Page 36

Story: Pioneer Summer

I opened the time capsule today.

I got out my notebook and read our farewell wishes.

None of them came true.

We lost each other, Yura.

And I lost myself.

I didn’t leave for the States, and now I never will.

Business here’s booming and we’re opening branches in other cities.

My father’s retiring soon and I’ll take over.

It’s too late to go out in search of myself.

I have to be content with what I’ve got.

Maybe you went to the conservatory and became a musician, at least?

I had no hope, of course, that you’d be here on this day.

Well, okay, that’s not true: I did hope so, but I knew the chances you’d show up were so small it’d be a miracle.

You have your own life over there.

And I know very well that the old Yurka I sometimes write to hasn’t existed for a long time.

You’ve grown up, you’ve changed, and my invisible But he had interlocutor is nothing but an image in my mind, a memory of you that I’ve been lovingly preserving all these years.

I don’t even know whether it’s good or bad that I can’t let you go no matter what.

Sometimes I think I’m getting a little crazy, because how could I not be? But it’s all just because I’m lonely.

It only looks from the outside like everything’s fine.

Inside, I feel like an old man, even though I’m not even thirty yet ...

No matter where I am, I feel detached from the world, and everywhere I go, I’m different from other people—and not in a good way, either.

I’ve accepted myself and I don’t fight my perversion anymore.

I wish I could meet someone, my kind of person, a guy I could be honest with.

But the more I think about it, the more I know I’ll never find a man like that.

I’ve been putting these letters in our time capsule with some small, weak—but not quite dead—hope that you’ll read them someday.

Because this capsule is a mailbox, in a sense; it’s the only way you’ll ever get them.

Or is the capsule just my past’s grave? I don’t know.

Enough.

I’m going to try not to write my mute interlocutor any more letters.

Yura’s insides seized up as it hit him how right Volodya was.

They hadn’t been able to take care of each other.

They’d lost each other and they’d lost themselves.

Sure, Yura had become a musician, like he promised.

But he hadn’t achieved happiness.

The only things he had now were his career and his loneliness.

And loneliness in your thirties is very different from loneliness when you’re sixteen, when you only think that nobody needs you.

It wasn’t very likely Yura would be rescued from his loneliness, because there was nobody he was close to anymore.

His mother had died, his father wanted nothing to do with him, and he had few real friends left: some had started families, some he’d stopped getting along with, and some he’d just lost, like he had lost Camp Barn Swallow.

The last envelope was different from the others.

It was contemporary, business letter size, and it was brighter and newer.

There was no writing on it, just the year in pencil: 2001.

Yura opened it.

In contrast to the other letters, which were written on notebook paper and folded in quarters, this one was written on a blank piece of printer paper and folded in thirds.

This is the last letter.

Now I understand clearly that it’s time to unburden myself of this habit, too.

There’s a reason to do this now.

It sounds strange: I just bought my youth.

But I have to get on with my life.

Because when you’re always looking back—I remember you every time I write—it’s hard to move forward.

I’d really like to be able to say I have no regrets.

But alas, that’s not the case.

I do have regrets—painful ones.

Not about you, but about what I did to myself in ’89.

If I’d known what the consequences would be, I would never have agreed to go get treatment and I would’ve strangled that “doctor” with my bare hands.

How could a doctor not see my habit of punishing myself as an indicator of suicidal tendencies? Because I told him about it! I did! That right there was what needed to be treated, not the fact that I longed for my friend Yurka Konev.

He used to say that once we suppressed my inclinations, I’d get out of the habit of burning my hands, too.

As if! But that wasn’t the only issue.

I suffered the consequences of his “treatment” for almost ten years.

I was messed up already, but he messed me up the rest of the way.

Still, I’m almost completely free of the habit of punishing myself.

Almost.

Sometimes, when my panic attacks get really bad, I start getting the old itch again, but I’ve learned how to dispel those thoughts.

Of course, I didn’t get rid of them all on my own, but I definitely got by without any charlatans messing with me.

My only real relationship started late, when I was 31.

Now I know I never loved him as a person, as himself.

I only loved one thing in him: his gender.

Just the very fact that he was a guy.

My guy! Finally! I would get into such a frenzied euphoria just because he had a man’s shoulders, and arms, and—everything else.

He himself as a person, his personality, even his looks, didn’t matter to me a bit.

We were together for almost two years.

Although “together” is relative: we met, went out, talked, slept together, but the idea of, say, moving in together was never even on the table.

He was married.

I got tired of his vacillating and ended the relationship.

And I got the final confirmation that I didn’t love him when we broke up: I didn’t miss him, just the closeness.

But I don’t regret he was in my life, not in the slightest.

He helped me overcome my fear.

I forgave myself and accepted myself.

And damned if I don’t feel so much better now!

But that’s not the only thing that changed in my life.

Yura, I’m here! I can’t believe it, but I’m here, and it’s all mine.

