“Picasso”: The First Lesson in “Sex Ed”

Time: 1992
Place: a typical Soviet school
Characters: Igor Stepanovich Vorontsov (school nickname — Stepkashka), 35, a charismatic homeroom teacher, a practicing Orthodox Christian; the students.

Right after March 8 another “enlightener” showed up at the school where Kirill studied — from yet another public organization. A strict businesslike lady of about forty-five had been tasked by the district education office to give several lectures on sex education to the older students. It turned out that in this sphere we had fallen so hopelessly behind the entire civilized world that all sixteen-year-olds urgently needed enlightenment on the subject.

As always, the first victim of this “enlightenment” was 11-A, and, as always, Stepkashka was eavesdropping.

“Dear children,” the “enlightener” began rapturously, leaning her palms on the teacher’s desk. “Ah, but you’re not children anymore… Grown, handsome young men and women who want to breathe the air of freedom and independence full-chested. Not long ago that freedom was cruelly suppressed by communist ideology and you had to fight for it. But now a life full of amazing opportunities is opening before you. However, the gloomy ideological legacy of the past keeps you from fully enjoying this wonderful life — the life your peers in Europe and America live. Good, beautiful kids just like you… Imagine: in one of the televised bridges between the USSR and the USA, one of our…” — the “enlightener” coughed — “…ahem, a woman… announced to the whole world that there is no sex in the USSR. Disgraceful! How far we have sunk! In our society there is utter incomprehension of this very important aspect of human interaction. Our people don’t know elementary things! They don’t know how to use contraceptives. They don’t know the techniques of sexual intercourse. They are embarrassed by their feelings and desires. And what comes of this?! Frustration, prudery, primitivism… Young people who could be giving each other the joy of bodily intimacy become estranged, they walk around sullen and embittered, afraid of their own feelings. And because they don’t know how to use basic condoms, the epidemics of AIDS and venereal diseases are growing… Well, nothing — after you listen to my lectures…”

After that Stepkashka tuned out. Hmm… The lecturer wasn’t a yoga teacher, and this time he couldn’t throw her out of the school like back then. Still, he decided to try.

After the lecture the “enlightener” came out into the corridor excited, and behind her the even more excited 11-A was buzzing, discussing what they had heard.

Vorontsov approached, gallantly introduced himself. The lady adjusted her hair, took a couple of deep breaths, and said:

“Yes, very nice. I’m listening.”

Igor Stepanovich brought all his eloquence to bear to persuade her not to give the lecture to his class — just sign the register and hurry home to her family.

“I don’t have a family,” the “enlightener” snapped. “I give all my time to the children… and all my energy.”

“Unflagging, indeed,” thought Igor Stepanovich, and kept pleading, promising he himself would explain everything clearly and sensibly to his students, piling up arguments, each more far-fetched than the last.

At last she nearly gave in.

“Well… perhaps with the principal’s consent…”

And Vorontsov dashed to the principal.

“You see, this woman confided to me that she finds it very inconvenient to deliver the lecture in my class, as she has some very important meeting scheduled that day. So, if you don’t mind, I could discuss all this with my class myself.”

The principal found it strange, but in the end she almost agreed:

“Well, if she insists that much…”

Stepkashka nodded vigorously. The matter was settled.

* * *

At the next homeroom hour Igor Stepanovich announced to the students that, according to the district’s plan, he would be talking with them about family life.

Exclamations rang out:

“Why not that lady? She told 11-A such things!” There was laughter and joking from those already in the know.

“She’s busy today,” Vorontsov replied. “I think I can tell you everything no less interestingly.”

“And will you tell us about condoms?!” someone yelled from the back row.

Everyone burst out laughing.

“I will.”

“Oh! Then let’s go!”

Igor Stepanovich drew a deep breath and began.

“First, I’ll give you a few rules on how to make a good marriage… well, or how to marry well.”

“Are there really such rules?”

“There are. You can even write them down. Following them, of course, won’t guarantee one hundred percent that you’ll build a strong family, but it will greatly increase the chances of success. So…”

“You should marry for love,” shouted Vika Shcherbatova.

Igor Stepanovich took a piece of chalk.

