What a lark! Where’s the plunge?

‘Dyusha, where is Mama?’

‘Over there, with her camera.’

‘Tell her to look this way, with her camera. I’m going to do it this time. It’s like flying.’

‘вздор. Not THAT again!’

‘It IS like flying…’ he muttered as Andrey turned around to leave.

‘I’m going back inside.’

And Andrey did go back inside, leaving Ivan on his own to face the cold oily water and their mother’s indifference.

But Ivan had dreamt it many times, that you could fly just like the way you swim. Breaststroke. Whipping the water with your legs, making half-moons with your arms, making your way out of the old water to dive into new salty wetness.

Ivan knew, that if men were to fly, they would fly the breaststroke. And they would whip the rosy clouds, and draw wide open clams in the night sky.

‘Mama, Now!’

And as Van’ka was about to take off, he heard the fatal shutter click.

For a moment, he thought his mother had seen another boy take off before vanishing into the dying of the light. But she was looking the other way, into the horizon on the LCD screen of her new Nikon.

Now!