Page 23

“Swear you’ll never do that again ...” Masha’s voice was still ringing in Yurka’s ears. As was Volodya’s answer, and his own oath ... “Never again, never again, never again ...” How could they promise something like that? Was that even possible? But Masha had left them no choice. That damned Masha! He and Volodya didn’t have much time left anyway, and now even those little crumbs had been stolen from them!

Only one day had passed, but to Yurka, tormented by loneliness, that one day felt like a month. Several times he was on the verge of deciding to hell with Masha and with whatever she might say about them, because there was such a storm raging in his chest that if he didn’t release it, it’d tear him apart. Yurka was drawn to Volodya ... Yurka wanted to see him, hear him, touch him ... but he stopped himself. He knew that giving in to that urge, even once, could cost both of them too much.

Of course, they saw each other in the theater. They were spending hours finishing the stage decorations and rehearsing. Olga Leonidovna had officially released the drama club from all activities and all work so the kids could concentrate completely on their premiere. So naturally Volodya was right next to him all the time, and Yurka heard him, and saw him, and could touch him if he just reached out his hand. But he couldn’t. They couldn’t even allow themselves to look at each other any more than necessary. Masha was always lurking around somewhere nearby, like a guard dog, never taking her eyes off them. All Yurka had to do was think about it, hope there might be a chance, for him to be pierced by Masha’s suspicious glare.

Yurka felt like he’d had one of his vital organs removed. He was apparently still living, still doing whatever was asked of him, following instructions, walking, eating, talking. Still breathing. But he couldn’t get enough air. There wasn’t enough air to get. It was like part of the oxygen had been shut off, or that some kind of poisonous gas had been added. And every hour without Volodya was poisoning his existence. It felt to him as though the entire world had descended into twilight; colors were blurring; shadows were shifting and melting. It was getting to be unbearable, living all alone in that gloomy, empty world. But even more unbearable was seeing how much all this was hurting Volodya.

Volodya was trying to hide it. He ran rehearsal as usual—shouting at people, ordering the actors around, and giving the actors notes—but there was none of his former enthusiasm. It was as though Volodya had been snuffed out inside. He was acting like a programmed robot again. He didn’t worry anymore. He wasn’t panicking. It seemed like he didn’t even care whether the show would be a success, because his only emotion seemed to be sadness. There was so much of that sadness in his eyes, so much that it could already fill half a lifetime ...

Even as he was falling asleep, Yurka saw Volodya’s downcast face, tortured by sad longing, and he himself realized, with sad longing of his own, that a whole day, one they could’ve spent together, had disappeared. A whole evening, gone. A whole night, gone.

The task Yurka faced the next morning was overcoming his aversion to doing anything and eating his breakfast. He poked with his spoon at the clump of cold wheat glue that was being passed off as oatmeal. Usually it smelled good, but this morning all food was off-putting to Yurka, even the vatrushki. Those, now, those were excellent: fluffy, bursting with jam filling, fried perfectly brown on both sides. But he didn’t want the oatmeal at all. In general, there was a lot that Yurka didn’t want at all, but mainly he didn’t want to be in the same camp, inhabit the same plane, be subject to the same geometry, as Masha. And in point of fact, it was clear from her expression that nothing tasted sweet or good to her today, either.

Yurka felt as though somebody had sprinkled sand in his eyes: blinking hurt, but so did looking. But he couldn’t not look. At least, he couldn’t not look at the Troop Five table.

The kids were acting up again. Sasha was waving his hands around, while Pcholkin was all abuzz, whispering in the ear of the little girl next to him until she shrieked and leaped to her feet. Today it was Volodya’s turn to keep an eye on them during breakfast—that is, to not eat breakfast. Lena was sitting nearby and also looking at them every so often, but she wasn’t getting up from her chair for any reason whatsoever. So it was Volodya who got up and went over to sort things out. He looked sleepy, pale, faded. In a tired voice he asked the little girl what Pcholkin had done to her.

