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  Dima shipped his family off at the beginning of July. His son to an international camp, so the boy could practice his English; his wife and daughter first to her parents in the North, and then to the South, to the sea, where they'd gone together on many occasions. But he stayed in the city... on business.

  There was in fact business to be done, and there was a significant and substantial reason for staying behind in the city and working, yet by the middle of July the city was melting from the heat, no one was making any decisions, and any business planned for the summer had come to a standstill. It had been stupid to plan so much business for summer. First, most of the people responsible for deciding various questions had taken off, and those who stayed behind were tired, or somehow ill-tempered... bleary-eyed... from the heat, from the sound of summer ringing in their ears, or from the buildup of static electricity. By the end of July, Dima fell into a state of lethargy. Into a strange sort of summer idleness where the days crawl by gruelingly slowly, and time flies incomprehensibly fast.

  At first, Dima lay about for a few days on the couch, in front of the television. He flipped endlessly back and forth between channels, stopping for a while here and there... then flipping some more. When he stumbled upon an old movie, one he had known since he was a boy, he clapped, rubbed his hands, adjusted the nest he'd turned his divan into, and ran to the kitchen to put on some tea and throw together the unhealthiest—and therefore tastiest—snacks possible. Old movies, open-faced sandwiches, and sweet tea evoked serious and profound pleasure. There was something in this he had not felt for a long time: serenity!

  On the third day of this serenity, he started to lose all sense of time. He went to sleep toward morning and woke late in the afternoon. He awoke to the sultry sounds of summer from the courtyard. When the refrigerator was empty, Dima fought back hunger for nearly an entire day. It seemed somehow impracticable to leave the building. Dima put off his departure for a long time. He had long since stopped shaving, but suddenly shaving brought great satisfaction. Then he spent a long time washing up, got dressed, and then went out to the store... with satisfaction. And selected a whole pile of stuff. Returning from the store, he didn't rush to eat, and didn't begin nervously snacking either, but with unexpected satisfaction straightened the apartment, washing all the dishes and carefully putting everything away in the refrigerator. Then he unhurriedly made himself lunch and dinner in one (meaning, Dima had not had lunch, but it was already evening). He prepared the meal while listening to the comforting sound of the radio... Dima opened a bottle of wine, and peaceful, disparate words flew around in his head: "not bad" or "that's it..." or "damn...." While the meal was finishing up in the oven, Dima drank down two glasses of wine. The wine hit the spot marvelously.... Dima picked up the phone. He called parents (his parents), then placed a call and got through to his wife in the South. Zhenya said that everything was very nice, just that the weather wasn't so good. Then his daughter took the phone, and she said she was resting fine, the food was fine, and in general everything was fine. When Dima asked if she missed her papa, his daughter quickly replied, "Yes." After this, Dima immediately called up an old friend, but couldn't get through to her and that finally calmed him down.

  Things were good. Even very good. Periodically a thought would flare up: "Oy, there's stuff to do, I should..." But then responses arose like: "Just wait a bit, just wait..." or "But it's summer!"

  The only thing that irritated him was the heat. And it wasn't because it was hot—in the sense that it was stifling, with sweat and all that. What was irritating was that the heat just hung around.... The previous year, Dima had spent the summer with his family on the Baltic coast. His friends had said, "Why there? The rain never stops and the sea is cold... beautiful, but cold." But they got lucky with the weather! And it was so wonderful to sun themselves on the beach or sit under umbrellas at a cafe and drink beer, to watch the news in the evening and learn there was nonstop rain at home, storms in the South, and hail in Greece.

  How nice and proper it would have been if the summer had been grey and gloomy. Then on TV they wouldn't have said how the water was warmer in suburban reservoirs than at the Black Sea, and that they'd built public beaches at the nearest reservoir as good as anything any resort had to offer. Proposals arrived periodically from beyond his four walls ... proposals to visit someone or other at their dacha, or to go fishing with someone else. Dima came up with various excuses and never went anywhere. The serenity which had befallen him was deeper, more valuable, and more important than any summer blessing. Yet cold, grey rains would have made things more peaceful still—as peaceful as crystal!

