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CHAPTER EIGHT KONEV GOES SWIMMING

Dozing off while fishing hadn’t solved Yurka’s problem: he was still desperately tired. He’d been planning on using quiet hour today to compensate for the hours of sleep he hadn’t gotten at night, but Volodya was waiting for him at the cabin. Recognizing the troop leader’s tall figure from a distance, Yurka assumed he was going to suggest they go rewrite more of Olezha’s lines. Yurka was going to refuse.

“Hi.” Yurka gave a demonstratively wide yawn into his fist. “I’m dying here—so tired.”

“This is no time for sleeping!” Volodya gave a sly smile, pulled a key ring from his pocket, and shook it, clinking the keys. “You were saying you know where the bas-relief from the scary story is. And I have the keys to the boathouse. You provide the information, I provide the boat! You coming?”

Yurka’s sleepiness vanished without a trace. He clapped his hands together in anticipation and joked, “Aha! So being friends with a troop leader has its upsides!”

Volodya chortled. He walked down the cabin steps and nodded at Yurka for him to follow.

“And you won’t get in trouble for taking the keys?” Yurka asked ten minutes later as Volodya bent over the locked boathouse door, trying to find the right key.

“What trouble could there be? I mean, I didn’t steal them. I signed them out in the little book and got them. The keys are all hanging in the office, any troop leader can take them.”

“Just like that, for no reason?” Yurka was surprised.

“What, do you really think troop leaders don’t make up reasons to get out of quiet hour?” Volodya winked.

Once they got in the door and through the small building, they saw stretching out before them a dock finished in big concrete pavers. Tires hung along its sides at water level as bumpers. A dozen boats nudged gently against them, each boat secured with heavy chains to its own short metal pile with a little sign displaying the boat’s number.

“You know your way around an oar?” Volodya turned and started walking to the end of the dock.

“What do you think? Every summer when we get boat time, I have a little side job of rowing for people. Here, take this one.” He indicated the next-to-last boat, which had a fresh coat of blue paint. “It’s got good oars.”

Yurka took charge from there. They pulled off the canvas that was fastened over the boat to keep the rain out and got in. Yurka showed Volodya how to maintain his balance as he sat down. Then he took the keys from Volodya, opened the lock, and unwound the chain. It clanked loudly on the concrete. Yurka pushed the boat off the dock and steered it out to the middle of the river.

“The current’s strong here,” he warned. “I’ll row us out and you row us back. Otherwise my arms’ll fall off.”

“Are you sure you know where to take us?” Volodya asked doubtfully.

“Of course I do! Straight ahead! No intersections or traffic lights here!”

“But if you’re being serious ... ?”

“Like I just said, keep going straight until the river bends. Actually ... Wait. There’s this one place ...” Yurka got a rapt look on his face, remembering it, and looked at Volodya. “I know you’ll like it. We have to go there.”

“What is it?”

“Well ...” Yurka didn’t want to say yet. “The troop leaders said we couldn’t go there, they say it’s dangerous. But I went out there once and it was fine! I got read the riot act afterward, of course, but ... Want to go? It’s really cool.”

Volodya considered it. He adjusted his glasses in his habitual gesture: condescending, holding the glasses by both arms. “The thing is, Yur, I am a troop leader ... ,” he began.

“Even better! You say you allow it and there’s no problem.”

“Well, I don’t know ... ,” said Volodya hesitantly.

“Aw, come on, Volodya!” Yurka exclaimed playfully. “Now don’t be such a ... such a Volodya! It’s not dangerous there as long as you don’t jump out of the boat. I promise!”

“But what if you do? What is it? Sharks? Crocodiles?”

“Pirates! No, just kidding. Just algae. But a lot of it!”

“Does it take a long time to get there?”

Yurka shrugged. “Ten, maybe fifteen minutes.”

“In this heat?” said Volodya, frowning. In the cloudless sky, the sun really was baking them mercilessly. On top of that, they’d be on a river that wasn’t too deep but was wide, without a single bit of shade. Still ... “Okay, fine,” he capitulated. “But you’ll bear full responsibility!”

“Responsibility’s my middle name,” said Yurka, chuckling.

The current in that part of the river really was fast and strong, and they were rowing against it. Yurka, out of practice, spent quite a while wheezing and straining until he found his rhythm. After all, it had been a year since the last time he went out in a rowboat.