We’ve been developing land in lots of places, so I had an excuse ...

Now I can truly say I’ve got everything.

Everything except ...

well ...

but I’ve got nothing to lose, so ...

Yura unfolded the letter so he could keep reading, but something fell out.

He picked it up: a black-and-white photograph that had been folded in half down the middle.

He opened it and caught his breath.

It was that picture, the one they’d taken after the show.

Yura had completely forgotten about it after eighteen-odd years.

He looked at his young self and at Volodya, whose arm was around Yurka’s shoulders.

How handsome Volodya had been, though: tall and slim, a little pale, a subtle shadow under his chiseled cheekbones ...

And Yurka looked so funny in the picture, with his crooked grin, and his Pioneer neckerchief, off-kilter as usual, and his baseball cap on backward ...

It was so ridiculous! They were so exuberant in the picture: they’d been so happy then! Never mind their impending separation, never mind that they had basically no time left to be together ...

They’d been happy then, because they’d been together, they’d been with each other, but mainly because they’d hoped and believed they’d see each other again!

Yura folded the picture so he could put it back down and keep reading the last letter.

But what he saw made his heart stop for a minute, then pound against his ribs painfully: on the back of the picture, in compact handwriting, was written, “I’m not hoping for anything and I’m not expecting anything from you anymore.

I just want to find out how you’re doing,” followed by a phone number that had been crossed out.

Underneath, written with a different pen, were two more numbers, for a landline and a cell phone.

His heart skipped a beat again.

Hope flared bright within him.

Yura guessed that Volodya had written the message and the crossed-out phone number earlier, in 1996, when he’d put the old letters in the time capsule, but that he’d written the new numbers in later, in 2001.

Yura pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, trying to remember how much money he had left on his cell phone account, and slowly dialed the cell phone number with a shaking finger.

Then he pushed the call button.

It felt as though he were setting off a detonator.

The call was answered quickly.

A woman, and not a young one.

Immediately the thought flashed through Yura’s mind: Who’s that? A jealous wife? But I thought he’d come around on that!

“Hello, could I speak with Volodya?”

“What Volodya?” replied the irritated voice.

“Volodya Davydov.”

After a moment of silence, which felt like an hour to Yura, she said, “You’ve got the wrong number,” and hung up.

Yura figured Volodya must have changed his number.

In 2001 the cell phone networks were just getting established and things were always changing: service providers, rates, numbers, and so forth.

Volodya had probably gotten a different SIM card since then and this number would have then been given to a different person.

Yura double-checked the second number, the landline, on the back of the picture and then dialed it.

It seemed familiar to him somehow.

He spoke aloud as he dialed it: “Fifty-five ...

five ...

Strange ...” He’d definitely seen it somewhere before.

“Hello, this is the front desk of LVDevelopment.

How can I help you?” Yura was taken aback.

He turned instinctively to look at the advertising billboard, but he couldn’t see it from there.

“Put me through to Volo—ahem, to Vladimir Davydov.”

“Vladimir Lvovich is out of the office today.

Leave your phone number and he’ll call you back.”

“Later won’t work, I need him now, it’s urgent! Give me his cell phone number!”

“Your name, please?”

“Konev.

Yury Konev,” he answered lamely.

“Your patronymic, please.”

“Ilych.”

Several seconds of silence followed.

The secretary was probably looking for his name in some list of the company’s clients or partners.

But Yura was beginning to lose patience.

“Yury Ilych, unfortunately I can’t give you the director’s personal number.

Please leave your number.”

Yura ground his teeth.

He understood that the secretary wasn’t supposed to start passing out her boss’s personal number to random people, but right now she was the only thin thread of hope Yura had.

She was also the only barrier blocking his way.

So he said politely, but as forcefully as he could: “Call him now, please.

Tell him Konev’s calling.

Give him my number and have him call me immediately.

I really can’t wait, it’s extremely important and urgent, and it is for him, too! Tell him it’s about Camp Barn Swallow—I mean, about the Barn Swallow’s Nest.” He gave her his number and warned her that if he didn’t get a call in the next ten minutes he’d call back.

Yura waited, staring mindlessly at the picture.

He walked around the willow and looked up at the sky, completely covered in gray clouds.

The rain, which had seemed about to let up, started drizzling again.

Almost no rain made it through the willow’s leafy branches, but the rising wind rustled the long, yellow-green tresses.

Yura clutched his cell phone.

He kept checking the time.

Ten minutes had gone by without a call.

But he couldn’t bring himself to dial the front desk again: he was afraid Volodya would call while he was on the phone, so he’d miss it.

If Volodya even called him back at all.

What if he’s busy? What if he’s outside the network? Maybe he’s on a business trip or way out in the sticks somewhere and there’s no coverage? Or maybe he just doesn’t want to talk to me? Because so many years have gone by ...

He did write that he wants to forget all that ...

