The Story of a Life

38

Summer Lightning

And there they were, just as I remembered them – the same leaves of the hazel trees just outside my window, glinting from the raindrops. And there was the same sun shining on the drenched park, the same sound of water rushing over the dam. The same Rëvny, but this time no Lyuba.

The Karelins’ dacha stood empty and boarded up. A black dog had made itself a home on the verandah. Whenever someone came near, the stray jumped up and ran off to hide in the bushes, its tail between its legs. It lay there a long time, until the danger had passed. Sasha had come down with diphtheria and so the Karelins would not be arriving until the end of the summer, if at all. No one knew for certain.

The weather had been irregular that summer, with many violent thunderstorms. Uncle Kolya said it was due to more sunspots than normal. The incessant rains were followed by a drought. Calm days were suddenly ruined by a hot wind which brought a dry haze. The water in the river darkened. The tops of the pines shook and rattled and made an unsettling sound. Dust hovered over the roadways, harrowing travellers and whirling in thick clouds off to the horizon.

‘It’s a hard, dry summer,’ the peasants all said.

The leaves shrivelled on the lime trees. The river began to dry up. The morning dew thinned out, and in the heat of the day you could hear the dried seeds popping in the grass. The hot fields were littered with the white tufts of burdock.

‘There’ll be quite a storm after such heat,’ everyone said.

Finally, a storm did come. It arrived slowly, and Gleb Afanasiev and I watched it make its way all through the morning. The stifling heat in the bathing hut by the river was enough to give you a headache. We lay in the warm river water for a long time, neither of us wanting to get out.

It was as if smoke filled the sky, and beyond the smoke you could make out enormous black tufts of what looked like petrified cotton wool. These were the thunderheads showing through the dust. Everything was deathly quiet. The birds and frogs had fallen silent, the fish had stopped jumping. Even the leaves, fearful of the storm, had stopped rustling. Mordan had crawled off under the dacha and lay there whining softly and refusing to come out. The only sound came from people still walking about and calling to each other, although you could tell they too felt something was wrong.

The smoky haze dissipated towards dusk, and a single storm cloud, as black as night, filled half the sky. It vibrated with lightning, but there was no sound of thunder. A smudgy moon rose in the east and advanced towards the cloud all on its own, deserted by everyone, not a single star at its back. It turned pale with each flash of lightning. And then, finally, the earth drew a deep, refreshing sigh. The first crash of thunder rolled through the woods and away to the south over the fields of grain rippling in the wind. As its last rumble slowly died away, a second crash exploded and took off in the same direction to the south, shaking the ground as it went.

‘That’s the Prophet Elijah up in heaven,’ said Gleb. ‘He’s out for a drive.’

Yellow vortices could now be seen scurrying about inside the cloud, whose edges had begun bending down towards the ground. Lightning flashed and danced through the dark caves of the sky. The village church bell began to ring – two quick strikes followed by a pause, repeated over and over. This was the signal to extinguish all fires. We dampened the stoves, closed the windows, doors and shutters, and then sat down on the verandah to wait.

On the far side of the park there arose a terrifying roar, as vast as the earth itself. The sound was too much for Aunt Marusya and she went back inside. The roar advanced on us, like an ocean, washing everything aside in its path. It was the wind. Our ears rang from the deafening howl. The ancient lime trees creaked. A yellow haze tore over the ground. Glass shattered. An unbelievably intense white light flared in this haze, followed by such a crash that it sounded like the entire dacha had been driven into the earth up to the roofline. A fiery yellow ball rolled along the treetops, hissing and smoking as it went before exploding with a sharp crack like an artillery shell.

‘If only it would rain!’ Aunt Marusya kept saying. ‘If only it would rain!’

Finally, the rain fell. Grey torrents poured down onto the windblown park. The downpour droned louder, picking up strength. The drum of the rain soothed us, and we went off to our separate rooms and fell fast asleep.

I awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of barking dogs and snorting horses, followed by hurried footsteps, laughter and the clatter of dishes. Gleb was also awake. The rain had stopped, but the lightning was still flashing.

‘Kostik,’ said Gleb, ‘my prophetic soul tells me someone’s just arrived. But I can’t tell who. Listen.’

We lay there quietly for a few minutes. Gleb then jumped out of bed and began to dress in the dark.

‘It’s them!’ he said. ‘I hear the divine strains of Sasha’s voice. It’s the Karelins! Get up!’

I began throwing on my clothes. I could hear Aunt Marusya downstairs: ‘Yes, Kostik’s here. Oh, for a long time now. And Gleb too. We should get them up.’

‘Let them sleep,’ said Maria Trofimovna. ‘We’ve got all day tomorrow to talk. I still don’t know how we ever managed to make it. We waited two hours in Ryabchevka for the storm to pass. Thank God it’s a sandy road or it would’ve been washed out.’

‘Come on, let’s go!’ said Gleb.

‘You go first.’