For a while they moved in complete silence except for the measured splashing of the oars and the whispering of the reeds. To the right the shore sloped gently up, spreading in a green and yellow carpet all the way to the camp fence. To the left a steep bank riddled with barn swallow nests was forbidding with its sheer drops, the tree roots jutting from the sandy cliffs, the muddy sandbars, and the woods looming high over their heads. Still, the trees weren’t high enough to cast any real shadow on the river; Yurka, who was not only sitting in the hot sun but working the oars, too, was sweating buckets.

“Hey, Yur ... I was going to ask you something ... ,” said Volodya hesitantly, breaking the silence. “Can I?”

“You started, so you may as well finish.”

“I heard something about what happened last year. Olga Leonidovna was saying they treated you badly. So basically that’s why they decided to let you in this session: because they felt sorry for you. I used to wonder whether I knew the whole story there, but now that I’ve gotten to know you better, I see I don’t know the first thing about it. Will you tell me what happened, and how?”

Yurka drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “So there was this one guy, you know, this ... creep who was a camper here. He was the one whose dad was in the nomenklatura and had connections, the one who ... no, I have to tell it all from the beginning. I used to go to a music school attached to a conservatory. My dream was to become a pianist”—Yurka saw Volodya’s eyes widen in amazement and hurried to cut off his questions—“but I didn’t tell you because I hate even remembering all that. The thing is ... I really loved the piano, I couldn’t live without it ... No, ‘really’ isn’t the right word. I loved it passionately, for as long as I can remember.”

Yurka paused for some time, choosing the right words. He concentrated hard, figuring out how to explain it, how to show Volodya the extent to which music had been important to him. That he had never once imagined his life—imagined himself—without music. Ever since he was little, music had always been with him, the sound keeping his thoughts company. Music comforted, calmed, and cheered him. He heard music in his dreams every night. Music played every moment he was awake. Yurka never grew tired of it. Just the opposite: in moments of silence he became fearful, he couldn’t do anything right, he couldn’t concentrate. Sometimes he worried he was obsessed, because the piano was the only thing he cared about, the only thing that moved him, and it scared him how alienated he was from most people. It was as though he lived in a different dimension that he was trying to figure out. Was it that the music lived in him, or that he lived in the music? Was the music shining inside him, like a tiny but white-hot star? Or was it he who was inside a gigantic universe, one that only he could feel?

But how was he supposed to explain all this to Volodya? Volodya was a friend, yes, but someone he was still getting to know, and someone who didn’t know music at all. And Yurka never talked about all this, anyway. Music was his personal, private experience, one that was delicate and fragile, one that couldn’t be formulated using something as primitive as words.

“I didn’t go to a regular school; I went to a special music school run by a conservatory. Have you heard of those?” Volodya shrugged. Yurka explained: “Schools like that teach music along with all the regular school subjects. You attend for ten years, and then when you graduate, you can go directly to the conservatory instead of having to do music academies and auditions like everybody else. So, anyway, I aced the tests after the fourth grade, but starting in the eighth grade everything started going downhill. At the end of eighth grade there’s a big test, and in addition to our own teachers the instructors from the conservatory also come to watch the testing and pick out students in advance to work with after they graduate—” Yurka stopped abruptly.

Volodya, his head tilted slightly, gave him a questioning look. “And?”

Yurka hesitated. He rubbed his forehead and looked away. “I failed. They said I was ‘average.’”

“So what? That’s not a failing grade!”

“But this is music, Volod! Everything’s incredibly serious, in music you’re either a genius or you’re nobody. There’s no tolerance for ‘average’ people in music! So I was advised to leave the music school, because once I’d failed the test, there was no way I was going to make it into the conservatory. I’m stubborn. I stayed. But it was a waste of time. For half a year I got nothing but abuse, I got Ds, people said mean things to me ... so once they’d finally beaten it into me that I’m worthless, I left. I quit, all by myself. I quit music and transferred to a regular school. I haven’t touched a piano since.”

Volodya was silent. Yurka stared at the river. He was recalling how hard—almost impossible—it had been after that to force the music to be silent and then to learn to live in that silence. To this day he still hit his own hands and squeezed his interlocked fingers together until they hurt—whatever it took for them to unlearn their habit of drumming out his favorite works, or works he’d composed himself, on any available surface. He was even doing it right then, hammering his fingers unconsciously on the oar without recognizing the melody, without even trying to recognize it.

“But why didn’t they figure it out until the eighth grade?” Volodya inquired cautiously. “Shouldn’t they have caught it earlier?”

