of emotions. But it did. His heart ached and clenched up at the same time. It was being scorched and crushed inside of his chest. His cheeks burned and goosebumps ran along his skin; his fingers trembled.

Volodya was calm. He was standing there with his arms crossed over his chest. Yurka came closer to him and, without breaking eye contact, said:

“I want you to only have me!”

“I do only have you. Besides you, I don’t have any friends,” pronounced Volodya softly, tenderly, even. “Yura, if you like Masha, then just say and I’ll back off.”

“‘Just say’? What if you told me everything?”

“What is there for me to tell?”

“The truth. About her. It’s her! Why didn’t you admit right off the bat that it’s her?! Why hide it? And what are you hiding that it can’t wait just one little year? Just wait, and you’ll get it all. All! And I’ll never have anyone!”

“‘One little year’? I don’t get it,” Volodya really was now looking confused; he even let his arms down. “Wait. Or…” he reflected briefly, then suddenly smacked himself abruptly on the forehead with his palm. “What a fool I am! That’s why you’ve been so strange, why you’ve been running away from me and shouting at Masha – you like her, but she likes me!” Volodya burst into laughter.

Looking at the circus he had put on, Yurka began to get angry. Everything around him was suddenly too bright, as though all his sensory organs had become more sensitive all at once.

The hum of the control room felt deafening, the smell of the lilacs was cloying, and even the dim light of the moon and stars blinded him. In this light, Volodya’s face grew whiter, while his grey-green eyes shone like emeralds. And, perhaps it only seemed that way to Yurka, but, besides the false cheer, there was something more in them. As though Volodya understood more than he should, as though he understood what was happening with Yurka, far better than he himself did. But despite that, he lied and put on a clown act.

“Your ‘girl from the yard’ is Masha! Yur, I’m so glad… I won’t get in the way! Just hold on, and everything will come to you!”

“What are you on about?!”

Yurka was no longer conscious of his actions. Time slowed down for the second time that evening. The beat of his heart was added to the humming in his ears. Trying to drown it out, Yurka filled his chest with air:

“It’s not Masha, it’s you!” and turned away.

“Wait what?” Volodya grabbed him by the arm and turned him back around to face him. He frowned, looking at him eye-to-eye. “Say that again! What did you say?”

“How can I explain it to you?” Yurka strained out hoarsely.

He took Volodya by the shoulders, stretched towards his face, froze for a single moment and pressed his lips to his.

Volodya suppressed a sigh; his eyes widened in surprised, while Yurka may as well have died. It was as though he no longer existed. The only thing that he could sense and was distinctly aware of was the smell of Volodya. Apples. And, only very slightly, the warmth of his skin.

This lasted a couple of seconds, and then Yurka felt something else – hands on his shoulders. He did not even have the chance to rejoice before Volodya tidily, but insistently, moved him away from himself.

For another several seconds, Volodya looked with confusion at his burning face. Then, without removing his hands, holding Yurka at a distance, he sternly said: “You stop that.”

[1] [Author’s note:] “'Never ask for anything! Never for anything, and especially from those who are stronger than you. They'll make the offer themselves, and give everything themselves.” Is a citation from the novel The Master and Margarita. Woland’s words, addressed to Margarita. [Translator’s note:] Pevear and Volokhonskaya translation, 1997.

[2] As in, one where the girls ask the boys to dance

#лето в пионерском галстуке #ya #lgbt #russian #translation #my translations

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