No one moved. My back strained, and my legs twitched slightly, but the “law of the pack” that kept others on their seats, held me in place. We had to procrastinate as long as we could.
The long recess. How well it had begun when Zhenya Andreyev and I ran out into the school yard.
It was late autumn. There were neither flowers nor little musicians in the yard. The wind blew along the paths, arranging the rustling yellow-red leaves into piles. Then it swirled and swirled them, as if in an endless dance, carrying them from one end of the yard to the other.
Yes, the weather had turned bad, but we didn’t complain. High school students even preferred inclement weather, of course, with the exception of torrential rain. When the weather was bad, they could hang around behind the school without being bothered – not a single teacher would venture into that part of the school during recess.
Comparing a long recess with a time-out between the two halves of a hard and tense game, one could imagine the teachers putting their heads together, discussing the next tactics they would use to counter the intrigues of their disobedient, lackadaisical students.
Teachers were the last thing those very lackadaisical students cared about now. It was their time to relax. That’s why they had to hide in a secluded corner behind the school.
Bychok means “cigarette butt.” One could often pick them up in places where men would get together, say, at a beer stand. Sometimes, kids would steal them, or even whole cigarettes, from their fathers. Quite a few bychoks could be found behind the school, where high school students in the upper grades smoked their own cigarettes during recess.
Today, the smokers had great luck. A day before, there had been a volleyball game between our team and one from a neighboring school in our school’s sports hall. After the game was over, the players had smoked to their hearts’ content outside. That was clear from the number of cigarette butts. On top of that, the choice was better than at any cigarette kiosk. Not only were there Prima, Belomorcanal, and the local Golubeye Cupola (Blue Cupolas) cigarette butts without filters, but even foreign made BT butts on the ground. It was clear that there were some well-off guys among the players.
I avoided the gatherings behind the school because I didn’t smoke, and I didn’t feel I belonged there. Zhenya was a different story; he did whatever he wanted. On our way to the pavilion, we had to pass the bychkovists, and suddenly Zhenya stopped.
“Wait. We should ask Petya whether he’ll bring a ball tomorrow.”
Petya Bogatov, our classmate, an excellent soccer player and the owner of a real soccer ball, was also a smoker. Apart from him, three of our other classmates – Bulgakov, Zhiltsov and Timershayev – were there, hanging out with the seniors.
While Zhenya and Petya talked about the ball we needed for the next day’s game, some boys picked up bychoks and were getting ready to enjoy them.
I stood near Sergey Bulgakov and watched him wrap a piece of thin wire covered in blue insulation tape around a cigarette butt accurately and skillfully. It was a necessary precaution; otherwise his fingers would smell of tobacco. Everybody did it.
Then Bulgakov struck a match, but he didn’t begin to smoke. First, he held the flame against the filter. Heaven knows who had smoked that cigarette. And only after that did Sergey half-close his eyes and pull at the cigarette butt. The way he stylishly held his cigarette butt on the wire handle was a sight to see.
Everyone was already smoking, some of them leaning against the wall, others either squatting or walking back and forth, joining small groups involved in lively conversations.
Our classmate, Vitya Shalgin, approached one of the groups. Timur Timershayev immediately took a step in his direction. He threw out the unfinished cigarette butt, moved closer to Vitya and said:
“Haven’t I told you to stay away from Irena?”
His voice was so hoarse and low that it seemed to me the smoke was pouring out of his mouth from rage, not because he had smoked.
Vitya mumbled something in response. I couldn’t hear it even though I was standing nearby. But Timur, obviously, didn’t care about his reply. He drew his arm back and punched Vitya in the face. It was a very hard blow, for blood gushed from his shattered mouth. Vitya cried out, staggered and crouched.
Timur was generally a quiet guy. I don’t remember him ever losing his temper. He never attacked anyone, even though he was very strong. But, all of a sudden, he did.
It grew noisy. A few boys dashed to Timur, who was still standing over Vitya, his stance threatening, to pull him away. Timur tried to break away, yelling:
“Get out of here! Just let him try to walk her home again!”
After pushing the boys back, Vasily Lumis, also our classmate, went over to Timur. I hadn’t noticed him appear, but it was good that he had.
Vasily Lumis was Greek, so perhaps he had inherited strength, decisiveness and fairness from his ancient ancestors, from some Hercules. Vasily took Timur by the head in his ample hand, folded his other into a fist, shook it in front of Timur’s face and said:
“You either be quiet or I’ll knock off your schnozz.”
“Schnozz,” or nose, was the favorite word of our school Hercules.
Timershayev calmed down right away. He knew, as did everyone else, that Vasily never repeated anything twice.
Now, everybody surrounded Shalgin. He was still sitting, very pale, blood dripping from his injured mouth.
“His whole lip is split. The wound’s very deep,” the boys were saying. “Are his teeth intact? We should take him to the teachers’ room, quick!”
Taking Vitya to the teachers’ room would mean confessing that we had been behind the school and witnessed the brawl, in other words, being subjected to interrogation. Helping him would mean revealing oneself, and others. “Can you get there by yourself?”
Shalgin nodded and, holding his head up, trudged along to the teachers’ room. At that moment, the bell rang, and we ran to our class.
That was what had happened before class. That was why Flura Merziyevna was late and entered the classroom with such a sad face. It was clear from her first words that Vitya Shalgin had “fessed up.”
Everyone who had been behind the school hoped in vain for a miracle. After not obtaining any confessions from us, Flura Merziyevna sighed again and began calling names. Timershayev was first. He stood up, clattering the seat of his desk. He looked gloomy, and it seemed he was about to repeat, “Just let him try it again!”
Irena Umerova, the culprit in this scandal, primped like a queen. She sat, tossing her white bows about, obviously happy and proud that the boys had fought over her. The rest of the girls stole envious glances at Irena. Just imagine – she was the first girl in our otherwise friendly class to have been the cause of a fight. Ah, girls, girls…
We plodded along in single file to the teachers’ room on the second floor. “Handling room-meddling room,” that’s what we called those unpleasant premises, because we were summoned there for only one reason – to be nagged at, set straight and the like. We had many graphic expressions for the subject, and we were about to experience them all.
The white gowns of ambulance attendants could be seen in the far corner of the teachers’ room. Vitya’s bandaged head was visible among them. He was to be taken to the hospital for stitches. Now, hardly anyone felt sorry for Vitya – he had betrayed us.
Inna Nazarovna Bass, the academic director, was at her desk near the window. She was the one we couldn’t stand. It was she who summoned us to the teachers’ room to set us straight more often than anyone else. And she would set us straight so hard that we thought she should have been a jailer rather than the academic director. Even her appearance evoked our loathing. Her small black curls protruded over her forehead like a bed of cauliflower turned black. She used her long, manicured nails to pick at her teeth, and she would scratch her calves, sticking her hands into the top of her smart black boots. Inna Nazarovna thought she was irresistible, and she dressed as stylishly as her means and understanding of what chic was permitted.