Vita Nostra by Marina Dyachenko
She felt as if she had just avoided an enormous tragedy. Actually, it was the same feeling she’d experienced two summers ago, when she saw her dazed Mom next to the stretcher, on which then-still-a-stranger Valentin lay. It was almost joyful—instead of a big tragedy, she faced a relatively small, easy to survive trouble.
“Why is he doing this?” Kostya asked, dunking a moist cracker into his cup of tea.
“You didn’t ask how he is doing this.”
They fell silent. Sasha was almost happy, because the torrent of events completely washed that night, those anchovies, that wrinkled sheet, and those coins on the floor out of their relationship. Incidentally, she collected all those coins, up to the very last one. She hid them in her suitcase, knowing that sooner or later Kozhennikov senior would want to settle the bill.
“Kostya,” Sasha asked softly. “What if you… What if you wanted to drop out of school? Just get up and leave. Won’t he let you go?”
Kostya darkened.
“He and I had a discussion about that,” he said, attempting to fish out wet pieces of his cracker with an aluminum teaspoon, “and in two words or less, I’m not even going to try. My mom is not the healthiest woman, and my grandma’s old… I will stay at school.”
“Right,” Sasha sighed.
Nighttime came. Lisa roamed around somewhere. Oksana fidgeted at her desk for quite a while, trying to memorize the paragraph, then threw the book aside, gulped some moonshine from the rubber hot water bottle all by herself, and went to bed. Sasha hunched over her textbook, honing one exercise after another, climbing up a precipitous icy wall. Read Exercise nine, fall into utter despair for a couple of minutes: no one could accomplish this, it is simply impossible… Rub your eyes, go back to Exercise eight, force yourself to repeat it; re-read Exercise nine. Try it. Squeeze your temples with both hands. Repeat Exercise eight a couple more times; again, attempt Exercise nine and realize that an outline exists, it’s palpable, you just need to be very careful… concentrate very-very hard… get as far as half of the exercise and lose it. And again—lose it right at the beginning. And again—almost get to the end. And again—finish it, but recognize that you will not be able to repeat it. Go back to number eight, run through it, repeat number nine, wincing from the tension. Repeat again. And again. Catch your breath, wipe your tearing eyes, allow yourself a minute of rest, take a sip of cold tea. Read Exercise ten… and again fall into despair.
Friday passed this way. And Friday night through Saturday morning went the same way. At eleven ten, right on schedule, Sasha walked into Auditorium number 38. She contained no fear, no anger. The world around her was dark, and Sasha’s vision narrowed down to a round window the size of an automotive tire.
Instead of Portnov’s face, she saw only his hand with a ring.
“I’m waiting, Samokhina. Full set of Exercises, from one through twelve. If you make a mistake, start again from the very beginning.”
She placed a chair in the middle of the auditorium, steadied herself against its high back, and began.
“Imagine a sphere… mentally distort the sphere so that the external surface is on the inside, and the internal on the outside…”
Twice she lost her place. Once, while transitioning from number seven to number eight, and then on twelve, the trickiest one. Both times she stopped and started all over again. On her third try she finished the entire series without a single pause—like a song, or a dance. Like a tongue twister. Like a long balance beam exercise sequence….
The bright window in front of her eyes narrowed even further. She couldn’t make out Portnov’s face. She saw his desk, the edge of his notebook and his hand with the ring, clenched into a tight fist.
“Good,” his voice sounded hollow. “For this Tuesday: Paragraphs eighteen and nineteen. For next Saturday—Exercises thirteen through seventeen.”
“Good bye,” Sasha said.
She stepped out of the auditorium, nodded to Kostya, blindly found her way to the dorm. She lay down on her bed and switched off her consciousness.
***
“Samokhina, get up. First block is Specialty. Get up, do you hear me?”
Lisa was wearing expensive but very exotic and harsh perfume. Sasha opened her eyes.
“What?”
“It’s Monday morning! Get up, the class starts in half an hour! If you miss one more class, Portnov will burst!”
