Vita Nostra by Marina Dyachenko
Sasha sighed. Now she saw Portnov’s classes in a completely different light. Even though reading the textual module still resembled swimming in muddy waters, flashes of enlightenment waited for her on the surface. Even the sets of exercises, which flowed from one into another and formed a highly complex pattern in her mind, now made her happy.
“Toporko, do you have any questions?”
“N-no...”
“Good. Class is dismissed, individual sessions are tomorrow, prefect, please compile a list. Samokhina, nice work.”
***
Portnov praised her; she was pleased with her progress, while sessions with Sterkh were becoming more and more tortuous.
She managed neither track three, nor track four. Sterkh ordered her to return to the first track; Sasha hated this process, and the more time passed, the harder it was for her to even climb up to the fourth floor and enter the sunlit and spacious Auditorium number 14.
Sterkh was getting gloomier with each session. Hints of aggravation were now discernible in his gentle voice.
“Sasha, I am very disappointed. Two weeks have passed since the beginning of this semester, and you… I am getting the impression that you are consciously sabotaging my class.”
“No. I…”
“I am not threatening you. I’m just sorry… I’m worried about you. I never write reports to advisors, at least not during the semester itself. But in the winter we have an exam, and the result of this exam is a document. It’s going to be recorded in your grade book, and your advisor will be forced to take action, I won’t be able to do anything at that point.”
Sasha bit her lip.
“Nikolay Valerievich,” she said hoarsely, “maybe I just don’t have any talent? Could it be that I’m unsuited for this work? Maybe I should,” she stumbled, “maybe I should be expelled, because there is just no point? You don’t need useless students, do you? Because I am trying, honestly, I just can’t…”
The hunchback stroked his chin with long, thin, white fingers:
“Sasha, just drop it. Firstly, if you have been accepted, you are fully capable. Secondly, you must study hard instead of dreaming or twiddling your thumbs.”
“But I am working hard,” Sasha said. “I always have. I’m doing my best.”
“No,” Sterkh said sharply, steepling his fingers. “You are not making an internal effort. Your classmates have gone far ahead of you, new leaders have emerged in your group; Pavlenko is doing very well, Goldman, Kozhennikov… And you are way too restricted; you have gotten yourself into a corner. All your preparatory work—a whole year of extremely intense work!—is being wasted right now… Incidentally, have you thought about solving our delicate issue?”
“What, right here and right now?” Sasha could not help it.
“Not right this minute,” Nikolay Valerievich smiled as if telling her: I forgive this cheek, you silly girl, I understand you are stressed out. “But the sooner, the better. Better for you, Sasha.”
***
There were no more swallows. For a while Sasha stood in the middle of the yard, watching the clear September sky. A sparrow flew by, and above it, over the rare clouds, flew an airplane. Sasha imagined herself in an airplane seat, looking out the window, watching the quilt-like ground beneath her—fields, forests, lakes and a tiny populated area, a town called Torpa. She wondered if one could even see it from an airplane.
Sasha dragged her feet to the post office. Rather, she simply started walking, but her feet dragged her to the post office; she ordered a long-distance call and a minute later stood in the stuffy booth with a plastic receiver in her hand.
“Hello,” said a man’s voice.
“Hello,” said Sasha after a minute pause. “How are things? Can I talk to Mom?”
“Mom sends you her love,” Valentin said readily and cheerfully, almost too cheerfully in Sasha’s opinion. “She’s at the hospital, on bed rest. She could have stayed home, but you know, it’s just safer. She has a terrific doctor, a comfortable room, good conditions. And an excellent prognosis, it looks like you are going to have a baby brother!”
He spoke easily, without pauses, free of any noticeable tension. Sasha relaxed her shoulders:
“When is she coming home?”
“I’m not sure yet. It’s much better to err on the conservative side, you know? I’m going to buy her a cell phone, and you will be able to call her directly!”
“Cool,” Sasha said.
“What’s new with you? How is everything going? How are your classes?”
“Everything is fine,” Sasha rubbed the polished telephone shelf. “I have to go now. Tell Mom I said hello.”
***
Kostya stood at the entrance of the post office. In the last few weeks they had not exactly avoided each other; they’d behaved as distant acquaintances and limited their communication to simple greetings.
“Hello,” Sasha said.
“Hello,” over the summer Kostya had changed; the skinny teenager was replaced with the confident physique of an adult male. He had a tan, and his face looked wind-blown. Sasha remembered that on September first he still stuttered and limped on his right leg, but now all the consequences of Portnov’s “stage” were gone entirely. Kostya had restored himself out of the ruins and once again become himself.
Or nearly himself, Sasha thought sadly. Just like the rest of us.
“Did you call home?” Kostya inquired, suddenly violating the standing order of their current relationship.
“I did,” Sasha said. “Why?”
“How are things at home?”
“Mom’s having a baby,” Sasha admitted, surprising herself. “With the new husband.”
“That’s what’s going on,” Kostya murmured.
“Yes, that’s what it is,” Sasha forced herself to straighten up. “See you.”
“Wait,” Kostya said to her back. “Do you have five minutes?”
