Several years passed, but he didn’t advance beyond the Beatles. On the other hand, he knew their music by heart, each of them separately and all of them together. Yet, the further music was from that of his idols, the less interesting it was to Yurik. Every one of their records, every recording that came his way, was a major event in his life. They became his only teachers, and over the course of several years, he wouldn’t accept any other kind of music but this universal language of youth, to which Nora was by then nearly allergic. She tried introducing him to some other kind of music: she took him to the conservatory, to the opera, she acquainted him with Arsenal. Alexei Kozlov, Arsenal’s band leader, himself a devoted Beatles fan, made some impression on Yurik. All the musical vibrations that reached his ears fell into two categories: “them” or “not them.” Tengiz, who dropped in from time to time, was a good interlocutor, because he also loved the Liverpool four, and always brought Yurik some “new old” record.
“You can’t make a profession of Beatlemania!” Nora objected. But Tengiz just winked at Yurik, shrugging his shoulders. Then he shook his head and replied: “Why not? You can drive a taxi, can’t you? Become a plumber? Or a policeman? But not a Beatlemaniac? Why, Nora? Why can’t the boy be a Beatlemaniac?” He continued: “Nora, it’s very amusing, but, for Lennon, Elvis Presley was a god. Rock and roll was his universe. It was as though nothing existed before Elvis. Culture is by its very nature a mass of citations; we have many of them at our disposal, but for him the world was born out of a single quotation.” Then he laughed and said, “We know too much.”
Yurik had no interest in school whatsoever. His grades were low, and he got by from grade to grade only with Nora’s prodding and assistance. But this didn’t bother him in the least. He didn’t find it especially irksome to have to sit in lessons all day, since he could drift off into his musical dreamworld during geometry or chemistry classes. Though he had no close friends and was completely indifferent to his classmates personally, or to what they thought of him, he was almost popular in school—with both boys and girls alike. Even the teachers, who considered him to be a lazy underachiever, were kindly disposed toward him. He was good-natured, open and unassuming, and physically appealing, with his bright face, curly hair, and average height. Even his slightly protruding incisors were attractive, giving him the expression of a cute, furry little animal.
From the moment the guitar came into his life, almost all his innocently wise questions and riddles, which had once thrilled Nora, ceased. When he was eight years old, he had told Nora, his spoon frozen in midair between plate and mouth, “Mama, life is like a chink between the skin and the spirit.” Another time, brushing his teeth, his mouth still full of both toothbrush and toothpaste, he had said, “Nora! I know! Life is the space between hell and heaven.” Nora would swell with pride, but she didn’t let it show, saying instead, “Great. Now if only you could learn to wipe your own bottom…” To which he answered, “Mama, you can see yourself where my bottom is. It’s hard to reach back there.” Eventually, however, he did learn to cope with the task.
Only a few years had passed, but now music seemed to have unburdened him of existential angst about eternity, time, freedom, God, and other abstract conundrums. He “played them out” on the guitar, with the help of the Beatles. He played with abandon, and rather awkwardly, with a vaguely beatific smile on his face, the corners of his mouth drawn slightly upward. Nora saw all of this and despaired: yet another artistically inclined person in the family, without an iota of talent. And the boy had reached the age when he should be deciding on a direction in life.
Nora recalled Vitya at that age—his complete absorption in mathematics, and a corresponding absence of interest in anything else. She was glad that Yurik got along with his classmates. His Beatle-inspired strumming made him a center of gravity for all the adolescent cliques and groups, and his less-than-stellar academic record didn’t jeopardize his reputation at all. In the general ambience at school, A students were not exactly sought after: an athlete, a musician, or a hooligan was far more attractive. This reverse stigmatization of social outcasts meant that being one of the good students carried less prestige than passing as a hooligan.
The times when Yurik read voraciously, and went to the theater and to museums with Nora, had ended on the day when Tengiz brought the guitar over. The guitar steadily increased his popularity among the school marginals, and from that moment on he abandoned the company of “well-brought-up children” for many years to come. Nora understood this perfectly. She couldn’t object, either: during her school years, she, too, had been drawn away from the “good girls.”
In the beginning of December, at the birthday party of Sergei the Cyclops, one of Yurik’s “hooligan” classmates, he received an unexpected party favor—an army firecracker in a cardboard sheath. Sergei, who had flunked a year, had been very solicitous toward Yurik, even protective, warning him that although the firecracker was only for training purposes, it could explode like the best of them.
The firecracker lay in the desk drawer for several days, and Yurik’s hands were itching to set it off. On the first evening he was alone at home, he took the firecracker out of the drawer and to the kitchen. Then he lit the end of the tantalizing, twisted fuse, about six inches long, which dangled from the cardboard tube. It caught fire eagerly, then burned with a cheerful confidence, showing no intention of going out. When only about an inch of the fuse remained before it reached the smoldering kernel inside the capsule, Yurik began to feel uneasy, and decided to end his experiment. He turned on the faucet and tried to douse the burning string with a gush of water. It turned out that the fire was of some unique kind that water couldn’t extinguish. He rushed around the kitchen, and wanted to throw it out the window, but the old window was stuck fast and wouldn’t open. Now the fuse was very short, and Yurik made a dash for the bathroom, where he planned to throw it down the toilet. But he never made it. The firecracker exploded with such force that the whole kitchen shook, and the glass pane in the window, standing its ground till the bitter end, blew out. The bang was glorious.
My hand blew off, Yurik thought mournfully, his eyes shut, and froze, for some reason expecting another explosion. But there wasn’t one. He opened his eyes. It was dark and smoky; it stank of war. His hand was right where it was supposed to be; but in the triangle between his thumb and his index finger a fiery wound gaped, a piece of flesh indistinguishable from the meat sold in stores: red, streaked with white …
“No, not the left hand!” Yurik shrieked. “Not the left hand!”
Goodbye, guitar! It was not at all painful, but it would have been better to have his head blown off. He howled and raced around the apartment, waving his bloody hand and spattering the walls, the floor, even the ceiling, with fresh bright-red droplets.
He ran around in circles, deafened and crazed, unable to hear the wild knocking on the door—the neighbors from across the landing. But he rushed over to the door of his own accord, goaded by fear for this unfortunate left hand, without which what kind of guitarist could he be? When he unlocked the door, he saw three neighbor ladies and an old man. Yurik kept crying, “My left hand, my left hand!” and they gaped at him silently, moving their mouths and not making any sounds. There was a whistling in his ears, and a metallic taste in his mouth. He was experiencing a post-concussion syndrome. The most adroit of the neighbors ran to call the ambulance, but the most intelligent wrapped his hand in a towel, looking for his hat, and at the same time commanding her husband to run downstairs on the double to start the car. Then they drove to the hospital.