Artyom had spent the summer doing odd jobs: digging ditches for plumbing, laying pipes, helping mechanics. He did not shy away from any kind of work, equally happily ran along to fetch a wrench and a pack of “Belomor”, held down whatever he was told to, hammered at whatever he was supposed to, but did not violate his principles. From square one, he let the team know:
“I… er… don’t smoke. Yeah. Don’t even offer.”
“Sports. Er. Track and field.”
Artyom did not speak well, and was morosely embarrassed about it. He was painfully short of words, and the helpful word “er” appeared in his speech more often than any others. Something was odd there, because Artyom swallowed down a great number of books and wrote essays that were no worse than anyone else’s, and yet oral exams always gave him trouble. Which was why, from fourth grade on, Artyom loved the exact sciences with devotion and fiercely hated all those subjects where one needs to talk a lot. Every time teachers summoned him to the blackboard to answer questions caused a fit of hilarity in the classroom. The class clowns whispered the funniest hints they could, the pedants calculated how many times the word “er” made its appearance, and Artyom suffered, aching not only in his wounded pride but also physically in his stomach.
“How come everything’s fine when I’m talking to you?” he complained to Zhorka Landys, his best friend. “Nothing hurts, I don’t start sweating, I can talk about… that guy… Rakhmetov. And in class I just can’t.”
“Well, yeah, obviously. You’re dying up there at the board, and she’s just sitting there staring.”
But she existed. She had appeared at the end of fifth grade, when the sun was melting in the windows, when sparrows were screaming, and when Grigory Andreevich, the grim homeroom teacher who had a bad habit of calling in one’s parents for a talk on any pretext, brought a microscope to class.
Actually, she had existed before that. She had existed somewhere up front, in the horrid world of girls and straight-A students, and Artyom didn’t see her. Didn’t see her in an utterly natural fashion, as if his gaze passed straight through her braids and ribbons. And his life was good, and hers was too, probably.
Until late May of fifth grade. Until the day when Grig brought in a microscope and forgot the slides for it.
“No touching,” he said, and left.
And Artyom stayed at the board, because it was his turn on class duty and he hadn’t gotten permission to sit back down. Grig took his time, the class entertained itself as best it could, and soon, Vovik Hramov’s empty schoolbag began making flights from the “Kamchatka”, at the back of the class, to the board. Vovik did not protest, too engrossed in Burroughs’ Tarzan to care, and the bag got chucked all over the classroom, with Artyom catching it artistically and throwing it back. Until the moment when he fumbled a throw and hit the microscope with the bag.
Grig came in when the microscope crashed to the floor. The class froze. The “Kamchatka” bent down over their desks, the straight-A students cringed, and the rest of the population stretched out their necks with fearless curiosity. The pause was long; Grig picked up the microscope and inside it, something tinkled, like in an empty bottle.
If he had shouted, everything would have been simpler, but then Artyom would never have learned who she was. But Grig asked in that whisper that made the blood of fifth graders curl up into a cowardly ball in their veins.
That was the precise moment when Artyom understood that She was Zina Kovalenko. Understood all at once and for a lifetime. It was a great discovery, and Artyom kept it in sacred secrecy. It was something extraordinarily serious and joyful, but Artyom was in no hurry to cash in his joy, not today and not tomorrow and not in general in the foreseeable future. He knew now that this joy existed, and was firmly convinced that it would find him if he just waited patiently.
Artyom was the youngest: his two brothers already worked, and Rosa, the most beautiful and the most flighty, had that summer left the house. Artyom had been getting ready to go to work that day: he had just gotten hired to dig ditches and felt very important. His father and brothers had already gone to the factory, and his mother was feeding Artyom in the kitchen; Artyom, thinking he was alone with his mom, was whining:
“Mama, I don’t want butter with it. Mama, I want sugar.”
And then Rosa came in. Disheveled, sleepy, in a child’s bathrobe that had long been too small, exposing knees, elbows, and a piece of belly. She was only three years older than Artyom, and was studying at the construction technical school; she wore bangs and heels, and Artyom was slightly in love with the fiery combination of black hair, red lips, and white smiles. But now there weren’t any smiles, just sleepy shagginess.
“Rosa, where were you last night?” Mama asked softly. Rosa eloquently shrugged one of the shoulders that barely fit into the ancient bathrobe.
“Rosa, the boy is here, or I would ask in a different way,” Mama said again and sighed. “Your father slapped you on the cheeks one time, and I don’t believe you liked it.”
“Leave me alone!” Rosa yelled suddenly. “Enough, enough, and enough!”
Mama looked at her calmly and attentively, refilled the kettle, put it on the stove, and then looked again. Then she said:
“I put you on the potty and darned your stockings. Is it now impossible to tell me the whole truth?”
“I’m tired of it, that’s all!” Rosa declared, loudly, but quieter than before. “I love a guy, and he loves me, and we’re getting married. And if I need to walk out, I will walk out, but we’ll still marry, that’s that.”
That was how Artyom found out about the kind of love that makes you run away from home. This kind of love did not wear a ballgown but an old bathrobe, with hips, shoulders, and breasts that bulged out of it so that the robe was tearing at the seams. And Artyom had no doubts that this was love, because leaving home, leaving a father who was strict but so fair, and a mom who was the kindest and wisest mom possible, leaving such a home could only be possible because of insane love. He was proud that this love had found Rosa, and worried a little that it would pass him by.
Their father absolutely forbade even mentioning his daughter’s name in their house. He was stern, and never went back on his word, even when it was hastily spoken. Everyone tacitly agreed to the exile of the prodigal daughter, but a week later, when the adults had gone to work, Artyom’s mom said, carefully looking away:
“My boy, you will need to deceive your father.”
“It’s a great sin, but I will take it on my soul,” his mom sighed. “Tomorrow is Rosa’s wedding to Piotr, and it will be very painful for her if none of her family is near. Perhaps you can go over for half an hour, and we’ll say at home that you are watching some movie.”
“Which one?” asked Artyom.
His mom shrugged. She had been to the movies two times before getting married and only knew Vera Kholodnaya.
“Treasure Island!” declared Artyom. “I’ve seen it already and will be able to talk about it if Matvei asks.”
Matvei was only a little older than Artyom and condescended to ask him questions. The elder brother, Yakov, did not stoop to this, and called Artyom Shpendik.
“Shpendik, fetch the hammer! Don’t you see, a nail is sticking out of the kitchen table, Mama might get hurt.”
And their mom would say then, “I don’t need wealth, I only need good children.”
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