Page 55 of Pioneer Summer

“Do you at least see that you did something cruel?” Volodya finally deigned to look at Yurka directly—right in the eyes—and more sternly than ever before.

“Cruel?” Yurka scoffed. “Masha’s the one who’s being cruel. She doesn’t have a clue about what she’s playing, Volod! This is classical music, it’s difficult, it’s impossible to understand in ten minutes! You can’t just pick up the music, look at it, and play. You have to feel it. You have to immerse yourself in the music, put yourself into it, let it flow through you. My ears bleed listening to Masha’s tedious struggling! Tchaikovsky would roll over in his grave if he heard that!”

Volodya listened to him, alternately raising and then lowering his brows.

“Do you understand?” Yurka had wound down and was now completely played out. “You don’t understand anything. You have to live and breathe music, the way I did, to understand ...”

“I understand the gist,” Volodya said. “Maybe not as well as you, but still ... You’re going through a hard time, but that doesn’t change the fact that you treated Masha badly. Look, Yur—I’m the only one who really knows about your musical past. And Masha had nothing to do with all this. When the parts were being distributed, she was designated to play the piano, so what am I supposed to do now—” he broke off. “I’m not going to kick her out of the show!”

“I’m not asking you to! But don’t let her play the Lullaby, it’s impossible to listen to that!”

“How about you don’t tell medon’t? And if it’s so hard for you to listen to her, play it yourself! You know the piece, you know how to play it better—”

“No!” Yurka cut him off sharply. “Don’t even think about it.’

“But why?”

“Because I said so! I can’t, and that’s that!”

“So what do you suggest? You don’t like how Masha plays, but you don’t want to play yourself—”

“I’m fine with Masha playing, just not that!”

“But it fits the show perfectly! And Masha fits. But you—”

“I can’t stand to listen to the Lullaby being played like that!” Yurka burst out, interrupting Volodya. “Don’t you understand? That’s my piece, the one I flunked out of music school with!”

Volodya’s face changed. “Oh, so that’s it,” he said. “Yurka, why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“I don’t know! It’s embarrassing, okay? And now here’s Masha, playing it every which way, and I—”

“And you still have to say you’re sorry,” Volodya said. “You need to ask her to forgive you.”

“Yeah, right! I’m not asking anybody for anything! Ever!”

Volodya rolled his eyes. Then he shook his head and smiled in that patronizing way he sometimes did. “So you are a child after all.”

“You’re the child! I’m not afraid of apologizing. It’s just Masha; she—she drives me crazy!”

Volodya scoffed and gave a shrug. “Girls are always driving you crazy, everywhere you look.”

“That’s not true!” shouted Yurka, although he was horrified to realize Volodya was right. To cover it up, he admitted, “I liked one girl. Anya. She was here last year but didn’t come this year.”

“Oh ... so that’s it.” Volodya’s smile went from condescending to artificial. “What about this session? Nobody at all?”

“Well ... I don’t think so.” Yurka paused; then, succumbing to a sudden reckless impulse instead of rational thought, he all but gave himself away: “I mean ... there is somebody ... but for hi—forherI don’t exist.”

He’d just cut off his oxygen with his own words. His head started spinning, and he felt sick to his stomach, and a clammy fear constricted his throat. A thought pounded in his head:Now! Tell him now. You won’t get another chancelike this!But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He stared directly at Volodya, face-to-face, without a word.

The remnants of Volodya’s smile fell away. He was looking Yurka right in the eyes, just as directly, but where Yurka’s gaze was soft and questioning, Volodya’s was demanding.

“Who is it?” he asked seriously.

“A girl from my apartment building back home,” Yurka said. Even as he did, though, he wondered, what if he took the risk and told him? What would happen then? It wouldn’t hurt anybody. And after all, whatever Yurka’s older comrade said in reply might be useful for Yurka in the future. Because, to tell the truth, Yurka didn’t have any close friends, just “guys from my building,” and all they were good for was a few laughs, nothing personal or honest. This might be his only chance to tell anyone about this.

“You just like her? Or ... or is it more than that?” Volodya’s voice had turned cold and hoarse; his voice was so foreign, so rude in tone, that Yurka didn’t even recognize it.

That tone didn’t fit. It didn’t fit either Volodya’s face or the situation. Although the situation seemed unreal to Yurka, too: a Pioneer camp, Pioneers, summer, the heat ... but inside he was cold. It was like Yurka wasn’t here but in some gloomy November, looking at himself and Volodya from the outside. It was like he was watching two movies at the same time, the sound from one and the picture from the other.

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