“What scum!” Father mumbled, pressing the towel to the wound.
“Mama!” Emma’s happy voice sounded in the kitchen. “Mama, we watched ‘Fantomas’!”
I rushed to the kitchen. Mama was sitting on a chair near the table, hugging Emma, who clung to her, with one hand, and the kafkir, the large flat spatula with another. A bright red spot had spread on it.
Mama’s face looked terrible. I didn’t want to look at it, but I couldn’t help it. Her left cheek was swollen, there was a dark crimson spot around her swollen eye, dried out blood on her lips, her hair disheveled. I rushed to her and hugged her, burying my face in her shoulder. She was mumbling, “It’s all right, son, it’s all right… Now he knows that I can do it too… Just let him try again… It’s all right, son. We’ll go visit Grandpa tomorrow.”
Chapter 37. Little Musicians and GooPoo
It may sound strange, but, when I was a child, I perceived the school as a living creature. I mean the school building itself. For example, I imagined very clearly what happened to it on the first day of the school year. I imagined that the school was at last awakened, like Sleeping Beauty, by hundreds of princes and princesses with ringing voices, after a very long hibernation, after many months of sullen, sultry, dusty stillness.
That stillness was broken suddenly. The bell was the first to end it. It continued ringing as the long corridors filled with the clomping of feet, as the thin walls began to shake with laughter and shouting, as the staircases hummed like a prairie under the hooves of bison running to a watering hole. It seemed that the glass in the windows glistening in the sunlight couldn’t wait to be shattered by a ball so that its tinkling would join in the general merriment.
That was inside the school building. And what about the outside? No, it wasn’t accidental, it certainly wasn’t, that the height of autumn coincided with the end of summer vacation. Autumn itself congratulated us on the first day of school, spreading its multi-colored carpet in front of the school building and turning the leaves fiery, clearly reminding us of the many pleasures awaiting us outside the school.
And we never forgot about them. No matter how the school enjoyed our lively return, no matter how eager our teachers were to stuff our heads with the subtleties of knowledge, the school yard was much more attractive.
Vzh-zh-zh! Vzh-zh-zh! Vzh-zh-zh was heard above the school’s round flowerbed.
A long recess. There were dozens of children around the flowerbed in the schoolyard. It was as quiet there as in a classroom in which the strictest teacher made sure no one talked. In fact, there was a kind of hunt underway near the flowerbed, and it required complete quiet.
“Little musicians” were being hunted. That’s what we called the small bumblebees. They were the same size as wasps, but hairy, and “dressed” in smart vests. There were very many of them. They circled above the yellow honeysuckle flowers, unhurriedly choosing a landing place to settle down on a pistil and get to the business of collecting nectar. There were many other insects, including big heavy bumblebees and wasps, feasting on the flowerbed. But we hunted only the little musicians. They were merry, energetic, swift and noisy. It honestly seemed to me that we and they were close relatives. It was sufficient to listen to their ringing buzz to feel that kinship. The little musicians’ melody was as clear and piercing as a child’s voice. They changed frequencies effortlessly, and that created the variety of sounds. In a word, the little musicians were our favorites. And we, naturally, had no doubt that they flew to the schoolyard especially for our pleasure.
“It’s about to alight,” I whispered.
I held a paper trap in my hands. It was a sheet of notebook paper cleverly folded to mimic the wide-open beak of a hungry baby bird that would shut tight the second its mother put a beetle in it.
Making and scrutinizing this paper trap was just one of the many technical innovations with which we boys began each school year. Practically all of us could share a story about something new we had learned over the summer when we returned to school from vacation. This new knowledge included new types of paper airplanes, boomerangs, crackers, soldiers’ caps and those very traps, one of which I was holding in my hands now. We improved some things and developed others. Parents could only throw up their hands – how could it be that a thick composition notebook recently bought was used up? They calmed down after hearing that many drafts had to be written and many clean copies made. They calmed down and were even satisfied with their sons’ diligence.
Their sons were quite diligent but in a different field of endeavor, so to speak. But was that so bad?
“It’s about to alight,” I whispered, attempting to breathe quietly.
Zhenya Andreyev, a friend from my class, and I froze near the flowerbed. A little musician, the one closest to us, glided above a yellow flower, either scrutinizing it, simply enjoying flying, or fulfilling a special bumblebee ritual. Zhenya and I didn’t just watch it, we felt as if we were gliding along with the little musician. We didn’t see or hear anything but this small creature whose buzzing sounds were close to our ears, and whose wings flapped so fast that only dull blurry spots could be seen on the sides of its little yellow vest.
Vzh-zh-zh-z… The flower quivered slightly, then began to sway… It had landed. The little musician closed its wings, extended its tiny tongue and directed it to the spot where the tastiest, sweet nectar awaited it. I opened the trap, my shoulders tensed, my muscles… Bang! It was done. It was caught. Oh, what a happy moment that was!
Yes, that’s what we were about – the ardor of the hunt was so exhilarating that every catch seemed like the first one, every bit of good luck called forth exultation.
The white “walls” of the trap vibrated in my hands. The little musician now beat against them, now buzzed. It buzzed excitedly, very loudly and clearly.
“Wow! Listen to it!” Zhenya laughed.
We brought our ears close to the trap to enjoy the concert. Now, we could brag about our luck and let other boys listen to how our little musician was singing and listen to the way their captives were doing it.
Some hunters, those who were more adroit, managed to catch two, even three bumblebees in one trap. They had a whole orchestra playing inside it. Everybody came running to listen to such a concert.
“Spit on your hand and rub it. You could also put plantain on it,” we advised Vitya Shalgin.
In the heat of the hunt, he hadn’t noticed that a little musician had stung him. Now, he had a red blister on his neck. It hurt a lot and it itched terribly. Everyone in class would watch the hunter’s agony, and the teacher… We would be having history class, and our teacher…
The bell rang loudly. Was it time to go already? Recess had passed so fast. We set our prisoners free. The lively creatures immediately resumed their flight over the flowerbed as if nothing had happened and continued their occupation in a businesslike manner. They were luckier than we.
There were thirty students in class 5B, seventeen girls and thirteen boys. We had nothing against this ratio for we had already begun to appreciate female company. And we considered our girls very likeable. Notes were exchanged, paper airplanes flew back and forth, not to mention exchanges of glances, giggling and other displays of attention in class. It happened in almost all classes except history.
Deathly silence reigned in history class. All attention, everyone’s gaze was directed at the history teacher, and at him alone, in history class. If anyone tried to break the silence or became distracted, an F for behavior was inevitable. One could also be called to the blackboard, where something quite unpleasant could happen.