“You’re right and not right at the same time. Do you know what ‘marriage’ is in Ukrainian?”

“A good thing wouldn’t be called ‘defective’!” Tolya Bekshin quipped (playing on brak meaning both “marriage” and “defect” in Russian).

“And yet,” Stepkashka looked around the class. “You don’t know. In Ukrainian it’s ‘shliub’,” — he wrote the word on the board. “And do you know where it comes from?” — he erased the first letter and wrote an s instead — “sliub — to ‘grow into love’ (slyubytysia).”

“Ira!” cried Sasha Samokhin, theatrically stretching his arms toward his seatmate. “Let’s grow into love!”

“Oh, get lost,” Ira batted him away, coquettishly.

“But here’s the rub,” Igor Stepanovich went on. “To love and to be infatuated are two different things… All right, quiet down…”

The class grew a bit noisy, and to stop it, Stepkashka said:

“Right, open your notebooks… and write.”

“What notebooks, Igor Stepanovich?”

“For sex education!” someone yelled.

“At least your geometry ones,” Vorontsov said. “Now then. Draw a table,” — he started sketching a table on the board. “Left column — Love; right column — Infatuation. Difference number one: love is altruistic; infatuation is egoistic.”

“That’s too abstruse, Igor Stepanovich.”

“I’ll explain. The motto of infatuation is: ‘I feel good with you.’ See? I feel good! Whether you feel good with me is a secondary question. The main thing is that I feel good with you. The motto of love is: ‘I will act so that you feel good.’”

“Feel good with me,” corrected the teacher’s phrasing Sveta Demidova. “I’ll act so you feel good with me.”

“No, Demidova. A loving person is ready to sacrifice everything — even himself and his own happiness — for the beloved.”

“No! Igor Stepanovich, we disagree,” other girls backed Sveta. “Love has to be mutual.”

“Remember this: true love can sometimes be not mutual. But… it is always self-sacrificing. Next, difference number two — when you love, you love the whole person, with all his virtues and shortcomings. Infatuation is always for something. Usually it’s looks. Or even some part of the looks — eyes, say, or the face…”

“Legs!” someone shouted.

“Yes, legs too,” agreed Vorontsov. “It can be some personality trait — wit, the ability to make you laugh, to dance well — anything. Sometimes they even fall in love, especially girls, with some particular act. For example…” — he raised his eyes to the ceiling and paused for a second — “they’re walking together… in the evening from the library… and she shivers from the cold. He takes off his jacket and puts it on her… That’s it! She can fall in love not even with the person, but with that jacket. Because she felt so warm and, most importantly, she felt cared for… and so on. And then she usually endows this man with all the qualities she wants to see in him, and that’s that. She tells herself she loves him, she swoons and sighs — and it lasts exactly until her eyes are finally opened and she sees him as he truly is. And that, by the way, can be very cruel. Especially if, in the heat of that passion, you do things you’ll later regret… There’s a joke about it.”

“Oh!” the class hummed. “A joke, please!”

“Two friends meet, and one says, ‘Imagine, I met this girl… fell in love with her at first sight.’ ‘And then?’ says the second. ‘Did you marry her?’ ‘No.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘Because I looked at her a second time.’”

Everyone laughed.

“Witty.”

“Instructive,” said Igor Stepanovich. “Strange as it may sound, we usually fall in love not with a person, but with our idea of him. We make things up, fantasize — and then it turns out the person is nothing like that.”

“A mirage,” someone exclaimed.

“Yes, a mirage. Did you write that into your table? You can truly love only a real person — the whole person — as he is. Moving on… Difference number three. Love is constant; infatuation is temporary. However deeply you’re infatuated, the moment will come when it ends. Do you know how long infatuation lives? At most?”

Guesses rang out.

“A month! A day! Two! A year! Ten years! Five!”

The teacher egged them on:

“Who’ll go higher? In fact, no infatuation can last more than three and a half years.”

“Why?”

“You know the saying, ‘I’ve eaten a peck of salt with him’? Meaning I know him through and through. Well, a peck of salt for two is eaten in about three and a half years. In that time people get to know each other as they really are. And then infatuation either grows into love, or it doesn’t. That’s called disillusionment. And it’s better to be disillusioned before you tie your life to someone than after.”