“Five, but no more.”
“But no less, either?” Kostya smiled tensely.
They moved towards a gray park bench covered with picturesque yellow leaves. Sasha blinked; for a moment she imagined that the bench was purple, and the leaves blue. In the last few days she learned to change the colors of the outside world—or rather her perception of those colors—on her own accord, and now during boring lectures on constitutional law she could entertain herself by mentally changing the color of her professor’s face, the tint of her hair, the shades of her blouse and handkerchief.
“Sasha,” Kostya said. “I need to talk to you.”
“I noticed.”
“I love you,” Kostya said.
“What?!”
“I love you,” he shrugged, as if apologizing. “Forgive me, I was an idiot, I love you, marry me.”
The leaves turned green, the bench—bright orange. Sasha blinked.
“And I don’t love you,” Sasha said. “And I am not going to forgive you. If you crave regular sex, and you can’t afford a prostitute, then marry Zhenya. She’d love to marry you.”
Kostya paled. Sasha saw his Adam’s apple twitch. His tan, bronze just a minute ago, was now yellow, like a lemon.
“Good luck,” Sasha said, and her voice broke. She did not know why she’d said what she said, and why she had used those particular words. However, a word spoken was past recalling. Sasha turned and, with increasing speed, followed Sacco and Vanzetti toward the institute.
Where did he come from? Why did he come to her right now, when winter exams hung over her like a guillotine? While Mom was on bed rest, and Valentin was discussing their bright and happy future in a forced cheerful voice? In the summer she never thought of Kostya… Actually, she only thought of him when she saw him, just as detached and indifferent as she was herself. Back then she did not care about Kostya, she turned into a puddle of warm wax, she saw through the sky, but she couldn’t walk through an ordinary door. And on September first he sat next to Zhenya, and Sasha took it as a sign of fate, and she never wanted
Why did she bring up prostitutes?
But why did he sleep with Zhenya on New Year’s Eve, when he and Sasha did not even have a fight? If they had quarreled, screamed at each other, slammed the doors… then she would understand. Of course, Sasha would not have forgiven him either. Or maybe she would have, because a fight is one thing, it’s another thing entirely to just get drunk and jump into somebody else’s bed…
A group of third years stood by the school entrance. Zakhar turned and waved to Sasha:
“Greetings to the young nubile generation! How’s it hangin’?”
“A little to the left,” Sasha responded and wondered where she could have picked up this vulgar turn of phrase.
The third years laughed heartily, as if it were the funniest joke they’d ever heard.
***
October came.
Sasha sat in auditorium fourteen, and across from her sat Sterkh, and they had been quiet for the last fifteen minutes. Sasha’s lips were dry; all the words she could say—”I’m trying,” “I’m working hard,” “It’s not working for me,” “I cannot”—all these words had already been said multiple times. Sterkh, sad and haggard, moved his shoulders more than usual, as if the hump on his back really annoyed him.
Rain fell outside. The water rustled in the pipes. Tiny drops flew into the open window.
“How are you doing in Specialty? Oleg Borisovich seems pleased with your progress…”
Strangely enough, in the last few weeks Portnov’s exercises became Sasha’s safe haven. Mind-bending, occasionally almost crippling, they “worked”—they gave in to her efforts. And Sterkh’s assignments did not; for almost a week now Sasha did not even try to play the CD. She felt disgust; no, even worse—she felt repulsion.
“Did you work on it yesterday?”
“No.”
“And the day before yesterday?”
“Nikolay Valerievich, I can’t!”
The hunchback shook his head heavily:
“This is not good, Alexandra. I hate threatening someone, reprimanding people… punishing them… But right now you are your own worst enemy. Only you, no one else. Go and think about your fate. About the winter test. About the exam, which is a little more than a year away. And think about what your advisor is going to say regarding your “I can’t.” As soon as you feel ready to work, let me know. I am prepared to give you additional time. I will help you as much as I can. But you, yourself, have to step over the threshold. You must make that decision.”
***
Denis Myaskovsky was waiting for his individual session with Portnov, eating chips out of a plastic bag. Sasha hopped on the windowsill next to him.
“Denis, I have a serious question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“Liliya Popova—who is she?”
Denis choked. Potato chips first got stuck in his throat, then flew out of his mouth in a fan of crumbs.
“Ugh,” Myaskovsky coughed.
Sasha knocked him on the back. Myaskovsky fought to control his breathing.
“Did you put a lot of thought into this?” he sounded offended.
“I need to know,” Sasha said. “I am failing Introduction to Applied Science.”
Denis gaped at her.
“You?!”
“Yes. I am going to fail for sure. I need to know, I want… Maybe it’s possible to change advisors? What do you think?”
“You have Kozhennikov,” Denis said slowly.
“Yes,” Sasha rubbed her palms together nervously.
“I don’t envy you. Lisa, for instance—if anybody mentions Kozhennikov’s name in front of her, she goes white and starts shaking and then she starts punching you. And then, your face beaten into a bloody pulp, take a long time explaining to her that you actually meant Kostya, who is a perfectly normal guy and is himself suffering in the clutches of his father…”
“And Popova?” Sasha asked greedily. “Have you tried negotiating with her?”