  How annoying the weather always was! For as long as Dima could remember, his relationship with weather had always been annoying. The last days of May, when it was particularly difficult to finish up studies and take exams, the weather would be splendid. It was always fresh and warm, but not hot... everything you could want. But as soon as vacation began—rain, wind and cold. As soon as they arrived at the sea, there would be a storm warning, rain, wind. That's how it always was. He recalled how he once spent half a summer in the village with his aunt and they didn't even once go fishing, even though he'd brought along an excellent rod. There was a lake right there, but his auntie's husband said he'd only go fishing if there was no wind. If there was wind, then there was no sense going fishing. Uncle Vova said, "Look, see that tree over there? If it's still in the morning and doesn't sway, then it means there's no wind. Grab your rod, wake me up, and the fish will be ours. But if it so much as quivers, don't even bother coming to get me. I'll sleep, and we won't be doing any fishing." Dima watched that tree for half the summer. Every day he would get out his rod just to look at it and then put it back in the shed. Practically every day he dug up worms and watched the tree. In the evening, the tree was almost always completely still. In the middle of the night, Dima got up to take a pee, went out onto the porch and saw, in the moonlight, the top of the motionless tree darkening against the summer stars. His heart skipped a beat from joy, he went back to his bed and fell asleep, deeply breathing in and noisily breathing out... In the morning, he woke before everyone else and ran to the porch... There, where the sunrise had begun to redden the sky, clouds were gathering, and the top of the tree was rocking, every leaf shivering. For some time Dima waited, looking at the tree, then his heart stopped pounding, and Dima froze, as a spitting rain began. Dima went back to his bed and quietly wept. After that, he would wake up late and endure each day, sometimes bored, sometimes enjoying himself. But to this day, if Dima went somewhere early in the morning and there were trees, he almost always would look at the tallest of them, watching... simply watching like he had back then.

  The heat—that is, the fine summer—was the only thing that disturbed, or rather muddied, the serenity that had enveloped Dima. In the first days of August he nonetheless agreed one evening to get together with a woman he knew. They met around nine. There was an oppressive stuffiness that gave his friend a headache, so they went to the fountain, where there were tons of people. The city was out having a good time, going crazy. All the embankments and all the cafes on the embankments, and all the areas near the fountain—they were overflowing with people. Near the fountain, Dima and his friend ran into some friends of Dima and his wife. Dima introduced his friend as a colleague who had come to town on business. Her eyes widened in surprise. Unbelievable...

  Then a downpour fell on the city, with lightning. It was the sort of downpour that didn't give you even half a minute to react. Everyone was soaked. And the storm was powerful. An operatic-cannonade kind of storm. In short, Dima became convinced that serenity shouldn't be tested and you can't deceive it. The next day he didn't go outside, and the weather was marvelous all day.

  Serenity! It was such that Dima didn't even drink beer. He didn't feel like it. He was at peace. Amusing and strange thoughts came into his head. These thoughts arrived, were bandied about, and then left. After the downpour, Dima unhurriedly and sweetly
thought, "If I were a weatherman, I'd always give the same weather forecast: scattered showers. That's the most universal and fitting way to put it. If you're hit by rain or snow, aha! It means you were in the right place. No snow or rain—wrong place. That's it. Very simple."

  His son called periodically from camp and was, apparently, content. Dima's parents never left their dacha. From his wife and daughter, Dima—when he was able to reach them—heard only reassuring words. Serenity. Serenity.

  Rain settled in for several days at the beginning of August. Dima rejoiced and spent his days in the greatest possible serenity. The rain was heavy and warm... Then it stopped and the mushrooms came out. His parents couldn't stop talking about this on the phone, and even the local TV station reported an unprecedented mushroom crop and recommended listeners not pick unfamiliar mushrooms or purchase preserved mushrooms of unknown origin.

  Dima had not been in the forest for a long time. He loved to gather mushrooms. He loved to walk in the forest, treading cautiously, and suddenly, among the grasses, leaves and lacy shadows, to discover a mushroom. Just a second before, the mushrooms had blended in with everything that rustled and crackled underfoot, and then suddenly—whoop—a mushroom! You would slowly kneel down next to it and survey the ground nearby...

