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just-aake · 5 months ago

Text

Whispered in Russian

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Natasha teaches you how to speak some Russian during your time together on a mission.

A/n: this was inspired from a request. Not sure if it was what you expected but I hope you'll still enjoy it.

Warnings: fluff, suggestive themes, cursing, Russian translations from google (because I unfortunately do not know the language)

Words: 3250

“Bron' dlya Nataliyi Romanovoy.”

Natasha’s Russian accent flows effortlessly, her voice smooth and confident as she speaks to the front desk receptionist. Her tone carries the ease of someone completely at home in the language.

It’s a voice you’ve grown intimately familiar with—not just as her teammate for years but also as her partner.

Which also makes it easier to pick up and piece together some of the words, though you’re still far from being fluent.

Reservation for Natalia Romanova, you translate silently.

The receptionist offers a polite smile, tapping away at her computer until she finds the reservation. With a nod, she retrieves a key card and slides it across the counter to Natasha.

“Dobro pozhalovat, gospazha Romanova. Vot vashi klyuchi ot nomera.”

You listen intently, trying to match the sounds to meaning, but the words come faster than you can process. Your grasp falters after the first few phrases.

Welcome…Romanova…key

You almost have it, but the rest slips through your mental filter, lost in the quick flow of syllables. Before you can catch up, the receptionist continues in a kind but rapid tone.

“Esli vam ili vashey zhene potrebuyetsya pomoshch, pozvonite na resepshn, i my s radostyu vam pomozhem.”

At that, Natasha’s lips quirk up in a small, amused smirk. The expression is subtle but unmistakable, and it draws your curiosity.

You glance at her, silently asking what amused her, but she offers no explanation, only thanking the receptionist with a graceful nod as she takes the key card.

“Spasibo,” Natasha says, her voice as composed as ever.

Thank you.

That part you recognize immediately, the basic phrase standing out like a familiar face in a crowd.

Natasha’s hand finds your waist as she guides you away from the desk, her touch grounding and affectionate.

Still, your mind lingers curiously on the exchange.

Once inside the room, you dive into setting up your equipment for the mission, carefully pulling out the listening gear from your bag.

Meanwhile, Natasha checks the room methodically, her eyes scanning for anything amiss. She ends her sweep at the window, drawing back the shutters slightly to observe the building across the street—the one where the targets work at.

“What did the receptionist say to you at the end?” you ask, your curiosity finally spilling over as you adjust the calibration on the gear.

Natasha glances over her shoulder at you, a glint of amusement in her eyes. She takes her time responding, watching as you work with meticulous focus.

“She said if we needed anything, we could call the front desk,” Natasha replies casually, her tone almost too neutral.

You pause, narrowing your eyes as you turn to face her.

“That’s it?” you ask, skepticism lacing your voice. “Then why did you react like that?”

The smirk you’d noticed earlier reappears, tugging at the corners of her lips. Natasha steps closer to you, wrapping her arms around your waist and leaning in.

“Zhena,” she repeats slowly, enunciating the word with deliberate care. Her breath is warm against your skin as she presses a quick, affectionate kiss to your cheek. “It means ‘wife.’ She called you my wife.”

“Oh,” you reply, your heart fluttering at the thought.

You fall silent for a moment, processing, before quietly repeating the word under your breath.

“Zhena,” you murmur, practicing the pronunciation like a secret you want to keep safe. You say it again, slightly louder, trying to mimic Natasha’s intonation.

Natasha’s expression softens as she watches your reaction, her smirk giving way to a small, genuine smile.

Once satisfied with your attempt, you nod firmly, confidence growing.

Your gaze shifts to the small table in the corner of the room, and something catches your eye. You gesture toward it, brow raised.

“Well,” you say, “that explains the bottle of champagne.”

Natasha follows your gaze, her chuckle warm and rich as she spots the chilled, unopened bottle perched beside two crystal glasses.

“Hill said this was the only room available,” she replies, her fingers tracing soft patterns at your sides. Her voice drops slightly, the edge of a smirk returning to her lips. “Guess that means we’re playing newlyweds.”

You wrap your arms around her shoulders, leaning against her as you ponder the situation.

“Alright,” you nod thoughtfully, “and it won’t look suspicious if we don’t leave our room much since, technically, we’re on our honeymoon.”

Natasha’s smirk deepens, her eyes glinting with mischief. She tilts her head closer, her lips brushing lightly against yours.

“Oh, that sounds fun,” she murmurs, her tone dropping into a suggestive lilt.

You roll your eyes, though the small smile tugging at your lips betrays your amusement.

“I meant it’s a good cover for our mission,” you say pointedly, pulling back just enough to regain your composure. You gesture toward the gear on the table before raising a brow at her. “Or did you already forget the reason why we’re here in the first place?”

Natasha doesn’t answer immediately.

Instead, her smirk shifts into something a little more daring as she tightens her hold on your waist before pulling you flush against her. Her lips ghost over yours again as she leans in, just close enough for her voice to drop to a whisper.

“I’m multitasking,” she teases, the husky tone sending a shiver down your spine before she closes the small distance between you two.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Some time later, after you two manage to refocus on the mission, you settle in to monitor the listening equipment.

The two of you wait patiently, earpieces in place, scanning for the key information you need.

But after a few hours of static-filled recordings, indistinct conversations, and absolutely nothing useful, Natasha notices your shoulders beginning to tense with exhaustion.

She rests a hand on your arm.

“Take a break,” she offers softly. “I’ll keep watch for now.”

You hesitate, but the encouraging smile on her lips convinces you.

“Alright,” you relent, stretching out your stiff shoulders before heading to the bathroom for a quick shower.

Once inside, the hot water works wonders, the steam easing the tension in your muscles.

You feel the stress of the mission starts to melt away, but as you finish, you realize you’ve made a small mistake.

You forgot to grab your change of clothes for the night.

With a sigh, you wrap the towel around yourself, water still clinging to your skin, and step out of the bathroom.

The cool air sends a shiver through you as you pad quietly toward your bag.

Natasha’s back is to you as she speaks on the hotel phone.

Her voice flows smoothly in Russian, soft but clear, and you catch a few familiar words—borscht, pelmeni, blini—dishes you’ve heard her name before.

As you rummage through your belongings, it hits you: she’s ordering dinner. You smile to yourself, amused by the domesticity of the moment, even in the middle of a mission.

Not wanting to take any longer, you quickly grab what you need, tossing your bag back in its original position as you hear Natasha finish up.

“Da, prosto ostav’te—blyat…”

The abrupt edge in Natasha’s voice pulls your attention, her sudden exclamation making you look up in curiosity.

Her words have stopped mid-sentence, her lips parted slightly as her eyes roam over you. Her gaze lingers on the droplets of water still glistening on your skin, the curve of your shoulders, and the towel that clings just a little too loosely to your body.

It takes her a moment to catch herself. Natasha clears her throat, her voice steadier as she quickly finishes her conversation.

“Prostite,” she mutters into the phone. “Ostav’te yedu u dveri. Spasibo.”