“Because me and my talent had absolutely nothing to do with it!” scoffed Yurka.

Volodya looked confused. “What do you mean?”

“What I said! The city executive committee chairman’s son was also in the music school. Typical little privileged nomenklatura prick: his daddy’s a political boss, so he gets whatever he wants. He was a total mediocrity, always skipping school, but he wanted to go to the conservatory. So they gave him my spot.” Yurka took up the oars again. “Isn’t it great how it worked out? Konev lives and breathes music, but he’s not worthy of being a student because he’s ‘average,’ while Vishnevsky skips school, but it’s okay because he’s a major talent! Although he has no talent at all! Pretty great, eh?!”

“Yeah ... ,” said Volodya slowly, obviously unsure how to respond. Taken aback, he looked away.

Yurka tried but failed to suppress the eruption of anger that was staining his cheeks red, filling his voice with bile, and making his eyes glitter feverishly. When Yurka pulled the oars, his strokes were even so choppy they rocked the boat back and forth. He spoke in a strangled voice: “And wasn’t it great for me the next summer, too, when I get to camp and see that I’m not only at the same session as that nomenklatura prick, I’m in the same troop as him! That sleazebag, that little shit, that—”

“Hey, take it easy with the name-calling,” warned Volodya, but Yurka was so consumed by rage and hurt that he didn’t pay Volodya any attention. He put his back into it and started rowing furiously. He’d completely forgotten about the heat, though the sweat was pouring off him. “It’s all because of him! He’s the reason they threw me out! He’s the one who destroyed my life! But my humiliation at school wasn’t enough for him, oh no! He decided to pull his shit here, too: he called me a little yid in front of the whole camp! And that’s where I couldn’t take it anymore. I let him have it, right in his ugly mug, and in front of everybody, too. I got him good, I busted his nose, he was bleeding everywhere ... I’ve never hit anybody that hard,” Yurka said, grinning bitterly. “I’ve always protected my hands. My grandma drilled it into me ever since I was little: ‘Yura, take care of your hands! Yura, take care of your hands!’ But what’s the point of taking care of them? What am I preserving them for?”

“Wait, but why ‘little yid’? Are you really Jewish?” asked Volodya, obviously trying to draw him toward a less painful topic.

“On my mom’s side,” said Yurka, without looking at him. “Yeah.”

“But how did Vishnevsky find out? There’s nothing about you that looks Jewish, just average Russian: your first name, your last name, your face, your hair—there’s nothing Jewish there.”

“I don’t know. He must’ve seen me in the shower.”

“Wait—what?” Volodya said, confused.

Yurka chuckled and gave an airy shrug. “The family tradition ...”

Then it hit Volodya. He raised an eyebrow and shamelessly looked Yurka up and down. “Oh ... so that’s it ... Interesting ...”

Yurka barely kept from blurting out, “Want me to show you?” But he was flustered by Volodya’s extravagantly curious, brazen regard and went from bold to timid. He smiled convulsively and went red. He felt hot again.

Meanwhile, Volodya’s expression had shifted to flabbergasted. He whistled softly and whispered, “Holy crap! That’s awful!”

This made Yurka feel so angry, and outraged, and hurt, that he castigated himself for being overly candid about this ticklish question. Because of Yurka’s own wagging tongue, Volodya had accidentally gotten into Yurka’s intimate business—but judging by Volodya’s intrigued expression, he was in no hurry to get back out. So Volodya says talking about those magazines is forbidden, but thinking about my private parts is totally fine? fumed Yurka to himself. Volodya’s reaction had cut him deeply. And then his internal voice chimed in, too, reminding him of the incident at yesterday’s morning calisthenics and his recent, tingle-inducing dream, so that in addition to the hot sun he now felt such a surge of internal heat that his lungs convulsed in pain.

What he said out loud was a remorseful “It’s not like I wanted to!” But seeing Volodya’s stunned expression, Yurka got hold of himself and tried his best to continue the conversation: “First of all, nobody asked me. Secondly, I was little, I don’t remember anything. And thirdly ... it’s ... don’t go imagining things! It’s nobody’s business but my own! And it’s not ‘awful’!”

“No, no—what are you saying?! That’s not what I meant!” Volodya shook his head and blushed to the roots of his hair. “There’s nothing all that strange about that! It’s an old tradition, several thousand years old, it’s normal, pretty much ... But you’re not religious, are you?”

