Page 29

He left the courts and headed slowly down the path leading to the beach. His head was completely empty and his soul was, somehow, completely calm. It was as though Yurka had frozen inside, gone numb, but he liked the feeling. He just walked slowly through the sparse trees, the square pavers passing underneath him one by one.

The thing keeping him from falling into utter despair was hope. It burned inside him, bright and warm, like a torch in a pitch-black cave. Yurka was certain that he and Volodya would see each other again. And Masha wouldn’t be there, and nobody would forbid Yurka from being near Volodya in whatever way he wanted.

When the path of gray concrete pavers ended, a narrow, sandy path continued on. It was smooth and even, but it wasn’t long, only about ten meters down to the beach. Yurka turned off toward the boathouse and was about to walk to the willow, but he couldn’t just pass by that dearly remembered place. He moved the wooden gate aside, slipped through the boathouse, and walked down the dock, which creaked underneath his feet. The boats rocked back and forth on the water. Yurka went straight to the one he and Volodya had hidden in. It felt like the boat had happened an eternity ago, but he remembered that kiss so clearly, as though it had just happened. Yurka touched his lips with the tips of his fingers; his lips were warm, as though someone’s breath had warmed them.

It took effort for him to make himself turn around and leave the boathouse. The flood of thoughts that came rushing to his head here made him feel both sweet and sad at the same time. They were what he wanted to leave in the time capsule, all these moments: the boat underneath the canvas, the kisses in the curtain, Volodya’s warm words, his happy smile, his quiet but deeply sincere confessions ... He wanted to leave them here, shut the lid tight on them, and bury them in the ground so he could be sure they’d be preserved, never to be forgotten. So that in ten years, when they met again, they could dig it all back up and be right back here again, the last summer before his childhood ended.

Yurka made it to the willow easily. The previous night’s rain, contrary to expectations, hadn’t raised the level of water in the river very much, although Yurka still had to pull his shorts up high to make it across the shallows. The ground under the willow was damp; the rare rays of sun that penetrated the branches hadn’t had a chance to dry and warm the ground yet.

It was getting on toward dinner, but Yurka didn’t want to go back. He wanted to sit here alone, all alone, gazing unseeingly at the river. He was amazed to see the amount of movement in it: the lazy current, the smooth ripples of waves, the bright flashes of evening sun reflecting on them ... It all seemed neither chaotic nor meaningless. Yurka stayed on the riverbank right up until the bugle, trying to understand the systematic interplay of waves in the river current and determine what meaning there could possibly be in it. But he eventually did get up off the ground and make up his mind to go back. He had promised to tell Volodya, after all.

By the time he had gotten back across the shallows and made his way to camp, another bugle call announced the end of dinner. Yurka raced over to the mess hall and saw Volodya among the crowd pouring out. The troop leader, surrounded by the little boys of his troop, was looking around. Seeing Yurka, he waved.

“Here.” Volodya handed him two little sweet poppy seed pies. “Why weren’t you at dinner?”

Yurka swallowed, salivating: he had only now realized how much his walk had sharpened his appetite. “Thanks!” he said, and in a lower voice, he added, “I went to the willow. The shallows are fine, but the ground under the willow is cold and damp.”

“Got it. I arranged with Lena for her to take the kids to the bonfire and then get them to sleep herself. She wasn’t thrilled but she agreed, so that’s all taken care of. We’ll sit at the bonfire with everyone for a little bit and then head to the willow with the capsule. Just get permission from Irina!”

Masha came out of the mess hall. She noticed them standing next to each other and scowled, glaring right at Yurka. But he just rolled his eyes, then remembered to ask Volodya: “Did anybody tell you about Pcholkin yet? About his sabotage?”

Volodya smiled. “Right. It’s funny, actually: Alyosha Matveyev had been tasked with getting the matches and bringing them for when we light the bonfire. Pcholkin found out about it somehow, got them from the kitchen, and brought them himself. Olezhka just assumed that Petya was planning an act of sabotage and wanted to catch the hooligan. Turns out Olezhka’s a partisan, too! Seems like he really got into his part in the show.”

“How about that! Pcholkin? Pcholkin helped? It’s suspicious, almost ...”