Denis looked grim.
“Actually, you know… she wears velvet gloves… But there is definitely an iron fist. And really, I was just talking to some guys here, and all the advisors are the same. It’s just that some drop F-bombs, and some don’t.”
Denis smirked, pleased with his own joke, and was about to say something else, but at this moment the door of the auditorium thirty-eight opened, and out came Zhenya Toporko, looking very pale and solemn.
She met Sasha’s eyes. Zhenya suddenly went red, raised her chin up in the air and walked by without a single word.
“What is up with her?” Denis murmured, grabbing his bag. “Well, wish me luck.”
At that point Portnov himself appeared in the doorway, an unlit cigarette stuck behind his ear.
“Come in, Myaskovsky, and open the window. Samokhina, is this your time slot? What are you doing here?”
“She is wondering whether it’s allowed to change advisors,” reported guileless Denis. Sasha froze.
Portnov gave her a sharp glance.
“It is not allowed,” he said curtly. “Myaskovsky, open the window, I am going to smoke. Samokhina, good-bye.”
***
The next day the sun came up, clear and even warm, surrounded by an insubstantial escort of diminutive transparent clouds. Sasha skipped the first block, gym class. When her roommates finally left for their Specialty lecture, she opened the dresser and there, in the crowded jumble of her own and someone else’s clothes, she found her old winter jacket.
She stuck her hand into the right pocket. Empty.
She tried the left pocket. Also empty, aside from some loose change.
For some reason she thought of the day when, out of the blue, Lisa Pavlenko accused her of stealing a hundred dollars. She remembered figuring out that the bill fell behind the pocket lining. Sasha remembered seeing the bill for a split second. She’d never experienced anything like that afterwards. Almost never.
Almost without hope she put her hand back into the right pocket and there, behind the thin synthetic lining, she found a paper rectangle.
Impatiently, she made the hole in the pocket bigger and pulled out a business card, along with some crumbs and pieces of thread—a single phone number, no name. A cell phone, even though here in Torpa cell phones were still a rare commodity.
The alley that led to Sacco and Vanzetti smelled of leaves and decay. Yesterday’s rainwater stood in deep puddles—the brown mass of leaves filled up the drains. Sasha stood for a while near the corner phone booth, lifting her head to the warm sun.
The she picked up the receiver and dialed the number referring to the business card.
“Hello,” said a very distant male voice.
“Hello,” Sasha croaked. “It’s me, Samokhina.”
“Hello, Sasha. Is anything wrong?”
“Not yet. But it soon will be.”
“You’re scaring me,” said Farit Kozhennikov.
“Did Sterkh… Has he said anything to you about me?”
He was silent.
“Sterkh wouldn’t say anything, Sasha. At least before the test. What happened?”
Sasha paused, not knowing how to explain.
“Sasha? Can you hear me?”
“I am going to fail the test,” Sasha said. “I won’t pass this exam, not the first time, and not the second. This is it, this is the end.”
One more pause.
“Where are you calling from?”
“I’m on the street corner. In the phone booth. The thing is, my mom is having a baby…”
“I understand. Meet me in half an hour, in front of the Institute.”
***
“She’s due right before the winter exams.”
“And?”
They walked slowly along Sacco and Vanzetti. Past a street sweeper gathering leaves, past a girl with a dachshund. The stucco moldings of an old building dampened with rainwater, the pale faces of caryatides stared blindly and dispassionately.
“I want... I want her to be healthy, and the baby, too.”
‘That’s a perfectly natural wish. So?”
Sasha stopped in her tracks and turned to face him. Saw her own reflection in the dark lenses.
“I want to make a deal with you. Pay whatever I can. I can do a hundred exercises in one night. I can...” She stumbled. “I can do anything. Except for those... those CD tracks. I physically cannot. And mentally... I cannot. You can chop off my hand if you want...”
“And what would I do with your hand?”
“What do you do with all of this?” Sasha shouted in a whisper. “Why do you need this Institute? Why force us do these things... all of this? What have we done to deserve this?”
She forced herself to shut up. The town of Torpa led an unhurried, picturesque existence; steam rose out of several chimneys. Smoke-blue and black pigeons stomped about in a puddle, swallowed, throwing their heads back, allowing water to slide down their throats. Dew drops sparkled on the withered grass of the boulevard.
Kozhennikov stood, leaning his head to one side. Sasha saw two reflections of herself in his dark mirrored glasses.
“There is absolutely no way of negotiating with you, is there?” she said, her voice as low as a whisper. Her lips felt numb.
“Sasha,” he answered in the same manner, almost whispering and almost friendly. “The world is full of entities that people cannot negotiate with. But somehow people survive, don’t they?”
“Some do,” Sasha’s toes froze inside her sneakers. “Some die.”
“That has nothing to do with you,” Kozhennikov said even softer. “And nothing to do with your family. I know you can do it. There is no reason why you couldn’t pass this test with excellent results. No reason at all.”
“I can’t,” she shook her head. “I cannot do what he wants me to!”