Stepkashka looked over the students, gauging their reaction.

“Igor Stepanovich,” Ira Golubeva said unhurriedly, “so what is love, after all?”

“There’s no definition per se,” the teacher smiled. “But there is a description of its signs. Write this down: ‘Love suffers long and is kind; love does not envy; love does not boast, is not proud, does not behave rudely, does not seek its own, is not provoked, thinks no evil; does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth; bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails…’ Hear that!” — he raised his voice slightly. — “Love never fails!”

Nearly half the class diligently copied it into their notebooks.

“Where’s that from?”

“The New Testament. First Epistle to the Corinthians by the Apostle Paul.”

Golubeva wrote that down too.

“Well, back to where we started. How to marry well.”

“To get married!” shouted Slavik Megilov.

“Well, whichever applies. Rule one,” Vorontsov paused, “you’ve probably heard the phrase that marriages are made in heaven?”

“Yes.”

“So then, for a marriage to be successful, you must pray to God about it,” — he raised his index finger upward — “to those very heavens. Yes, yes, write it just like that: ‘pray to God.’ Second… Marriage is this thing,” — he scratched the back of his head — “honestly… no matter how hard you try, no matter how scrupulously you follow the rules I’m telling you… marriage is still a lottery. Nothing guarantees you’ll draw a winning ticket. But!” — he raised his voice again and his index finger — “you must enter marriage with the awareness that this ticket is the only one you get in life. If you think something like… Eh! Didn’t work out, I’ll draw another. And then another. And another… Then at every difficulty — and there will be plenty in family life — you’ll rush to draw the next ticket. And with each next ticket the odds get smaller, and smaller, and smaller… But if you’re set on the idea that this is your only chance, then you’ll strive with all your might to overcome those difficulties. And most likely your marriage will indeed be happy.”

“So what if the husband, say, is an alcoholic — he beats his wife, the kids — what, you can’t divorce him?!” Oksana Potapenko flared up. “We’ve got neighbors…”

“Why marry an alcoholic?” Slavik blurted.

“I wasn’t asking you,” Oksana snapped.

“We’re not dealing with special cases right now,” said Igor Stepanovich. “In life, of course, anything happens. Sometimes divorce is… well… the lesser evil. Generally speaking — yes,” — he stepped out from behind the desk and walked up to two gossips in the second row who were animatedly chatting about something of their own. “Whoever doesn’t listen to the teacher won’t know how to choose a husband,” — the girls fell silent and exchanged glances. “And she might choose… not the right one… Isn’t that so, Sorokina?”

Sorokina smiled, embarrassed. Igor Stepanovich continued:

“And then it’ll be like the Ukrainian saying: ‘Báchyly óchy, shchó kupuvály — téper yízhte, khóch povylázte.’”
(“Your eyes saw what you were buying — now eat it, even if your eyes pop out,” i.e., you knew what you were getting into; now deal with it.)

Everyone laughed.

“All right. Rule three,” he paused again. “Heed your parents’ opinion.”

The class grew noisy with protests:

“Aw, come on, Igor Stepanovich, what are you saying…”

“That’s just…”

“We’re choosing for ourselves, not for our parents…”

“Then you might never get married at all.”

“Easy, easy,” Vorontsov raised his hands. “You weren’t listening closely. I didn’t say ‘obey your parents,’ but ‘heed their opinion.’ At least that. Because your parents may see in your chosen one what you don’t see,” — he pressed a hand theatrically to his heart. “‘Oh, Mama! I love him so much. He’s so good!’ But your mother looks at him more soberly and sees that he’s not so very good at all. And besides, parents are the people who wish you happiness more than anyone in the world. And they think about you being happy not only right now this minute, but five, ten years from now… Wrote it down? Heed your parents. Next… Rule four: choose your partner from your own circle,” — he made several circular motions with his hand, as if helping himself along. “So that you’re roughly the same age, have similar views on life, education, social status… level of means…”

Some of the girls grimaced at that.

“Yes, yes. That too. Unequal marriages — where, say, a pauper marries a princess or vice versa — are very rarely happy. As a rule the poor husband gets reproached: ‘We picked you up out of the trash, cleaned you up, and you…’ He develops an inferiority complex… And usually it all ends in a breakup after they’ve thoroughly frayed each other’s nerves.