“Isn’t it Saturday?” Sasha inquired.
“Not anymore! You snored through the entire weekend!”
Mom, Sasha thought. I promised to call her every weekend. I never called… And what about Kostya?
Lisa thrashed about the room half-dressed, pulling on a pair of tights, then stepping into her jeans.
“Oksana! Did you take my pads?”
“I did, the package is in your desk.”
“Idiot, what the hell are you doing, stealing my stuff?”
“Stop screeching, there are some left. I’ll buy you some more.”
“Yeah, sure, you’ll buy me more. If I see you stealing them again, I’ll stick those pads where the sun don’t shine!”
Sasha slipped on her bathrobe and shuffled into the bathroom. In the mirror, a pale, haggard, but calm and even handsome face looked back at her. Sasha blinked: her pupils unfolded and snapped shut again, like black photo diaphragm, then went back to normal.
She took a shower and washed her hair; only then did she discover that her hair dryer had burned out.
“Who broke my hair dryer?”
“Wasn’t me,” Lisa was ready to leave. “The bell is in ten minutes, and I’m not going to listen to Portnov’s hysterics because of you!”
“You’ll have to deal with it, thanks to whoever broke it! Oksana, let me borrow yours.”
“I lent it to Luba from Room 19, she hasn’t returned it yet. Just wrap your hair in a towel, you’ll be fine!”
Sasha dried her hair with a towel as well as she could. She pulled on a knit cap, scrambled into her jacket, threw some books and notepads into her bag and ran across the yard toward the main building. She burst into Auditorium number 1, plopped into her seat next to Kostya; the same second the bell rang.
A minute had passed. Portnov was not there. First years exchanged glances and began to talk softly.
“Think he might be sick?” someone asked hopefully.
“Yeah, right…”
“Keep dreaming…”
The door flew open. Conversations stopped mid-sentence. Portnov walked in, tossed a quick hello, sat behind his desk. He inclined his head and gazed at the students above his glasses. The silence in the auditorium felt sterilized.
“Half of this semester has come and gone,” Portnov stated. “Winter finals are fast approaching. You will have two graded exams: Philosophy and History. And pass-fail exams in all other subjects. Obviously, one of them is Specialty; those who do not pass the first time, will have an unpleasant conversation with your advisors.”
A pencil rolled off Zhenya Toporko’s desk, fell on the floor with a thump, but she did not dare pick it up.
“Today, I must tell you something,” Portnov continued. “I told some of you today during your one-on-one sessions, and now I will tell all of you. The exercises that you are working on, overcoming your tunnel vision and your laziness, change you from the inside. Perhaps you have already noticed. If you have not, you will notice it later.”
He paused. Sasha longed to look at Kostya, but she restrained herself.
“We stand at the very beginning of the road,” Portnov spoke in short, staccato sentences. “Preliminary work is being done. Considering the rate we’re going at, I can swear: in many years, I have never had to teach a more undisciplined, indolent group of students. The only group worse than you is Group B, but they are way below any expectations, and I highly doubt half of those students will be attending the graduation ceremony.”
Silence.
“Samokhina,” Portnov barked.
Sasha got up.
Sasha faced the auditorium.
“How many exercises have you completed?”
“Twelve.”
Portnov faced the audience.
“Have any of you wunderkinds accomplished twelve exercises by now? Pavlenko, how many have you done?”
“Six,” Lisa whispered.
“Toporko, you?”
“Eight…”
“And you, Kozhennikov?”
“Three,” Kostya said. Despite bright red blotches, his face appeared very pale.
“This girl gets a pass automatically,” Portnov did not look at Sasha. “She knows how to study. She became a leader after the very first class, now she is gone far ahead of all of you and can face the winter finals with confidence. You—the rest of you—remember: there are only two graded Specialty exams, a mid-term in your third year, and a placement exam in your fifth year. However, the pass-fail test at the end of each semester will be a significant life-defining event for all of you, I promise you that much. Samokhina, you may sit down.”
