Page 122 of Pioneer Summer

It took Yurka an effort of will to suppress the emotions Volodya’s letter called forth. What helped most was the realization that this was the lesser of two evils: he knew that if Volodya hadn’t been suffering from these problems, he would have been in a relationship with a real person by now and would have been doing real things with that person, not just imagining things when he was alone.

So they didn’t broach the topic of a visit anymore. Their letters to each other went flat and neutral. Yurka finally accepted that the treatment was helping Volodya and making him happier. Yurka should’ve been glad, but in reality it made him uncomfortable. It seemed as though once Volodya had rid himself of his fear, he’d also rid himself of his thoughts about Yurka: he had forgotten him, stopped loving him.

That letter was the last one that year in which Volodya wrote about anything personal.

In October, the thing Yurka’s uncle had been saying would happen did happen: the unification of Germany. The Konevs went to the embassy, stood in line for five hours, and finally succeeded in submitting their documentation.

Three families that Yurka’s parents knew had already managed to leave for the West, and it made Yurka’s mom go from difficult to completely unbearable. Almost daily, her voice dripping with poisonous envy, she counted off the names of coworkers who had gotten out: “The Mankos left. The Kolomiyetses left. Even the Tyndiks left! Never mind that in America they’re nothing, while we have full right to German citizenship! We waited too long to try! How much longer will it be now? Until we die of hunger?!”

Yurka’s dad could never refrain from a weary, reluctant, half-whispered rebuttal: “You don’t have to be a citizen to move to Germany.”

In November the only people in their building that the Konevs were friends with left. This turn of events devastated Yurka’s mother.

“I’m an engineer!” she fumed constantly. “I have an advanced degree! I gave my whole life to that damn factory! I ruined my health! And what do I get in return? I get my salary paid in ball bearings! But Valka, that trashystreet vendor with her dinky little stall, eking out a living bringing in crappy clothes from Turkey—that Valka, she gets out! She’s living it up!”

She didn’t blame Yurka’s father, although his salary hadn’t been paid in months; she blamed the German embassy and the world as a whole. Her health really had taken a turn for the worse. She’d started having lung problems. The unrelenting illnesses and poverty had finally and irrevocably ruined her once kind disposition. As though she were seeking yet another piece of proof of how bad things were, she even asked about Yurka’s pen pal, “the one from Moscow”: How were they faring out there in the capital? “Just as badly as we are?”

Yurka shrugged vaguely. “Probably so ...” But he couldn’t add any specifics. Volodya’s family wasn’t suffering. Volodya’s father had really thrown himself into his business. He’d started a construction company and in less than a year had started pulling in such a profit that Volodya’s mother didn’t need to keep working. Volodya himself continued his studies at MGIMO while also devouring economics textbooks on the side so he could start helping his dad as soon as possible.

Smiling, Yurka wrote Volodya: “Now there’s an irony of fate: the country is falling apart, but you are building it back up.”

When he said the country was falling apart, Yurka meant it literally. One by one the republics of the Soviet Union began to declare independence, all through 1989 and into 1990. This Parade of Sovereignties was the beginning of the end of the USSR.

In answer to the “you are building it back up,” Volodya said modestly:

I’m doing what I can to help, but there’s not much use for experts in international law here. On the other hand, I know English. I got a bunch of textbooks on market economics and Pops scrounged up a couple of books on how to run a business. “It’s called management,” he explained. So I’m sitting here, studying. It’s important. The country’s transitioning from a planned economy to a market economy, and nobody knows how to do business in this new environment. But I’m going to know. My brains will be our company’s advantage. Now don’t you dare think I’m bragging! It’s too early to brag.

In another letter, Volodya had joked, “Who knows? Maybe by next year our different cities will be in different countries. Wait while I settle some things here and establish that my treatment worked, and then I’ll come see you while we’re still citizens of the same country.”

“Citizens of the same country,” Yurka repeated aloud. He felt his heart drop like a stone. He was in no hurry to inform Volodya that the German embassy had finally accepted their documents and moved them to the next stage. Yurka was afraid both of jinxing his application and of breaking the bad news to Volodya any sooner than he had to. Yurka had written Volodya about Germany more than once, but he’d talked about it casually, as an aside, with no faith that he really had a chance. But now, all of a sudden, it hit home that they really might end up in different countries after all. Maybe even on different continents. Because even if Yurka didn’t end up living in Germany, Volodya had always dreamed of hightailing it out to America. And Volodya was so stubborn that if he really, truly wanted to do something, he did it. Yurka knew that.

