Page 31 of Pioneer Summer

“Can you believe that?!” Yurka said in an elated whisper.

“I can. Let’s not talk about this anymore, okay? This isn’t a Pioneer camp sort of thing ...”

“Do you really not find this interesting?” said Yurka, disappointed.

“If I say it’s completely uninteresting, I’d be lying, but—it’s not forbidden for no reason! It’s very, very—indecent!”

“Volod, listen, there’s something I didn’t understand about it.” Yurka became animated again. “I saw something unusual ... You’re older, you’ll know this. I want to figure this one thing out ... Were they really taking pictures of it? Or was it maybe, like, a drawing of some kind ...”

Volodya threw himself at Yurka and hissed into his ear, “Yura! It’s called pornography! You are in a Pioneer camp, and I am a troop leader, and a troop leader is telling you that you can’t look at stuff like that. It’s depraved!”

“But youdon’tlook at it. And neither do I. I’m just telling you what was on there. So explain this to me: Was it just wrong? Is that impossible? Or maybe it wasn’t real?”

“Dammit, Yura!”

“Come on, Volod ... are you my friend or what?”

“Of course I’m your friend.” Volodya blushed and turned away.

“Then tell me. There was the—the normal way. I get that.” Then Yurka, overwrought, blurted out in a rush: “But a few of the photographs showed the guy doing it ... but in the wrong place ... He was doing it down where ... it was where you sit!”

“A chair?” Volodya seemed to be joking, but his expression was not only serious; it was angry.

“Oh, quit it! I just want to know—is it even possible to actually do that? Or not?”

“‘Quit it’?” Volodya imitated him with a sneer. “I’msupposed to quit it? Yura, you’ve gone too far. We’re done. We’re not talking about this anymore. One more word and I’ll leave, and Olezhka will ‘call on evewyone to stwuggle with the advewsawy,’ and I’ll tell him it’s all because of you!”

Their conversation was cut short by the bugle signaling the end of quiet hour.

“It’s time for you to leave anyway,” muttered Yurka, hurt.

During snack, he listened with half an ear to everyone’s excited chatter about the impending Zarnitsa, “Summer Lightning”—the camp-wide capture-the-flag war game between the troops that most Pioneers looked forward to eagerly. Yurka was preoccupied tormenting himself: he regretted ever asking Volodya about—aboutthat. Volodya didn’t even look his way, and if his eyes did accidentally fall on Yurka’s corner of the mess hall, the expression on the troop leader’s face changed from serious to scornful. Or was Yurka just imagining it? He had been imagining all kinds of things—that he and Volodya had become real, genuinely close friends, for one. But now Volodya’s reaction, and the ice in his usually warm voice, threw that into doubt. It wasn’t as though they’d even had a fight. They’d just had a little tiff, nothing major. But now Yurka was hurt and ashamed by this “nothing major.” A strangely sad longing overcame Yurka.

Pensive and morose, Yurka headed to rehearsal, heaping ashes on his own head as he went:It’s your own fault. What an idiot, asking a Komsomol member questions like that! And not just any old member of the Komsomol but one that’s so greenhouse-flower perfect. And what was I expecting? I’d be better off asking the guys from my building. They might’ve laughed at me, but at least they would’ve been interested!So maybe it had been dumb of Yurka to talk about it with Volodya, but this kind of subject was, first and foremost, a very personal one, and he had been sharing something personal with Volodya ... or rather, he’d been trying to ... But what was he thinking, an ordinary blockhead like him, who hangs out with a bunch of hooligans, trying to be friends with Volodya, a member of the elite? Of course Volodyahad rebuffed him, and shamed him, and finished him off with that one look, like a final shot to the head. He’d hit Yurka without even aiming and sent him reeling.

Yurka remembered all this and stopped short:Why’d I ask him, of all people, about this? What was the point? So he’d glare at me, or so he’d understand me? And he says he’s my friend! Yeah, right! A liar, that’s what he is, not a friend! Friends don’t act that way!

The main square in front of the outdoor stage was packed, as always. Girls from Troop Two were chalking some kind of map on the pavement while redheaded, jug-eared Alyoshka Matveyev hovered around them, making suggestions and proffering chalk.

Yurka hailed him. “What’re you up to over there?”

“What do you mean? We’re getting ready for Summer Lightning! This is a map we’re drawing for Central Command. Olka had this great idea: we’ll send scouts to see where each troop is and then mark down here on the map what our scouts find out.”

“But there’s a dance tonight. Your map will be worn away.”

“No big deal. We’ll just trace it out again tomorrow. That’s faster than drawing it from scratch, right?” chattered Alyoshka. “You want to come be one of our scouts?”

“No, I don’t.”

Yurka turned away, but he had only taken a couple of steps toward the movie theater when Alyoshka popped back up and grasped his shoulder.

“Konev, come on, just think about it.”

“Alyosh, Central Command is the main administration of the whole game; they’re the ones who know what all the different troops are doing and keep the game running smoothly. Nobody wants me there. I’m just going to be with my own troop. Why don’t you go ... uh ... go about your business ...”

“Why wouldn’t they take you in Central Command? They’ll take you if you ask. Ask them, Yur! Look at those long legs you’ve got; you run fast ...”

Alyoshka trotted stubbornly behind him, panting, huffing, and dancing around, trying to trip Yurka, or tug his elbow, or just get his attention any way he could.

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