  Dima loved that. But this time serenity won out. Arguments rained down such as: "And what would you do with these mushrooms?"; "Oh, I know all about that sea of mushrooms!"; and "Yeah, there are more people in the forests right now than at the market on market day." Dima stayed home and read a couple crime novels and some women's novel he found in his wife's bedside table.

  Dima felt, truthfully, that he had put on a little weight during this time, but not a huge amount. Hardly any.

  And suddenly August was coming to a close, and soon his wife and children would be returning. The weather was fine, just like before, only you really didn't want to count on it. At any moment, summer could tumble over into fall. You had to seize every little bit of good weather in the receding summer. But Dima wasn't seizing anything. He'd fallen into serenity. He didn't get a haircut all summer.

  Gosha called exactly one day before Dima's wife and daughter were to return from the South.

  "Hey, what's up?" Gosha said, a bit surprised when Dima picked up the phone. "You already back? I, uh, just called you for the heck of it, and you're here already. Have a good rest?"

  "What rest?" Dima replied with a sigh. "I sat out the whole summer in the city. So I'll just have to rest next time. And how are you?"

  "So what, you were here?!" Gosha was clearly and truly astonished. "But we were certain you'd left. There wasn't hide nor hair of you. Me, I got back a while ago."

  "Where were you?"

  "Where was I? I was off cursing you all summer long. Weren't your ears burning? We listened to you and went off to the Baltics. We were up to our ears in rain. There wasn't a single decent day. So we fled. And you praised that place so loudly last year..."

  "Gosha, Gosha! Why is it my fault I told you that? You just weren't lucky..."

  "Yeah, well you're always lucky," Gosha interrupted. "They say the weather was excellent here all summer. What'd you do then?"

  "Yeaaaah... Lots to do, the usual nonsense. And I sent the family off to the sea. Had to get the kids out of the city. So, you been back long?"

  "Ten days. So bored I almost went insane. No one was around. Everyone left. Too bad I didn't know you were here. A few days ago everyone returned all at once, so we all played soccer yesterday. And I noticed you weren't there. So I thought you still weren't back."

  "You played yesterday? Without me? Why didn't anyone call?"

  "Well, no one knew you were here..."

  "Know, didn't know, would it have been so hard to call? Played without me and no one even called? Is that how it's done?!"

  "We thought..." Gosha said, taken aback.

  "Actually, you didn't think," Dima broke in. "You just forgot, just say it. Would it have been so difficult to dial my number?"

  Dima was angry and offended. These soccer matches at the school stadium were an important ritual. And the point wasn't that it was Dima who'd originally set up the teams, and spent so much time instilling everyone with the habit of the weekly matches, followed by trips to the banya and lively conversations. That wasn't the most important thing. It was just that they played without him and no one called. No one! Not a single person. That is, they were able to play without him and nothing happened. And Gosha only called—by chance—the day after the game.

  A few hours after Gosha's call, an old friend called. She wanted to know if Dima could talk, meaning was Dima's wife there or not.

  "Sure, talk, talk, everything's fine," Dima said.

  She explained how she'd had a great trip to some island, had totally rested up, and had brought back a present for Dima.

  "And by the way, Dimochka, you have to see my tan," she said, and Dima gathered that his friend was gloriously and happily drunk.

  "Who went with you?" Dima asked.

  "We-e-ell, clearly I was not alone," was her answer.

  The friend was truly ancient, but not in the sense of her age. He hadn't seen her for a long time and was seriously surprised by her call. But her "clearly I was not alone" grated on Dima. The words didn't offend him out of jealousy, or annoyance that he, Dima, had never been to that island. No! The words grated on his serenity.

  Then during the evening there were a couple of business calls. Not bad calls, not even serious ones, but Dima had nothing to say. All that day, Dima didn't turn on the television, only getting around to it rather late, when he turned on the evening news. The news was unpleasant, and not the foreign news, but ours. In that fifteen-minute news broadcast he saw enough in the tense faces of the bureaucrats and deputies to know that they were all clearly lying and that nothing good was happening. There wasn't much about sports, and Dima missed the weather when his wife called to remind him of her flight number and arrival time.

