The Rascally Romance (in a single helluva-long letter about a flicking-short life) - Сергей Николаевич Огольцов
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We went out for a midday meal in a nearby canteen, where I fell under the spell of Sveta Vasilenko, one of the chorus girls from School 12. Coming back to the Regional Palace of Culture, I walked by her vacant side like a dog on the lead because her other side was escorted by her lanky girlfriend holding her by the arm. My schoolmates, following closely behind, kicked up a hailstorm of stupid giggling and heying addressed to no one in particular, which did not sober me in the least.
During the final rehearsal, Sveta won me over to the hilt. From the compact line of young chorines in white blouses and strict black skirts, she kept casting at me flip glances of her black glittering eyes just to drop them modestly down, or direct at the ceiling above… In more than one book, I happened to read that beauties knew how to shoot with their glances, but never could I imagine that those shots could fell you on the spot.
After the rehearsal was over, there remained two hours of waiting before the gala concert, so I approached her and invited to the cinema. She was not sure about it and hesitated, even though her girlfriend, who turned out not so lanky, after all, but quite a nice individual, backed up my proposal persuading Sveta to go with me, and why not, eh? Our united efforts failed to overcome Sveta's uncertainty, however, I still managed to get her flat refusal and left carrying away my shot-thru heart.
I was at the doorsill of death all the way to the movie theater where I plunged into the magical world of the seventeenth century France, with Gerard Fillip and Gina Lollobrigida in the "Fanfan the Tulip". They reanimated me.
How was our performance at the gala concert? With my defective musical ear, I'm not the right guy for making judgments. However, when three guitars strum the same chords in unison, there's not a fat chance of guessing whose one is out of tune. The electrical tape on the Elman's maimed fingers remarkably softened down the dubbing of the double bass. Skully’s drum was not too acute because instead of sticks he used jazz drumming brushes. Valentina's accordion, rolling over her energetic body, kept covering all er-harmonic inaccuracies and chance falling out of key. I believe that, on the whole, all that sounded fresh, and torrid, and full of both youthful zeal and (most importantly!) eager patriotism.
After the concert, a bus from the KahPehVehRrZeh Plant, waiting for us by the Regional Palace of Culture, fully justified Eleonora Nikolayevna’s presence at the Review of Young Talents.
On the bus ride home, everyone was giving meaningful looks at both me and Sveta though we did not sit next to each other. The chorus girls kept singing all kinds of songs about the eyes that drive us mad, and "Sveta's shining, Sveta's dazzling…" substituting her name for "the moon" in the well-known folk song. Sveta was snapping back at them, but me all their hints left undisturbed, I just did not care.
The following day at school, Volodya Gourevitch kept stupidly cuckooing about our competitors from the School 12 CJR team having turned me into their agent, each repetition of the jest was concluded by his protracted laughter. And at a break between the classes, Tolik Sudak from our grade, for no reason whatsoever, started sharing in a group of guys that Sveta Vasilenko was a daughter to Head of Militia Station and once she came to school in a skirt with jism splotches.
If anyone allows themselves so offensive allusions about your beloved, you have to demand satisfaction at a duel. However, at PE classes Tolik stood the first in the line. He was a hefty guy from Podlipnoye and always knew everything, probably, because his mother taught Math at our school. That's why I just stood by as if all that had nothing to do with me, and silently hated the blond curls and drowsy stare of Tolik Sudak's pale-blue eyes.
Soon after, the combined Youth Ensemble participated in a Club concert but when it was over I did not try to see Sveta home. What killed my love? The monotonous joke and loud laughter of Volodya Gourevitch? Or, maybe, Tolik Sudak's disparagement of the stained skirt?
Frankly, the heaviest blow was dealt with by the fact of her residence in Depot Street which was another unfavorable neighborhood for those in love. Vadik Glushchenko, aka Glushcha, escorting a girl to her khutta in Depot Street and was stopped there by a gang of 10 who knocked him down and kicked from all the sides. "The main thing is to cover your head with your arms, then you got woozy and the kicks grew dull," so he later shared his enlightening experience…
~ ~ ~
The end of winter was postponed because of so huge a snowfall that Nezhyn Street had to be cleared by a bulldozer pushing mounds of snow off the road.
On my way back from school, instead of walking along the cleared way I chose to leap along the ridge of snow heaps moved aside towards the fences. The fun was cut off by a sharp pain in my groin, so the remaining way to our khutta I followed the prints of the bulldozer tracks.
In the evening, Mother, worried by my moans, demanded to demonstrate what was the matter there. After my refusal, Father said, "Show to me, then, I'm also a man." The scrotum, swollen up to the size of a teacup, felt hard