While Yurka was pushing his oatmeal around with his spoon, and while Volodya was sorting out the young hooligan, and while Masha was watching them both, the blockhead Sashka finished eating and gathered his dishes, putting his glass on top of his bowl, and began to carry them all to the kitchen. One of the other little boys in the troop stopped him, pulling on his sleeve, so Sashka stopped right behind Volodya. Sashka leaned over, murmured something in his little friend’s ear, and burst into laughter at his own joke. Yurka knew that now Sasha would gesture with his hands and that the glass would tilt, then fall off the bowl it was balanced on, and then it would land on Volodya’s bowl, which was at the very edge of the table. So Yurka opened his mouth to shout, but it was too late: Sashka’s glass had already tipped over. It fell against the edge of Volodya’s bowl and sent it, and the oatmeal on it, flying. It knocked into Volodya’s glass of tea with the vatrushka sitting on top, sending them both crashing onto the floor. Volodya looked wordlessly on as half his breakfast was smashed to bits and the other half was smeared all over the gray tiles.

Yurka expected Volodya to start shouting, but all he did was turn his completely helpless gaze to Sashka and sigh wearily. He didn’t even say a word. It was obvious he hadn’t gotten enough sleep and was so tired he just didn’t have the energy to be angry. “And now he’s going to walk around hungry for hours,” muttered Yurka to himself. Sure, there was still oatmeal left in the kitchen, but the vatrushki were all gone; Yurka had already asked, hoping he could nab one more. But Volodya’s being hungry wasn’t the worst thing; he knew Volodya was used to not getting enough to eat. The worst thing was how sad and detached Volodya was. He hadn’t been that bad the day before. Yurka felt so sorry for Volodya that the last ghost of his own appetite fled.

While Lena scolded Sashka and got the troop into formation for exiting the mess hall, Volodya called over the campers who were on kitchen duty to clear away the mess. Meanwhile, Yurka wrapped his own vatrushka in a napkin and walked over to Volodya. He pushed through the cluster of kids and held it out to him, saying, “Here.”

“Thanks, but you should have it yourself. You like them so much.”

“I don’t want it. I’m full,” insisted Yurka stubbornly, shoving the vatrushka at Volodya.

“I got enough, too.”

“Take it! It’s for you!” Yurka wanted to say more. He was hoping all the kids would leave and he could say, “Everything’s for you: the vatrushka is for you, and I’ll even get you some compote. Everything is for you, as long as you smile.” But behind his back he heard Masha’s “Ahem.”

“What do you want?” Yurka asked gloomily.

“Nothing. I’m just waiting for you.”

“For me? Why?”

“Just because.”

“What the hell do you want from me?!” Yurka was beginning to get mad.

“You promised not to see each other and not to do that anymore!” squealed Masha.

Volodya flinched and mumbled without breathing: “Masha, we’re not doing anything. But we can’t just not see each other.” He spread his hands wide. “It’s camp.”

“What is this? Are you going to forbid us from talking to each other, too?!” interjected Yurka.

“Yura, don’t start,” Volodya requested warily. “Please. Don’t get in a fight. That’d be just what we need ...” He shook his head nervously, blinked hard, turned on his heel, and strode quickly to the kitchen.

Yurka peered up balefully at Masha as he helped the camper on kitchen duty pick the bigger shards up off the floor. Masha stood there, arms akimbo, until Ksyusha grabbed her by the elbow and dragged her over to join the Pukes.

Yurka took advantage of the situation to follow Volodya.

It was quiet in the kitchen. The only sound was the bubbling of the water being brought to a boil to wash the breakfast dishes. Yurka dumped his shards into the trash and went farther into the kitchen, looking for Volodya. Volodya was standing at the stove over an enormous vat as big as a cauldron. Yurka couldn’t see his face in the clouds of steam rising from the vat of water. Volodya was still as a statue, holding his right hand so low over the boiling water that the skin was turning red.

“Hey, what are you doing? That’s hot!” Yurka hurried over to him in consternation.

Volodya swiveled around abruptly. His face was contorted, as though by a spasm, and his glasses were fogged over. Yurka’s confusion gave way to alarm. Whatever Volodya was doing, it was very strange! And then came a wave of fear: What’s he doing? What’s he doing that for?

