Page 47 of Pioneer Summer

Volodya didn’t take much convincing. He closed his eyes without taking off his glasses and immediately started breathing heavily. Seemed like he really was super-tired, seeing as how he’d fallen asleep instantaneously.

The radio was on. Mozart’s Symphony No. 40 was rounding out the World Symphony Hour radio program. Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 2 opened the next program, the Russian Piano Music Hour. The sun sank to rest on the distant treetops during the concerto’s tender second movement. One especially bright ray flashed as it pierced the willow’s leaves and crawled slowly along Volodya’s cheek toward his eyes. Yurka saw this and sat a little farther to the left so his shadow would cover Volodya’s face. As he scribbled on the script, he remained almost motionless, trying not to move and accidentally let the sun bother Volodya or wake him up. He glanced at Volodya every so often to see whether he’d woken up.

A warm breeze gusted and blew up the edge of Volodya’s shirt, revealing his belly button. Yurka stared at his concave stomach, at the pale skin as softand delicate as a girl’s. Yurka’s was nothing like that. He put his hand under his own T-shirt, touched his stomach, and confirmed it: his skin was rough. Wouldn’t it be nice to touch Volodya’s ... It was a passing thought, but it made it hard for Yurka to breathe, and heat burned his cheeks. Yurka wanted to turn away and keep working on the script, but he was frozen; he couldn’t even move enough to look away ...

The heat moved from his cheeks to his jawbones. His jaw throbbed. Yurka now felt a hunger to touch Volodya, not just a desire. But at the same time he was afraid: What if Volodya woke up?

Unable to control himself, without acknowledging what he was doing, Yurka stretched out a slow, tentative hand. Volodya sighed and turned his head to one side. He was still asleep.He’s so defenseless, Yurka thought, bending over Volodya, arm extended. Yurka’s fingers hovered just above Volodya’s belly button. He grasped the edge of Volodya’s shirt, and the thought came to him unbidden:Am I brave enough?

He wasn’t. He sighed and pulled the fabric down over Volodya’s bare skin. He turned away.

Flustered, he sat there without moving a muscle for so long, his feet fell asleep. On the radio, Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 2 was ending. It was at the last minute now, the best minute, Yurka’s favorite part; it was so innocent and good. Unlike Yurka.

He flexed his back and shoulders and tried to get up, but—now, this was a fine pickle—when he stood up, he found that it wasn’t just his back and shoulders that were stiff. Again! Prickly cold needles of alarm ran across his whole body. Yurka was unable to grasp how this could be happening. He was tormented by a nagging question:What is wrong with me?

“All done?” came Volodya’s voice suddenly.

Yurka jumped. “Who, me? No, I was just over here ... uh ...” He hastily pulled his T-shirt down past his waist.

“What do you mean?” Volodya was confused. “You didn’t finish rewriting it?”

“No,” Yurka said warily. He leaped to his feet and whirled away from Volodya. He was too ashamed to look at him. Yurka tried to do some breathing exercises to calm down. A deep breath in and a slow breath out. In ... out ... in ... out ... It didn’t help.

Volodya didn’t speak.

Yurka was beset by thoughts, each one worse than the last:Not this again! Why? What if he noticed? But he couldn’t have; he didn’t open his eyes. But what if he did anyway? What then? I’ll say I remembered those magazines. It won’t look good but at least he’ll understand, Yurka decided. But then he grew angry again.But I didn’t even do anything. All I did was think. I’m pretty sure I have the right to think what I want!Then he started trying to calm himself down.Volodya couldn’t have seen, he couldn’t have found out.Still, calm eluded him.

What was it he’d heard from the guys from his building? He needed a cold shower? Yurka spat in frustration and started getting undressed. Volodya, meanwhile, sat up and looked at him skeptically. “Yur, what’s up?”

“I’m hot,” Yurka tossed back over his shoulder, falling over himself in his hurry to jump into the water.

They listened to the radio as they made their silent, leisurely way back to camp. One piece had ended and the next one had begun, and from the very first notes it jarred all thoughts out of Yurka’s head. He could feel that he knew it, not in his brain, but in his body, and that he knew no other music the way he knew this. It was as though he heard a beloved, half-forgotten voice, not a piano. His heart went so tight it was painful to breathe and his face drained of color. He stopped short. Volodya, who had kept walking for a few steps, turned around but didn’t say anything.

“Do you hear?” whispered Yurka. His voice was hoarse and even a little frightened.

“Hear who? We’re by ourselves.”

“Not who, what—the music. This is it, Volodya! Just listen to how gorgeous it is.”

Volodya held the radio up high until all the static was gone and stayed that way. He didn’t move a muscle. The boys listened intently, afraid to breathe. Yurka smiled sadly as he looked down at his feet. Spots of red on both cheeks replaced his momentary pallor. Yurka saw Volodya notice this out of the corner of his eye, but he wasn’t paying enough attention to process how strange and piercing Volodya’s gaze was. Yurka wasn’t paying attention to anything at all. He was entirely absorbed in the sounds, first delighting in them, then tormented by them, being warmed and scorched in turn.

“That really was gorgeous. Calm, harmonious ... ,” said Volodya once the composition had ended. “What was it?”

“Peetch,” whispered Yurka grandly. He hadn’t looked up yet. He couldn’t even make himself lift his head, much less move from the spot.

“Peach?”

“Peetch—Pyotr Ilich Tchaikovsky. His Lullaby, the second of his eighteen pieces for piano.” Yurka spoke like a robot, without a single emotion.

Volodya, on the other hand, grew animated: “You know what—that Lullaby is perfect for us. You were right when you said no nocturnes! This is just what we need! And it’s a good thing it’s Tchaikovsky. His music’s guaranteed to be in the library. We have to go look right away ...”

I hated it so much, and loved it so much... , thought Yurka, still deeply shaken. It was the one, his competition piece, the piece that had destroyed everything. But it wasn’t the reminder of his failure that was tormenting him. What was suffocating him now was his memory of how happy he had been when music was part of his life, when it was the most important, most integral part. But what hurt even more was the reminder that it would never be that way again. Without music, there wouldn’t be anything at all. There would be no “future.” What awaited Yurka without music was merely “tomorrow.”

“Okaaaay,” Volodya said, in such a strained voice that Yurka looked up. “Yura, here’s the thing: I’m sick of pretending I don’t notice what’s going on.” Yurka choked: What had Volodya noticed? What?! But Volodya didn’t beat around the bush, continuing, in a worried tone: “The day before yesterday you ran away from me through the forest, yesterday you went around pale as can be, today your breathing is labored and your face has this unhealthy flush ... Since you’re not going to tell me what’s happening to you yourself, I won’t ask anymore. I just want to suggest that maybe we go see Larisa Sergeyevna?”

“No, no, we don’t need to. I’m fine, I just got some dust in my eye. I’ve got allergies. Didn’t you know that?” Yurka spoke without thinking—anything to change the subject.

“But allergies don’t manifest that way ... ,” Volodya tried to object.

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