Miles Read Free

away.  Did he see his parents?  His
boyhood friends still in Russia ?  His old home in Gor'kiy?  
    Home. 
Now there was a real joke for me.  It had been a joke for a few years by
then, but really turned into a laugh-a-minute that autumn.  My home was a
distinctly unmusical one in those halcyon Carter days, in many respects. 
I was bored to tears with the gooey, synthesized mush Top-40 music had become,
and was proud of being the only member of my class that had neither seen
"Saturday Night Fever", nor bought its soundtrack.  All of a
sudden, here came this young bear of a teacher, a real-life human teacher, completely in love with all these dead composers who got talked about
and played with openly expressed love, love which flowed right into all of
us.  And that was it for me.  I had become a regular listener to a
small, "mom & pop" classical radio station, and went out and
bought almost every record Nicolasha played in class, much to the chagrin of my
Dad, who had evidently come to the conclusion that a Brink's armored car might
actually go to the cemetery with him when he died, because he resented my
acquisitiveness, or the impermanent happiness the music gave me, I couldn't
tell. 
    Our
eyes met again, and I knew.  Nicolasha saw all of this, and let me see
something inside of him, whatever it was.  I was eight years younger than
he was, yet he trusted me, which I thought was pretty cool.  
    The
final bell rang.  The rest of my classmates threw in their papers and
charged out the door to begin the much-anticipated Turkey Day weekend.  I had
put the finishing touches on my last sentence and handed it to Nicolasha, who
stood near me in the doorway, wishing his students an enjoyable Thanksgiving, a
happy holiday, a safe weekend, and a good evening for good measure.  I
gathered my books and put on my Dad's old pea coat while Nicolasha followed
suit with his papers and the KGB-style black leather trench he had worn since
the cold weather began, probably the only piece of clothing he owned that was
worth more than twenty bucks. 
    (Nicolasha
had two suit jackets to his name, one grey and the other brown, both tweed and
fallen on hard times, as well as a couple of identical pairs of tight blue
jeans, white button-down shirts, and a few lackluster knit ties, all in earth
tones.  He never wore a belt, or any other jewelry, and had a single pair
of black loafers worn with a series of grey wool socks, all in desperate need
of replacement.  What did he do with his salary, I used to wonder,
gamble?)
    "You
played that solo really well, Papa Rozh." 
    "It
is one of my favorite Shostakovich melodies.  I could not
resist."  He tucked the violin case under his arm and waited for me
to exit before him.
    "It
sure is sad, though.  Are you thinking of home when you listen to
it?"  I peered at the album cover in Nicolasha's brown leather tote.
    "Home?" 
He handed me the record.
    "You
know, Russia ," noting the album number in my mind.
    We
walked down the cavernous, nearly empty hallway, past a couple of lower
graders, who got patted on their backs and shoulders while they bundled up at
their lockers.  He remained silent until we got outside, where a few
parents waited in their idling cars for their kids.  The sky was already
beginning to darken, and the cold lake wind hit us hard on the face.  
    "It
certainly feels like Russia here sometimes!"  His rich, pleasant
voice had only a tiny trace of accent.  I went to give the album back to
him, but he held up an unlined hand.  "You can have that, if you
would like.  I have a different reading at home."
    I
smiled happily.  "Are you sure?  This is really cool. 
Thanks, Nicolasha."
    He
put his free arm around my shoulders and gave me a gentle cuddle. 
"Happy Thanksgiving."  My eyes closed with a smile as I leaned
into his embrace. 
    I
thanked him again and ran off to catch my southbound commuter train.  Up
on the thick wooden beams of the platform, I watched