“You’re not an idiot, are you?”

“Well, no ... but I mean ... I was just ...”

Yurka snorted and looked around. Anything to change the subject. There wasn’t a trace of civilization to be seen, neither a hut in the woods nor a roof out on the horizon. He and Volodya had gone a good kilometer or two by now. The camp and the boathouse had vanished behind a sharp bend in the river a while ago, and now the boys were in the middle of a pretty but boring landscape: identical patches of sparse woods, identical fields shimmering in the heat haze. There wasn’t anything to catch the eye. Except maybe for the high hill coming into view at a distance and the tiny little gazebo on it. But that wasn’t where they were headed. Yurka estimated they’d arrive at their destination any minute.

Volodya’s soft voice tore him away from his thoughts: “Anyway, I’m really glad you told me about that. About music, I mean. Turns out I don’t know you at all.”

“Well, I don’t know you, either,” said Yurka. “Not really. And I didn’t tell you about music just because you asked ... I mean, you did ask, but I could’ve just not talked about it, or found a way to avoid it. But I decided to trust you.”

Volodya gave him a grateful look.

“You know,” he began quietly, “I could tell you my most dreadful secret, too, but nobody can ever find out about it for any reason whatsoever. Promise not to tell?”

Yurka nodded, puzzled: Had he ever given Volodya a reason to mistrust him? Of course he wouldn’t tell a soul, no matter what Volodya revealed.

“You, Yura, refuse to live the way you’re told.” Volodya leaned closer to him and lowered his voice almost to a whisper, although there was nobody to hear them out in the middle of the river, in the rustling of the reeds. “You say you have relatives in East Germany ... but have you ever wanted to leave the country yourself?”

This question sounded rhetorical, but Yurka answered it: “Well ... my grandma tried to go back to Germany. It is her historical homeland, after all. But they wouldn’t let her. I have a relative there, but it’s just my mom’s second cousin, so it’s probably not—”

“Well, I want to leave,” interrupted Volodya. “Or rather, I don’t just want to leave: it’s my main goal in life. To go somewhere else and stay there permanently.”

Yurka’s mouth fell open. “Permanently? But that’s illegal, you can be put on trial for that. And you’re a Komsomol member, you’re so ... so upstanding, you’re Party-minded, you’re ... you’re ...”

“And that’s exactly why I am, as you say, ‘upstanding’ and ‘Party-minded’! So I can achieve my goal! The logic is simple, Yur: the only people who are allowed to travel outside the USSR are Communist Party members. ‘Proven’ Communists can travel even more freely. And that goes without saying for ‘proven’ Communist diplomats on a diplomatic assignment. And so—”

“And so you applied to MGIMO so you could become a diplomat,” Yurka finished for him.

Volodya nodded. Even though there wasn’t a soul around for kilometers, Volodya spoke in a subdued voice; his agitated tone, and the way he looked fearfully around, several times, gave Yurka goose bumps. If anyone heard that Volodya was planning on becoming a non-returner, he’d be immediately expelled from the Komsomol in disgrace. His plans, his entire life, would be derailed! And now he’d told Yurka.

“Where do you want to go?” Yurka asked.

“To America.”

“To ride a wild mustang through the prairie?” he said, with a nervous laugh.

“A motorcycle. A Harley-Davidson. Heard of them?”

Yurka didn’t answer. He hadn’t heard of that kind of motorcycle, and he didn’t know a thing about diplomats, but now he was scared for Volodya. Just then he remembered Volodya’s warning: “It’s not as bad now as it was back in Stalin’s day, but I could still get in deep trouble ...”

Yurka almost missed the turn due to his mild state of shock.

“Oh, there it is! It’s right there,” he exclaimed, pointing at a wall of reeds.

It wasn’t deep here, and Yurka’s oar hit the riverbed as he turned the boat and headed directly into the reeds.

“What are you doing?” Volodya asked in surprise.

“Everything’s fine. Help me. Part the reeds in front of us, just don’t cut yourself.”

The bottom of the boat scraped in the shallows as they passed through the patch of reeds. A small pool of water opened up before them, thickly carpeted in duckweed and water lilies. The river’s current didn’t flow into the pool, so the water was still, which allowed the river flora to flourish. Yurka’s oars got tangled up in the plants, and he had to stop every so often to pull them in and clean off the chunks of slimy algae clinging to them. But he knew this place, and he knew why he’d brought Volodya here. It was worth it, regardless of the swampy water’s particular odor and the clouds of buzzing mosquitoes.

