Page 67 of Pioneer Summer

Yurka remained silent.

“Your recklessness really does make me jealous. You break the rules so easily; you shrug and act without giving a thought to the consequences ... I’d like to do that too. Even just once, just one time, do not what Ishoulddo but what Iwant todo. If only you know how sick I am of constantly thinking about the correctness of everything I do! Sometimes I get so fixated on monitoring myself—on tracking what I do, and say, and how I behave—that it crosses over into paranoia and panic attacks. At times like that I’m physically incapable of calmly evaluating what’s going on, you understand? And what you did felt like a total catastrophe. But ... but maybe it’s not all so bad? Maybe I’m exaggerating?”

Yurka didn’t understand what Volodya was getting at. He was afraid to interrupt Volodya’s monologue because all he was capable of now, really, was just getting it all out, just saying what he felt without thinking about it beforehand,and he didn’t want to make both himself and Volodya uncomfortable, to take a thing that was already ruined and smash it to pieces. So he remained silent. All the more so since, for a long time now, he’d had a thick lump in his throat that kept him not just from talking but from even breathing.

But Volodya stared expectantly at their reflection in the lacquered panel. His gaze wandered tentatively around Yurka’s face, pausing to focus on Yurka’s eyes, as though he were searching them for an answer. Then he abruptly cleared his throat again and said: “Listen, Yur, I was thinking about something, and I want to know what you think of it. There is such a thing as very close friends, who ... I mean very close friends. Special friends. For example, in school, or at my institute, I saw guys walking arm in arm or even just sitting with their arms around each other.”

“Okay. And?” Yurka finally swallowed the lump in his throat. “Okay, so they walk around that way. Let them. That’s what people who are close do. They can do stuff like that. But we can’t.”

“What do you think ... Do they kiss?”

“Are you making fun of me or something? How would I know? I’ve never had ‘special’ friends!”

“What about me?” Volodya said, sounding a little pathetic.

“Go find Masha. I’m sure she’s fed up waiting for you.”

“Come on, Yur. Quit it. Masha’s just here on vacation, she’s just like everybody else.”

“‘She’s just like everybody else ... ,’” parroted Yurka mockingly. At the mention of her name, he started banging on the keys so the notes would be louder, so he wouldn’t hear his internal voice, the monologues that would reawaken his jealousy.

Yurka wasn’t aware of the fact that he was playing ever more confidently, that he was now playing from memory, without looking.

He couldn’t take his eyes off of Volodya’s reflection. Volodya was pale and still, stealing shy glances at Yurka and biting his lip. Then he said, “I don’t want to think that what happened was bad. But no matter how hard I try not to, I do. Maybe I’m just getting panicky and paranoid again and I’m just making a mountain out of a molehill, but I’m really scared. Yura, tell me: What do you think?”

“About what, exactly?”

Volodya scooted even closer. Yurka played even louder.

“Did you do that because ...” Volodya hesitated, wiping the sweat off his brow with his palm. “Would you ... be that? I mean ... do you want to be not a regular friend to me but a special friend?”

Yurka banged the keys as hard as he could. “F-sharp, A-sharp, up to F, F-sharp, F, down to A-sharp, F-sharp, A-sharp! F, G-sharp, up to F, G-sharp, F, down to G-sharp, F, G-sharp!”

“That’s enough! I can’t shout over this!”

“F-F-F-F ...” All of Yurka’s insides were trembling.

Volodya grabbed his hand and pressed it down on the piano keys. Everything stopped: the music, and his breathing, and his heart. Yurka turned toward Volodya. Volodya’s face was a couple of centimeters away. He could feel Volodya’s breath on his cheeks again. Volodya was so close to him that he stopped thinking at all. A shiver ran down his spine. Volodya’s cold fingers trembled as they pressed Yurka’s hand, and his eyes glittered feverishly behind the lenses of his glasses.

Volodya swallowed slowly and with difficulty, then whispered: “Maybe there’s really nothing wrong with kissing a ... a special friend?”

And then it finally hit Yurka: this was what Volodya had been trying to tell him for the past ten minutes. It didn’t just hit him; it crashed down on him like a ton of bricks. But on his heart, not his head; his heart took the blow, and Yurka actually reeled from it.

“Volodya ... what is this?” Yurka asked, the stupidest question in the world, but purely to make sure he hadn’t misheard. “What are you saying? Who are you trying to fool? Me, or yourself?”

“Nobody.”

“But I mean ... are you sure this isn’t ... you’re not deceiving yourself?”

Volodya shook his head and licked his dry lips. “No. Are you?”

Yurka, eyes bulging, was in turmoil, barely breathing. He blinked. He squeezed Volodya’s fingers. Heart beating, fit to burst, Yurka croaked, “No.”

Yurka couldn’t believe what was happening. Volodya of his own accord bent his head down and moved closer. His pupils were huge as he gazed urgently at Yurka, holding Yurka’s hand. Volodya was holding Yurka’s hand! Not likealways, but tenderly, reverentially, his fingers stroking Yurka’s. Volodya’s lips were close, and he smelled nice.

But what was he, Yurka, supposed to do now? Purse his lips? He hadn’t even thought about this back by the power shed. But that had been yesterday. That had happened a very, very long time ago, and to someone else. And right now the main thing for Yurka was to neither suffocate from joy nor go deaf from the hammering of his heart. He closed his eyes and turned toward Volodya. He felt Volodya’s breath—not on his cheek now ... lower ...

And then the porch of the movie theater creaked.

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