You pause where you stand as you attempt to piece together what she just said. Your limited Russian skills manage to translate fragments: leave…food…door.

It’s enough to guess that she told them to leave your dinners outside the room so they won’t come in and see all your equipment set up.

But you also notice that there’s one word missing from the sentence—the one she exclaimed earlier.

It lingers in your mind, unaccounted for, and you try remembering how Natasha said it.

“Blyat…” you repeat, testing the word carefully, sounding it out until you nod in satisfaction, confident you’ve got it.

A low groan comes from Natasha, prompting you to look back at her. Her eyes are noticeably darker now.

“Bozhe moy…” Natasha mutters under her breath, shaking her head lightly in exasperation.

Your brow quirks in amusement at her tone, a small smile tugging at your lips. “What does it mean?”

“It’s a curse word—just something someone would say when they’re surprised or frustrated,” Natasha says stiffly, her voice a little strained, though she manages to seem mostly composed.

Her eyes eventually betray her, though, drifting back to the droplets of water sliding down your skin.

“So what’s the translation?” you press, crossing your arms at her vague response. The motion inadvertently shifts the towel, loosening it further.

Natasha’s jaw tightens. Her gaze flickers to the towel, and she exhales sharply through her nose, her control clearly fraying.

Even though she looks like she’s about to close the distance between you, it’s clear she won’t answer your question, which makes your expression fall lightly into a mock disappointed pout.

“You said you’d help me improve my Russian during this mission,” you remind her, your tone innocently light as you step closer to stand in front of her.

The memory of her promise lingers in your mind—how she’d caught you practicing in secret and insisted you ask her for help whenever you needed it.

Her lips twist in hesitation, probably also remembering her promise, and for a moment, it seems like she might resist.

But then she relents with a sigh.

“It’s basically like saying ‘fuck,’” Natasha explains, her voice low and even. She fixes you with a pointed look, her gaze burning as she adds, “As in, you surprised me, standing half-naked in the middle of the room like this.”

A laugh escapes you, though your cheeks warm at the intensity of her gaze. You move to hover a hand above her chest, tracing a finger lightly against the edge of her tank top.

“Were you surprised…or frustrated?” you ask, your tone full of mischief.

Natasha shoots you a warning look, one that says you already know the answer.

“I don’t think learning Russian curse words was part of your original goal here,” she counters, her voice tight.

“Who says I haven’t learned some phrases already?” you reply with a playful shrug.

Her eyebrows lift, intrigued. “Like what?”

You shake your head, refusing to elaborate. “I’m still practicing my pronunciation.”

Natasha smirks, leaning closer. “I can help.”

The listening equipment chooses that moment to beep suddenly, interrupting your conversation, as it signals incoming noises.

“Too bad we’re still on the clock,” you quip with a teasing smile.

Natasha’s attention flickers reluctantly to the gear, her expression briefly clouded with disappointment.

You take the opportunity to head back to the bathroom and finish up.

As you go, a smirk tugs at your lips, the Russian phrase you’ve been practicing simmering in your mind.

Just as you step through the doorway, you hum thoughtfully, your voice low and deliberate as you mutter under your breath—just loud enough for Natasha to hear.

“How did it go again...trak-hni…menya…trakhni menya…”

You don’t need to turn around to know the effect your words have. Natasha’s sharp intake of breath is unmistakable, and your smirk widens in satisfaction.

Behind you, Natasha freezes, her lips parting slightly, her entire body going still as she processes what you just said. The weight of your casual tone and the boldness of your phrasing leave her momentarily stunned.

By the time she regains her composure, you’ve already disappeared into the bathroom, the door closing with a soft click.

A low, disbelieving chuckle escapes her after a moment, followed by a quiet grumble as she mutters to herself, “Of all the times to be on a mission…”

Natasha shakes her head and exhales, grabbing the earpiece with a resigned sigh.

Sliding it back on, she tries to focus on the task at hand, her eyes scanning the equipment as if sheer willpower could drown out her thoughts.

But her gaze betrays her, drifting back toward the bathroom door.

It lingers there, her resolve wavering as the temptation to follow you creeps in, tugging at her self-control.

Her mind conjures an image of you inside—water still clinging to your skin and your voice low and teasing as you repeat the Russian phrase for “fuck me” over and over again.

The imagination is enough to make her swallow hard, her grip tightening on the table’s edge.

With a sharp, frustrated exhale, Natasha forces her attention back to the mission, her eyes narrowing as if determination alone could block the distractions.

And she does succeed in regaining her composure eventually, though, every now and again, your voice echoes in her mind—soft, playful, and full of mischief.

Each syllable you murmured is as clear as if you were still standing there, taunting her with that dangerous smirk.

The corners of her lips twitch despite herself.

You’ve always told her how much you love hearing her speak in Russian—how the sound of it stirs something in you.

Natasha had always found your words amusing, but hearing you just now, with your hesitant yet deliberate tone, she’s beginning to understand exactly what you meant.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

After dinner, Natasha takes it upon herself to continue monitoring the listening gear, insisting that you rest up first after the long trip here and the exhausting setup.

Her tone left little room for argument, so you relented, knowing how stubborn she could be about these things and the fact that she is more than capable of staying concentrated on the task for longer than you can.

Hours pass, the rhythmic static and indistinct chatter from the equipment blending into the quiet of the room.

Natasha barely notices how late it’s gotten until she feels your arms wrap gently around her shoulders from behind.

You lean in close, your warm breath brushing against the side of her head as you carefully remove her earpieces.

“Poydem so mnoy spat’,” you whisper softly.

Natasha’s lips curve into a small, pleased smile at your perfect pronunciation. Turning to face you, she raises a brow, her expression amused.

“Did you learn that specifically for moments like this?” she teases.

You smirk back at her.

“With how often you lose yourself in work, I figured learning how to call you to bed should be one of the first things I perfect.”

Natasha shakes her head fondly, a quiet laugh escaping her lips.

“Of course you would,” she murmurs, but there’s no mistaking the affection in her voice.

Obliging you, she removes the rest of the gear and allows you to pull her gently from the chair toward the large bed.

As she moves, her gaze flickers to the nightstand, catching sight of your tablet screen. The familiar display of the language-learning app you’ve been using to practice Russian glows faintly in the dim light.

Settling in beside her, you lie back against the pillows while Natasha props herself up on one elbow, her head resting on her hand. Her green eyes glimmer with a soft light as she looks at you, a small smile playing on her lips.

“You know,” she says, tilting her head slightly, “I’m sure I can teach you Russian better than that app.”

Her comment makes you laugh lightly.

“I know, but our free time doesn’t always line up for me to get a lesson from Ms. Romanoff,” you tease, smirking.

“It’s Mrs.,” Natasha corrects, her playful smirk matching yours. “Don’t forget, we’re technically married right now.”

You smile, your gaze softening as you look at her.

“Right. How could I forget that you’re my ‘zhena?’”

The word slips out in a playful, teasing tone, but it has an unexpected effect.

Natasha’s heart flutters so much at hearing you call her your wife in Russian that she has to look away for a moment to regain her composure.

