Сергей Огольцов – The Sweets At Dawn (страница 7)

Summer! Ah, Summertime!…

. .. .

As it turned out later, Uncle Tolik didn't even know about that disappearing road along the foot of the embankment, his bike, roaring out from under the bridge over Peace Avenue, reached the turnoff to Romny in a jiffy. Were he on foot, he’d stomp the distance for about a hundred meters.

~ ~ ~

The Sunday movie listing for late July included 'Sons of the Big She-Bear' so Skully and I agreed not to miss it, as Gojko Mitic played one of her sons.

This Yugoslav Mitic often starred as the red-skinned hero in GDR westerns, and with him, even East Germans could be expected to make a decent film. True, these westerns were released in black and white in the Soviet Union, presumably to save on color film.

Nope, the listing didn't provide all these details, or anything at all, other than the title and screening date. But the films didn't arrive at the Club until at least six months after their week-long run at the Peace Movie Theater.

The following week, they moved to the Vorontsov Cinema by the Square of Konotop Divisions. Then, for five or six months, nothing is heard from them, until they pop up at the Lunacharsky House of Culture, meaning they'll be playing at the Club in a week at most. But where did everything else come from to fill the almost daily screenings? Not every Sherlock could solve such a riddle.

Be all that as it may, having friends who went to the cinema meant you could easily make an informed decision.

We weren't particularly drawn to the central–in the City–cinemas to see the latest films while they’re hot. Not because slow and steady wins the race, and it's better to wait for reviews from friends with their impeccable taste. Frankly, sometimes these aesthetes praised a complete crap.

The reason was much simpler, and at the same time more compelling: a ticket at the Peace Movie Theater cost 50 kopecks (plus tram fare). For the same film at the Vorontsov Cinema (a week later), you'd shell out 35 kopecks, weight netto (excluding tram fare). And after patiently waiting for about half a year, you take a perfectly reasonable 20 kopecks to the Club. On foot.

Granted, the difference isn't so great for noticing it at all if you went to the cinema once a year. But if you're a fan of magic arts and have to beg Mother for the movie tickets…

. .. .

That Sunday, the three of us—Kuba, Skully, and I—went to Kandybino on bikes. There we swam and dived, taking turns, off a makeshift diving board. Two of us would stand chest-deep in water, clasping our 4 hands at the wrists to toss the third, who would climb onto them, clutching two wet heads.

And of course, we played tag, although catching Kuba underwater is beyond humanely possible.

Then he and Skully disappeared somewhere in the crowd of swimmers. I wandered around amidst all the splashing and screaming—they were nowhere to be seen, as if they had dissolved into the water.

Just in case, I also swam to the other side, which also happens to be a dam for the fishing ponds. A couple of cookies were fishing there, because the fish were striking in the swimming lake, too. But they waited for a covenient moment to cast their lines into the mirror-like carp paradise beyond the dam once the patrolling guy got through his round-on-bike.

So as not to scare their fish away, I swam back quietly.

On my return I combed the crowd in the water again… Nope, no use… And then I decided enough was enough.

I emerge onto the shore, blue from the cold, my skin all goosebumps, no smaller than those currants that aren't even allowed to ripen. And this pair of idiots prance toward me from the garden bushes, their hair long dry.

'W-w-where have you gone lost?'

'Whatever! We're going in again! Let's go!'

'Are-re-re you cr-razy?' I'm just get-eting out-et-et!’

‘So what? Let's go!’

‘A-a! D-d-damn! Foo-full ah-head!…’

And, three pairs of legs, churning up the foam of the splashes, we raced to the deeper waters—to dive, to scream, to go crazy…

Summer is summer, that's what it is for…

. .. .

Kuba didn't want to go to the movies; he'd already seen that western, and Skully had changed his mind, too. But that didn't stop me. I decided to all the same chisel 20 kopeck coin from Mother and go to the six o'clock screening.

I drove my bike into the yard, entered the khata, where Grandma Katya told me that my parents had left two hours ago with the younger, and she didn't know where for.

So what? There were still three hours until the next showing; they'd be back by that time…

At the end of the third hour, I got crushed by an overwhelming anxiety—where could they be?