Pond skaters darted along the water’s surface. A deafening croaking arose from the reeds. The pond was covered in the usual yellow water lilies. A few especially pushy frogs had taken their seats right on the water lilies’ waxy leaves and were observing the boat as it floated past. Yurka scanned the perimeter of the pond with great attention.

“Look! A heron!” he shouted, gesturing toward a part of shore that was thickly covered in reeds.

“Where?” Volodya poked the bridge of his glasses and squinted in the direction Yurka had indicated.

“It’s right there. It blends in really well, the little stinker! You can barely tell it apart from the reeds.” Yurka took hold of his hand, held it out toward a wall of reddish reeds with a long bill sticking out of it, and ordered, “Point your finger!”

Volodya obediently pointed his index finger, and Yurka took hold of his hand, fine-tuning the direction he was pointing.

“Oh, I see it!” Volodya exclaimed happily. “Would you look at that!”

“What, haven’t you seen one before?”

Volodya shook his head. “Nope. What a funny little guy, standing there on one leg! It’s pretending it’s not even there.”

As Volodya watched the heron, Yurka caught himself musing that he was still holding on to Volodya’s hand, but he really didn’t want to let go of it ... And come to think of it, Volodya wasn’t pulling his hand away, either ... But eventually Yurka had to let go so he could take up the oars again and guide the boat farther in and closer to shore.

“Here we are,” he announced. “Look how pretty it is here.” Yurka nodded down at the water. He’d turned the boat so it sat lengthwise in the pool, and now he let go of the oars and relaxed, rolling his shoulders.

Everywhere around them, flowers rocked gently on the water. Instead of the common yellow lilies, these were snow-white; dozens of them, with thick, yellow middles like egg yolks, floating among the dark green burdock-like leaves. Above them, pearly blue dragonflies alternated between hovering motionlessly and darting quickly to and fro. Volodya admired the pond, his gaze first taking in the flowers, then following the dragonflies. Meanwhile, Yurka admired him. Watching the tender smile that played on Volodya’s lips, Yurka knew he’d gladly submit to the biting mosquitoes and row here a hundred times, against the current, just to see that same delight on Volodya’s face again.

“White water lilies! They’re amazing!” Volodya leaned over the edge of the boat and brushed his fingertips against the white petals, as tenderly and reverently as though he were touching something fragile and precious. “There’s so many of them ... they’re beautiful. Like the one Thumbelina was born in.”

Yurka jumped up from his seat, making the boat rock dangerously under him. “Shall we pick one?” he suggested. He reached toward the flower, grasped the stem right underneath the flower head, and was about to pull, but Volodya slapped his wrist. “Stop that right now! Don’t you know those flowers are listed in the Red Book?”

Yurka blinked, startled, and peered at Volodya.

“That’s why you had to look for them so long,” Volodya continued his lecture. “People just float by and pick them, but it turns out these water lilies are an endangered species! And there’s no point picking them anyway, actually: they’re lilies, water plants, they wilt as soon as you pull them out of the water. They crumple up and die right in your hand. You can’t plant them in a pot, or cut them and put them in a vase like they were roses or something.”

“Okay, okay.” Yurka stretched his hands out apologetically in front of him, demonstrating that, see, they were empty, they hadn’t picked anything or killed anything. “I just wanted to give you one. To remember this by.”

“I’m going to remember it anyway. Thank you. It was definitely worth coming out here.”

They sat in the boat for a little while longer, admiring the flowers. Yurka listened to the croaking of the frogs and the buzzing of the pearlescent dragonflies and thought about how awfully tired he was of living in silence. Notwithstanding his sad thoughts, it was so calm and easy for him here that he felt like staying until dark, but Volodya looked at his watch and said, with some alarm: “It’s already been an hour. We probably won’t have time to see the bas-relief today, will we?”

“We could get there okay, but it’s a little bit of a hike from the shore to the bas-relief ...”

“Too bad.” Volodya heaved a sad sigh. “So now what? Turn around and head back?”

“Up to you. The bugle won’t be for another half hour.”

“Then maybe let’s sit in the shade, if only for ten minutes? There’s some shade over there by the shore, see?”

“But if we row over there, we’ll hurt the lilies ... ,” said Yurka sadly. He wouldn’t’ve minded cooling off, either, since his whole body was burning up inside from the heat.