Her expression is tender when she looks back at you, her other arm moving around your midsection and pulling you closer.

“I have time now,” she offers, her voice low. “Anything you want to learn?”

You hum thoughtfully, tapping your chin as you consider.

“Alright, how do you say…‘you look beautiful?’”

Natasha’s smile widens slightly.

“Ty vyglyadish’ prekrasno,” she replies smoothly.

You repeat the phrase under your breath, scrunching your face slightly in concentration as you practice. Once you’re confident enough, you turn to her with a gentle smile.

“Ty vy-glya-dish’ prekrasno,” you say, your pronunciation close but not perfect.

Natasha chuckles softly in amusement when she realizes you just wanted to say the phrase back to her.

“Are you trying to make me fall for you even more by complimenting me in Russian?”

You smirk playfully. “Depends. Is it working?”

Huffing lightly, Natasha rolls her eyes, though there’s a clear fondness in her exasperation. She looks away briefly, but you catch her cheek gently, turning her gaze back to yours.

“How do you say…‘I love you?’�� you ask softly, your voice tinged with both curiosity and affection.

Natasha’s expression softens further, her features open and vulnerable as she answers.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” she says, enunciating each syllable carefully for you.

“Ya tebya lyu…blyu,” you repeat slowly, trying to mimic how her lips move, but the last syllable doesn’t quite land how it should.

Natasha chuckles lightly, her hand moving to cup your chin.

“When you say ‘lyublyu,’” she explains gently, “you have to purse your lips more.”

You try again, adjusting your pronunciation, and then glance at her for confirmation.

“Like that?” you ask innocently, unaware that you had said it perfectly, making Natasha’s heart beat a little faster at the sound of your voice saying those words to her in her native language.

“Say it again,” Natasha murmurs, her voice soft.

Focusing intently, you follow her previous instructions.

“Ya tebya lyublyu.”

Just as you say the last sound, Natasha leans in suddenly, pressing a soft kiss to your lips.

Your smile grows against her mouth as realization dawns that she made you repeat it for her benefit.

“Mmm, you’re teasing me when you're supposed to be teaching me,” you murmur lightly in reprimand.

Natasha pulls back slightly, her green eyes glinting with playful mischief.

“Maybe I just love the way you say it,” she counters, her tone low and warm.

You huff lightly, rolling your eyes in mock exasperation before scooting closer.

Natasha relaxes fully into the bed, letting you rest your head on her shoulder and tuck your face into the curve of her neck. Her arms wrap around you, holding you in a soft embrace.

After a moment of comfortable silence, Natasha’s voice breaks through, gentle and curious.

“What made you decide to learn Russian?”

There’s a brief pause as you consider her question, and then you tilt your head to look up at her, your eyes filled with affection.

“Russian is a part of who you are, Natasha,” you say earnestly. “Where you came from. To learn another way to connect with you…” You trail off, your soft smile widening. “Who wouldn’t want to do that?”

Natasha’s heart swells at your words, and for a moment, all she can do is hold you closer, her fingers brushing lightly over your back.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” she whispers, her voice barely audible but still filled with the depth of her feelings for you.

You settle back against her, smiling into her shoulder, your voice gentle as you reply.

“Ya tebya lyublyu, too.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

a/n: got distracted by a cute request and made another little fluff fic. thank you for reading! Now I'll get back to working on my series. 😅

Also here are the translations below:

“Bron' dlya Nataliyi Romanovoy.” - Reservation for Natalia Romanova.

“Dobro pozhalovat, gospazha Romanova. Vot vashi klyuchi ot nomera.” - Welcome, Mrs. Romanova. Here are your room keys.

“Esli vam ili vashey zhene potrebuyetsya pomoshch, pozvonite na resepshn, i my s radostyu vam pomozhem.” - If you or your wife need assistance, please call the front desk and we will be happy to assist you.

“Spasibo,” - Thank you

“Zhena,” - Wife

“Da, prosto ostav’te—blyat…” - Yes, just leave it—fuck...

“Prostite, Ostav’te yedu u dveri. Spasibo.” - Sorry, leave the food at the door. Thank you.

“Blyat” - fuck

“Bozhe moy…” - My god...

“...trak-hni…menya…trakhni menya…” - ..fuck...me...fuck me...

“Poydem so mnoy spat’,” - Come to bed with me

“Ty vyglyadish’ prekrasno,” - You look beautiful

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” - I love you

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff fanfic #natasha romanoff x you #black widow x reader #natasha x reader #natasha romanov x reader #natasha romanoff

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aarghhaaaarrrghhh · 1 year ago

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

Chapter Five. Some Counsellor, huh!

Having grown closer with Volodya, Yurka started to have a better attitude towards the theatre as well. The space which had at first seemed uninteresting to him had now, after a couple of rehearsals, become essential: it was cheerful and comfortable there, and Yurka felt himself a valued member of the team. Although a role in the play had not yet been found for him, Volodya managed to make Yurka feel necessary: he helped follow the children around, gave advice about the script and the allocation of roles, and Volodya paid attention to him. Yurka was flattered that he was so trusted.

He began to take a real liking to Volodya. True, when he reflected on what was meant by the word ‘like’ itself, he was at a loss. It sounded strange, since it brought more to mind attraction and infatuation than what he experienced for Volodya.[1] Without knowing how to explain this feeling to himself, he called it ‘a desire to befriend’ and even ‘a very strong desire to befriend’. Such a thing had never before happened to Yurka. It was the first time that he had seen another guy in this way – with a particular interest and sense of rivalry, and what was truly surprising was that the rivalry was not with Volodya himself, but the girls for his attention.

The organisation of the play moved slowly, but surely. By the third rehearsal, the four main roles had been confirmed, but there still remained a lot of questions about the B-cast – there were not enough actors; for some reason, people wanting to sign up in the theatrical circle were few.

The main role of Zina Portovna was given to Nastya Milkovaya – a girl pioneer from the second troop, who gave a wonderful readthrough of the script and even physically resembled Zina: the same dark hair, big, round eyes and slight height. It was only in her bravery that Nastya differed – she was very nervous when she spoke her lines, even her hands went red from trepidation. Zina’s younger sister, Galya, was to be played by little ginger Alyona from Volodya’s troop. The role of Ilya Yezavitov was still given to Olezhka. Although Volodya had had his doubts up to that point, they had not had to pick someone else: yes, Olezhka had a speech impediment, but he coped with the script at a higher level than the rest, and tried very hard. Vaska Petlitsyn was appointed to play Ilya’s brother, Zhena Yezavitov. That one was still a wild child and a troublemaker, but he grew quickly accustomed to the role and made up for himself excellently.

Ulyana fought for the role of Fruza Zinkovaya, the secretary and head of ‘The Young Avengers’, but it became clear by Volodya’s face that he was unsatisfied with her acting. On the other hand, Polina was immediately confirmed in the role of the narrator – her offscreen voice turned out incredibly. The request from the last of the trio, Ksyusha, was heard and granted at the first rehearsal, and she was very proud to be named costumer, although she had neither cut out nor sewn a single costume yet. Masha, who in Yurka’s opinion only knew how to play the Moonlight Sonata, for lack of anyone better, was locked in as pianist. In the camp there was a multitude of technology, for both audio and visuals, but Volodya insisted on ‘live’ accompaniment, arguing that thirty years ago, the play was accompanied by live music and particularly, by piano.

