Vova’s cheek, nose, and upper lip, not just the spot where the snowball had hit him, but almost his whole face turned red and swollen. He didn’t groan or complain – that was not his nature – he just whispered very quietly, “Scoundrels.”
Now, we needed to find out who had played that mean trick.
It was clear that the snowball was thrown by a strong, skilled and experienced person. It couldn’t have been thrown by a child. We began to look around. The plotters didn’t even try to hide. A few guys roared with malicious laughter at the top of their lungs at the corner of the theater.
“Hey, you, show-off, how was the flop?” one of them yelled.
Just as we thought, the guys were much older than us; they were fifteen or sixteen years old. They were the kind people called “hippies,” with long greasy disheveled hair, dressed carelessly in unbuttoned jackets, shirts and bell-bottomed pants. That hippy style in clothes and behavior – familiarity, loud laughter, shouts coming from portable tape recorders in public places – had become very fashionable and was very persistent, despite the countermeasures taken by Party organizations, parents, school authorities and the mass media. Our group had not yet reached the hippy age, and we had a different mentality.
All of them were smoking, their hands in their pockets, and quite full of themselves in general. They weren’t from our neighborhood. We could see that right away. Guys from our neighborhood knew who not to mess with – Oparin, for example…
We grew timid as we saw our opponents. It would be dangerous to get involved with them. But Vova headed decisively toward the group, and we had no choice but to follow him.
Oparin walked as if he were on his way to a fight – he swaggered, his legs bowed like those of a horseman, and spread and raised his arms. He approached the guys and stood looking at them without saying a word. They looked as if they were ready to fight… And suddenly he said, almost merrily:
“You’ve got sharp eyes. Well done!”
“Prac-tice,” a guy wearing a cap with a big visor, who had thrown the ball, answered, after a pause. It was obvious that he was surprised by Vova’s friendliness.
And Oparin continued as if nothing had happened.
“Yes, you have no problem with moving targets. What are your results at a shooting gallery?”
“You should come see if you want to know.”
“Let’s do it. I’m Vova. And you?” Oparin held out his hand.
“Do you also want my address?” the guy chuckled scornfully, not holding out his hand.
Oparin swallowed the insult.
A mobile shooting gallery without wheels had been near the movie theater for two years. They agreed that the guy with the cap would compete with Oparin. Whoever lost would pay for shooting sessions for the winner’s group. We pushed, elbowing each other– we knew what Vova had in mind. How could we possibly not guess – Vova was famous for being a good shot in our school and all over the area.
“Do you have money?” Uncle Semyon, the shooting gallery attendant, asked without raising his head – he was reading a newspaper. We liked him. He was strict but kind, and he willingly played with us.
“I’ll pay for ten shots,” Big Visor said.
Oparin also put down his money.
There were five rifles on the metal counter. They were air rifles. You had to fold back the barrel and insert a small cartridge with a blunt end. Big Visor loaded a rifle, and Uncle Semyon set the targets going.
The forest clearing came to life: the door of the log hut opened, the woodcutter began to move his axe, hares and bears began flashing among the shrubs, the woodpecker began pecking… Big Visor aimed, the rifle “snorted,” and the woodpecker fell down… We exchanged alarmed glances – on the first shot… The satisfied guy reloaded the rifle and aimed at the woodcutter. A shot rang out, but the woodcutter kept moving his axe. Another shot, but the axe was still cutting.
“Sergey, don’t shoot without stopping. Stand still, then shoot,” a guy in a navy-blue sweater advised. Sergey mumbled something angrily and picked up another rifle. When he had taken ten shots, he had hit targets four times but hadn’t shot down a single moving target.
“Some shooting gallery,” he muttered contemptuously. “The rifles look like they were picked up at the dump. You should see the one we have in Troyitsky.”
Uncle Semyon was a very self-assured person.
“Do you know what a bad ballet dancer always complains about?” he asked calmly.
Our opponents’ mood turned bad. They only hoped that Vova, who was younger and had an injured face, would score fewer hits.
Oparin approached the counter, loaded all the rifles and pressed his elbow against the counter. He took time to aim… In a word, there was nothing new to say about it. He shot down all the targets one after another. He shot hares, bears, took the woodcutter’s life, and didn’t spare the lives of the birds.
We celebrated. We knew perfectly well how Vova Oparin could shoot, but to watch him, with the disgraced opponents around, was a true triumph. They didn’t expect anything like that, though they might have given it a thought when Oparin, knocked down by them, invited them in a friendly manner to visit the shooting gallery.
“Well, Sergey from Troyitsky, it’s time to pay,” Vova said amicably.
“Go to …” Big Visor began to say, but Uncle Semyon took a step in his direction. Sergey tossed a few coins on the counter and motioned to his friends, “Let’s get out of here.”
On the way home, we had an animated discussion of what had happened. Only Vova was silent as he applied snow to his swollen cheek.
Vova Oparin was an officer’s son, and his brother attended the tank school. They didn’t forgive undeserved insults in such families. But what would the retribution be?
We found out a few days later. Someone from our class heard about what had happened from his friend who attended the school in Troyitsky. We also managed to get something out of Vova.
The operation was planned out down to the smallest detail. First, either Vova’s brother, a cadet, or one of his friends, went to Troyitsky. He found the school, as well as the corner where the school smokers usually convened. Vova, his brother and a couple of his classmates, robust cadets, went to Troyitsky on the designated day. They waited for the long recess when Sergey and his hippie pals came out. They approached them, first without Vova, asked for a smoke and chatted with them. And then young Oparin showed up.
“Do you recognize me?”
Observing the rules of honor, they didn’t start a big brawl. Sergey was the only one whose mug was smashed. Judging by everything, it was Vova who did it, the rest of them playing the role of jury. The jury was so authoritative that none of Sergey’s friends even moved an inch.
We also heard that Sergey, Big Visor, had apologized to Vova Oparin loudly in front of everyone. That was an integral part of Operation Retribution.
That guy never showed his face in our neighborhood again.
Chapter 44. “Dev Borin”
I woke up from a slight touch. It was Grandpa, who had just gotten up, covering me with the blanket up to my chin. Only he could adjust the heavy padded blanket with such ease. Oh, how warm and cozy it was under it in the predawn chill of this winter morning, especially on the side of the bed that retained Grandpa’s heat.
It wasn’t bad at all to sleep in the same bed with Grandpa, particularly in winter. When I was the first to get into bed, it would be cold, even somewhat damp. Shaking, I curled up into a ball, closed my eyes, trying to get warm, and thought, “I wish he would get into bed sooner. What is he dawdling over?” At last, the bed shook slightly – aha, Grandpa had sat on it. The bed began to rock – he got into it. And from that second on, blissful warmth began to envelop me as if it were coming from a well-heated stove, the only difference being that a stove cools off, and Grandpa never did. My body absorbed that warmth, relaxed, became soft and light… How great it felt!