He’d no sooner opened Volodya’s latest letter than he knew it had been written hurriedly, in a panic. It was wrinkled and full of blots, and the letters tilted over onto each other, and the lines of writing weren’t even but slid down at the end:

That filth is crawling back into my brain again! The pills only help every so often, and I can’t repeat my earlier success with the pictures because I keep getting distracted thinking about that! And I’ve started having dreams again! Today I had such a vivid dream that when I woke up, I almost lost it. Why isn’t this real?!

I dreamed I was standing on a platform at a train station and in the crowd of people coming out of a train car I see U. She smiles and I put my arms around her. We go down into the metro. We’re standing on the escalator, going down, but instead of looking around to admire one of the most beautiful metro stations, U. looks only at me. It’s like she doesn’t care where she is or what’s happening around her; all she cares about is me. We go to the VDNKh pavilion and sit bythe rockets that are on display and stroll around the fountains. It’s hot. She puts her face and hands into the water. Then we take the metro back home. I lay my jacket over our knees and hold her hand tightly underneath it. We’re at my place. There’s nobody else home. I fold out the sleeper sofa. She gets a jar of cherry jam out of her bag and puts it on the table.

Yurka knew that “U.” was “you” and “she” was “he.” Volodya was writing about him. Yurka could tell Volodya was panicking. He knew how bad Volodya must be feeling and that Volodya was scared. But at the same time Yurka couldn’t stop smiling: Volodya was dreaming about him! And even though joy was completely inappropriate at the moment, he couldn’t keep his emotions in check when he wrote his reply. Once he’d sent it, he bitterly regretted what he’d said: “I don’t give a damn about secrecy! I’m not ‘she’! And I still love you! And also ... we submitted our documents at the embassy. I’m probably moving to Germany soon.”

He sent that letter at the end of December. Three days later he got a telegram from Volodya:DO NOT WRITE ME AT THIS ADDRESS ANYMORE. WILL WRITE YOU LATER.

The concrete paver for 1990 was the last one. After that, the ground broke off in a sandy cliff. The year 1990 was when his and Volodya’s relationship suddenly broke off, too.

CHAPTER TWENTY

IN SEARCH OF LOST ...

Volodya’s telegram was a shock for Yurka. Why couldn’t Yurka write? What happened? Yurka’s thoughts ricocheted from bad to worse:Volodya’s parents read my last letter, realized who I was to him, and now blame me for messing up his treatment! Or maybe it’s that Volodya himself wants to get rid of me and my interference? Because I was the one he dreamed of, I’m getting him off track. Doesn’t he need me anymore?

Yurka’s guilt, and his fear for Volodya, kept him from disobeying and writing to ask what had happened. Logic calmly reminded him,No matter what, Volodya’s too grown-up now for his parents to punish their son for something somebody else said.But his fear whispered,Volodya and his father are in business together, and that means he’s still dependent on his father.And the very worst times were when his hurt feelings tormented him:Volodya was looking for an excuse to break off our relationship, and I’m the one who gave it to him. He really doesn’t need me anymore. He never did.He barely listened when his memory pointed out,Volodya’s getting paranoid again. This has happened before, more than once.

Still, Yurka waited for that “later” to arrive and for Volodya to write him. But no letters came.

Yurka was exhausted by doubt and uncertainty. Nothing could make him smile. His apathy made itself felt in every way. He was sleeping badly and eating badly. He was taciturn and soon became completely withdrawn. He was indifferent to everything and even lost interest in music. He made it through the interminably long winter. In the spring of 1991 he was briefly drawn out of his stupor by good news from the embassy. His mother, beaming with genuine delight, ran right into the kitchen without even taking off her coat and shoes, shouting, “We’re approved!”

“I’m leaving! I’m actually leaving!” Yura was happy, for the first time in a long while.

But soon his happiness evaporated. He was leaving! But what about Volodya?

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