The actors were still poorly familiarised with the script: someone would have learned half of their cues, while someone else would still be reading off a little sheet of paper. The picture had not emerged in its entirety, but for the third rehearsal, it was not so bad. Only Volodya could in no way calm down – there remained several unfilled roles: the Portovna sisters’ grandmother, two girls and one guy from the Young Avengers, several Germans and still all the extras – the soldiers and the village inhabitants!

“So,” Volodya withdrew his nose from his notebook, “Are the ’Young Avengers’ all here? Well, those who are here…”

At his command, Nastya, Alyona, Olezhka and Vaska lined up on stage. Ulyana sat at the table.

“Excellent,” nodded the director. “We’ll listen to everybody, but the Avengers have the first turn. Kids, remember that this play is not only about Zina, but about you as well. You are the key and you’ll be in focus throughout the whole story. I’ll give you a shared introduction, be careful not to all copy each other. And so. You are guerilla fighters, you are heroes, young heroes at that; as everyone knows, the Avengers were not much older than Yura, Masha, Ksyusha and the rest… This makes their deeds all the greater.” The two ‘rest’ frowned and began to grumble resentfully, but Volodya, not listening to them, continued, “Yes, children in those days weren’t like us. Their parents fought and won the Civil War, the kids themselves wanted and even strove to fight. We are frivolous, they were not. That’s to say, I will not suffer any carelessness. Petlitsyn, are you listening to me?”

Volodya gave such a severe look that Vaska’s eyes bulged.

“Ye-e-es…” he replied cautiously.

“Attentively?”

“Very.”

“Repeat what I said,” Volodya tortured him – and as well he might, for at the last rehearsal, Vaska mucked about so much that he almost ruined the whole thing.

Petlitsyn began to sadly babble, making faces:

“We are partisans, we aim for war! And you won’t suffer any carelessness, and all the rest, like–”

“Take this more seriously, Petlitsyn! We’re not putting a comedy on here.”

“Alright, alright…”

Volodya shook his head regretfully – that answer did not satisfy him, but to spend more of their collective time on Petlitsyn alone would have been extravagant, and the director moved on to the matter at hand:

“Is everyone ready? Yur, where’s the map? Come on, lay it down on the table.”

The little round table was set up just to the left of the centre stage. Around its perimeter, the kids had placed benches, some cases, clothes, tableware and even a samovar, in a word, the scenery for the residential hut – the headquarters of the Young Avengers.

“Comrade commander in chief, there is ‘a map on the table’,” reported Yurka and sat in an audience seat next to Volodya.

“Eh…” he clicked his tongue in disappointment, “I don’t like the hut. It needs more flags and posters.”

“More?” Yurka scoffed and tried to count: “’Death to the Fascist Vermin’, ‘The Motherland Calls’, ‘We Shall Not Give Up the Conquests of October’… not enough, huh? Besides, it’s too early to already be thinking about decorations…”

“No, it’s not. Now is the very time to be thinking about this! If we can’t find what we need, we’ll have to draw.”

“Volod, this is illogical! They’re undercover! Proper undercover agents aren’t going to keep any old propaganda around, much less decorate their headquarters with it. They’re in occupied territory, the fascists had been shi– sleeping in every corner.”

Volodya leapt to his feet. He began to hiss and puff himself up, not letting Yurka finish his sentence, wanting either to get into an argument or give a slap, but the little fat boy Sashka squeezed himself in between the guys.

“And where did you come from” Volodya was taken aback.

“I arrived,” he squealed guilelessly. “Volodya, why is Petlitsyn playing Zhena Yezavitov? I was supposed to be him…”

“Because, Sanya, you with your flights and absenteeism didn’t leave me a choice,” the director responded harshly.

“Well can I plan Nikolai Alekseyev then?”

“No, that role needs a boy of around twelve.”

“What can I do then?”

“Sanya, you lay down and groan very well…” Volodya thoughtfully extended.

Everyone remembered how Sashka had rolled around like a sack, with his arms and legs stuck out to the side, and started giggling. Only the director was serious:

“When the Young Avengers blow up the pumping station, you’ll play a dying fascist.”

“But…”

“That’s one of the mains, San! Hm…” Volodya pinched the bridge of his nose and set his glasses right with a jab. “Right, okay, let’s go. The Young Avengers are standing around the table, looking at the map, preparing their sabotage. Nastya, begin! The first cue, about the enemy troop train on the railway…”

***

When the rehearsal was over and the children split up to go back to their troops, Yurka, finally, got to stay behind alone with Volodya and tell him what he had been thinking since the very first day.

“I understand that Masha only knows how to play the Moonlight Sonata, but there’s no rhyme nor reason to it being here.”

“Don’t say that!” the other retorted. “The sonata goes excellently as a background.”

“No!” Yurka jumped up from the chair and fired out on one breath: “Volod, what kind of love-dovey hot air belongs in a patriotic play? Do you understand what the Moonlight Sonata is? It’s a nocturne, it’s a concentration of sadness, there’s so much love and at the same time, misfortune in it, that to stick in the background of a play about partisans is just, just … it’s not right!”

Having exhaled his tirade in one continuous torrent, Yurka seemed to deflate, and he fell back into his chair. Volodya gazed at him and bent an eyebrow in surprise, but he did not make any commentary on such an emotional declaration, he just asked:

“And what would you suggest?”

“The Appassionata– hang on before you start arguing, I’ll explain it all now. Firstly, it was Lenin’s favourite composition, secondly–“

“It’s too difficult. Who’ll play it?”

“Masha…” blurted Vanya and only then realised that Volodya was right: nobody could play the Appassionata, not even Yurka. “Alright, alright, then maybe the Internationale.”

“As a reminder of Musya Pinkenzon’s feat?”[2]

“Uh-huh,” confirmed Yurka, glad that even their associations dovetailed.

“A good idea, I’ll suggest it to Masha. But the Internationale is an anthem, it won’t fit in the background. Should we just leave the Moonlight Sonata for the background for the time being?”

“But I said, it doesn’t fit there! Why do you have a nocturne in the beginning? Why begin right away with something restful?”

Yurka took in a full chest of air, gathering himself to once again fire off at machinegun pace everything he thought about the Sonata, but he was interrupted.

The porch screeched, the door of the theatre slammed, and an enraged Ira Petrovna appeared. Yurka had never seen her like this – her eyes glittered, her mouth bent in a terrible zigzag, her cheeks reddened:

“Konev! I don’t know what you’re trying to achieve by all this, but you’ve managed it! I congratulate you!”

Ira blazed with righteous fury and, as she descended the steps, shouted so loudly that Yurka’s heart beat in his throat. The emotion that followed after the fear was anger – she was trying to blame him for something again!

“What have I done now?” Yurka stepped to face Ira.

