“Shall we go there?” I said.
“Let’s go. But why’s he limping?” suspicious Yasha asked.
“He must have jumped too much.”
We ran to the construction site. We couldn’t possibly miss seeing those amazing rolls. It was Sunday, and there were no workers or security there.
“Wow! Look at them… And there’re so many of them!” Yasha exclaimed, as we approached the site.
Indeed, pinkish-brown rolls of a material called fiberglass – we didn’t give a thought to why it was called that – were stacked by the wall and used for insulation. They looked soft and plump. Wasting no time, we climbed on top of them. Kirill hadn’t lied. The fiberglass was so springy that we were tossed up as if on trampoline every time we jumped. Yasha was having a great time. He jumped onto the stack from the window above it. Sometimes he managed to jump smoothly and stay on his feet, sometimes he was tossed so high that he landed on all fours with his hands buried in the fiberglass. That’s why he was probably the first to feel the trouble. Yasha began to scratch his hand after he jumped down off the stack, then he bent down to his legs. My legs also began to itch strangely, and my whole body was burning.
“Yasha, what’s wrong with us?”
“What? What?” Yasha answered, whining as he took off his sandals, “Kirill is such a swine. He lured us to the fiberglass deliberately. Remember he was limping? I’ll pay this skunk back,” and Yasha began brushing the invisible splinters of glass off his feet and legs.
I was gripped by panic. We had been jumping on wool with bits of real glass. “What if it’s penetrated our bodies?” I thought. The stinging sensation, especially on our legs, intensified. “We need to wash ourselves!” I yelled, and we rushed home.
Everything, of course, ended well. I don’t remember how Yasha paid Kirill back.
As for his math, Yasha didn’t pass the test again, and he had to repeat the fifth grade. So his sister’s prediction about laughter came true.
Chapter 36. We’ll Go Visit Grandpa Tomorrow
“Three, four, five…” I counted as I tossed the langa into the air with my foot. It flew up, then down, turning in the air, doing a somersault, and I had my foot ready for it.
You don’t know what a langa is? That’s strange. You should know that every boy had that wonderful thing when I was a child. A langa is a small piece of fur with a piece of lead attached to it. You toss it up with your foot and, before it can land, you toss it again. The game seems simple, but it requires adroitness and skill. It consists of thirteen rounds and, in each of them, the langa should be tossed up in a different way, the movements growing more complicated with each successive round, and it must fly up and land in a certain way, different from the previous one.
Every boy obtained a piece of fur for his langa any way he could. Some of them traded their friends something for it. Others bought a piece of old mutton skin at the bazaar. Yet others found well-worn fur-lined boots or a torn fur collar or hat around the house. It was even simpler to get a piece of lead since scraps of wires and pieces of metal lay around factory yards, garbage dumps and even on the streets of Chirchik, just as in any Soviet city. One only needed to shape the lead the proper way. That was the most interesting part.
A big group would get together to melt the lead. They would make a small fire and hold a can filled with small pieces of lead over it using tongs. The flame heated the can, and the lead gradually came to life. It began to tremble at the bottom of the can. First, it trembled only slightly, then faster and faster… And suddenly, a thin dull layer appeared under the lead. It would spread, turning into a puddle. Bending over the can, we watched pieces of lead melt like ice cubes. It was an extremely engrossing sight. You just wanted to watch and watch.
When the last piece melted, only a silvery puddle remained in the can. A shallow pit would have been prepared near the fire, a mold for a sinker. We poured the lead carefully and evenly into it. After just a few minutes it solidified. The sinker was ready. All we had to do then was make two small holes in it with a nail and attach it to a piece of fur. That’s how we made langas.
“…six, seven, eight…” I continued to count. As I got to nine, the damned lead ricocheted against my shoe at a sharp angle, hit the side of the navy-blue mailbox and fell to the cement floor of the landing.
I was out of the game until the next round.
It was drizzling outside. It was autumn, which was as beautiful in Chirchik as, perhaps, everywhere else. The crowns of the trees became bright, lush scarlet-yellow-brown bouquets. They shone against the blue sky and gave off light even on rainy days. The water in the ariks didn’t flow bubbling and twisting at the turns but streamed slowly, stopping at small temporary dams made for watering. Hot days were rare, and we all enjoyed the coolness. Children’s voices could be heard in yards from morning till night. On rainy days like today, we could have a good time playing or chattering on the staircase landings. We could play langa, for example.
Our usual group – Kolya and Sasha, Edem, Rustem, Vova Oparin and I were playing today. After I missed, it was Edem’s turn. Today, we were all using his langa.
When Edem played, it always seemed to me that he and his langa looked alike. It was made of black fur and had long, almost straight strands, just like Edem’s hair. He didn’t like short haircuts, and his hair was straight. His langa flew up and landed especially easily, elegantly and quickly. That’s how Edem moved. He couldn’t sit still; he was always in motion. The other boys’ langas were also like them.
Vova Oparin led the game. Vova was a very good player; he knew it and liked to show off a bit. Before he began, he smoothed the long shiny fur, then tossed the langa up with his hand.
“It’s a bit too light,” he informed us. “Not enough lead.”
That was debatable. Certainly, more lead made a langa heavier and stabler in the air. That required strong feet, but even they would get tired. A light langa was less manageable, but it was easier to aim it in a desired direction. However, no one argued with Oparin. He had already begun to toss the langa.
When Vova’s turn came, everyone knew he would be doing it for a long time. You couldn’t take your eyes off of him as he tossed it up. Toop-toop – he sent the langa up. As it flew up, it looked like a fluffy little animal that obeyed the player as if he were a tamer – it knew what height it should reach, at what angle it should fly. After reaching the ceiling, the langa descended directly onto his foot, bounced off it like an athlete on a trampoline, flew up again and, after turning upside down, rushed back down again.
Pok-pok! Vova’s feet beat the rhythm on the floor as he got ready for the next kick while the langa was up in the air.
Oparin always played with amazing ease. Many of us strained our bodies during the game with both hands up in the air to keep our balance. Oparin played in a relaxed manner, his bearing erect. Even when he tossed the langa up, he didn’t lean forward. When he played, he held his left hand behind his back, and his right hand, bent at the elbow, was pressed to his side. He tossed the langa up fast and precisely, and he never missed.
It sometimes seemed to me that Vova could play with his eyes closed, that his body knew and felt everything by itself. And it sometimes seemed that it was his eyes that guided the langa, sending it special signals, radiating something. Vova’s eyes were so glued to the flying langa, so concentrated that if he had bumped into a wall, he would have gone through it without even noticing.