The steam had fogged up the lenses of Volodya’s glasses, so Yurka couldn’t see Volodya’s eyes. It was like Yurka himself was floating in a fog, he was so confused and scared by the unreality of what was happening. For a split second he even thought that the steam might be cold, and so, to test it, Yurka held his own hand out to the vat of boiling liquid, lowering it almost all the way to the water. “Ow!”

“Move your hand! You’ll burn it!” Volodya swatted Yurka’s hand away from the heat. “I’m—it’s okay for me. I’m ... tempering my hand.”

His harsh voice brought Yurka back down to earth immediately, even though what he was saying made no sense. People tempered their children with cold water, not hot. A moment later Volodya’s glasses cleared up, the fog evaporated from the lenses, and Yurka could see his surprisingly calm, even slightly detached expression.

“But tempering’s cold. Do people really temper themselves with boiling water—” began Yurka doubtfully. He didn’t get a chance to finish.

“I’ve been doing this for a long time, but you aren’t used to it. You’ll hurt yourself,” warned Volodya, settling into his usual supercilious troop leader routine. Yurka actually sighed in relief at the familiarity. But then Volodya carefully took hold of Yurka’s wrist, brought Yurka’s hand to his lips, squeezed Yurka’s hand, and blew on it, whispering, “Take care of—”

“Your hands,” Yurka finished, rolling his eyes.

“—yourself.” Volodya smiled and quickly kissed Yurka’s thumb.

Yurka was so abashed that he didn’t know what else to do other than turn it into a joke: “Oh, but, see, I love myself too much to—”

“So do I,” Volodya interrupted him.

But Yurka didn’t have a chance to process the meaning of those words.

“What are you doing in here?!” came an indignant screech. Masha was standing in the middle of the kitchen, so angry that the steam could’ve been boiling out of her, not out of the vats of water.

Yurka was just readying himself to vent his rage on her when he felt a brief but very warm touch on his forearm. Volodya quickly squeezed him and let go.

“That’s enough. Don’t get into it again,” Volodya said quietly. It seemed like he was about to say something else, too, but Yurka left without waiting for Volodya to finish. Yurka’s rage was roiling inside him even more furiously than the water boiling in the giant vats, but since Volodya had asked him to, he would find a way to stop. Yurka would do anything for him. He would sacrifice everything for Volodya, give Volodya everything. The best of everything. He’d give Volodya everything that was tastiest; he’d give him the sky, the air. All the music would be for Volodya. All of Yurka would be for Volodya. Everything that Yurka had, or had ever had, or would ever have. Everything that was in Yurka, everything that was useful and valuable in him, all that was wonderful and good—his entire soul, his whole body, all his thoughts and memories—he would give it all to Volodya if it would help keep Volodya from looking so despondent and nerve-wracked.

But Masha—Masha dared to forbid them to even speak to each other! It was bad enough that she’d been around all day yesterday, but now she’d evidently decided to start openly hounding Yurka, following at his heels, without shame and without hiding it.

Yurka wandered away from the mess hall, listening to Masha’s footsteps behind him and growing increasingly irritated. They only had two days left, today and tomorrow, and now they couldn’t spend even those tiny crumbs of time together because of her. Because of her, they had to just look at each other from a distance; they had to feel misery instead of adoration. And after Volodya’s strange behavior with the boiling water, it wasn’t even misery, but alarm.

What did he do that for?! fretted Yurka. He’s doing it because of her. It’s all because of her!

The sound of her heels on the asphalt behind Yurka clanged in his head like an alarm bell. Every time she sighed, he shuddered in revulsion, as though he were hearing not someone’s breath but someone’s nails running down a chalkboard. His nerves were as taut as violin strings: And now we can’t even talk ... , Yurka thought to himself. Behind his back, her low heels clacked. One step ... another ... She’s decided she can control us, has she?! A step ... another step ... and another. And now she’s following me around. She forbids me from even standing in front of him! A step. Another step. Another. No way. That’s enough!