She stood in the aisleway between the seats. As he stopped opposite, looking Ira in the eye, Yurka wanted to kick a chair with all his might to rein in, even a little, his seething inner anger, but Volodya suddenly appeared next to him and silently placed a hand on his shoulder.

Ira raged, “Konev, where were you roaming about all of last night? Why did Masha only get back to the troop in the morning? What were you doing with her?”

“I got back in the evening…”

At that point, Volodya, turned to Ira and lowered his voice, “Ira, calm down and get to the point. What’s he done?”

“And you, get out of other people’s business, Volodya. You stick up for him in our meetings, while he’s out ruining girls!”

Hearing such from Ira Petrovna, Yurka was stupefied, his eyebrows crept up his forehead. Volodya wheezed in a loud whisper, “Wha-a-at?”

Ira kept her silence.

Once the words were found, Yurka cried out, “I didn’t do anything with Masha! She’s gone completely crazy to talk like that?!” He wanted to add a couple of swear words but was struck dumb as he only just registered what he had heard: Volodya sticks up for me?! No longer paying attention the shouts coming in response from the counsellor, he stared at him and blinked dumbly. The desire to give something a walloping came to naught.

All the while, Ira was carrying on:

“The best girl in the troop! A step away from becoming a Komsomolka! As soon as she got close to you, it started: she works badly, she misses exercise, she runs away from–”

Suddenly, Volodya again butted in and interrupted the torrent of accusations. Had he not done it then, they would have descended into insults.

“Right, stop. Irin, are you trying to say that Masha wasn’t with her troop last night?”

“Yes!”

“And that since Yura also wasn’t there, you think that he was with her?”

“Yes, exactly!”

“And did someone see them together?”

“No, but it’s obvious!”

The ‘obvious’ drove Yurka mad finally. He could not swallow this pill any longer and he kicked at a chair. The seating cover flew off half a meter and clattered against the floor. No-one besides the troublemaker himself paid this any attention.

“What, exactly, could be obvious to you? Yura was with me!” Volodya was starting to get mad.

“You’re covering for him again, while he– with the best pioneer in the troop–” and Ira swore so thunderously that Yurka was struck dumb.

“I repeat, Konev was with me!” bellowed Volodya.

“Don’t lie to me! He wasn’t, I know it. I passed by your troop and the lights weren’t one!” Ira bared her teeth in victory. “Well, I’ll say, Volodya, I never expected such from you! And you, Konev… I’ve been through a lot, but this is too much! Tomorrow I’m going to put forward a motion for your dismi–”

“Ira, wait,” Volodya, trying to reason with her, lowered his voice. “Yura really was with me and the kids from my troop. If you need witnesses, there they are. And in general, why are you starting the inquest now, and not at the meeting?”

“I only just found out!”

“And why the hell didn’t Masha appear for lights out?” Yura wedged himself in. “And why are you trying to pin it all on me, and not her? Why do you forgive her?”

“Because you… because…”

“Because you’re used to it always being Yura who’s last!” Volodya exploded, no longer holding back. “And why is it that he bothers you, but not Masha? Why do you keep pestering him, do you have a crush or something?”

Everyone froze. Volodya squinted angrily, while Yurka sunk, practically fell into the same chair that he himself had destroyed. Ira Petrovna pursed her lips into a straight line, went pale and began to shake. Only a blind person would not have noticed that the fury inside her would bubble over and break loose in a flood of abuse, if not tears, but the counsellor held firm. She pursed her lips even harder, so that they turned blue, twirled around on the spot and left without saying a word.

Volodya clenched his fists and sat down next to Yurka, who asked:

“What do you think? Is it the end of me?”

Volodya shook his head:

“Just you wait and see, if she tries to say something at the staff meeting, I’ll show her… It’s totally out of line! What kind of counsellor does Irina think she is if she doesn’t know what her own troop are up to?”

Yurka’s heart filled with a kind of unprecedented lightness.

“Thank you, Volod,” he said, placing as much gratitude as he was able to give into that word.

“The question is just – where the devil did Masha get to?” Volodya put out there instead of an answer.

***

As he headed from the theatre to the canteen, Yurka thought only about his stomach that was grumbling from hunger; Ira and Masha were completely forgotten. In contrast to him, Volodya was grousing:

“Yura, you absolutely have to go to Irina… The best pioneer, I’ll be darned. ‘The best pioneer’ should sleep at night, not go roaming around the camp.”

Hearing this, Yurka suddenly remembered:

“Volod! While you were leading the rehearsal, I heard Sanya whispering with Petlitsyn. Petlitsyn encouraged first me, then him to go smear a girl with toothpaste at night. I said no, but Sashka nodded. They’re preparing some sabotage, it seems!”

Volodya ears pricked up:

“Petlitsyn? But he’s from the second troop, what kind of business could he have with the little kids?”

“What do you mean what kind? It’s fun, setting up the little kids–”

“There’s nothing fun here, it’s dangerous!”

“Oh, come on! Think back to yourself at that age, as though you never once egged the younger kids on to do something stupid!”

“I didn’t, no, Yura. No-one dared to mess around with me, and I never bullied anyone else. What about you? You weren’t a hooligan, were you?”

“A hooligan? Of course not!” lied Yurka without even blushing. In reality, as soon as he had stopped playing mean tricks, he suddenly gained too much free time.

His mum often said to him, “Nature abhors a vacuum” and Yurka was convinced of this by his own experience. An emptiness had opened up after music disappeared from his life and it swallowed all emotions, leaving only nervousness and spite. Feeling as though abandoned without music, Yurka tried to occupy himself with whatever he could, just so as not to think about what he had had and now did not, so as not to allow the emptiness to remind him of its presence again. He collected stamps, made model planes, soldered, whittled, bred aquarium fish, but all of this was boring and insipid. In search of a distraction that could replace the happiness lost without music, in search of a meaning to his own existence, Yurka grew close with those who could not be called in any way boring – with the kids in the courtyard.[3] Full-blown hooligans they were not, but all the same, their activities brought no benefit to Yurka. Was there much use in Yurka learning card tricks and cheats, or a bunch of dirty little songs and rhymes, or, whilst languishing in idleness in the common areas, untwisting a dozen lightbulbs and writing a Talmud of rude words? Or in him setting off a few carbide cartridges at school and set off a pair of smoke alarms?

Of course, the courtyard kids taught him some more inoffensive mischiefs, including ones for camp. Over the season just passed, Yurka had got almost all of the little kids hooked on various pranks and every morning, something out of the ordinary would be happening in every troop. Perhaps the victim would be doused with cold water and she would try to leap out of bed while tied to the mattress, or perhaps she would be woken up by a scream and a sheet thrown over her face with the cry ‘The ceiling’s collapsing!’ and she squeal in a voice other than her own because it would really seem to her that the ceiling was collapsing on top of her. Perhaps, while the victim was washing, they would hide under the washbasin and tie the ends of her shoelaces together so that, having washed, she could not take two steps before falling over. And that’s not to mention the ‘night-time’ classics – smearing sleeping people with toothpaste, or putting cold pasta under the pillows, or subtly tugging on the curtains while somebody tells a horror story? For the kids it was ridiculously scary and fun, but for Yurka himself, even the more sophisticated pranks had come to bore him.

