Page 80 of Pioneer Summer

After having some breakfast, Yurka went back to the main square. Troop Three and their troop leader were also there, rehearsing.

The June heat baked them as they listlessly intoned the theme song from a popular TV miniseries:

“There’s something that’s changing my everyday life,

It’s the voice of the bright future calling,

I stand: I’ve decided to walk out and meet it,

The horizon beckons, enthralling ...”

Yurka and Alyoshka were hanging the heavy navy curtains to that listless accompaniment. They were both getting tired and frustrated: some of the thin loops kept falling off the curtain hooks, while others kept tearing and had to be sewn back together then and there, with the heavy curtains pulling on them. The musical director didn’t want to release his charges, so they continued singing their sad children’s song about a bright future.

Every so often, Yurka caught himself listening to it. He didn’t especially like the television miniseries it was from; he thought it was too dull, and while it might’ve been interesting to watch the first time, the second time was already boring. But he’d seen all five episodes, repeatedly, and he was sick of it. Last year, after it premiered, it went on to play constantly on all the TV channels. He almost had the thing memorized. He knew this song, too, but he’d never paid attention to the words. Now, though, he listened to them and grew sad: the song reminded him that time was flying, that this session of camp would be over soon, and that he and Volodya would have to part.

The kids kept on repeating the last stanza:

“I promise I won’t let down my friends,

I’ll strive to be a better person.

I hear the call to leave my past behind,

I stride enthralled to the horizon.”

Even the shade was melting from the insanely hot sun, but still a shiver ran down Yurka’s back: “‘I hear the call to leave my past behind ... I stride enthralled to the horizon ... ,’” he repeated to himself. All of a sudden he realized that the song was ghastly! It wasn’t about some bright future at all, the way it was supposed to be in the show. It was about losing a good and meaningful present time: the time of childhood. Yurka was already overworked, he was reeling from hunger, and then his imagination started churning outfantastic images: he saw a broad gray path, and himself, and Volodya, and everyone who was here. They were walking up ahead, not realizing that they were headed somewhere they could never come back from—that they weren’t walking of their own accord; they were being pulled by the black hole of the future drawing them into the unknown, which would inevitably consume them all—him, and Volodya, and all those children.

He shook his head and tried to focus on something else: “We only have one more panel to hang.”

When the bugle finally called everyone to lunch, Yurka had no appetite but ate anyway, staring at Volodya over on the other side of the mess hall. Volodya was standing with his back to Yurka, in his usual shorts, white shirt, and red neckerchief. All of a sudden it occurred to Yurka that after a very short time Volodya wouldn’t be wearing them anymore. Volodya would change. And Yurka would change, too. They’d both inevitably grow up. He realized that he didn’t want to grow up; he didn’t want to go into that “bright future.” Not only that—he was actually afraid of it.

They would be parting in less than a week. Maybe not forever, maybe only even until next year, but still parting. And what would Volodya be like when Yurka saw him next summer? Would Volodya get taller and more broad-shouldered? Would he smile more often or less? Would his gaze be more strict, or more weary, than it was now? Or maybe the opposite—softer and kinder? So many questions that no one could answer.

Lunch ended. Dessert—a sweet sukharik with raisins—helped his mood a little. He decided he’d use dessert to improve his mood from neutral to good, to that end sneaking a second one, but then he took one look at Volodya, half-starved since the kids had started acting up again and were keeping him from having a decent meal, and decided to give it to him instead.

They met at the exit to the mess hall. Volodya refused to take the sukharik, insisting that Yurka eat it himself, but Yurka was adamant. Volodya thanked him and promised that as soon as he got control of his horde of urchins, he’d meet Yurka at the stage, if he could do it before the beginning of the ceremonial assembly.

Yurka walked away from the mess hall, thinking:As if this was big news, the end of session. Of course session’s ending. Everything ends, and this is ending, too. But why does it have to be so soon?He had thought this would all last forever.At camp, where each day is worth two, a lot of people thought that. Yurka couldn’t believe that in less than a week his entire life would change: there’d be no more forest, no more camp, no more friends, no more theater, no more Volodya. And there’d be no more of the old Yurka Konev, the one his mom had put on the camp bus. Because he’d already changed. As recently as a month ago he wouldn’t have been able to conceive of himself doing what he was doing now: helping, maybe even being a bit of a tryhard. But most of all that he’d be playing the piano again. It would make his mom so happy when he cleared all the stuff off his instrument. But would he be happy, after he went back to his cramped room in his damp apartment in his outdated building, one of a thousand identical buildings in his dusty old city?

That same sad longing took hold of Yurka again. To ward it off, he headed for the glorious instrument that helped him forget whatever he needed to.

Alyosha and the other people decorating the main square ran off to their cabins. It was almost quiet hour and silence reigned throughout the camp. The only people making any noise were the camp cook, Zinaida Vasilyevna, clanging the pots and pans as she hauled them from storage out to the kitchen, and the two phys ed instructors, Zhenya and Semyon, who were sitting on a bench in the shade of an apple tree, doing a crossword puzzle. Yurka got up onto the empty stage and checked that the piano had been tuned. He nodded in satisfaction, pulled the rumpled piece of paper with the music for the Lullaby on it out of his pocket, sat down at the piano, and put the piece of paper on the stand.

The tender melody began trickling through the overheated air like honey. Yurka bent in concentration over the keyboard. His fingers hovered over the keys and held still, barely touching them. The dark G-flat and A-flat octaves alternated with lower Cs and B naturals, after which his fingers floated delicately back up to the lighter Fs and Cs. But Yurka was dissatisfied. It was a complex composition, and after his long hiatus it was coming back to him with difficulty. He wasn’t getting anything right. Every so often he’d play a wrong note and jerk his head in irritation. As he repeated it over and over, running his fingers up and down the keys, Yurka began to think that maybe, back in school, that one judge had been right. Maybe he really was worthless?

Suddenly everything went dark: somebody had sneaked up behind him and covered his eyes with their hands.

“Can you play it like this?” murmured Volodya. Yurka could hear in his voice that he was smiling.

“Hey, let go!” said Yurka, feigning indignance.

“Nope!” Then, without taking away his hands, Volodya began, “So tell me, Yur: Are you satisfied with your progress? Our show is in three days. Come on, practice hard so you’re ready in time.”

“I will be, just not this very minute. I’m not in the right mood. Come on, Volodya, let go! Or how about this: I’ll play with one eye shut.”

“Nice try! What do you take me for, an idiot? No. Both eyes shut.”

“Not a chance!”

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