Page 49 of Pioneer Summer

“He was quite capricious. He suffered from bouts of rage. He drank. He drank a lot. He played cards. He had a mania for it, for cards ...”

Yurka’s face fell. “Well, then, it’s a good thing that that’s not in the Russian diaries. Let the Americans go on digging up all kinds of dirt about great Russians. We don’t need that! Why would we need to know anything bad about Tchaikovsky? Why remember that? And anyway ... But wait: Why are you bringing this up?”

“You asked. I answered. And I’m talking about all this not to sully his name but just to prove he was a normal person. Do you know anything about Tchaikovsky’s personal life? That he was married but that he separated from his wife after a few days? You could even say he was never married at all.”

“Married or not, what difference does it make? I have no interest in that. I’d rather you tell me how he composed!”

Volodya shot Yurka a look, then nodded. “Of course you’re not interested in that. Rightly so. How he composed? On a schedule, every day. If he didn’t write anything that day, he’d be upset, but he still composed every day. He listened to other people’s compositions. Good ones, to take as examples. Popular ones, so he’d be in the know. Bad ones, so he could learn from other people’s mistakes and avoid making them himself.”

“Was he often dissatisfied with what he’d written?”

“Very often.”

“And did he hear the music? I mean, while he was composing, did the music play in his head? Or before he wrote it down? I mean ...”

“I understand. It did. But again, not always.”

As they conversed about Tchaikovsky, they walked down to the river and crossed the shallows. They were so engaged that when they heard the bugle, they both flinched in unison from surprise. Only then did they come to their senses and hurry off to where the troops assembled. They ran into Masha, who was sitting out of breath on a bench by the athletic fields. They were so engrossed in conversation that they didn’t reply to her muted “Hi.”

Once he rejoined his troop, Yurka got into formation like the rest of them. But unlike the rest of them, he didn’t listen to Ira Petrovna. He was thinking about how Volodya was right: even a great composer was, first and foremost, a human being. The same kind of human being as Yurka. And if a musical career was in store for someone Tchaikovsky’s age, who chose music instead of a boring civil service desk job when he was already twenty-five yearsold—which, Yurka felt, was basically just plain “old”—then maybe all wasn’t yet lost for Yurka, either? This thought, as unlikely as it was, cheered him. Somewhere deep inside him, desire sparked to life: the desire to sit down at the piano and play something lively and happy. Maybe Pachelbel’s Canon?

After snack, Yurka was so loaded down with civic duty work that he was in danger of not finishing it until late at night. He tried asking Ira Petrovna’s permission to get out of it, explaining that the script had to be finished today. But Ira was adamant.

“Come on, Ira Petrovna, let me out of it,” he whined. “I really need to finish writing the script. Why don’t you have me sit down and rewrite it right here next to you so you can see I’m not just trying to get out of work, I’m doing something!”

But his begging and persuasion had no effect on the troop leader: “Not a chance, Yura. These beds aren’t going to make themselves. And don’t get all mopey; together you and I will be done in no time.”

“Together? That’s unexpected ...” Yurka was surprised, but glad at the same time. Being alone with Ira Petrovna meant the chance to ask a couple of important questions and try to get her to make peace with Volodya. Lately, this was all Yurka could think about every time he saw her.

It really did go quickly when they worked together. Yurka swept the floor while Ira Petrovna watered the flowers and wiped the windowsills. They checked that the beds in the boys’ room were made and went over to the girls’ room to check there as well. As they did, Yurka said, “They sent me to hang the strings of lights because I’m the tallest Pioneer, to haul mattresses with Mitka because I’m the strongest, to direct the show because I’m the most grown-up ... But why am I fluffing pillows? Because I’m the laziest?”

“Because you haven’t had this duty shift yet,” Ira replied, offended. “Quit it. You imagine hidden motives everywhere you go.”

“But what if I’m not imagining it? What if there really is one?”

“What are you getting at?” asked Ira stiffly. “Is this about Zhenya—”

But Yurka interrupted her: “No. Masha. Why did you think I was off with her that time?” He’d switched to the informal form of the word “you” in his eagerness.

“Don’t pay any attention to that. I just thought that’s what had happened.”

“Fine, but why?”

“You two were the only ones out of the whole troop who were gone. And you and Masha are the most grown-up, so you’re both probably already interested in ... dating. It’s nothing, Yur, it doesn’t matter now.”

“It matters a lot! You and Volodya got into a fight because of it!”

Ira shrugged and turned away. Yurka leaped into the fray. “Ira, forgive him, please! So he went a little crazy and said something stupid. He didn’t do it to be mean. Volodya doesn’t have a mean bone in his body. You’re a troop leader yourself, you must know how hard a troop leader’s first session is ...”

Ira gave him a look of astonishment. She set a freshly fluffed pillow on the bed, corner up—a “sail”—and threw up her hands. “Well, now! Yury Ilych and I are so close, he tells me what I do and don’t know and even addresses me informally! What an honor!”

“I mean it. You could at least hear him out.”

Heedless of his troop leader’s explanations and her obvious objection to the idea, Yurka kept defending Volodya until their shift was done and Ira began to give in.

“You’re a stubborn one. But why are you speaking for him? If he wants to say he’s sorry, he can come himself, not send his mediators.”

“But he tried, though, didn’t he? Today after breakfast, yesterday after the campfire ...”

---