“I thought the same thing at first. But then Pcholkin announced that it wasn’t fair for Olezhka to get all the glory, not only for being great in the show, but also because everyone was encouraging him and praising him for working so hard on being accepted into the Pioneers. Petya wants some glory as well, and there are things to praise him for, too.”

“Wow, you did a great job training him!” Yurka giggled.

“What’ve I got to do with it? It wasn’t me ...”

“Oh, yes it was.” Yurka nodded fervently. “You’re his troop leader, which is pretty much like his older brother. You set an example for them. Everyone changes, and when there’s a troop leader like you around, the only way to change is for the better.”

Volodya’s cheeks turned pink, and Yurka was abashed. He’d wanted to say different words to Volodya—ones that did not, of course, include “troop leader” and “older brother.” But there were people there. And Masha. Yurka was trying to say “I love you” without saying the word “love.” He was so sick and tired of all this damned secrecy ...

The Pioneers were singing their anthem about soaring campfires and midnight-blue skies. Evening had come. It really was midnight blue. And it was no exaggeration to say the bonfire was soaring up into the inky sky, throwing sparks so high, they mingled with the stars ... Whenever a point of light winked out, you couldn’t tell at first whether it was a spark going out or a meteor burning up.

It took the troops a long time to get into formation. It took them a long time to walk to the broad clearing in the forest. It took them a long time to take their seats on the benches arranged in a circle.

The opening song, the anthem of the session, had already been sung once, but now everyone started it up again, sitting like first graders with their backs straight and their hands in their laps. It was the official part of the evening. As long as the administration was at the farewell bonfire—the camp director, the educational specialist, the phys ed instructors, the musical director, and the other adults—the Pioneers were inhibited and bored. But Yurka knew the adults would leave soon and then there would be ... well, maybe not mayhem, but it would get a lot more lively. In the meantime, nobody was even allowed to stand up from their seats. The only thing left for Yurka to do was sing and look around for Volodya.

As per tradition, Troop Five was directly to the bigwigs’ left, while Troop One was to their right. So Yurka didn’t have to crane his neck and peer around; he just had to turn his head a little. Volodya wasn’t looking at him. His stern gaze was directed at the boys in his troop. They were sitting quietly and sadly; they probably didn’t want to part from their friends, either. But they were the ones who would definitely be coming back!

It didn’t take long for the bigwigs to wish everyone a good evening and depart. Olga Leonidovna threatened that if the Little Octoberists got back to their cabins any later than nine thirty, or the Pioneers any later than eleven, she wouldn’t let them into session next year. Then she left, too.

Everyone immediately burst into lively activity and moved to sit wherever they wanted, but still without mixing up the troops. Someone produced a guitar, which changed hands several times among those who could play. At first everyone sang fun children’s songs. Then they switched to pop songs. In unison the Pukes demanded Modern Talking, but even if somebody knew the music to one of their songs, it turned out that nobody actually knew the words. Volodya suggested some Time Machine, which earned him an indignant “Eww!” from over half of the Pioneers. Yurka didn’t suggest anything. As a result, they all sang Alla Pugachova hits and songs from the Jolly Fellows album again.

Despite all this demonstrative fun, the sadness was literally tearing its way out of Yurka, no matter how much he tried to stuff it back down deep inside. And he wasn’t the only one feeling sad: almost everyone there was too. After all, this was the last evening for everyone, not just for him.

The last evening is special for many reasons: everyone becomes kinder and gentler, everyone tries to think about what’s most important, to be with the people they care about the most. Everything feels a little different: the sky is so very starry, the smells are so very pungent, the faces so kind, the songs so sincere, the voices so pretty. And everything really is that way, because you’re seeing it all for the last time.

Someone passed Mitka the guitar.

“It’s always very sad to say goodbye,” he said as he took the instrument. He strummed it with his thumb and said musingly, “Well, what about this one ...” He cleared his throat and looked at everyone sitting around the bonfire, pausing on the daring couples who were holding hands or hugging. He chuckled and looked tenderly at Ulyana. “This one goes out to everyone who fell in love this summer.”

As soon as everyone heard the familiar song’s first few chords, the protests began. The wave of indignation washed along the rows of people. “Mitya, don’t! Play something else!” begged Ira Petrovna. Zhenya, who was sitting next to her, nodded his agreement.