‘Aha!’ Gleb said. ‘Nervous are you, young man?’

‘Why should I be nervous?’

‘Then let’s go together!’

We went downstairs. The lamps were burning. Aunt Marusya had prepared tea. Wet suitcases were lined up against the wall. Maria Trofimovna was sitting at the table. Sasha rushed over to meet us and kissed Gleb and then me. She was frightfully thin, but her eyes shone just as before. We kissed Maria Trofimovna’s hand.

‘My, look how much sun you’ve had!’ she said, stroking my cheek.

Lyuba was kneeling on the floor with her back to us and rummaging in a basket. She didn’t bother to turn round and went on trying to find something.

‘Lyuba,’ said Maria Trofimovna, ‘don’t you see Kostik and Gleb are here?’

‘Yes, just a minute,’ she replied, slowly standing up. ‘I can’t find the lemons, Mama.’

‘Don’t bother, we can do without them.’

Lyuba turned around, smoothed her hair, and held out her hand. She gave me a quick glance and then looked away.

‘Sit, everyone,’ said Aunt Marusya, ‘the tea’s getting cold.’

We sat down at the table. Uncle Kolya was out on the verandah. I could hear him pouring water on someone’s hands. Whoever it was was scrubbing and snorting and protesting: ‘Please, for the love of God, don’t trouble yourself. Thank you so much.’

‘Who’s that?’ I asked Sasha.

She put her arm around my shoulder and whispered in my ear: ‘Lenka Mikhelson. From Lyuba’s college. An artist. A true Wunderkind. And an ass.’

‘Who?’ I asked again, confused.

‘You’ll see for yourself. I hate him.’

‘Sasha!’ Maria Trofimovna snapped. ‘Stop whispering!’

Lyuba shot Sasha an annoyed look and then dropped her eyes.

Uncle Kolya came in from the verandah followed by a tall youth, busy drying his hands, in spectacles with a long face and large teeth. With a good-natured smile, he greeted Gleb and me. Although clumsy and terribly short-sighted, it was immediately apparent that, as Mama loved to say, he was from ‘a good family’. He had manners and an air of confidence and was obviously one of those city types.

He took a seat at the table, accepted a cup of tea from Aunt Marusya, thanked her and said: ‘Ah yes, there’s nothing like country life!’

Gleb snorted. Aunt Marusya looked worriedly at Gleb and me, but then Sasha said: ‘Lenka, here, have some jam. It’s strawberry.’ Uncle Kolya gave Gleb a stern look, which quickly turned into a smile.

After tea we helped the Karelins bring their things over to their dacha. The park gently rustled as it shook off the rain. The cocks crowed in the village in various keys. Dawn was breaking over the tops of the trees. The Karelins threw themselves into unpacking. The sun rose, gilding the verandah railing and casting its light on the uncommonly fresh and clean morning. Lenka Mikhelson stood outside the Karelins’ dacha and doodled in the sandy path with a stick.

‘What a morning! Let’s go for a swim!’ Gleb said, after we had lugged over the last of the luggage and been thrown out of the dacha by Maria Trofimovna, who refused to let us help unpack.

We got our towels and headed off to the bathing hut. On the way we saw what Lenka had been drawing in the sand: it was a profile very much like Lyuba’s with a shining sun above it and the words ‘O golden light of braided sun!’

‘What a Decadent!’ Gleb fumed: ‘Foolish nonsense!’ He walked on, swinging his towel. Then, without looking at me, he said: ‘Just forget about it, Kostik, don’t give it a second thought. Seriously, forget about it. It’s not worth letting it ruin your summer. Come on, I’ll race you!’

He ran off with me right behind him. Frogs, fearing for their lives, jumped out of the way and into the wet grass. The white ball of the sun rose higher and higher. The sky, rinsed clean by the rain, shone brighter and brighter.

By the time I reached the bathing hut, I felt as if I was almost over my sadness. I was hot and out of breath, my heart was pounding, and I thought: Am I really going to torment myself over Lyuba, over some conceited girl, on such a beautiful morning as this when a nice long summer day stretches out before me? Uncle Kolya joined us. We swam, dived and splashed about so much that our waves rocked the water lilies up and down all the way over by the dam. I had almost forgotten that I had survived my first betrayal. All I wanted was to show Lyuba that it didn’t upset me in the least and that my life was so full of such interesting things that it was just silly for me to suffer because of some summer romance with its sighs and shadowy confessions.

‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ I asked myself. ‘Is my infatuation with Lyuba better than this sun?’ Its rays were falling through the trees onto the dark water below. ‘In what way is it better than the heavenly smell of these hayfields? In what way is it any better than this little beetle scurrying along the banya wall?’ It was easy to console myself, perhaps because I was surrounded by so much rare beauty.

Gleb climbed up on top of the bathing hut, raised his arms to the sun and proclaimed in a mocking tone: ‘O, golden light of braided sun!’ and then jumped into the water with a yell.

