Yesterday at school, our first lesson was double social studies, and the teacher, Evtsikhevich, arrived even more dressed up than usual, and that set us off laughing and making all sorts of jokes about him. He gave some of the boys reports to write, including Staska, and I promised to write his report for him, which I really regret doing now.
In the fourth lesson, before the German teacher arrived in the classroom, Lyovka was standing by the glass tank of newts and prodding them in the back with his pen. One of them grabbed hold of the tip of his pen, and Lyovka thought that was hilarious. He burst out laughing and made a dash for his seat, almost skipping along.
“Ugh, what horrible faces they have, ugly as sin!”
“Just like yours,” Irina quipped, and Lyovka answered back, slightly embarrassed: “No, like yours.”
Something’s changing, imperceptibly but irresistibly, in the way I feel about the boys, and we are becoming friends (something I’ve dreamed of for ages). I don’t feel anything special for Lyovka now; I kind of like him, that’s all.
After school I went to Ira’s place and stayed there till late. When I got home, Zhenya and Lyalya weren’t back yet.
Now it’s half past ten. Zhenya is sitting playing the piano and I’m trying to note down as fast as I can the way music makes me feel. You wouldn’t believe how much I love it, but it can be weirdly painful and bitter. It’s impossible to explain the powerful and complicated emotions it gives me; something fragile and delicate begins to stir somewhere deep inside me, setting me on edge in a good and a bad way, something that wants to be let out.
At moments like this I’d love to be able to join in and sing with my sisters, to let out all my feelings and make beautiful music, but all that comes out is a thin, tremulous wheezing, and I go quiet, letting the confusing tide of feelings ebb away. All the different melodies—playful and mischievous or full of deep, distressing emotions—send me into a dreamworld.
Love! How can you not think about it when everyone goes on and on about how great it is! How can you not dream about it? Take these words:
It was on the outskirts of Granada, Where the Spaniards are known to dwell, And endless serenades fill the air.
There the beauties all smoke cigars, And eternal summer reigns, There guitars thrum and jangle And castanets clatter night and day.
One night in a remote alley, Don Rodrigo Jerez del Malaga Was out walking at his set hour, Leaning upon his long sword.
The sword glinted bright ’neath the moon, The streets were flooded with light, When Don Malaga suddenly beheld The bright image of Senora Lolita [anonymous; probably a poem set to music]
I really like them, and the tune is really simple and playful. It makes me feel as if I’m gazing curiously out into the distance, into a wide expanse filled with the obscure phantoms of some different, romantic life.
Almost nothing interesting happened at school today. The first lessons were dull, and in physics we carried on with questions and answers, and I was bored, so I drew a picture of Lyovka in Zina’s rough book. He was getting on my nerves, spinning around all the time, but I couldn’t tell him to stop because I didn’t want him to know I was drawing him.
Ira once said to me: “It would be a good idea to write all this down, Nina, and read it back at the end of the year.” “There’s no point,” I said in an innocent voice, secretly laughing to myself.