That which had been boring last season was all the more so this time, and not for Yurka alone. Volodya had no need for mean tricks either.

“Good grief… What a bunch of pranksters I’ve ended up with…” his face reflected a mixture of confusion, suffering and irritation.

***

After dinner Volodya plucked Yurka out of the crowd of pioneers leaving the canteen.

“Listen, Yur, are you still coming to ours tonight? I wanted to ask you…”

“What?”

“I’m still all worried about this toothpaste thing. They’re still little, they don’t know that it can be dangerous.”

Yurka nodded:

“Well, in principle, yes… a couple of years ago, some smart guy sprayed some in my eyes. It burnt so badly that I thought I would go blind. Then my eyelid was swollen for a week.”

Volodya, hearing this, turned to face him and Yurka instantly regretted telling the story.

“But don’t you worry!” he hurried to calm him down. “We know about their sinister plans, which means we can put a stop them–”

“Stopping them is pointless. Stop them today and they’ll muck around tomorrow. The most important thing is something else: to make sure that they know that they mustn’t get toothpaste in the eyes, ears or nose. Here’s what I came up with: we need to tell them a horror story about toothpaste.”

“Uh-huh, yesterday you were against it, I was scaring your kids–”

“No, Yur, it’s just better for my troop if they’re trembling in their beds rather than suffocating or getting burns. Much less eye burns!”

Yurka scratched at the back of his head.

“But what kind of horror story can we come up with about toothpaste?”

“There’s a ton of time before lights out, we’ll come up with something.”

***

“Pcholkin!” called Volodya in a loud whisper as he bent over the boy’s bed. “Come on, sit up!”

“What now? Why?” he grumbled, but, throwing off his blanket, obediently sat up.

“Here’s why,” Volodya fumbled around with his hand under the pillow, fished out a tube of toothpaste and stood up straight again. He then gave a watchful look over the rows of beds. “Does anyone else have something stashed away under their pillows? San?”

“Why me straight away?” came a squeak from the left row by the wall.

“Because you’re always a good boy.”

Yurka was observing all this from where he had set himself up comfortably in the empty bed beside the window.

“Kids,” continued Volodya sententiously. “Do not take it into your heads to smear toothpaste over anyone! It can be dangerous, do you understand?”

A couple of lazy ‘uh-huh’s and ‘yeah, right’s came in response. Volodya sighed heavily, gathered up his chest with air and was about to say something more, but from the corridor came a loud shriek, and after that, stomping, the slamming of a door and sobbing.

“I’ll be right back.” Volodya broke off towards the exit from the room, shouting out along the way, “Yur, watch over them!”

“Yuuu-w-wa!” Olezhka drew out playfully as soon as the door to the room slammed shut.

“Hm?”

“You pwomithed uth a howwow thtowy!”

“Yeah, Yura, you promised!”

“Tell us a new story!”

Yurka snorted loudly and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Well, I’m not really sure,” he drawled. “Volodya forbade me yesterday from telling you horror stories, he says you’re still too little. And it is true, I suppose, you are little. You couldn’t even set up a toothpaste prank…”

“How was I supposed to know he would stick his hand under my pillow?” Pcholkin tried to justify himself.

“Perhaps someone shouldn’t have shouted about all around the theatre!” responded Yurka in kind.

“That wasn’t me, it was Sanya!” scowled Pcholkin.

“But he didn’t take my toothpaste away!” the fat one waved his tube victoriously over his head.

“Come on, put it away!” booed Yurka and added threateningly, “You can’t even imagine what kind of horrors take place at Lastochka with pranksters who smear people with toothpaste! And this isn’t some tale, I saw it myself…”

Everyone fell silent. All that could be heard was Sasha rustling as he put his tube back away under the pillow.

“But what happenth with them, Yuw?” Olezhka crawled out from under his blanket and stared fixedly at him.

“What did you see?” Pcholkin crossed his arms, affecting bravado.

Yurka narrowed his eyes and looked over the room, knowing that the kids could see his silhouette against the backdrop of the window.

“Do you really want to know?”

A silence hung over the troop for a long half-minute and only then was a single, uncertain ‘yes’, which was picked up by several voices.

“Alright,” said Yurka. “Then I will reveal to you another real, terrifying secret… At Lastochka, it’s not just the apparition of the countess that I told you about yesterday that roams the night. In reality – I read this somewhere – there’s a higher level in this place of… how do you put it… oh, right, anomalous activity! All kinds of supernatural forces and evil spirits gravitate here, especially at nighttime!”

In a nearby bed, someone’s teeth were chattering.

“What, is it scary?”

“U-u-uh…” trailed off uncertainly from somewhere in the neighbouring bed.

“No!” announced Sanya courageously.

“Tell us!” Pcholkin supported him.

Yurka took a dramatic pause, listening to the total silence in the room, and began slowly, in a whisper:

“Four years ago, a girl arrived at Lastochka, Nina. An ordinary girl, there was nothing remarkable about her, apart from her eyes – they really were very beautiful. They were big and so clear, blue like the sky.”

“Did you know hew, Yuwa?” interrupted Olezhka.

“Of course,” affirmed Yurka immediately. “It’s true, we didn’t talk because back then I was barely older than you are now, while she was fifteen, grown up, really… Nina was a very lonely and withdrawn girl, she never had friends to go around with. There are people like that – reserved and shy. Because of the fact that she couldn’t make friends with anyone and went round the camp all by herself, she began to be thought of as a loner. She was teased, joked about, called names and they even came up with their own hurtful nickname for her – Bobyl.[4]

The children began to giggle – it was a funny word, Yurka shushed them.

“At some point during the night, the girls from Nina’s troop decided to smear the guys with toothpaste. It’s a unique ritual for the older troops: if, over the course of a season, you don’t get smeared with toothpaste, that means that the season has gone to waste.”

The children flared up. From all sides questions rained down: ‘Did you get smeared?’, ‘Did Volodya get smeared?’, ‘Did you do it?’, all very unsuitable at that moment. Yurka answered a few and, having brought the boys back to silence, continued:

“Right, so, of course, nobody called on Nina. It was very hurtful for her to hear her troopmates giggling as they discussed who had made which patterns on the hoys’ faces. Whether it was the hurt that led Nina, whether she wanted to revenge herself, the next night, she used up almost all her toothpaste to play a trick on the girls. But because Nina was never called upon to take part in such jokes, she didn’t know the important rules. For example, you mustn’t get the paste in hair, because as it solidifies, it gets hard as concrete, and it becomes so hard to clean that you end up tearing the hair out. And so, in the morning, two girls couldn’t wash the paste out of their hair! But revenge is a contagious thing… To begin with, suspicion fell on the guys in the troop, and they prepared their revenge against them. But someone noticed that Nina’s toothpaste tube was almost empty, as well as that Bobyl herself remained untouched at night… For the whole day, she heard her troopmates whispering and discussing their plan for revenge against the boys, but at night, the revenge fell upon the totally unsuspecting Nina! She was woken up early in the morning by a strong burning sensation on her face, and especially her eyelids. Half-asleep, not understanding anything, she opened her eyes and rubbed them… The burning became so intense that Nina began to cry, whilst continuing to rub her eyes. But this made it even worse! No-one would help her, all around there was just giggling. Then she jumped up and, without being able to see anything, ran out of the dorm by touch.” Yurka took a theatrical pause and took a deep breath. “But in the morning… In the morning the third troop, who turned up first for exercise, saw Nina in the swimming pool. She was floating with her back up. Dead! In her white pyjamas, her arms spread out to the sides, while her hair floated in the water… They got Nina out, turned her face up and saw that instead of her beautiful blue eyes were two burnt-out red holes!”

