Borechka

  Borechka was considered a genius from childhood.
Everything came easily to him: the violin, math problems, watercolors. And how he was loved — by teachers, by neighbors, by girls. Especially by girls. How could it be otherwise? Handsome, brilliant, and so full of promise.

  And Borechka kept promising.
  For a very long time.

  Somehow life kept slipping past him, skirting around him. He managed to arrive late, to say the wrong thing at the wrong moment, to stumble into trouble. To fall in love, to marry, to fall ill, to marry again. A child. Another child. To fall in love once more. To offend someone, to disappoint someone else. Then to start over — somewhere new, in a new field. And again everything worked out. Again he was loved. New hopes, new friends. New girlfriends. More girlfriends. Everyone was cheerful. Everyone was waiting.

  Waiting for something.
  But what exactly?

  There wasn’t much time left to wait. Those first admirers had already reached their summits — artists, scholars, captains of ocean-going ships. Those girls had long since become someone’s wives. Then the new girls became wives too, and the first ones became mothers-in-law and grandmothers.
And he was still late, still missing opportunities, still failing to seize them.

  The children were puzzled.
  The grandchildren were puzzled too.

  His eyesight remained sharp. His mind, clear.

  But now the first ones were leaving — the academicians, the generals — while he was full of new ideas, new plans. A new circle formed around him. These people knew nothing of the old promises — and they believed. They believed.

  “Grandma Moses began painting at seventy. And Aksakov...”

  Then the second ones began to leave as well — the writers, the artists — leaving behind what they had managed to leave behind.
And he — he was still here. Still glittering with ideas, still joking, still — no. Enough. This had to end sometime.

  With something. Anything.

  “Our Borechka is writing something, have you heard?”
“He’s been writing for ages — he’s almost finished.”
It was time. Time to justify the hopes. To give at least something. Surely all this had been for a reason. Surely it hadn’t lasted this long for nothing.

  Well?
  Now the third ones were leaving. Leaving!

  That was it.

  He gave nothing!

  And we crowd around now, while he smiles at us from a photograph — at our questioning looks, our empty hands. At his own foolish jokes.

  And it is as if he is making promises again.