  Dima slept poorly the night before his wife's return. It took him the longest time to fall asleep. In the morning, he brought a semblance of order to the apartment. He ran the vacuum cleaner through the center of the rooms and the kitchen. He picked up the clothes lying in the corners and so on, and then he went out to the store and bought some food and drink, so he would have something to feed them at the end of their travels. All these activities were excruciatingly difficult. Then he had to make dozens of phone calls. Everyone was returning from somewhere or other and wanted to get together and share stories.

  When Dima drove to the airport, the car wasn't running well. Dima hadn't been behind the wheel for a long time, and the car was thick with dust and just didn't drive right.

  But the weather continued to be nice. The blue sky and small, distinct clouds were simply sublime.... The city still seemed completely carefree and summery. The women, just as in July, wore very little clothing. Dima's eyes were caught by one feminine figure, then another. At the entrance to the airport there was some roadwork going on. There was the sound of steamrollers and other road machinery. The guys with shovels wore their orange jackets next to their bare skin. The workers' bodies glistened with sweat, and through the open window Dima was smacked by the odors of heat and burning asphalt. For a moment it seemed as if summer was just beginning.

  There were an awful lot of people at the airport. Many were homeward bound, and others were seeing them off. Still more were arriving, back from somewhere and in a hurry to get their children home before the start of the school year. People were there to meet them. At the back of the hall, glass doors released flight after flight of passengers. The returnees were tanned, smiling and happy. Those waiting hugged them and picked up the children...

  Dima saw a friend who was meeting someone. He was someone Dima had known long ago, in the distant past, and he couldn't remember his name.

  "Who you here to meet?" the fellow asked.

  "My family. Back from the sea."

  "And where
were you?"

  "Ahhh," Dima gave a dismissive wave, "I sat out the whole summer in the city! Where'd you get the tan?"

  "Me?" the acquaintance chuckled. "I was on the roof. I spent the whole summer finishing off the dacha with my son, and sent the wife away. Now I'm meeting her. So how's things?"

  "What things? Summer's ending and I hung about in the city. Didn't get any chance to relax at all. Well, see you!"

  "Yup, take care!"

  They shook hands. Five minutes later Dima saw his friend carrying two huge suitcases, and trailing behind him was a formidable woman in a light dress. The friend was smiling to himself as he walked.

  Dima was suddenly uncomfortable with having lied to his forgotten friend. Why had he said he'd had a bad summer? He hadn't had a bad summer. And why had he slandered his summer serenity? He might never have such a wonderful summer again.

  Several flights were delayed for various reasons. The flight Dima was waiting for was two hours late. There was no sense driving to the city, then coming back out here. So Dima loitered, wandered around, and napped in the car.... Then they announced that the flight was delayed another hour. That turned Dima sour. He thought, "Here it is the last day of summer, and what am I doing?" He bought a paper, but couldn't read. Nothing fluttered inside him. Serenity had not yet forsaken him.

  He truly missed his wife and daughter. He missed his son, who would be coming home in two days. He missed them, but as he thought about them, his face was relaxed, and his head tilted a bit to the left. Even the sounds of the airport receded.

  He met his family. He hugged his daughter and raised her high in his outstretched arms, then he kissed his wife. They waited for their bags, and his daughter talked non-stop, showing him this and that and even dancing. His wife said they'd suffered horribly because of the horrible delay. Dima tried to listen attentively... but in reality he was listening to the serenity within himself. How was it doing? Was it still there?

  Night was falling as they drove back into town. His daughter fell asleep in the back seat—in a position unthinkable for an adult. Zhenya began listing all the things that had to be done the next day. It was made clear that in the morning they were to go and buy his daughter some shoes and plenty of other things for school. Dima nodded, smiled, and thought... No, he didn't even think, he just looked into the eyes of his serenity, so that he wouldn't forget what they looked like. For a while he'd looked at the world through those eyes—and he'd felt good. He wanted to remember those eyes after he said goodbye.