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and cries emanating from an old boathouse, then that too seemed not unusual. It only echoed the quickening of his own pulse; he expected to hear the very earth groan in the heat of passion. But when Vera heard the sounds, she turned a bright red and stood stock still in the path. She’s more modest than I am, he thought, and he loved her at that moment.
“I know you have to go home now,” he told her then added quickly, “How can I see you again?” He waited expectantly. She said nothing. “My boat doesn’t leave until tomorrow. Maybe I could stay here—at this boathouse—and meet you in the morning.” She appeared to be thinking deeply. He wondered if he had said something indecent to offend her, implying that they would meet and in the boathouse, too….
“Your boat leaves at first light,” she answered quietly. “All the boats do. You go then to Maiden’s Island. There, the passengers will swim in the river. It is very pretty. You will moor at Zhiguli for the night. Then the following morning you pass our workplace at Toglyatti.”
She gazed up at him with questioning eyes. They stood still, facing one another. He placed his hands on her shoulders, not in a heavy proprietorial way, but lightly, as if they were about to dance. She, a half head shorter, rested her hands on his waist. There still remained a foot of space between them.
Finally she said, “You could stay. We can take you back to the boat the day after tomorrow when it reaches Toglyatti.”
Paul could hardly believe it meant what he hoped. His former moment of purity forgotten, he now wanted only to hear it from her lips.
“You could spend the night here—on my father’s farm—with me.”
He drew her close, tight to his chest, for answer. They clung to each other on the path for minutes, maybe hours, until a muffled laugh from the boathouse intruded.
“Over here. Out of sight.” Paul pulled Vera behind a bank of berry bushes from where they could watch the entrance to the boathouse.
“Akh! The public official from my father’s district,” she whispered. The little man was still straightening his shirt. “And he’s with … Bozhe moy! He’s with the police chief’s wife, Tanya. They were making the sounds that we heard!” She stared at Paul in disbelief.
The liaisons of the locals were not of much interest to Paul; he was aware only of how good it felt to touch, crouched there behind the bushes among the tall grasses. But Vera was now animated. They watched Pyotr Vladimirovich mount his bike, drop a last wet kiss on Tanya’s lips
Mayanaam
vequinox
Manolis 