Yurka couldn’t take it anymore. He jerked to a stop in the middle of the path. “What do you want from me?!” he shouted, unable to restrain himself.

“For you to stay away from him. He’s a good person, a Komsomol member, but you’re a freak and a creep! You’re ruining him!”

“Who, me? What about you? Who do you think you are? You don’t get to decide who he is or what he and I do!”

“It’s not my decision, it’s everyone’s! The whole camp knows what a good person he was until you got your hooks into him!”

“We’re friends! And friends—”

“That’s not friendship!” she screamed. “You’re leading him astray, you’re turning him into a psychopath, you’re seducing him! Yes, that’s right! You’re seducing him!”

“As if you know anything about it!”

Yurka was surprised to see this bring Masha up short. She turned red and stared down at the ground.

“You’ve gone and fallen in love with him!” he said maliciously.

Masha stood motionless, staring at Yurka. Pioneers were walking along the path past them. Yurka took Masha’s hand and led her off to the side, away from the path, so the others wouldn’t hear.

“Don’t touch me!” Masha exclaimed, once they were off the path.

“Don’t stick your nose into what’s not your business, and then I won’t need to even look at you.”

“Stay away from Volodya, or everyone’ll find out!”

“You fell in love with him, didn’t you? Answer me! Yes or no? One word!”

“I don’t answer to you!”

“Yes or no?!”

“Yes! Yes! Are you happy now? Yes!”

“And so you think, what, that if you follow him around and blackmail him, he’ll love you back? You think that’s how that works?” Yurka laughed cruelly.

“I’m not asking your advice. For the last time, I’m telling you: Stay away from him or I’ll tell!”

“And what will that do for you? Can you even get it through your thick skull what’ll happen to him if they find out about all this? Do you realize this will destroy his life? He’ll be kicked out of his institute, and the Komsomol, and his home. Everything he ever wanted to do will be taken away from him, and all because of you! To hell with the institute or the Komsomol, though: What if it’s worse? What if it’s the loony bin? Or prison? Did you even think of that?!”

Yurka couldn’t stop. His fury was no longer boiling inside him, it was gushing out uncontrollably. He was on the verge of hysterics. He was shaking. He had lost control of his body. Without realizing what he was doing, he grabbed Masha’s shoulders and shook her, hard. He bellowed, “Did you think about how he’ll remember you after that? How much he’ll hate you? Is that what you want? Is that how you love him?!”

Masha was screaming now, too, but from fear. This was what pushed Yurka over the edge. He was about to throw her to the ground, but suddenly someone grabbed his arm and roughly shoved him away. Volodya.

Yurka and Masha had been yelling way too loud, so it was no surprise Volodya had heard them while he was finishing his breakfast in the mess hall. Finding them wasn’t hard, either: half the kids from the athletic fields had come running to watch when they saw the altercation. At least there weren’t any of the senior management among the spectators, just Lena and Ira Petrovna.

Volodya dragged the kicking and bucking Yurka aside while Ira stood protectively in front of Masha.

“What’s the matter with you, Konev? Are you crazy?” barked Yurka’s troop leader.

“Volodya, tell her! Tell her everything!” begged Yurka when he saw Ira.

“Calm down!” ordered Volodya.

“Ira, this piece of trash fell in love with him. She’s been running around after him for half the session, and now she’s totally lost her mind. She’s following him and threatening to say all kinds of crazy stuff about him if I don’t back off.”

“Konev, what is wrong with you? Have you lost your mind yourself?!”

“Volodya, nobody’s going to believe me! You tell them—tell them everything: how she followed us to the river and how she went into your room late at night. Come on!”

Volodya pulled him aside and spoke to him very softly: “You are hysterical. Let’s breathe in and out ... and in ... and out ...” Apparently trying to calm himself as well, Volodya took a deep breath in and let it out slowly.

But Yurka was physically unable to breathe evenly. His eyes were teary and he was shaking with rage. “But it’s true. Tell them, please,” he whispered hotly.

“You’ve left me no choice. But you go to the first aid station and take some tincture of motherwort or whatever Larisa Sergeyevna gives you for this.”