So I asked again, this time from Aunt Lyuda. She replied with complete indifference (and there lurked even anger): 'But I wouldn't have seen you either.'

She always gets like that when Uncle Tolik goes fishing.

Another two hours passed, the show was long over, but, filled with a premonition of an inevitable, even already-happened, catastrophe, I no longer wanted to watch any she-bears neither her Yugoslav sons.

Dragged by the tide of growing despair, I pushed off imaginary scraps of frames of a truck scudding onto the sidewalk, faintly fading wails of an ambulance siren…

Only one thing stood out with complete clarity: I no longer had either the parents or my sister-brother.

Night had fallen. Uncle Tolik pulled up in front of the gate, returning from fishing, and rolled the silent Jawa across the yard to the shed. He went into the khata, and I, tormented by misfortune, ground by the millstones of grief, sat on the grass next to the dozing Zhulka…

And it was already quite late; the gate latch clanged. I heard my mother's cheerful voice, Sasha-Natasha ran into the yard.

I rushed to meet them, torn between joy and resentment:

'Where have you been?!'

'Visiting Uncle Vadya,' my mother said. 'And why are you like that?'

Bursting into tears, I mumbled confusedly about the bear's sons and 20 kopecks, because I couldn't explain how I'd been left a total orphan for half a day, facing life without any family.

'You could have asked Aunt Lyuda for money.'

'Really? I asked where you were, and she said she wouldn't even look at me.'

'What?!' Come on, let's go inside!’

At home, she squabbled with her sister; Aunt Lyuda replying it was crappy lie, all her words were: she wouldn't have seen me if I hadn't come up to her. But I stubbornly repeated my lies.

Mother and Aunt Lyuda shouted at each other, louder and louder, more and more obscure. Grandma Katya tried to reason with them: 'Oh, come on, what a shame before everyone! The neighbors can hear us, the passersby outside!'

Natasha, Sasha, Irochka, and Valerik, their eyes wide with fear, crowded in the doorway between the kitchen and the room where Uncle Tolik and Father sat, silently sulking at the TV set in the corner…

And so my second vile act in my life had been committed—I slandered and slurred my totally innocent aunt. And although I interpreted her answer to my question exactly as I later relayed it to Mother, still, after my aunt's explanation, I could have admitted, yes, that's exactly what she said. But no, I didn't confess to the vile lie.

The hidden lie filled me with remorse (also not disclosed), a sense of guilt for the loud squabble at home. I felt guilty all around—before belied Aunt Lyuda and her kids, before Mother, deceived by me. And indeed, before everyone, right down to Zhulka, for being such a wimp—sobbing, 'Oh, Mom and Dad aren't home! Left all alone!'

My remorse stayed concealed, not eased by confession, because we, the heroes of that time, weren't taught to apologize.

Yes, sometimes you might hear how it's done in a movie, in a foreign one, but the Gorky Film Studio didn't zoom in on such things. That's why in life, if you accidentally push someone, step on their toe, or something like that, 'Pardon, it wasn’t more!' served quite enough. Like, 'See, I’ve noticed you.'

All this noise about nothing triggered a slow, imperceptible process, like the growth of a stalagmite, of my alienation and turning into a 'sliced-off piece,' as Father often diagnosed.

I began to live a separate, detached life, although, of course, I didn't feel it or realize it, I simply lived my life and that was that…

~ ~ ~ the centaur’s way

Mother and Aunt Lyuda quickly made peace after Aunt Lyuda showed her the right note when singing the trendy 'Bird Cherry Blossoms Everywhere.'

Besides, she brought home groceries from her work that couldn't be found anywhere else. The choice of goods on the store shelves wasn't dazzling. Anything worthwhile, they sold under the counter and only to the right people, who you'd ask for something too. And the relatives of retail workers could get a few things at prices set by the government…

Aunt Lyuda used to share so funny stories about lunch breaks at their store.

As soon as they locked the front door on Lenin Street, all the saleswomen would gather in the locker room and start bragging about what tasty treats they had in their 0.5-liter-size jars of lunch they'd brought from home that day. They compare smells, discuss whose grub looks better, and share recipes.