One Night in Winter

‘Well, thank you for reminding us,’ said Golden. ‘But I’m just teaching Pushkin here. Now let us begin. Ready?’ Benya Golden closed his eyes. ‘Mobilize the senses, dear friends, beloved romantics, wistful dreamers. Remember: life is short. It’s an adventure. Anything is possible! Breathe with me!’ He inhaled through his nose, and the children did the same. All exhaled together. Andrei looked around the room to see if anyone was laughing or rebelling, but Nikolasha gave him a grave look as if he was proposing blasphemy while Serafima took a breath with just a hint of amusement on her face to tell him that she knew he was looking at her. So he joined in with the insanity and had just exhaled again when Golden, not even opening his book, declaimed the first lines, his right hand raised and open as if reciting a spell: ‘My uncle, a man of firm convictions…’And on he went, reciting the text with such grace that the children listened in silence – until George Satinov put up his hand.

‘Yes?’ said Benya Golden.

‘I just wondered what Pushkin really means by the mysteries of the marriage bed?’

This sparked much sniggering from the back of the class.

Nikolasha turned round. ‘This is about love,’ he hissed.

‘Grow up, George,’ echoed his ally, Vlad, who seemed to support Nikolasha in everything.

‘You’re thinking of Rosa, aren’t you?’ teased George.

‘No, he’s dreaming of Serafima,’ said Minka Dorova. More laughter. Rosa blushed while Serafima ignored Nikolasha completely; Andrei realized that she hadn’t so much as acknowledged him all morning.

Benya Golden put his hands over his ears: ‘George! Minka! How can you slaughter the poetry with your tawdry innuendoes?’ Andrei had never seen a teacher who so relished, even encouraged, the mischief of his class. ‘Back to the divine poetry!’ Golden sat back on his chair. ‘Serafima, are you with us this morning? Tell us how Onegin falls in love with Tatiana, an innocent provincial girl.’

As Serafima read, the class became quiet again. Andrei watched her, fascinated, and realized everyone else was watching her too. She wasn’t as pretty as Rosa, nor as alluring as Minka in the back row, yet her startlingly green eyes were sprinkled with gold that glinted from under her black eyelashes. Was she agonizingly shy and simply unaware of her power? Andrei couldn’t work it out.

‘Well done, Serafima,’ said Golden, stopping her at last. Serafima looked up at him and smiled. ‘That’s enough for today. Andrei, I want you to stay behind.’

The children gathered their books, chairs grinding on the echoing floors. As George Satinov passed their desk, Nikolasha showed him the velvet-covered notebook and whispered something.

‘As you can see,’ said Benya Golden when they were alone, ‘my pupils are as serious about their little knots of friendship as they are about their poetry. But although some of them are the sons and daughters of our leaders, they’re mostly good kids. Anyway, even they were impressed by your knowledge of Pushkin, as was I.’

‘Thank you,’ said Andrei.

Golden patted Andrei on the shoulder. ‘Cheer up. You’re going to be a success here.’

‘I’m… I’m very happy to be here.’

‘You’ll end up being friends with Serafima’s group, don’t you worry. But I know it’s not easy coming back.’

‘You do?’

‘Yes,’ said Golden. ‘Because I haven’t been back in Moscow for long myself.’

Andrei looked up at the teacher, at his receding, light hair now greying, his dimpled chin, his lined face. His smile seemed genuine – but was it? Andrei knew it was better to say nothing more. Consulting his timetable, he hurried to find his next class.

At lunchtime, Andrei ate his sandwich of black bread with a gherkin at his desk, content to be on his own for a moment while Nikolasha and his friends Vlad, George and Rosa pushed some desks together to form an ink-stained table where they shared their fish, beef, cheese and tomatoes. It seemed that Nikolasha was never alone, never without an entourage of pale, floppy-haired creatures who looked as if they never took any exercise or ventured outside. Nikolasha was reading to them from his red velvet notebook and they whispered excitedly. Andrei felt pangs of disdain and envy – but he remembered his father and he knew neither of these sentiments was worthy of him. He finished his sandwich and as he walked past them, he saw Nikolasha giving his notebook to George.

‘You can read it, George,’ he was saying, ‘but take it seriously and I want it back tomorrow. With your comments.’

‘Of course, of course,’ replied George jovially.

Afterwards, as Andrei was hurrying up the corridor to his next lesson, he heard the squish of plastic soles on the parquet floor behind him. He turned and a white, freckled face hove into view. Nikolasha Blagov was so tall that he hunched over as he walked. As always he was followed by the dark-haired cadaverous figure of Vlad, as well as the fey Rosa Shako.