“Oh, how nightmarish,” came a squeak from the corner of the room. “But why did they find her in the pool?”

“Because she was running with her eyes closed and she fell in there. And Nina was bad at swimming, besides which her eyes were burnt, so she drowned.”

“Yuwa, did you thee thith, fow weal?”

“This story isn’t finished!” Yurka interrupted the kids, who were beginning to make noise. “They tried to quickly hush up this incident, so that there wouldn’t be a furore with the season cut short and everyone being sent home, but some rumours still got out! Pioneers and counsellors who happened to be at the pool at nighttime, at a specific time – 3:17 – would see a bluish glow above them. It would hang in the air for exactly four minutes, then it would blow away, as if by a gust of wind, to the side of the dormitories with the older troops. And on these nights in particular, strange things would happen – the next morning, someone would wake up with toothpaste smeared all over them: perhaps on the cheeks, or perhaps on the forehead. And it was always only one single person – the biggest jokester in the troop, and the smears were incomprehensible, as though someone were aiming for the eyes but couldn’t get it in there at all. And then these jokesters would talk about how they always dream one and the same dream. They would hear a splash of water and feel someone’s fingers stroking their face. And then a soft girl’s voice would call them: Let’s go muck about, I have toothpaste… And not one of them had a doubt that it was the soul of the girl Nina Bobyl roaming around the camp on these nights, searching for someone to play with. They say that Nina specially chooses the most mischievous – it’s fun with them, but at the same time, she wants to avenge herself. That’s why at first she asks them to play, and then smears and burns them. She wants to get it in their eyes, but she can’t because she’s blind.”

“But surely, Yur, Nina’s only looking for the culprits in the older troops,” remarked Sasha.

“Where did you get that from?” rebutted Yurka. “I think she could even call upon you now, since you’re planning jollies. So, be careful with your toothpaste!”

“Can she really burn out eyes?”

“Call Nina, San, she’ll come and show you…”

“O-oi!”

“There we go! And don’t you ever forget, you must never for any reason get in people’s eyes, nose, ears or hair.” Yurka rose from the bed and stretched, clicking his back.

“Why the nothe and earth?” asked Olezhka.

“Olezh, come on and guess yourself – the paste dries up, you wouldn’t be able to breathe, or get it out of your ears. Alright. I’m going to go find Volodya, wherever he’s disappeared off to. Promise to stay calm in bed and not play tricks?”

“We promise!”

Yurka headed for the door, but stopped by Sasha’s bed and stuck a hand under his pillow.

“All the same, it’s best that I take this,” he said as he took out the toothpaste tube. “From further sins.”

“Go on, take it, I’ll rethink it. I won’t smear anybody … for now,” grumbled the fat boy.

***

It was pitch black in the narrow corridor. Yurka groped and felt his way to the door to the girls’ bedroom, carefully opened it slightly and took a look. It was quiet inside, the girls were sleeping peacefully, but neither Lena nor Volodya were with them. Yurka turned around and went on tiptoes to the counsellors’ bedroom, where Volodya and the gym instructor Zhenya lived.

The room was situated at the far end of the corridor. Unable to see anything in front of him, feeling the walls with his fingertips, Yurka prowled towards the light which streamed in a thin beam from below the door. He had always been curious to see how the counsellors lived, and especially Volodya. And here, finally, a means to visit him as a guest had appeared.

Having reached the counsellors’ room, Yurka heard a whisper: “Lena invited me herself” – and recognised Zhenya’s voice. That means the disco is already finished, he concluded, since the gym instructors were never away from the dances for a second, and he gingerly touched the door, preparing to knock. From the light push, the door slowly and silently started to move to the side. Yurka began to open the door bit by bit to the counsellors’ bedroom.

At first, he saw a perfectly made bed with a brown sheet and above it, a poster for the band Mashina Vremeni.[5] He then quickly registered a nightstand next to the bed, upon which lay neatly Volodya’s crumpled notebook and glasses case, along with a glass of water and a vial of valerian extract. Volodya himself was not there, however. Yurka took a step forward, intending to leave, when the whisper repeated: “It was just a simple dance” – and from behind the door, now flung open, appeared the broad back and short-cropped nape of the gym instructor, wearing a dark blue sports jacket.

Zhenya knelt before a different bed, on which a recumbent Ira Petrovna in tears was wiping her eyes. A green skirt with little suns covered her legs to the ankles, and her red neckerchief over a white turtleneck had slipped to the side. Her hair, which was normally pulled up into a high tail, was dishevelled. Ira frowned, as though deciding upon something.

Zhenya rose, whispered a few words into her ear and Ira, finally, relented. She extended herself to the gym instructor, cupped his cheeks and kissed him on the lips.

“Now there’s something!” whispered Yurka, dumbstruck.

He gripped the door handle, intending to hide the couple from prying eyes – God forbid the children see – and pulled it towards himself, but loudly struck his elbow against the doorpost. Ira winced, the door slammed and behind it they heard some racket.

Some counsellor, huh! Yurka was indignant as he stepped towards the exit of the hut. He had caught them by accident, but all the same felt uncomfortable and wanted to disappear from there as quickly as possible. If only Ira knew what was going on in her squad while she’s busy with her personal life and God knows wherever it is she goes loafing about at night! How does Volodya allow such a mess in his room?

Finding himself outside in the night, Yurka, finally, found Volodya – he was returning to the dormitory, dragging a girl from his troop by the hand. The girl was sobbing. Volodya pressed his lips together. Sullen, once again swallowed by gloomy thoughts, the counsellor did not even glance at Yurka and shouted into the darkness behind the dormitory, “Lena, I’ve found her!” From far away the second counsellor’s voice was heard, trembling with worry: “Praise be!”

Yurka was not about to get mixed up in pedagogic drama and only waved his hand at Volodya in farewell. The latter silently nodded in response and disappeared into the hut, while Yurka headed off to his own place.

Ira Petrovna nevertheless intercepted him beside the first troop’s dormitory. She stood in the little area in front of the porch and was red, exactly like the petunias that grew on both sides of the entrance.

“Yura, come here for a few words,” called Ira, not loudly.

“What?” he asked, drily.