Yurka recognized the song, too, and burst into hysterical laughter. He appreciated both the joke itself and how cruel it was. Before Volodya, he might’ve done something like that himself ... but now ...

In a low, husky voice, Mitka began singing the lovers’ final, parting duet from Athena and Venture :

“You’ll wake with the dawn’s first ray,

When you sense it’s my time to leave;

I’ll always be there in your memories,

We’re parting forever, though it’s hard to believe ...”

It was as though something snapped inside Yurka. He was hurting, but he was also jeering at himself. This song was the last drop, the just-to-be-sure shot to the head—as though his own private sadness weren’t enough! He would’ve covered his ears with his hands if it wouldn’t have looked so stupid.

They were only on the second verse, but to Yurka it felt like an eternity. He was unable to regulate his sadness anymore. It engulfed him. The only thing he was capable of making himself do right now was not look at Volodya.

“Storms wrack the seas and rage in my soul;

I cannot accept that we’re parting forever ...”

The Pukes were huddled together, swaying slightly in unison. Ulyana was beaming as she sang the woman’s part of the duet—she had finally been allowed to sing something from Athena and Venture . Even Mikha, sitting next to Yurka, was sighing sadly (or maybe sniffling).

“The sea’s forlorn waves roll and surge;

In your deep brown eyes there is grief.

How I wish I could stay here with you!

We’re parting forever, though it’s hard to believe ...”

Yurka had deep brown eyes, just like the doomed heroine of the song. He couldn’t help it: he looked at Volodya. Volodya was listening, mesmerized, eyes looking directly ahead into emptiness. He was whispering the words, singing along, but Yurka could clearly read Volodya’s lips: “You’ll always be there in my memories.” Volodya wasn’t saying this as a message to Yurka—he was saying it to himself—and Yurka caught a glimpse of utter, impenetrable despair in his eyes. Volodya was not glad he would never forget. Yurka understood this, and his heart went painfully tight from this understanding, almost like it was stopping for a few seconds. No matter how optimistically he announced that he would always remember, that he would never forget, was that really a good thing? After what Volodya had told him in the unfinished barracks? Maybe it really was better to forget, or at least try to get it out of his head, make himself try to ... but no. No. Of course not. He wouldn’t be able to.

Meanwhile, Mitka kept dragging out that endless song. The faces around the bonfire, illuminated by the flickering scarlet glow, were filled with melancholy and with good, tender sadness. It seemed Yurka was the only one who felt that everything good was going to end when camp did.

Volodya focused his gaze on Yurka, and their eyes met. Drowning out the guitar, the Pioneers sang:

“Our words make the very heavens shake,

So frightening it is to say them aloud ...”

“You’ll always be there in my memories,” whispered Volodya. There was no way Yurka could have heard him, but in Yurka’s heart the words nevertheless rang out in Volodya’s voice, clear as a bell.

Then, suddenly, Yurka realized that the line Volodya was whispering was supposed to go the other way around: “I’ll always be there in your memories,” and that now it was Yurka’s turn to say the next line of the song ... say those words ... make that promise ... “We’re parting forever, though it’s hard to believe.”

But Yurka didn’t want to! He didn’t want to sing that, or to say it, or to even think it, but of their own accord, his lips whispered, “We’re parting forever ...”

The song ended. The other campers indignantly took the guitar from Mitka, complaining that they didn’t want to sing such sad songs anymore. Volodya gazed unblinkingly at Yurka, and it seemed like the world around them simply didn’t exist. Yurka couldn’t tell what emotions were behind Volodya’s eyes. This was more than despair and sadness; it was almost physically painful for Yurka to look into those eyes.

Volodya abruptly stood, walked over to Yurka, and reached over as though he wanted to take Yurka by the hand, but he caught himself. “I’m going to help Lena after all. I’ll take the kids to the cabin and come right back ...” Then, lowering his voice to a whisper, he said, “In about twenty minutes, come out onto the path to the beach, but make sure nobody sees you. We’ll go the long way, through the woods, so nobody tags along.”

Once Volodya and Lena had led Troop Five away, Mitka picked up the guitar again, but Ira Petrovna convinced him not to sing any more sad songs. “Then let’s do girls’ choice! Maids, invite your squires!” Mitka called out, and strummed the first few notes of the immediately recognizable “Ferryman.”

