“Thank you,” Zina said slowly, and her eyes smiled at Artyom with a special, unfamiliar smile. “I’ll call you Artemon sometimes. But only rarely, so you don’t get used to it quickly.”

And she moved away like nothing had happened. Nothing changed in her or in the others, but Artyom was suddenly struck by a storm of unprecedented energy. He sang louder and more assiduously than anyone, he started up the old gramophone that Pashka Ostapchuk brought, he even attempted to dance - but not with Zina, no! - with Iskra, stepped all over her feet and abandoned this enterprise.

His mom watched him and smiled the way all moms smile when they discover something new in their children, something unexpected and a little adult. And when everyone had left and Artyom was helping her clear the table, she said,
“You have very nice friends, my boy. You have wonderful friends, but do you know whom I liked most? I liked Zinochka Kovalenko most of all. I think she is a very nice girl.”

“Really, mom?” Artyom blossomed with joy.

And that was the best present Artyom got for his birthday. His mom knew what to give him.

But that was later that night, after the black Emka drove Vika home and everyone else merrily went off to take the streetcar. They sang loudly in the empty train, and when someone needed to get off, instead of “goodbye”, the one leaving would for some reason yell:

“Fizcult-hello!”

And everyone else would respond:

“Hello! Hello! Hello!”

But that too was later, and first they danced. Or rather, the only ones who danced were Lena and Pashka, and Zinochka and Iskra. The rest were too shy to dance, and Vika said, “I only dance waltz and cross-step waltz.”

There was something missing - maybe dancers, maybe records - and they soon abandoned dancing and started reading poetry. Iskra read her beloved Bagritsky, Lena read Pushkin, Zinochka read Svetlov, and even Artyom with some effort called to mind four lines from a school assignment.

Vika skipped her turn, but when everyone was finished, she took out of her handbag - she had a real lady’s handbag from Paris - a thin, battered book.

“I will read three of my favorite poems by one nearly forgotten poet.”

“Forgotten means unwanted,” Zhorka tried to joke.

“You’re an idiot,” said Vika. “He’s forgotten for completely different reasons.”

She came out into the middle of the room, opened the book, looked around sternly, and softly began:

Give me your paw, Jim, for good luck.
I’ve never seen such paws – not ever.

“That’s Yesenin,” said Iskra when Vika fell silent. “He is a defeatist poet. He sings of taverns, melancholy, and despondency.”

Vika gave a little silent laugh, and Zinochka threw up her hands. “These poems are amazing and that’s that. A-ma-zing!”

Iskra did not respond, because she had liked the poems very much, and could not argue. And did not want to. She knew for certain that this poetry was defeatist, because she had heard this from her mom, but she could not understand how such poetry could be defeatist. There was discord between knowledge and understanding, and Iskra was trying her best to figure out her own self.

“Did you like the poems?” she whispered to Sashka.

“I’m no good at this kind of thing, but the poems are grand. There were those lines… No, I don’t remember, it’s a pity.”

“Shaganeh, my divine Shaganeh…” Iskra repeated thoughtfully.

“Shaganeh, my divine Shaganeh…” sighed Sashka.

Vika had heard the conversation. She came up to Iskra and asked abruptly, “Are you intelligent, Iskra?”

“I don’t know.” Iskra was taken aback. “Not an idiot, at least.”

“No, you’re not an idiot,” Vika smiled. “I never lend anyone this book, because it’s dad’s, but I’ll give it to you. Just make sure to read it slowly.”

“Thank you, Vika.” Iskra smiled back at her, perhaps for the first time ever. “I’ll deliver it back into your own hands.”

Outside, a car horn barked twice, and Vika began to say her farewells. And Iskra carefully pressed to her chest the well-read collection of poems by the defeatist poet Sergei Yesenin.