Maria murmurs to the other two, “I’ll tell you later,” and walks through the door, whispers trailing in her wake.
This time, when she enters his office Mr. Shalamov stands and shakes her hand. She sits in the same chair as before. Mr. Shalamov leans forward, elbows on the desk, adjusts his glasses, smiles, leans back in his chair, smiles again.
“I would like to speak, Maria Nikolaevna, about your suggestion. You mentioned it would be good for morale. I think perhaps you are right. Let’s celebrate the talents of our workers.”
They’re watching her, of course, from the floor. Everyone sitting over lunch, clear to all of them that the management is trying to co-opt her. It’s her own fault for opening up the discussion in the first place, showing a willingness to play along.
“My nephew won’t be able to take on the extra rehearsals. My apologies. I approached you without fully checking through his commitments.”
Shalamov coasts on without missing a beat.
“I’ve done some asking around. He’s a very talented boy.”
“He’s been having trouble recently. His teacher is worried about his sense of timing, says he needs to go back to the basics. He wouldn’t be able to fit in any performances.”
“I know almost nothing about music. Is that serious?”
“It could be. His teacher says he is at a delicate stage, he’s not old enough to have mastered the necessary tempos. It can only be done by repetition. After some time it should come naturally.”
“Well, that is a shame.”
“Yes.”
“Who is his teacher?”
Maria shifts in her chair. “I can’t remember his name. My sister takes care of his tuition.”
“I see.”
He nods. Silence.
A child with skewed timing is not a sufficient excuse. They both know it.
He smiles. “I do have some friends involved in music. Perhaps we could get the boy another teacher.”
“That’s very kind, but he’s happy with the man he has. It seems he’s making good progress.”
“On the contrary, it sounds like he’s doing very badly indeed.”
A pause.
“My friend’s name is Yakov Sidorenko. Do you know of him?”
She exhales. “Yes. Of course.”
“Yakov Mikhailovich is a generous artist, a true friend to the worker and to youth. He’s offered to accompany your nephew in a recital in our own house of culture. Such a modest man, Yakov. You would never hear him speak about his achievements.”
Maria hates the patronizing tone. There’s no avoiding it now. She’ll be seen to take their side.
“I’ll have to consult my sister, and of course my nephew.”
“I would have assumed, Maria Nikolaevna, that you would have done this already, before approaching me.”
He takes a pen from his jacket pocket and starts looking over some paperwork. Maria waits for permission to leave.
“If you decide that your nephew is not up to it, if you were overstating his talents, then you may of course refuse. I wouldn’t wish to stand in the way of a boy’s development. But may I remind you that Yakov Mikhailovich is a professor at the Conservatory, not someone you would wish to insult. On the contrary, if your nephew is as talented as they say, I would consider it an incredible opportunity for him. Also, to refuse would greatly disappoint Mr. Rybak. He has invited along a committee member from the Ministry of Automobile and Agricultural Machinery.”
He points his pen in her direction. “Now would not be a good time to disappoint the chairman, believe me.”
“Yes, sir.” She says this without looking at him.
He nods and stands and offers his hand.
“You said it yourself: we have talented people here, why not celebrate our talents? I encourage you to think of this as a good opportunity for both of us, as well as for your nephew.”
She turns without acknowledging him; she doesn’t need to pander anymore. She’ll have a couple of minutes in the lobby to gather her thoughts, decide what or what not to tell them all. Perhaps the truth might be the best option. Though, in her experience, that is rarely the case.
Chapter 15
No talking.
You form the line and when in the line you do not deviate from the line.
You stand an arm’s length behind the boy in front. You place your hand on his shoulder to judge the space between you, and then you release your arm and take a half step backwards.
When the gym master blows his whistle you begin the exercise. When he blows it again you stop. You count out loud to eight when performing the exercise. When not performing the exercise you count to yourself. When counting out loud, you do not mumble, you shout it clear and crisp, separating the numbers: one… two… three… four… five… six… seven… eight.
You start with star jumps, then tuck jumps, to warm the body. Then you do press-ups, sit-ups, and squats. Then you repeat them all again.
Yevgeni has a slit on the side of his shorts—not a large rip, but a worrying one, worrying because it’s growing exponentially. He has a choice to make. When doing the star jump he can extend his legs to full width and risk tearing them more, or he can keep his legs in a little but risk the gym master making him run laps for the next half hour. He has only one pair of shorts; there used to be another pair, but he’s grown out of them, they rode up his thighs like a pair of swimming pants. The other boys laughed at him so he had thrown them out. This was six weeks ago. His mother had promised to take him shopping for a new pair, but she never did. He asked her to give him the money and he could get them himself, but she never had it on her. He suspected that she didn’t want to give it to him, that maybe he would spend it on something stupid, or he would meet Ivan or whoever and they would force him to hand it over. He reminded his mother after the last gym class, told her he had a rip in the side of his shorts, and she got angry and said he could mend it himself. But he didn’t know how to sew and, anyway, men don’t sew, even he knew this. She was sorry for being angry and promised she would get him a new pair before the next class. Well, the next class is this class.
He should have asked his aunt. She’s always good with anything to do with school. She helps him cover his copybooks with old wallpaper, and sometimes when he opens his lunch box he’ll find a square of chocolate inside. When this happens he has to stuff it in his mouth at once, in case any of the other kids see it and take it. Six months ago a kid called Lev saw him put the square in his mouth and ran over to him and jammed his fingers in the joint where Yevgeni’s jaws meet, and his mouth opened before he had time to swallow and Lev picked the square out, nearly dissolved, drenched in saliva, and ate it. Then he punched Yevgeni in the stomach for being so greedy.
Everyone has the same gym uniform. Red shorts and a white singlet. Some of the older kids have hair under their arms, and Yevgeni thinks it a strange place to have hair.
He listens to each popped stitch during the warm-up. Every time he does a squat he can feel the strain on the material. Maybe it would be better just to be obvious, just run the laps, but he’s been doing it a lot recently and it’s embarrassing. When he runs along the wall behind where they do their press-ups, the kids in the back row always stick out their feet to trip him. Yevgeni knows the gym master sees this—the gym master sees everything—but he doesn’t say anything. It’s an extra, unspoken, part of the punishment.
They finish the warm-up and then form lines behind the mat. When you do your floor routine, you stand totally straight and raise an outstretched arm to the master, to let him know you’re about to begin. This is how they do it in competitions. This is how they do it in the Olympics. Everyone says the gym master was in the Olympics when he was younger. Yevgeni told his mother this, but she laughed: she knew the gym master when he was younger, when the Olympics were held here. “He was at the Olympics all right. He won the bronze medal for sweeping floors.” Yevgeni has never breathed a word and still the gym master doesn’t like him.