Yurka expected Volodya to bow to circumstance—or, rather, to the heat—and say they were heading back, but all of a sudden Volodya lit up and exclaimed, his eyes flashing: “Hey, Yur, why don’t we take a dip? Is there anywhere around here to get in the water? It’s a river; there’s got to be someplace ...”

Yurka considered it. He thought he remembered a spot out past the bend in the river. Calling it a beach would have been overkill, but it was a place where they could tie up the boat. There was just one problem: he didn’t have his swimsuit with him.

“I don’t have anything to swim in, Volod. My swimsuit’s back in the cabin, and my underwear ...” Yurka faltered. Boxers. Swimming in them would result in completely soaked shorts afterward. “I mean ... I don’t want to go commando after this.”

“Don’t go commando in your shorts! Go commando in the river!” said Volodya with a wink. He began unbuttoning his shirt in anticipation even though the two of them hadn’t begun heading for shore yet. “Why not? There’s not a single girl for a kilometer around. Nobody’ll see us.”

“Makes sense,” admitted Yurka. He turned the boat toward the little beach area. Still, he was flustered. Getting undressed ... although, no, there wasn’t anything weird about it at all. They were both boys. Yurka had gone skinny-dipping a hundred times. And not just that, he’d also been naked while showering or changing in gym and at camp, and he’d never felt self-conscious in front of his comrades before. But comrades were one thing; Volodya was something else entirely. And this was Yurka’s first time for this kind of something else.

And no, it wasn’t self-consciousness he was feeling—not at all. Despite all their talk about religious traditions, regardless of Volodya’s seemingly improper interest, Yurka wasn’t self-conscious. No, he was simply so excited, he was paralyzed.

Still, mindful of the previous day’s awkwardness, he turned away as Volodya undressed, and he didn’t take off his own clothes until Volodya dove into the water.

Yurka jumped in, submerged himself completely, and bobbed back up. He’d barely had a chance to wipe the water out of his eyes when Volodya took off for the far shore and quickly drew close to it. Volodya’s arms hit the surface so powerfully that he sent gouts of water splashing, like a fountain; tiny rainbows winked in and out of existence as the spray sparkled in the sun. Now, that’s a butterfly! Brisk and bold! Wish I could do that! thought Yurka enviously. His eyes were drawn to Volodya’s shoulders. Out of nowhere he had a surge of utterly genuine delight: seems a skinny guy, but then, wow, what strong shoulders ... !

Yurka just kept standing there in water warm as milk fresh from the cow. He didn’t move a muscle as he admired how Volodya swam, how graceful and natural he looked, how free and uninhibited he was. He watched while Volodya paused, took off his glasses, and held them tightly as he dived. And then what Yurka had been admiring yesterday morning showed there above the water for a second, completely bare, uncovered by cloth. It was just a moment, too fast for Yurka to actually see anything, but suddenly his heart was in his throat and a jolt of excitement ran through him. He froze.

The realization of what was happening to him hit home. He stood rooted to the spot. The realization was so plain and simple that it stunned him. How had he not seen this yet? How could he have only now realized the answer to a million questions at once? The answer was so simple! Because who was Volodya to him? A friend. But not just any friend. The kind of friend you think about to sweeten your falling asleep and brighten your waking up. The kind of friend it’s so pleasant to look at, the kind you just keep admiring, the kind you can’t tear your eyes away from. The handsomest person in the world, the kindest, the smartest—the best in any and all ways. The kind of friend it’s even interesting to just sit quietly with. That’s the kind of friend Volodya was to him. A friend who he liked , in that strange, stupid, conventional sense of the word. A friend who was more than.

No. That can’t be! Yurka didn’t believe it. That kind of thing didn’t happen between boys. He’d never heard about anything like it, not from anyone. Even the guys from his building didn’t joke about this, and they knew everything about everything and joked about everything. Yurka simply did not believe that a friend, who was a guy, could be so drawn to another friend, who was also a guy ... that they ... that he ...

Yurka thought he’d been scared before. After those morning calisthenics, for example. But in hindsight that wasn’t actually that big a deal—just apprehension, really. What he felt now was true fear. Why was this happening? What was it? What was it called? Was it called anything? No matter what it was, no matter what it was called, it was unnatural! This kind of thing didn’t exist and couldn’t be happening to him. Maybe Yurka was the only guy this had ever happened to. Maybe it was some kind of psychological illness? Or just that he was exhausted? In this session of camp, Yurka had worn himself out, drained himself to the last drop; he’d worked his neurons so hard that his brain must’ve just sputtered and died. He’d go back home, take some time to sit around and do nothing, and everything would be dandy again. Yurka was already eager to go home, except that he really didn’t want to say goodbye to Volodya.