Sasha sat down. Behind her back, Group A was hushed. Everyone will hate me, Sasha thought almost cheerfully. Although, you’d think… what is there to envy?
At that moment she felt as if a low ceiling had spread apart within her. Massive concrete walls drifted apart, hit by a ray of light. All that was hairy and dark, all that frightened her, trampled her, in this light looked comical and pathetic. As if the underside of a low-budget horror movie suddenly opened up: used and worn-out monsters, Death in a shroud bearing a dry-cleaner’s stamp, a diminutive overweight director…
“Hey, what’s with you?”
Sasha willed herself to close her eyes—and then open them again. Her classmates scurried around, noisily moving chairs around, somebody laughed out loud. Something had happened.
Portnov was no longer in the auditorium. The door was wide opened.
“What happened?” Sasha squinted.
“The class is over,” Kostya explained dryly. “Gym’s next. Did you bring your uniform?”
***
Things were now happening very fast. Left to her own devices, Sasha reached the third floor after the bell; she joined the line still wearing her jeans and a sweater.
“Look who’s here!” the young gym teacher exclaimed. “Alexandra! How come you never come to class? And when you do show up, you’re not wearing your uniform.”
“She has no time, she’s on a special advanced program,” Lisa volunteered. Somebody sniggered.
“You must remember that Physical Education is a major subject, along with Specialty. And that a winter exam awaits all of you, without pity or consideration!”
The line giggled.
“I’ll go change,” Sasha said.
“Go, but hurry up! We’re starting the warm-up! Turn…. Right! And go! Korotkov, hold the tempo!”
Sasha trotted to the locker room. She shook her wrinkled jogging suit and sneakers out of her bag. The narrow, stuffy locker room was overflowing with shoes, foppish boots with fashionable platform soles and stylish stilettos. Jeans and skirts hung on metal hooks like beef carcasses at the butcher’s, a bunch of sweaters lay crumpled on the bench. Somebody’s sweater fell on the floor. Automatically, Sasha bent down to pick it up.
There was no fear. No courage, either. She felt detached, like a fish in slow-motion. One-two-three-four, counted Dima Dimych. Sneakers thump-thumped on the gym floor. Warm-up was in progress.
***
“She didn’t take it.”
“How do you know that?”
“I know! You’re trying to get even with her for something…”
“Shut up, stop yelling…”
First years from Group A surrounded a bench in the yard. Lisa perched on the back of the bench, stiletto heels propped on the dirty seat.
“Samokhina! I had a hundred bucks in my jacket pocket. Give it back, or you’ll be really sorry.”
Sasha stopped.
The forth block was over. During Philosophy and History, lists of sample exam questions were distributed. Sixty questions each, one hundred and twenty altogether; obviously, she wouldn’t have the time to learn it. She owed Portnov Exercises thirteen through seventeen by Saturday, and tomorrow’s Tuesday, that means individual session, paragraphs…
“Samokhina, are you deaf?”
After her experience during the first block, Sasha’s brain indeed moved a bit slowly.
They crowded around the bench: Lisa in the company of guys, her friends and minions. Kostya, his face red and pathetic. Andrey Korotkov, massive and grim. Zhenya… Igor… Denis…
“What did you say?” Sasha asked.
Lisa jumped off the bench, approached Sasha face to face, lipsticked mouth pulled into a thin line.
“You were alone in the locker room. My jacket was hanging there. A hundred dollars in the pocket.”
“In the right pocket?” Sasha asked.
Kostya’s eyes widened. Boys exchanged glances.
“In the right one,” Lisa agreed softly. “A bunch of thieves around here. Give it back.”
Sasha closed her eyes. She was sleepy. And simultaneously she was hungry for more exercises. Just like she would normally get hungry for food.
“Your money is behind the lining. Just check.”
The bench stood under a linden tree, the leaves had fallen off and were collected by the janitor. One or two remaining leaves still twitched, clawing to the illusion of life, the branches beat upon each other, scratching and rustling. Aside from that sound, the silence was absolute. It was quickly getting dark. The windows in the main building were lit. A streetlight went on in front of the dorm.