“Igor Stepanovich, there are exceptions, though.”

“There are. But they say exceptions only prove the rule… Or take social background… He’s from a family of hereditary collective farmers, she’s from a family of university professors. Sure, they fell in love, they dote on each other… But the honeymoon is over — and what then? Their lifestyles, interests, habits, education are completely different… Can their love overcome all that?” — the teacher spread his hands. “Well, if it’s true love, perhaps it can. But the probability of a sad outcome is very high. So you need to get to know each other better first. So that if you do decide to tie your life to such a person, you know what you’re getting into and what awaits you.”

“Báchyly óchy, shchó kupuvály…” someone echoed Stepkashka.

“Exactly!” said Igor Stepanovich. “Or mixed-nationality marriages — now, I have nothing against other nationalities,” — he laid a hand on his chest. “But if you marry, say, a Turk or an Indian…”

“A Chukchi!” Megilov shouted.

The class burst out laughing.

“…then you risk learning a whole lot of unexpected things after the wedding. And it’s not a given you’ll be able to live with them. So the next rule… what number are we on?”

“Five!”

“Five. Don’t rush. Get to know your intended as well as possible. Do you know the simplest way to do that?” — Igor Stepanovich paused for effect. “Try hanging wallpaper together in a room.”

The class laughed again.

“Yup — and if you manage it without quarrelling to pieces, then maybe you’ll make it as a couple. That’s almost a joke, and seriously — first, you need time… ideally those same three and a half years… or at least a year, a year and a half. Second, you should spend time in your intended’s family as often as possible and watch not how he treats you but how he treats his own people. With you he can shower pearls: bring flowers, call you sweet names, grant your every wish… But if at the same time he’s rude to his parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters — says things like ‘buzz off,’ ‘shut up,’ ‘none of your business’… you can be sure that once you marry him, he’ll say the same to you. And don’t cherish illusions you’ll quickly ‘re-educate’ him. Third: when you choose a partner, always remember you’re choosing not only a husband or wife, but a father or mother for your children. If he, for example, dances well, sings, plays the guitar — the life of the party — and you have a fun time with him… think about this: you get married, have kids, and he’s still off running with the gang playing guitar. And you’re alone at home with a mountain of unwashed diapers,” — Igor Stepanovich spread his hands and looked around the class questioningly. “So maybe it’s better to notice the one who isn’t hopping around discos right now, but sits over his textbooks, plans to enter a university, get a good profession, a job, provide for a family. Ask yourself: ‘Do I want this person to be the father of my children?’”

“No, Igor Stepanovich!” Liza Sorokina drawled in disappointment. “This is all dull and uninteresting. You’ve painted such a… down-to-earth picture, not romantic at all.”

“I don’t understand, Sorokina. Where are you planning to live — on earth or floating in the clouds all the time?”

“No, I mean… evenings by candlelight, moonlit walks, all those sighs, romance,” Liza said dreamily.

The class laughed.

“And why do you think none of that belongs with what I’m talking about? Go ahead, walk under the moon, sigh by candlelight, write each other love letters…” He suddenly faltered and, without meaning to, cast a quick glance at Demidova. “Ahem, yes…” He seemed to lose his train of thought. “Yes… er… And one more rule — the sixth, right? One very important condition — the pledge of a happy family life. The absence of premarital sexual relations.”

Now almost the entire class burst into an uproar.

“Oh, come on! Igor Stepanovich! What are you saying?!”

“We don’t live in the Middle Ages!”

“What nonsense!”

“Nonsense?” Vorontsov echoed. “Do you know that no one on earth knows the answer to one simple question: where do children come from? —” he looked over the students’ faces stretched in surprise. “Oh yes. Not a single scientist, philosopher, or religion of the world can clearly explain where a human person comes from. Yet everyone knows that he appears as a result of the sexual act. I’ll explain,” — the teacher took the chalk and turned to the board.

The bell rang, but no one moved.