What he did want was to share his fear and his discovery with his best friend. Yurka wanted to tell him something private and precious: “I like you. I’m glad you’re here.” But even imagining saying those words to Volodya was scarier than jumping into icy water from a thirty-meter platform, worse than diving headfirst into the abyss. But what if he actually did it? What if he just threw caution to the wind and told it like it was? What would happen then? In his heart of hearts, Yurka knew exactly what: Volodya would laugh, thinking he was laughing with Yurka, but he’d actually be laughing at him. That’s what would happen.

And even if Yurka suddenly discovered a gift for eloquence, even if he was able to explain what “like” and “glad” truly meant, but explain that he wasn’t asking Volodya for anything, he was just telling him, out of pure happiness, just so he’d know ... Even so, Volodya would understand none of this. He’d do whatever he could to try to understand, but he wouldn’t, his mind wouldn’t process it. Of course not; Yurka’s own mind couldn’t, either ...

How could he explain this to Volodya? How could he understand it himself? So far, the only thing Yurka knew for sure now was that he’d never abandon Volodya, he’d never forget him, he’d never leave him. The kilometers would be no obstacle. Yurka would remain his devoted friend, always and everywhere, no matter where his life took him, be it to another continent, or the moon, or Asteroid B-612. Now Yurka would need Volodya even more. When Volodya wasn’t near, Yurka would feel the loneliness and emptiness even more. And Yurka would inevitably feel sorrow. He and Volodya would both feel it at some point, but Volodya’s sorrow wouldn’t be because of the complicated, unreasonable Yurka. It’d be because of some simple, reasonable girl.

Yurka stood stricken. He was afraid to move. He watched Volodya and thought, and thought, and thought some more. His head was spinning, his eyes were dazzled. The water droplets burned in the sun like sparks. The splashing roared in his ears. Stunned, Yurka watched as his best, most special friend snorted and huffed and laughed. But he himself couldn’t move a muscle. His whole body had gone numb as he stood up to his waist in the water, hands at his sides.

Volodya soon noticed Yurka’s strange behavior and came over. Yurka stared at him fearfully and did a very stupid thing: he covered his groin with his hands. Why did he cover it up? What was he hiding it from? He was in a pond, where nothing could be seen through the cloudy water! But it was instinctive, from a sense of shame. Because it wasn’t just his body that would be completely exposed ...

Volodya’s brow furrowed. “Yura, is everything okay?” He touched Yurka’s shoulder, which was cold even in the sun. “Is something wrong with your foot?”

What lie could Yurka offer? That he’d cut his foot? No. Volodya would ask to see it, but there was nothing to see. That his head was spinning? Volodya would just send Yurka to sit in the shade, but how would that be any better? What could possibly make anything better for him now?

“It’s nothing. It’s fine,” Yurka mumbled faintly.

“You’re all white ... Did you get a leg cramp? Here, let me help.” Volodya came right up close to Yurka and put his hand down into the water, reaching for Yurka’s leg.

“No, don’t, it’ll pass in just a second. It’s not a cramp, it’s just ... it’s just that I ... I’m tired, and everything’s just off somehow. Like we didn’t make it to the bas-relief, for example.” Yurka went red. And he did go red: heat singed his cheeks as though somebody’d put a hot water bottle on them.

“Of all the things to worry about ...” Volodya said dubiously.

A few minutes later they were both dressed and back in the boat, Yurka fervently grateful that his problem had gone away before they were out of the water. Volodya, still unsure what was wrong, tried to reassure Yurka: “We’ll make it out there another time. Give me the oars.” At this, Yurka just smiled wanly.

The trip back was much faster, since the current itself moved the boat along. Volodya was singing to himself, a song Yurka didn’t recognize. He wasn’t even trying to listen to it and figure out what song it was; he was looking at the water and thinking about “like.”

Suddenly, Volodya exclaimed, “Look at that willow!” He pointed over to the shore. “See it? That huge one there, like a tent—no, like a whole house! I’ve never seen one like that!”