Yura paced back and forth across the little clearing under the willow.

Outside the shelter of its branches, it started raining harder.

He needed to put everything back into the time capsule and go back to his car.

But he was too agitated.

The unbelievable thought that he might finally hear Volodya’s voice after twenty years kept running through his head.

His blood roared in his ears.

Thunder rumbled off to the east.

The cell phone’s sudden, harsh ring made him flinch.

He pressed his phone to his ear.

“Yura?”

Yura froze.

For several seconds he forgot how to breathe.

“Yes ...

Yes! Volodya, it’s me!”

“Yurka ...” Yura could hear the smile in Volodya’s voice.

“I’m so glad to hear your voice! I read your letters ...

Volodya, I’m so sorry, I screwed everything up! We promised not to lose ourselves, not to lose each other, but we did.

I looked for you too late.”

Volodya didn’t say anything.

All of a sudden his tone of voice changed.

The speaker distorted it, and Yurka thought he now sounded indifferent.

“Are you at Camp Barn Swallow?”

“Yes, under our willow.

Everything around it is ruined, the river dried up, but the willow’s still here, even bigger and more beautiful ...

as though ...”

“As though it were waiting for us,” Volodya finished for him.

Yura was pressing the phone to his cheek with both hands, as if he wanted to squeeze through it to get to Volodya.

“What are you like now?” Yura asked softly.

Volodya paused for a couple of seconds, then answered.

“Well ...

you’re clearly not asking about my business or my health.

What am I like now? I grew up some ...”

“Are you far away?”

Volodya snorted.

“I’m closer than you can possibly think.

Do you want to see me?”

Yura swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. “Yes.”

“Aren’t you afraid of being disappointed?”

“Of course I am.

Aren’t you?”

“Did you become a pianist?”

“Believe it or not, Volod, I did!” Yura smiled. “I did!”

“Then I’m not afraid of being disappointed.”

There was a pause.

“Okay, wait there—”

The call was cut off, replaced by rapid beeping.

Yura was left standing there, confused, looking stupidly at the screen of his phone.

He redialed Volodya’s number, grateful at the thought that now, after so many years, he could.

But Volodya didn’t answer.

Why isn’t he picking up? Did his battery run out? thought Yura.

He bent down over the time capsule and set about collecting the opened letters.

Then he noticed one more piece of paper in the capsule.

He’d already gotten excited—one more letter!—when he saw he was mistaken.

He unfolded the piece of paper.

It was the sheet music for the Lullaby.

A sad smile came unbidden to his face: It had almost ended everything once, but then, later, it was where everything began.

He carefully smoothed out the paper so he could put it away with the other papers back in the time capsule, but then he froze on the spot, the music clutched in both hands.

He’d caught sight of someone’s silhouette through the wall of willow boughs.

Yura stood up mechanically and walked out from underneath the willow tree.

A man was standing about ten meters away.

From this distance Yura could only see that the man was tall.

The man took a step toward Yura.

Yura took a step toward him.

It was hard to make out the man’s features through the misty drizzle, but with each step closer, just like when a photo is developed, his features became sharper and more distinct.

Yura’s hand trembled.

He wanted to look at the picture from the theater and check it, compare the man he saw before him with the man he would’ve wanted to see.

But he wasn’t holding the picture.

And even if he had been—so many years had gone by! Still, no matter how a person changes with time, there’s always one thing that remains, one thing that lets you recognize him: the eyes.

And those eyes, even though they weren’t hidden behind glasses, were his.

Volodya’s eyes.

“How?” whispered Yura soundlessly.

He looked to the left, at the roofs revealed in a gap in the woods, and thought of the billboard again, and suddenly he understood.

The camp was Volodya’s now.

This was Volodya.

He’d grown up, he’d changed, but it was really him!

Volodya, flustered, was smiling and looking at Yura, frozen a few steps away.

It was as though he couldn’t believe it.

Yura couldn’t believe it, either.

Yura wanted to hug Volodya, but for half a second he still hesitated.

He briefly wondered if he should ask permission, then decided to hell with all that.

They hadn’t seen each other for twenty years, and Yura had every right to just go on and hug him, no permission needed.

So he did.

And nothing in the world was more important than that moment.

As it had back then, twenty years ago, time stood still around them, holding its breath.

All that existed was the two of them, the pattering rain, and the wind whispering in the willow leaves.

Volodya placed his hands tentatively on Yura’s back at first, as though he couldn’t believe this was really Yura.

Then he returned the embrace fiercely, heaving a long sigh of relief into Yura’s shoulder, as though he were rolling a massive rock off his soul.

After a long minute, Volodya took Yura by the shoulders and held him at arm’s length.

He studied Yura’s face as though still doubting it was really him.

Then Volodya glanced down at the sheet music still clutched in Yura’s hand, looked back directly in Yura’s eyes, and smiled.

“Are you going to play me a Lullaby?”