“Go ahead, check,” Kostya said nervously.
Lisa stuck her hand into her pocket. She took a long time. Then her delicate face reddened in the dusk, darkened like a ripe fruit.
“And how did you know that?” she twisted toward Sasha. “How did you know? You checked my pockets, didn’t you?”
Sasha shrugged:
“No. I just guessed. And now you need to apologize. Say: I’m sorry, Sasha.”
“What?!”
Again, Sasha lowered her eyelids for a second. The feeling she experienced during the first block was about to make a comeback.
“Apologize. Now, in front of everyone. You accused me of theft.”
“Buzz off,” Lisa suggested.
Sasha took a step forward. Streetlight illuminated her face.
“You heard me, Pavlenko. Don’t push it.”
Lisa stared into Sasha’s eyes. Very quickly, like a slideshow, emotions alternated on her face: anger, surprise, embarrassment, and finally, a flash of fear.
“What do you want?” Lisa mumbled.
“Apologize.”
“Fine, I apologize…”
In total silence, Sasha’s classmates let her pass. She walked through their formation toward the entrance of the dormitory.
***
Snow fell in November. Early mornings, before sunrise, Sasha would leave the dorm and jog around the yard, leaving a chain of footsteps. Around and around. Stepping into her own footsteps. Just like a year ago.
No one forced her. She realized that without those running sessions, without the silence of the deaf and mute morning, without snow under her feet and a cloud of her breath, she would never survive the pressure. Neither physical, not psychological.
At first Kostya ran with her, but then he begged off. He hated getting up that early; he usually slept through the first block (unless the first block happened to be Specialty). Sasha did not mind, she needed to be absolutely alone. Complete silence and the sound of snow under her feet, crunchy or squishy, whatever her luck happened to be.
Mom still wore a cast. She assured Sasha over the phone that everything was just fine, that she got used to the cast, and that her thumb did not hurt anymore. She and Valentin sent Sasha a care package: winter boots, tights, socks, and even a new jacket with a fur-lined hood. The jacket was a
A wintery atmosphere reigned in Room 21: Lisa ignored Sasha, Sasha took no notice of Lisa. At first Oksana attempted to make them reconcile, but then gave up and got busy with her own: she had frequent guests, girls from Group B and sometimes even second-year boys.
“Open house,” Lisa murmured through gritted teeth, but no one was listening. Something fell through with that rented apartment of hers. Either she could not afford it, or could not find a decent place, or perhaps—Sasha could believe it—Portnov forbade her.
Once on the way to the post office (it was Sunday, the day Sasha always called home), she saw Farit Kozhennikov and Lisa walking ahead of her along Sacco and Vanzetti. They walked side by side, Kozhennikov was talking, Lisa was listening, and glancing at her face, Sasha felt a great deal of pity for her.
She slowed down. Snow melted during the November thaw, streams of water ran between the cobblestones just like in the spring, and bright yellow leaves swam on the bottom.
Kozhennikov and Lisa separated at the intersection in front of the post office. Kozhennikov nodded and turned left, crossed the street and disappeared around the corner. Lisa leaned on a naked linden tree.
Sasha longed to go over and say something to her. She took a step; a large puddle made a squelching sound. Sasha leapt aside and went back to reality.
Lisa would not be pleased. Sasha had no power to change anything, at least right now.
She slid behind Lisa’s back and entered the stuffy, post office filled with amber warmth. The whole time she waited for her turn in the long-distance booth, she envisioned how some day she would spit in Kozhennikov’s face. How she would gather a mouthful of saliva—and spit; the old man in front of her was already finishing up his conversation, when Sasha realized—feeling bewildered and discontented—that a fraction of her hatred for Farit Kozhennikov fell on Kostya.
“The son is not responsible for the sins of the father,” she reminded herself. Kostya was just as much a victim of Farit’s, as Sasha herself. He ripped and threw away the paper with his father’s phone number. Farit was not his father at all, maybe just the biological part.
“Are you going to make the call or not?” asked the girl behind the counter.