The ordinarily brave Ira Petrovna was not herself – she was shifting her weight about on the spot, opening and closing her mouth without making a sound, and was terribly embarrassed. But Yurka understood without a word what it was that she wanted to say to him.

“I didn’t see anything,” he announced firmly, poking at the triangles of brick that framed the flowerbed with the toe of his tennis shoe.

Ira sighed with relief.

“It’s so good that you understand! Of course, you saw everything. And yes, it wasn’t quite right, it’s a camp, there’s children. But you’re a grown-up person! Whether you saw–” she tried to explain further, but Yurka interrupted that uncomfortable monologue.

“There’s no need for any of this, Ira Petrovna. The grown-up person is you, while I… while I would rather like to sleep. The children have tired me out.”

Having said this, he really did set off to go sleep.

It went without saying that what Ira was getting up to with the gym instructor did not concern Yurka, but he had the knowledge in hand – just let her blame him without blame of her own now!

But as he fell asleep, Yurka once again was thinking not of Ira, but of Volodya. It was a shame that he did not get to say goodbye. But that was nothing, the next day they would meet again and write a new horror story, even better than the one before. How great it’ll be to sit with Volodya on the carousel, chatting and making things up. I can’t wait for tomorrow. As he thought about the upcoming day, imagining the carousel and Volodya, thoughtfully gnawing at a pen, Yurka fell asleep.

It seemed that all of a second passed before suddenly Vanka gripped him by the shoulder and began to shake him.

“Come out to the porch. You’re summoned.”

“Ira again?” muttered Yurka.

Gathering up his willpower, he stood up from the bed and began to get dressed, slowly, lazily, without opening his eyes.

“No, Volodya.”

“Volodya?” His eyes flew open.

He went outside and saw Volodya sitting on a bench by the flowerbed. He heard the wings of moth beating against the lampshade over the porch, casting irregular shadows. Yurka drew the fresh air into his nose – the night smelt of moist pine needles and fragrant flowers – and descended the steps below.

“I just need five minutes,” Volodya rose to face him and, seeing Yurka bedraggled in the flickering light, began to worry. “Did I wake you?”

“No, it’s fine,” he said, nasally and sleepily whilst slicking back his dishevelled hair. “Has something happened?”

“Oh, no, I just, ah, wanted to say goodbye. And I didn’t get–”

“Where did you go for so long?” asked Yurka as he lowered himself onto the bench and gestured for Volodya to sit next to him.

“I was looking for a runaway.”

“A runaway? A girl?”

“Imagine that, yes! We do have such, Yulya. This season is the first for everyone in our troop, but Yulya cannot and does not want to get used to camp in any of them. She doesn’t make friends with anyone, spends all her time longing for her parents and now she’s decided to plan her escape. When I found her, she confessed that she was trying to escape, but got lost.”

“But why didn’t you tell me? I could have helped you search. Working as a pair with you, it would have been sorted in a heartbeat.”

“No-one would have been looking after the boys. Don’t go getting ideas. First of all, tomorrow we’ll call her parents, so that she can at least hear them over the phone. Then secondly, parents’ day will be soon and Yulya’s mother will come and calm her down. Or take her home. It’d be better to take her.”

“Clearly…”

The conversation did not go well. There was no discomfort, he just did not want to talk. It was too good and peaceful there: in the cool night air, crickets chirruped the heartrendingly sad howl of a dog or perhaps a real wolf. Yurka did not know whether all of it was real or a figment of his imagination. He could have sworn he even heard the hooting of an owl!

The night was missing just one thing – the crackle of a bonfire. He sat back down next to Volodya and they only occasionally exchanged words about whatever nonsense, like the infuriating gnats.

“Do you think the horror story worked?” asked Volodya, breaking off the long, but enjoyable silence.

“To me, it seems like a no,” confessed Yurka honestly. “I’m afraid that they’ll now want to conduct an experiment, to check whether toothpaste really does solidify in hair like cement.”

“Hair is fine,” Volodya brushed him off. “As long as it’s not the nose or the eyes.”

It seemed like the sky lay upon the rooves of the single-story huts. The Milky Way sparkled with a scattering of colourful stars. Like the glare of sunlight upon water, satellites and aeroplanes twinkled with flashes of white, green and red signal lights. Yurka wished for a telescope, that he might make out the galaxies that from there appeared like tiny little murky clouds. And maybe he would fulfil his childhood dream – to see the asteroid B-612 and shake hands with the Little Prince, since on precisely these kinds of summer nights, it was so easy to believe in the tales.

But taking pleasure in the closeness of the sky turned out to be short-lived. After a few minutes, Volodya sighed and got up.

“Well, time for me to go. I need to get up early for the staff meeting tomorrow, and I can’t be late.”

He placed his left hand on Yurka’s shoulder, who was getting up after him. Yurka waited for him to clap him on the shoulder, but Volodya gave him a sort of squeeze or stroke and held out his right hand to say goodbye.

“Thank you for everything,” he whispered, slightly abashedly.

“I’ll drop by tomorrow after lights out,” blurted Yurka. “Will you wait on the carousel?”

Volodya smiled, shook his head scoldingly, but he did not scold him:

“I will.”

It seemed like their handshake would last for all eternity. But it was only Volodya to break it off, Yurka was upset – it was not enough. He never thought about how, when shaking someone’s hand, he was holding it. But now he was thinking. And he suddenly understood that he wanted to hold Volodya’s hand a little longer.

But Yurka, sleepy and pampered by the quiet night, did not get stuck in thought, guessing just what and why this was. He wanted too badly to sleep and for the next day to come faster. As he wrapped himself up in his thin blanket literally fell into a sweet dream, and he landed not on his rough bed, but on soft dandelion fluff.

[1] The Russian word for ‘to like’ can also mean ‘to be pleased by’, ‘to take pleasure in’

[2] Abram Vladimirovich (Musya) Pinkenzon (5th December 1930, Bălți, Bessarabia, Romania – November 1942, Ust-Labinskaya, Krasnodarskij Krai, USSR) was a hero of the pioneers, shot by the Germans.

Son of Doctor Vladimir Borisovich Pinkenzon and his wife Fenya Moiseyevna. Froman early age, he learnt to play the violin, and when he was five years old, the local newspaper was already writing about him as a Wunderkind violin prodigy. In 1941, Vladimir Pinkenzon obtained a commission at the military hospital in Ust-Labinskaya. In the summer of 1942, the Ust-Labinskaya station was captured by German soldiers and the hospital was not able to be evacuated in time. The Pinkenzon family were arrested soon after as Jews. They were led to the banks of the river Kuban among others who had been sentenced to death. The soldiers lined the condemned up along an iron fence by a deep ditch. After his parents had been shot, Musya asked for permission to play Hitler’s favourite composer, Wagner, on his violin which he had brought with him. However, having acquired permission, he began to play the Internationale (the then-anthem of the Soviet Union) and was killed. [Note by original authors]

[3] Soviet apartment blocks were often arranged around a central courtyard

[4] A pre-Revolutionary term for a landless peasant, in modern colloquial Russian it can also mean a (male) bachelor.

[5] Lit. The Time Machine

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

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