The Rascally Romance (in a single helluva-long letter about a flicking-short life)
Шрифт:
We looked for the cartridges in the sand underfoot. They were of two types – longish, neck-narrowed, cartridges from the AK assault-rifle, and small even cylinders from the TT pistol. The finds were loudly welcomed and busily exchanged between the boys. I had no luck at all and only envied the luckier seekers whose shrieks sounded flat and suppressed by the eerie silence of the shooting range displeased with our trespassing the forbidden grounds…
Beside the excavated hollow, the glade was cut across by a front-line trench whose sandy walls were kept in place by board shields. A narrow track of iron rails ran from one end of the opening to the other passing, on the way, the trench over. It was the railway for a large mock-up tank of plywood mounted upon its trolley which rumbled along the track when pulled by the cable of a hand-pedaled winch.
The boys started to play with all those things. I also sat in the trench once, while the plywood tank clanged overhead, and then I went to the call from the edge of the field where they needed my help.
We pulled at the steel cable looped thru the horizontal pulley to make it easier for the boys on the other end of the battlefield to turn the crank of the winch which set in motion the trolley with the tank. At some point, I got inattentive and failed to draw my hand off in time, the cable was quick to snatch and drag my pinky finger into the pulley groove. The pain in the squeezed finger made me rend surroundings by a shrill scream mixed with a jet of tears. Hearing my “oy-oy-oy!” as well as the shouts of other boys around me, “Stop! Finger!”, the winch operators managed to stop it when there remained a mere couple of centimeters for my finger to pass the pulley wheel turn and get out. They wound the winch crank in the opposite direction, dragging the poor finger backward all the way to where it was originally swallowed by the device.
The unnaturally flattened, dead pale finger smeared with the blood from the ripped skin, emerged from the pulley jaws and puffed up instantly. The boys wrapped it with my handkerchief and told me to run home. Quick! And I ran thru the forest feeling the painful beat of the pulse in the burning finger…
At home, Mom, without asking anything, at once told me to shove the wounded under the gush of water from the kitchen tap. She bent and straightened it several times and ordered not to bellow like a little cow. Then she bandaged it into a tight white cocoon and promised that by the wedding day it would be like new.
(…and, in the same breathe, childhood is not the nursery of sadomasochism, like, “Whoops, my finger got pinched! Oh, I bumped my head!” It’s just that some jolts leave deeper notches in the memory.
Yet, what a pity that the same memory does not retain the admiring state of ongoing discoveries when a speck of sand stuck to a penknife's blade holds countless galaxies and worlds, when any trifle, a scrap of trash, is the promise and pledge of future wanderings and unbelievable adventures.
We grow up gaining the protective armor necessary in the adult world—the doctor's smock on me, the traffic cop's uniform on you. Each of us becomes a necessary cog within the social machine. All needless things—like gaping at fire extinguishers or scanning the strange faces in the frost gripped windowpane—are chopped off…
Now there is a number of old scars on my fingers. This one from an awkwardly wielded knife, here a deep cut by ax, and only on my pinky fingers I cannot find any trace from that pulley injury. Because "body dissolves"…
But, hey! I know much fresher bywords, like that recent one: “summer is a miniature life”…)
When you are a child not only summer but each and every day is a miniature life. The childhood time is slowed down – it does not fly, it does not flow, it does not even move until you push it on. Poor kids would long since got extinct while crossing that boundless desert of the static time, were they not rescued by playing games.
And in that summer, if I got bored with a game or no one was in the Courtyard to play with, I had already a haven, a kinda “home” square in the game of Classlets. The big sofa it was, where life ran high indeed, the life full of adventures shared by the heroes from books by Gaidar, Belyaev, Jules Verne… And even outside the big sofa, you can always find a place suitable for all kinds of adventures. Like that balcony by the parents’ room, where I once spent a whole summer day reading a book about prehistoric people – Chung and Poma.
There was hair all over their bodies, like by animals, and they lived in the trees. But then a branch accidentally broke off a tree and helped to defend themselves against a saber-tooth tiger, so they started to always carry a stick about them and walk instead of leaping in the trees around. Then there happened a big jungle fire followed by the Ice Age. Their tribe wandered in search of food, learning how to build fire and talk to each other.
In the final chapter, the already old Poma could walk no farther and fell behind the tribe. Her faithful Chung stayed by her side to freeze to death together in the snow. But their children could not wait and just went on because they were already grown up and not so hairy as their parents, and they protected themselves from the cold with the skins of other animals…
The book was not especially thick, yet I read it all day long, while the sun, arisen on the left, from behind the forest outside our Block, was crossing in its indiscernible movement the sky over the Courtyard, towards the sunset on the right, behind the second block.
At some point, in a way of respite from the uninterrupted reading, I slipped out between the iron uprights of the handrail that bounded the balcony and started to promenade outside, along the concrete cornice beyond the safety grating, and it was not scary at all because I tightly grasped the bars, just like Chung and Poma when they were still living in the trees. But some unfamiliar unclie was passing down there that yelled at me and told to get back onto the balcony. He even threatened to inform my parents. However, they were not home so he took his complaint to our neighbors on the first floor. In the evening they told on me to Mom, and I had to promise her to never-never do it again…
~ ~ ~
(…every road, when you pass it for the first time, seems endlessly long because you cannot measure yet the past part of it against what is still ahead. When passing the same road again and again, it obviously shortens.
That keeps true with the school academic year as well. But I’d never discover it had I left the race at the beginning of the second year at school…)
It was a clear autumn day and our class left school going on the excursion to collect fallen leaves. Instead of Seraphima Sergeevna, who was absent that day, we were supervised by the School Pioneer Leader.
First, she led us thru the forest, then down the street towards the Detachment Library which we didn’t reach but turned into a short lane between the wooden houses that ended atop a steep slope bridged by two wide flights of timber steps in a pretty long and steep slant down to a real football field encircled by a wide cinder path.
Walking the flights, we descended to the large board-floor landing to both sides from which, there ran half-dozen bleachers made of lumber beams. No bleachers were seen on the field’s opposite side but a lonely white hut and a tall picture-stand of 2 footballers motionless forever at the zenith in their high jump fixed at the moment of strenuous scramble in the air by their feet for the ball.