“I’m not going anywhere!”

“Yura, Leonidovna’s going to call all of us onto the carpet anyway. Please, go to the doctor, let her confirm that you are overworked and had a nervous breakdown. We’ll tell everyone the show drove you to hysterics and you took it out on Masha because she was following you.”

“But I’m not tired! I miss you! We’re going together! Please. You also need to go see Larisa, right? Because what was that you were doing in the kitchen? Why were you doing that?”

“That’s not important right now. Go to the first aid station, you need the doctor to certify that you—”

“We’re going together!” Yurka repeated, interrupting him. “There are some bushes by the first aid station—”

“Yur, this isn’t the time! What if Masha tells on us? I can’t leave! Maybe she won’t say anything if I’m there. And if she does, then at least there’s a chance I can make something up right on the spot. Go by yourself, please. Don’t pour more oil on the flame, you’ll just make it worse.”

In the end, Yurka didn’t do any more pouring. He resisted a bit longer, but eventually gave in.

At the first aid station, he described everything as they had agreed he would: he said he’d evidently gone into hysterics because of the show and yelled at Masha.

He was indeed called onto the carpet. There, too, Yurka recited everything as per the story Volodya had invented. Nobody asked him any strange, unnecessary, or personal questions. Everyone looked at him with sympathy. Not even Olga Leonidovna got angry. In fact, she was the one people got angry at: she shouldn’t have given children such a heavy burden. In the waiting room, Yurka found out that Volodya and Ira had also been called in. And that later Masha had been invited in, too, of course. But it looked like management wasn’t going to make a big stink about it. And that was good, because it meant Masha hadn’t told on them. Yet.

There was one more piece of evidence that nobody knew anything about what had happened. This proof was provided by the Pukes.

As soon as Yurka appeared on the movie theater porch after his session on the carpet, Ksyusha beckoned him over, calling, “Yur! Yurchik! Come here!”

Yurka shot her a dark look and shook his head. But Ksyusha, and then Ulyana and Polina along with her, got up and ran over to him. They grabbed him by the elbows and led him off to a corner of the theater next to the stage.

“What’s going on between you two?” whispered Ksyusha.

“ Something ’s going on between you two!” said Ulyana, nodding.

Polina just stared at him silently, her eyes burning with curiosity.

“I don’t want to talk about it. It’s private.”

“Oh, come on, we’re going to find out about it anyway,” said Ulyana, trying to persuade him.

“It was Masha. She got up to something, didn’t she?” asked Ksyusha.

Polina was nodding encouragingly.

“We just had a fight, that’s all,” said Yurka dismissively. “Nothing special.”

“Because of the piano?” Ksyusha narrowed her eyes speculatively.

“Oh, well, that’s boring, then,” sighed Ulyana.

“But tomorrow’s the last day, Yura!” Polina burst out unexpectedly. “Make up with her! You have to make up with her! Tomorrow is it! Then it’s get on the bus and go back home. Don’t part on that note.”

“And speaking of notes, tomorrow you have to play music together!” said Ulyana, backing Polina up.

“Not together. We take turns playing. And just one time,” explained Yurka, irritated. “As if you didn’t already know that.”

“Yur, speaking of music,” said Ulyana excitedly, “can you play something from Athena and Venture ? Just real quick, before rehearsal starts?”

“No. I don’t know anything from that.”

“A pop song, then? What about, say, ‘The Last Time’ from the Jolly Fellows album? I really want to sing! Play something, won’t you? Please! Come on ...” She started humming and danced a few steps.

“Sorry, Ul. Not in the mood. Some other time, okay? Or ... hey, look, Mitka’s here.” Yurka turned around and caught Mitka’s jealous stare. “Ask him. He’ll bang out whatever you want on that guitar.”

Yurka ran over to Volodya after extricating himself from the Pukes. Volodya had come back to the movie theater while Yurka was talking with the girls and was sitting in the audience, in the middle of the first row.

While he was still walking, Yurka asked, “Did she blab about us?”

“She didn’t say anything like that in front of me.”

“But when she was with the director?”