Yurka wanted to move so he was sitting somewhere on the very edge of the clearing and wait quietly for Volodya to come back, but Ksyusha walked up to him. “Yura, shall we have a dance?”

Yurka didn’t have any energy left to be surprised. He nodded automatically, took Ksyusha’s hand, and led her to the bonfire where the other couples were dancing. Ksyusha put her arms around his shoulders, but this time she didn’t do it the way she had at the other dance—she didn’t hold him like a Pioneer. If something like this had happened earlier, Yurka would’ve burst with pride, but now he felt nothing. He just turned in circles, moving his feet to the rhythm of the music, holding Ksyusha by the waist. He was like a robot. He didn’t even understand the question right away when she asked him, “Yurchik, listen ... So a certain someone told us about how Masha and you are having some issues, and you—”

“No duh we’re having issues!” Yurka broke in. “But there’s no ‘Masha and me.’ ”

“Really?” Ksyusha said, feigning surprise. “Is it true you fought that time because she’s stalking you?”

“She just follows me around; the one she’s stalking is Volodya.”

“No way!” Ksyusha was so surprised that she bumped into a nearby couple—Nastya and a beet-red Petlitsyn—and stepped on Yurka’s foot.

“Well, yeah,” said Yurka simply. He cast his eyes around the clearing and saw Masha sitting all alone on a bench by the bonfire, her hands in her lap, staring at the ground. She looked so sad and lonely that for a second Yurka even felt sorry for her. But then he realized that Masha’s sadness was nothing in comparison to the time with Volodya that she’d made him lose and the fact that now they were parting. She vanished from his thoughts immediately.

“She’s stalking Volodya? What a nightmare! Where’d she get that idea?” said Ksyusha indignantly. This was definitely news to her. “What kind of idiot do you have to be to go after a troop leader like that? Or anybody, for that matter; doesn’t have to be a troop leader ... Doesn’t she have any pride?”

“Sometimes people who are in love behave very recklessly,” Yurka replied. For some reason, this made him smile. He remembered his own first and most reckless act: when he’d kissed Volodya, back then, behind the power shed. But how was all that working out for him now? Was that fleeting, transient happiness worth such a painful parting, one he’d recall for the rest of his life?

After they danced, the Pioneers played a game of babbling brook, lining up in two rows facing each other, clasping hands with the person opposite them, lifting their hands high to make a tunnel, and taking turns running through the tunnel, still holding hands with their partner. After the game, somebody started trying to get everyone to jump over the bonfire. Yurka was asked, too, but he declined. He was paying careful attention to what Masha was doing. She had apparently cheered up a little when Svetka from Troop Three called her over to the bonfire to join in the game. Thanks to that, Yurka was able to slip away unnoticed. Or so he thought.

When he got to the beach, he had to wait. Volodya was held up for about ten minutes. As soon as Yurka started to think they’d missed each other, he made out the familiar silhouette in the darkness. A silhouette with a backpack.

“You ready?” asked Volodya. “Nobody saw you?”

“I don’t think so. Everyone’s playing babbling brook. I specifically waited until Masha couldn’t see me. What’s in the backpack?”

“A shovel, the time capsule, and the things we’re putting in it. And a blanket, too ... in case we want to stay there a little while. Shall we go?”

They turned onto the winding little footpath skirting the beach. It was dark in the woods. They could hear the voices of Pioneers and the crackling of the bonfire from over in the clearing. Usually when they went to the willow, Yurka led the way, because he knew the woods better, but this time Volodya went first, lighting the way with the flashlight as he picked out their path. Yurka couldn’t shake the feeling he was headed to his own execution.

They were going to where they’d say their goodbyes. They were going to the willow to spend their last minutes together, say their last words. And now even the little spark of hope that had kept Yurka warm all day was all but gone, flickering on the edge of winking out completely.

Stop that! Yurka ordered himself. We will meet again! We’re only parting temporarily!

He knew that the minutes before something you dread often seem to expand and take longer, so the trip to the willow should have seemed long, but there they were already, going around the boggy pool and coming out of the woods to the steep riverbank. All they had to do now was walk back through the woods for around five minutes, and then they’d be at the shallows.

