Page 77 of Pioneer Summer

Mitka finished reciting the information for the first event and moved immediately to the second one, which was far more important and involved all the campers: “Today the whole camp has to do weigh-ins at the first aid station to confirm that everyone has become healthier and gained weight. Weigh-ins are mandatory. Larisa Sergeyevna will only see Pioneers when they come with their troops. She will not see individual Pioneers. Your troop leaders will inform you of your weigh-in times.”

Not half an hour later, Mitka himself appeared, informing Yurka of some important news as he approached: he had been drafted to participate in the play, too. But Olga Leonidovna had given him a job that required some of the heaviest lifting in the whole show: raising and lowering the curtain. Yurka felt bad that the charismatic Mitka hadn’t been given a speaking part, but in the end he was still grateful; at least now he wouldn’t be the one who had to deal with the curtain.

As usual, they marched back to their cabin in formation. Yurka traditionally walked in front, next to Vanka, followed by Polina and Ksyusha,the next tallest pioneers in their troop. The girls were whispering loudly. Suddenly, Ulyana, who was right behind them, broke into their conversation excitedly: “Girls, get this: somebody left me a note on the beach. I was getting dressed and saw that something had fallen on the ground, a little piece of paper ...”

“What’s it say?” Ksyusha interrupted rudely.

“Let me read it! Come on, hand it over!” said Polina, perking up.

“Hey, Van, will our competition with the troop leaders be before the talent show tomorrow? First the assembly, then the competition, troop leaders versus campers, and then the talent show, right?” asked Yurka, looking for something—anything—to keep himself occupied. He already knew he had listed the events in the right order; he was just hoping that Vanka might know something more. But Vanka kept quiet. He was eavesdropping on the girls.

“‘I like you!’ Oooohhh! That’s great, Ul! ‘I like you!’” cried Polina happily. “Who’s it from, do you know?”

“Hey, Yur! Konev!” Ksyusha called out. Yurka flinched. What did he have to do with any of this?

“Hm?”

“Did you happen to see if anybody came over to where our things were while we were out swimming?”

“Of course I didn’t. Like I need to keep track of your things!”

“Maybe it was you! Maybe you’re the one who left the note, huh, Yurchik?” giggled Ulyana.

Yurka sensed a jealous look from Mitka, who walking nearby, but Yurka just clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes.

Yurka wasn’t able to go see Volodya until quiet hour. When he did, he could tell that Volodya had wanted to see him just as much, if not more. Volodya tilted his head down just a little bit and looked at Yurka directly but tenderly. He didn’t say anything, but Yurka didn’t need any words. He knew he didn’t have any, either—none that were capable of expressing, even privately, the joy of being near Volodya. He caught his breath at the realization that they had that same closeness, and how much it permeated them both, and how tightly it bound them together. Yurka yearned for just one thing: to kiss Volodya as soon as possible.

It seemed as though Volodya wanted the same thing: without a word, Volodya nodded toward the river, and, without needing to discuss it, they headed toward the willow.

Once they were both underneath its branches, Yurka decided that this must be what absolute happiness was like: to forget himself, to stop sensing himself entirely as he touched his cheek to Volodya’s, nuzzled him, pressed his lips to him. Listening to his breathing, inhaling his smell, seeing the way his eyelashes fluttered behind his glasses ...This is a dream, Yurka assured himself. But it wasn’t him dreaming; it was the rest of the world. Some folks call sleep the “little death,” and, indeed, everything around them really did seem to have died away. The breeze touched their skin and, with its gentle, warm gusts, set the willow branches swaying, and as they moved they let the sunbeams come flashing and dancing in.

Volodya was sleepy. He kept rubbing his tired eyes and was constantly yawning, but he bluntly rejected Yurka’s offer to let him sleep awhile: “We’ve got too little time left. And we’ve still got a lot to do.”

Yurka caught his breath. “And what is that, exactly?”

“Let’s run these lines.”

Yurka hadn’t had any specific ideas in mind. Afraid of his own thoughts, he hadn’t even dared to imagine what might be. But right now, right here, when they were finally alone with each other, they were going to run lines ... ?!

“Why not?” he said, forcing a smile. He began, affecting a strong German accent: “My braffe Fräulein, I am affare zet your parents remain in Leningrad. And I am also affare zet your beloffed city hass fallen. A new flag flies above it. But I assure you zet all you haffe to do is agree to a small compromise, and ...”

Yurka’s parody of an accent was funny enough that he and Volodya ended up laughing themselves silly, distracting Yurka from his very disappointed thoughts. Volodya took the script from Yurka and started reading it himself, but he “zee’d” and “eff’d,” as Yurka put it, too artificially. “Volod, you’re overdoing it. Don’t go to extremes. It has to be harmonious, like music. Listen—”

But Volodya cut him off. “Yur, you know something? You’re really handsome when you’re playing ...”

Handsome ... handsome ... handsome ...The echo reverberated through his mind. Yurka’s vision started to swim. Any thoughts of Germans, “zees”and “effs,” and all the rest of it simply vanished. He sat and looked at Volodya, abashed. In a quiet, affectionate voice, Volodya said, “You get such an interesting look on your face. You’re inspired, but intense. You probably don’t even notice that you don’t just sit still, you rock back and forth, and sometimes you sing along under your breath, and sometimes you bite your lip. When I look at you, it’s like you’re somewhere far away. It makes me want to guess where you are. You should practice more often ... I like it a lot ...”

Volodya trailed off, blushing shyly. Refusing him when he was so good, so affectionate, when he was so dear to Yurka, was absolutely out of the question. But so was saying anything in response; the words simply lodged fast in Yurka’s throat.

Volodya lay down on the grass, rested his head on Yurka’s lap, and looked up at him with such a tender look that everything in Yurka’s chest started melting. Forget talking—even breathing became impossible. Yurka put down the script and turned on the radio to keep the silence between them from growing heavy.

The radio station was playing its Russian classical music program again, and when the sounds of Tchaikovsky came from the speaker once more, Yurka was unable to restrain the storm of emotions inside him. In a voice trembling from joy, he said not the words that were surging up inside him but other words, about music: “Do you hear how it immerses you? It’s like you’re sinking into it: the bass envelops you, the air grows thick, everything goes still, and we go still, and we descend slowly, as if through honey, until we settle on the very bottom ...”

“If I’d heard that two weeks ago, there’s no way I’d have believed that Yurka Konev was the one saying it.” Volodya smiled, but then turned serious. “You have to be the one to play the Lullaby for the show!”

“But I’ve completely forgotten how to play it.”

“Then remember! It has to be you, Yura. Please, I’m asking you. Play it.”

---