“I don’t know. There’s no way she’s brave enough to tell the director, and if she did, I wouldn’t be here right now. What worries me is this: she and Irina left together afterward.”

“Do you think she told Irina?”

The door creaked open, revealing a red-eyed Masha in the doorway. Without answering Yurka’s question, Volodya got up and went onstage. But Yurka understood even without words: she may well have.

Masha tortured the Moonlight Sonata for a while, then went and helped Ksyusha with the costumes until the end of the day. Volodya was with the actors, rehearsing scenes and working on individual lines right up until dark. Yurka played, then finished painting the stage decorations and preparing the props. He forced himself to switch into robot mode again; it helped that there was a ton of work to do, making it easy to find something to keep himself busy.

That night it drizzled. Yurka couldn’t sleep. The calming effect of the tincture of motherwort had already worn off by lunch, and now, at night, as soon as Yurka got in bed, the worry he’d worked so hard to suppress seized him again, making him feel even worse than he had during the day. Had Masha told Ira?

Somehow Mitka, the radio announcer, had managed to make his way into the Troop One boys’ room. He and the rest of the boys were all sitting on their beds, getting ready to go toothpaste the girls and warming their tubes of toothpaste in their armpits. Yurka chatted with them to try to distract himself. They tried to get Yurka to go, too, but he refused.

“That’s your loss! You’re going to miss something really fun!” Mitka made one last attempt to convince him.

“Trying not to laugh while you finger paint? What’s fun about that? It’s way more fun to look at the results. As long as you use Pomorin, of course.” The Bulgarian brand was a favorite for toothpasting because its formula left a particularly nasty rash.

“We don’t have any Pomorin. Irina confiscated it. Ah, it’s too bad ...” lamented Pasha.

“Get a load of you!” Yurka, shaking his head, started digging around in his suitcase. “Where’s the joy in toothpasting with regular old toothpaste? But you’re in luck, because I’ve got some of the best toothpaste in the world right here!”

To everyone’s glee, Yurka stood up and brandished two whole tubes of Pomorin.

“Yurets! I owe you for life!” Flushed with joy, Mitka pressed his hand to his heart.

Yurka sent them off with a little advice. “Choose your victim carefully,” he warned, guessing who Mitka wanted to toothpaste. The boy’s crush on Ulyana was common knowledge. “The show is tomorrow, and a certain someone will blow her top if she has to perform with a rash covering half her face.”

“I’ll comfort her,” said Mitka with a wink.

“Comfort her, my foot. You’ve gotta learn how to talk in front of her first!”

Mitka lost the gift of speech anytime he even glimpsed Ulyana. But of course he assured all the boys that everything was moving along just as he intended.

“Draw something on Masha for me,” Yurka whispered to Mitka as the boys left. Mitka winked conspiratorially again in reply and disappeared out the door. The rest of the toothpasters tiptoed after him.

Yurka fell back on his bed. He listened intently to the hollow plunks of water droplets falling onto the roof. He looked up at the dark ceiling. The boys who hadn’t gone on the toothpasting expedition were keeping him awake, snoring and grinding their teeth in their sleep. The grinding was incredibly irritating. Yurka completely failed at trying to make himself ignore it. He plumped up his thin pillow, and tossed and turned, and fought off the thoughts that kept stubbornly creeping into his head, but each passing minute saw him more mired in wakefulness.

How long has it been since we’ve seen each other? And how much longer will it be? Tomorrow’s the last day of the session ... tomorrow’s the end! No, to hell with all this thinking. Just listening to Vatyutov’s teeth grinding is better than this ...

Vatyutov moaned, rolled over, and finally went quiet. The rain kept changing, first petering out, then coming down harder.

As long as the rain stops by morning , thought Yurka. The bonfire’s tomorrow. The whole camp will be there. Maybe we can slip away from the crowd and talk? At least just say goodbye? This is so stupid, avoiding each other because of that idiot! I hope someday she suffers, too, from the same kind of stupid, mean, jealous ...

A rhythmic noise cut through the chaos of sound. Yurka froze. He listened. Then it vanished.