Yurka wanted to stop and turn back, as though if they didn’t go anywhere now, they wouldn’t have to part or say goodbye. He held his hand out to Volodya so they could hold hands with fingers intertwined, but he almost fell down from fright when voices burst out from behind them:

“Volodya! Yura! Helloo-oo!” Ira Petrovna, lighting her way with her flashlight, was hurrying to catch up with them. Ksyusha and Polina were behind Ira, and behind them was Masha. “Where are you going?!”

Volodya kept his head. Without a word, he pulled off the backpack and pulled out the time capsule: a tin, the kind people use for storing buckwheat, wrapped in clear cellophane. “We’re going to bury a time capsule. It’s right here.” He held out the tin.

“And why didn’t anybody tell me anything?” said Ira angrily.

“Yura, did you not ask permission?”

Then it hit Yurka like a ton of bricks: he’d forgotten! He was embarrassed; Volodya had warned him, after all, that he needed to ask permission. “No ... I’m sorry, Ira Petrovna, I wasn’t thinking again.”

“He wasn’t thinking!” Ira said. “But you are my responsibility! What if something happens and I don’t even know where you are!”

Volodya sighed and requested quietly, “Irin ... let’s step over here for a moment ...”

The troop leaders moved several paces away. The girls didn’t say a word. Yurka looked sullenly at Masha: How on earth had she figured out where he and Volodya had gone? He’d seen with his own two eyes that she was distracted! But it wasn’t enough that she followed them again, the backbiter—she also had to give them up to Irina! And why had those two nosy little snakelings tagged along?

It never occurred to the two arguing troop leaders that even though they were standing at a distance, the wind was blowing from them to Yurka and the girls, who could therefore hear every word of their conversation clearly.

“Vova, maybe Konev’s got nothing but air between his ears, but you could’ve said something to me, at least!” Ira chided him. “And this time capsule: it’s a really fantastic idea. We could’ve buried one of our own, you know—as a troop. That’s not comradely of you, Vov. We’re Komsomol members, we should be helping each other!”

“I’m sorry, Irin. I didn’t do it on purpose. It’s just that this idea came into my head out of the blue, literally this afternoon. And we had a whole bunch of things to do. You know the drill ... I’m sorry, okay?”

Ira softened a little. “Okay, okay. Maybe we’ll get a chance to do our own first thing in the morning tomorrow.”

“So how about it: Will you let Konev go under my supervision? Komsomol member’s honor: I’ll bring him back to you no later than one a.m., safe and sound.”

Ira crossed her arms tightly, shifted from foot to foot, and cast a doubtful look at Volodya. “Vov, one a.m.’s too late.”

A gust of wind blew in from the river and carried off the next part of their conversation. When the troop leader’s words were audible again, Ira Petrovna, now much more amenable, was inquiring, “Did you tell Olga Leonidovna?” Volodya shook his head no. “Just be careful. If anyone from admin notices, I won’t be able to help you.”

“Do you really think they have any attention to spare?”

“Well ... not really, to tell the truth. But wait! Vov, if they notice, they’ll write it up in your character reference.”

“To hell with it. They can write whatever they want. So will you cover for me, Irin? We won’t be far—just here in the woods.”

“Well ... okay, I’ll cover for—”

Volodya was already turning around to walk away when Masha shouted at the top of her lungs, “Don’t let them go! I know what they’re going there to do! Irina, they’re abnormal! They hug and kiss! They have to be punished! We have to tell Olga Leonidovna!”

Her shouts resonated in Yurka’s ears. His eyes went dim. Volodya froze in mid-stride, only his pupils racing back and forth. His panicked gaze flickered from face to face. Irina, mouth agape, looked first at Yurka, then at Volodya. Then she fixed Masha with a glare.

“Ha!” Ksyusha barked out a laugh. In the silence that had enveloped the woods, it rang out so loudly that everyone flinched. After a moment’s pause, she convulsed in mocking laughter. Gasping for breath, she groaned, “Now, that’s rich! She’s gone completely off her rocker! Polya, are you hearing this? Are you hearing what she’s saying?”

But Polina, unlike her friends, was serious. “Yes, but, Ksyusha, it’s our fault. We should’ve made friends with her, but we ... I also ... I know people go nuts from loneliness. They talk total nonsense but they completely believe what they’re saying! My grandma’s like that ...”

