Chapter1
The story I heard, and am about to tell you, struck me so deeply that I couldn’t resist the temptation to put it down on paper. That in itself is rather strange: even at school I hated writing compositions. I hope this story won’t leave you indifferent either.
It all began at Boryspil Airport, with a chance acquaintance. I was flying to Rome, the departure kept being delayed, and I got talking with the man next to me. Yurii Petrovych was my age, so we started reminiscing about the past, and word by word he told me the story of his life. Why he did it, I don’t know, and to this day I marvel at how incredibly candid my fellow traveller was. It must be true what they say: people are only truly honest with strangers.
This novel is based on his story. I changed the names at the request of the people in it, whom I later had the good fortune to meet.
Since I never learned how to write books, I didn’t follow the rules one perhaps ought to follow when writing a novel; some scenes, I confess, I made up; I avoided swear words as best I could, and where I couldn’t, imagine a bleep like in the movies, or don’t read it at all. In my defence I will say that Yurii Petrovych used far stronger words! And without them my story would have seemed bland, sanitised and untrue...
I am well aware it could have been written better, but I did my best — so don’t shoot the pianist, he’s playing as well as he can...
Chapter2
“I was born and grew up in a village not far from the regional centre,” Yurii Petrovych began his story. “In the Brezhnev years. You remember what it was like, Vadym. Life was normal: no luxury, but no poverty either. I did well at school in every subject, and I absolutely loved maths and physics! My school years flew by before I knew it...”
Spring. The smells, colours and sounds of May; the soul sings, and it seems life promises a bright and cloudless future.
The way home from school runs through the shelter belt of trees, then along the edge of the fields. How many times had Yura and Mariia walked this road in all their school years? Who could count? But this time is special. The last.
“You haven’t changed your mind? Physics and maths?”
“Nope. And you?”
“Me neither.”
“Lots of competition?”
“Last year it was four and a half per place... And at the teachers’ college?”
“Not much. Under two per place for physics. They say it’s hard to study. That’s why.”
“Well, you’ll manage. Petro Vasylovych can’t stop praising you.”
“He exaggerates! You know what it’s like: show a bit of interest in physics and that’s it, you’re a genius, the second Einstein!”
“Oh, don’t be so modest! They don’t give you second place in the regional olympiad for nothing. You’ve definitely got talent.”
“I got lucky, that’s all. The problems were easy.”
“Sure, sure...”
They fell silent. A breeze ran over the young grass.
“Marichko...”
“What?”
“You’ll go off to your medical school, and I’ll go to the teachers’ college...”
“Mm-hm. Hopefully.”
“I’ll miss you...”
“Oh, stop it!”
“I will miss you! I know it. I won’t miss anyone, but I’ll miss you.”
“Oh, come on! You’ll find someone else to walk home.”
“Maybe I will. But no. There’s only one like you in the whole world!”
“Don’t make me laugh! Go on, off you go! He’ll miss me, sure he will!..”
“Mariia, we’ll be late! The music outside the school can already be heard all over the village!”
“Coming! Go on out, I’ll catch you up!”
“Enough twirling in front of the mirror! You’re pretty enough as it is! Pretty as a piglet in the rain! Soon we’ll have to beat the suitors off with a cart shaft!”
“Oh, Dad, the things you say!”
And she really had been born pretty! The image of her mother. Dark eyes, dark hair, slender, petite, so slim that she looked as delicate as a twelve-year-old. And how cheerful she was! She would laugh at anything!
The assembly hall is decorated, the teachers are in their best outfits, the boys in new suits — not just for the prom, they’ll come in handy later — and the girls... well, that’s another story. If you’re going to celebrate, celebrate: you only finish school once in your life, who’s going to count the pennies!
All the girls are pretty, but Mariika in her pink dress is perhaps the prettiest of all!
The headmaster:
“A certificate of merit from the regional education department for outstanding achievement in physics is awarded to Opanasenko, Yurii Petrovych!”
Yura walks up, awkward in a new suit he isn’t used to yet, just as he isn’t used to everyone’s attention, not knowing what to do with his hands. The girls admire this tall, broad-shouldered young man, and more than one of them sighs in secret.
Applause and heartfelt congratulations. Yurko has earned it. Not a gold medal, like the collective farm chairman’s daughter, but something even better: the affection of his classmates and the respect of his teachers.
“Well, Yura, congratulations! I’ll be expecting you back here, in my place!” It’s Petro Vasylovych, the beloved physics teacher.
“Definitely, Petro Vasylovych! Will you help me become a teacher like you?”
“Come on, you’ll outdo me!”
“Yeah, right, outdo you!.. Thank you for everything, Petro Vasylovych!”
“And I thank fate for sending me a pupil like you! Your brother could have made a good physicist too, but he chose the army. Well, his talents will come in handy there as well. Good luck, Yura!”
Certificates handed out, everyone heads to the gym. There are tables: one for teachers and parents and one for the graduates, with champagne only... as if! Anyone for homemade moonshine? There’s Pasha pouring it under the table. What a hooligan, but what can you do? Grew up without a father, with a mother who likes the bottle; it’s a wonder he made it to graduation.
By now everyone loves everyone, the most troublesome pupils love the strictest teachers and vice versa! Forgotten are the skipped lessons, the broken windows and the bad marks for conduct. No hard feelings.
And then dancing, dancing, dancing! The parents are the first to give up, then the teachers drift home one by one, everyone worn out by the emotion; the musicians are already packing up their gear; only the graduates won’t leave, because tradition demands that they greet the dawn and write somewhere in huge letters that the prom of such-and-such a year took place.
The road home in the early morning is nothing like the road by day. Yura has given Mariika his jacket and walks a little apart, not letting on that he is cold, holding back his shivers.
Suddenly they stopped.
“Yurchyku.”
“What?”
“Kiss me,” barely audible.
Yurko caught his breath!
“You don’t want to?”
“What do you mean, don’t want to?!” And he kissed her on the cheek.
“Not like that! For real!” She reached up to him with her lips...
God, oh God, how sweet it is, that first clumsy, shy kiss!
Handing in the documents. His father is serious, but you can tell he is anxious: that they don’t forget anything, that they fill in all the forms correctly, that they note down the exam dates; and in general he is uneasy about whether his son will be all right here.
Yura, on the other hand, isn’t worried: he has already got to know other applicants, and they are talking about the exams ahead.
The month flew by in preparation for the entrance exams and in anticipation of great and happy changes.
When he did see Mariia, they barely exchanged a few words. Not a word about the kiss, though both of them could think of nothing else.
At last, the exam results. Yura got in! Mum and Dad walk around so proud, as if they had been admitted to the college themselves.
Mariia, however, didn’t get in. She didn’t have enough points. Or maybe enough money. Who knows. People say all sorts of things. Anyway, no one was going to pay.
“Yura, with these points they’re offering me a place at nursing school. I’d become a nurse. What do you think?”
“Go for it, Mariika! It’ll do for now, and you can finish college later! Only it’s in another town...”
“Yes. And getting there is awkward.”
“It’s still better than losing a year! Say yes, and we’ll see!”
And so they did.
To be continued…