‘Hey, you ruffians,’ said Uncle Kolya. ‘Out of the water. After tea we’re going to do some exploring.’

‘Where?’ I asked.

‘Downriver, past Melovaya Hill.’

I climbed out of the water. It felt good to walk over the warm dry planks in my bare feet. I looked back at my wet footprints and watched them evaporate before my eyes. My towel smelled of sea salt. The sun warmed my body and my damp head, and all I wanted to do was talk and laugh and then race Gleb back to the dacha, which we did with Mordan and Chetvertak chasing after us, barking wildly, and trying to snatch the towels from our hands. We tore past the Karelins’ place making a terrible racket and crashed onto the verandah, frightening poor Aunt Marusya.

After tea we went downriver with Uncle Kolya. Gleb and I drew a map as we walked and dreamed up names for every bend, backwater, cliff and tranquil site. We were thoroughly lashed by the branches and tall grass. Our shirts were yellow with pollen. The riverbanks smelled of sand and warm reeds. With a thoughtful air, Gleb said: ‘I can’t stand being melancholy.’

And so, the summer passed. Soon the hot days came to an end. Storms raged over the park and piled their clouds on the tops of the trees. The clouds became caught and left damp rags of mist behind in the branches as they tore themselves free and raced off to the horizon as if in fear. The park swayed and moaned. On the river the leaves of the water lilies stood straight up. The rain pounded on the roof. It was so loud on the top floor you felt as if you were inside a drum.

Everyone but Uncle Kolya, Gleb and I cursed the foul weather. We put on our raincoats and walked over to the dam, telling ourselves we needed to check the fishing lines we had put out the day before. The real reason we went, however, was to fill our lungs to bursting with the raw stormy wind. It was blowing so hard it plastered wet leaves torn from the trees to our faces. Our raincoats turned as stiff as wood. We found ourselves in the heart of the storm and had to turn our backs to the wind so we could breathe.

‘Marvellous!’ Uncle Kolya shouted. ‘Absolutely marvellous! Just make sure you don’t get blown away!’

‘Ah yes, there’s nothing like country life!’ shouted Gleb. He was still making fun of Lenka Mikhelson.

We made a tour around our property. The old willows twisted violently, their branches stretched and torn in every direction, exposing the grey underside of their leaves. The trees fought against the wind with all their might, until they began to crack and splinter. Jackdaws rode the wind. We could see their open beaks but not hear their screams. There was one place behind the tall dam sheltered from the wind. We crawled down through the weeds to reach it. Nettles lashed our faces, but we felt nothing. Uncle Kolya kept his fishing rods hidden here behind a log. We took them out with shaking hands, as if we were a bunch of thieves. What would Aunt Marusya say if she saw us now, fishing in the midst of such a storm? It would prove to her we were indeed the lunatics she had always considered us to be.

We cast our lines. The wind howled just over our heads, but here in our little shelter all was quiet.

‘We won’t get any bites,’ said Gleb. ‘Fish aren’t as crazy as we are!’ He said it on purpose as if to reassure the fish that they were safe, but in fact he desperately wanted to catch one. And sure enough, as if by a miracle our floats slowly sank below the surface of the cold water.

‘You’ve both caught a carp!’ shouted Uncle Kolya.

We began to pull in the strong, tin-coloured fish. The wind raged even harder. Rain thundered down onto the water. We didn’t notice a thing.

‘You’re not frozen?’ Uncle Kolya yelled.

‘No! This is wonderful!’

‘We’ll keep fishing?’

‘Of course!’

The storm lasted five days and finally ended one night. No one saw it happen. I woke up in the morning to the twitter of birds. The sun was struggling to pierce the fog that had swallowed the park. The fog was a light blue – evidently the sky above it was clear. Uncle Kolya had set up the samovar near the verandah. Smoke poured out of its pipe into the air. Upstairs we caught the aroma of burnt pinecones.

I lay in bed and looked out of the window. There before me, in the crown of an old lime tree, I beheld a miracle. A shaft of sunlight had broken through the leaves and, its refracted rays scattering here and there, ignited countless little lights of green and gold. It was a sight no painter could ever capture, especially not Lenka Mikhelson. In his pictures, the sky was orange, the trees were blue, and people’s faces were the green of unripe melons. It was all just some sort of invention, as, perhaps, had been my infatuation with Lyuba. Whatever it might have been, I was now cured. I couldn’t help wondering whether it was the long summer storm that had done the trick.

I watched as the sunlight penetrated deeper and deeper into the recesses of the tree. It fell on the season’s first yellow leaf, then on a tomtit sitting on a twig, then on a raindrop, which hung there, quivering, just about to fall.

‘Kostik, Gleb, do you hear that?’ Uncle Kolya called up from down below.

‘Hear what?’

‘The cranes!’

We listened. Strange sounds came from the foggy blue, as if water were being poured back and forth up in the sky.