Yurka couldn’t believe his ears. Never mind his anger at Masha’s betrayal; he still didn’t like the way the girls were reacting. Like it was something so crazy to believe.

“Are you serious?” Ksyusha asked, hiccupping and gasping. “You think ... you think she’s gone off the deep end?”

“Would a normal person really follow somebody around and then say something like that?” Polina replied. “But Masha’s always alone and she never sleeps at night! How many times have we seen her sneaking away after lights-out?!”

“I ...” Masha looked scared. “I’m te-telling the truth,” she stammered out.

“Irin, she really was stalking Volodya, though,” said Ksyusha, who had calmed down. “I didn’t believe it myself at first. So she leaves the cabin and runs around, who cares. I thought she was with Konev. But then this ...”

“She left the cabin?” whispered Ira Petrovna, taken aback.

“Yes,” confirmed Polina, eyeing Masha with suspicion. “Half the troop could tell you the same thing.”

“That’s true, Irin.” Ksyusha nodded. “Probably need to tell Olga Leonidovna. Telling these kinds of lies—it’s vile! She should be kicked out of the Pioneers for this!”

“Don’t! Think what a black mark it’ll be on her record! But this—well, okay, so she went a little cuckoo, it happens. Once she gets some sleep she’ll settle down. And I won’t leave you alone anymore, Mashka, so don’t worry ... ,” Polina assured her. But nobody paid her any attention.

Masha choked out a sob. Ira Petrovna walked up to her and demanded sternly, “Masha, what are you saying? This is completely over the line ...”

Masha’s lips started trembling and she sniffed. But she was unable to restrain her tears. “It’s true, Ir ... Iri ...”

“It’s utterly ludicrous!” Ira shouted. “Spreading this kind of slander, and about a troop leader! About an exemplary Komsomol member! How on earth did you even come up with something like that? Kissing a—good god! How can you even bring yourself to say something like that? Because even imagining it—it’s abnormal, is what it is!”

Masha burst into sobs. Yurka was stunned by what Ira had said. Yes, Volodya was her comrade and her friend; yes, she thought she knew Volodya. But this thing that was happening to him and Volodya, this love, was it really so horrific that nobody could believe even hypothetically that it might exist? Because there were people who loved like that: there was one right here—Yurka; he was “that” kind of person—and there was another one standing right over there, in a stunned silence, adjusting his glasses with a trembling hand.

Yurka recoiled. What kind of world was he living in? What a wrong, stupid, unjust world it was. And it was the world that was wrong, not Yurka.

Still, if he’d been in Ira’s place as recently as a month ago, he wouldn’t have believed it, either.

Meanwhile, Masha was now sobbing uncontrollably. Ira shook her head in reproach. Ksyusha piped up again mockingly: “Get a load of her! She’s the liar, but now she’s all weeping and moaning! It takes one to know one, right, Mash? Why don’t you tell us: Is there something about you we don’t know?”

“Stop it!” barked Yurka. “What are you attacking her for? You can’t humiliate her like that, no matter what she said!”

He’d recovered somewhat from his shock, and he felt sorry for her. He wasn’t defending her; she had been shamelessly despicable and vile. But Yurka had also seen how Volodya’s face changed when nobody believed Masha: his brows had shot high in amazement, and for a second the corners of his mouth had twitched up.

Ira Petrovna stopped and took a breath. Then she took hold of Masha by the elbow. “Come on, sunshine. You’re going back to the cabin for a nap. I’ll forgive you this one time, but if you keep spouting this story, I’ll take you right to Olga Leonidovna and tell her everything about these abnormal fantasies of yours ...” She dragged Masha back toward the bonfire. “Ksyusha! Polina! You’re coming with us. And you’re going to keep your mouths shut, too. Volodya! Yurka will be back in the cabin by one a.m.!”

“Irin, don’t tell Leonidovna,” came Polina’s voice as the group headed away. “This is all our fault, we didn’t make friends with her, we didn’t listen to her ...”

“She was totally fine last year, she really was just normal when she and Anka were friends ... ,” said Ksyusha, her voice barely audible.

“We’ll see. Depends how she behaves. Masha, if you say one word ...” The end of Ira Petrovna’s sentence died away in the silent woods.