He was pointing at a place where the riverbank came smoothly down to meet the river. A small sandbank that gave easy access to the water was half covered by a weeping willow, its densely leaved branches bending down all the way to touch the river. “Let’s stop, Yur,” he said.

“Then we won’t make it back in time for the bugle. You said so yourself,” replied Yurka quickly. But seeing the animation in Volodya’s eyes, he offered, “Maybe tomorrow?”

“But what if I can’t get a boat tomorrow?”

“Then I’ll try to remember how to get there on foot along the bank. I guarantee we can get there without the boat.” Yurka searched the steep part of the riverbank and then scanned along the top of the cliff. “I know there’s got to be a path over there. It starts at the shallows by our beach. The troop leaders don’t let the little kids use it, but that makes sense, it’s dangerous. The bank is sandy and crumbles out from under you, and falling down a cliff that steep would be pretty bad.”

“Let’s try to go there tomorrow, then?” Volodya suggested impatiently.

Yurka stopped dead in his tracks. “Since when have you been such a thrill seeker? You looking for adventure?”

Volodya shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m just following your example.”

Later that day, Yurka went out to find the willow. In an attempt to rid himself of the nagging, alarming thoughts about “like,” he memorized every bend in the path, every rise and fall, every ridge and stone. His search for the tree ended up taking some time.

He got back to the movie theater a whole hour after rehearsal started. The actors were performing admirably, and Volodya was completely immersed in the proceedings, so Yurka, bored, wandered around the theater.

The piano was silent for once. Apparently, Volodya had asked Masha for a little time off from her playing, for she now sat scowling in the audience not far from the stage.

Yurka shot a glance at the piano every so often, wishing he’d never brought up that story. Now he was fighting the urge to walk over to it, open the cover, and touch the keys, even just for a second. He didn’t want to actually make sounds, he just wanted to feel the cool lacquered wood under his fingertips. While everyone else was busy with their rehearsal in the left half of the stage, Yurka worked up his nerve and approached the piano in the right half. He opened the cover. A gleam of light danced along the keys. Yurka panicked and sprang away.

He bit his lip, eyeing the piano with a hunted look as he unconsciously warmed up his fingers. Out of nowhere a voice thundered at him in his head. Not his own voice. Someone else’s. The judge’s voice. She’d been a fat old lady with a bad perm. Yurka was surprised he even remembered it. He tried to think about something else, to just ignore the voice, but he couldn’t. He didn’t want to hear it, but he listened all the same, and it brought him pain: Do it, Konev. Reach out and touch the piano. It’s right there. Play whatever you want, play as much as you want; it won’t change anything. You’re still worthless, an utter mediocrity, and you have no future in music. Playing will just rub salt in your wounds. The voice was hers, but the words weren’t. They were Yurka’s to himself.

“Well hello, schizophrenia ... great ... ,” he muttered to himself sardonically, and headed backstage. He wandered aimlessly around the movie theater, bored, until rehearsal was over. He yearned to get into the projection room, but it was locked, as usual. He found just one somewhat interesting place in the whole giant building: a backstage supply closet. He went in and found a box with filmstrips and a projector and showed his discovery to Volodya after rehearsal.

Regardless of the anguish Yurka’s frightening discovery had caused, regardless of the bad mood that had tormented him the entire next day, Yurka naturally went to Volodya and his boys after junior lights-out. The whole of Troop Five unanimously chose filmstrips instead of scary stories. The boys voted for The Adventures of Cipollino , while the girls insisted on Sleeping Beauty . After fifteen minutes of heated debate, the young cavaliers agreed to defer to the ladies.

Afterward, as soon as the children had gotten into bed and pretended to be asleep, Yurka and Volodya went out to “their” spot. Yurka was gloomier than ever. He had neither the energy nor the inclination to even talk about anything, much less rewrite the play. Volodya tried again to find out what was really going on, but Yurka was determined not to talk and kept as quiet as a partisan. After a few fruitless attempts, Volodya tried to cheer him up, moaning out the waltz from Tchaikovsky’s ballet Sleeping Beauty —as off-key as he could—and rocking the merry-go-round back and forth in time to the music. At first, Yurka maintained his silence. Then he grumbled, “Too slow. And now you need to hold it: ‘mm-mm.’ But then you need to go slower ...” Eventually he relented and taught Volodya to moo the waltz correctly.

When Yurka went to bed, he dreamed of ballerinas all that night. And for the first time in half a year, he heard music playing in his head. He hadn’t had such hard days and sweet dreams in a very long time.