“A human being consists of three parts: body, soul, and spirit,” — he wrote the words and boxed each one. “What ‘body’ is — that’s clear. The soul is our ‘I,’ our consciousness — ego in Greek. The soul thinks, feels, makes decisions… As someone said — I forget who — ‘the soul is what hurts when the whole body is healthy.’ And the spirit… the spirit is what God breathed into the face of Adam when He formed him from the dust of the ground…”

“Man came from the ape!” Kolya Nechaev shouted. “Haven’t you read?”

“Those who came from apes,” Igor Stepanovich replied, “can stop listening. For the rest I repeat: God breathed into Adam the breath of life. This spirit is manifest in each of us in that we have a conscience…”

“The moral law,” Gladun exclaimed.

“Yes, good job, Lesha, you remembered. Conscience and… the idea of God. The idea of God is… well, we can believe in God, we can believe He doesn’t exist, but the very concept of God — this idea — could not have appeared in us any other way than from God Himself. The thought of God cannot be derived from anything within our world. But never mind. So, look what happens. When a sexual act occurs…”

“Coitus,” Zalesky snickered.

“When a sexual act occurs, bodies unite,” — the teacher tapped the word body on the board with the chalk. “But what results is a person,” — he circled all three words with the chalk. “With a soul and a spirit. Question! Where did the soul — and especially the spirit — come from?”

They pondered for a minute. Then the straight-A student Golubeva raised her hand.

“Well… maybe… God gives them too?”

Vorontsov tossed the chalk and caught it.

“All right. We open the Bible and read: ‘On the seventh day God rested from all His works’ — that is, God created the world and rested from all His works. He is not creating anything now, but only providentially sustaining what He created. So — where do the soul and spirit come from?”

Silence.

“Don’t bother. There is no answer to this. Even Christianity — the most theologically developed religion — cannot answer it in its doctrine. It only says where souls definitely do not come from. God does not create any new souls, and God does not have a stash of souls created earlier, on the sixth day. Some other religions have such a teaching about the pre-existence of souls. Christianity rejects it.”

“Maybe,” Golubeva ventured timidly, “maybe souls also somehow join together?”

“Ira!” the irrepressible Sasha Samokhin cried. “Let’s at least let our souls grow into love!”

“Well,” the teacher shrugged. “First, we know nothing about the soul’s sexual organs… Most likely they don’t exist. Second, there’s such an ugly thing as rape. Souls most certainly don’t unite there — and yet children sometimes result,” — Igor Stepanovich tossed the chalk again. “Anyway — why am I telling you all this… As a result of what you call coitus a miracle happens — a miracle our minds cannot even comprehend. Which means we must treat the sexual act as a sacrament…” — he paused a moment. “One more question. Why has mankind from time immemorial covered precisely its reproductive organs? Why is one ashamed to display those to the public eye? Well… Who was it who ‘came from apes’? Answer me… No ape, no cow, no wolf — none of them would ever even think of doing that. So tell me, how are those organs different from all the others we show without any embarrassment?”

“Yeah!” Sasha Kucher exclaimed in surprise. “Why indeed?”

“Because,” Vorontsov replied, “in man’s subconscious there is this sense of the sacred. What do we hide? A mystery, yes? Here’s a familiar thing no one ever really thinks about. Why? Because… A human being senses that the union of bodies is a mystery, a wonder — a wonder because precisely in it new life is conceived. A new life begins at the moment the male and female sex cells unite…” — here Vorontsov looked at the students and grew very serious — “at that moment a new human being appears, with a soul and a spirit that come from we-know-not-where, but which have a divine origin…”

He lowered his voice, and the room fell still. The class seemed to catch the teacher’s reverent mood.

“And that human being — that living soul — must never be killed. Do you hear me? I want you to remember this for the rest of your life,” — and then he did the incredible: he climbed up onto the teacher’s desk, stood to his full height, and, stretching his hands out to the class, exclaimed: “Never! Do you hear me? Never, in your whole life, consent to an abortion! No matter what happens! Whatever the circumstances! Never kill a living soul!”

Yes. That was unforgettable.

For a few seconds all were silent: Vorontsov frozen atop the desk, the students thunderstruck…

No one noticed the door open and the principal walk into the classroom.

To be continued…

The previous episode of the book is available here.