Vita Nostra

by Marina Dyachenko

  “Sasha, do you consider yourself a corporeal entity?”

  The question was posed in such an indulgent, casual manner that Sasha involuntary blinked.

  “Aren’t I?”

  The hunchback smiled. In front of him on the teacher’s desk lay a thin attendance journal and a CD player. A while ago Sasha dreamed of having one like that.

  “Yes,” Nikolay Valerievich nodded. “At this stage you are quite a bit more physical than I would have liked. We have three semesters to fight this, three semesters during which you will continue destroying your material constituent and building up your informational element. Your conceptual aspect. Your ideal, if you prefer, although in this case this definition is not precise. And we will fight for precise definitions, Sasha, this is going to be very important to us—the accuracy of our definitions… Did you have a question?”

  Portnov never allowed the luxury of questions. Sasha looked away for a moment and watched the linden trees outside the window. On the first day of September they looked green, like in the middle of the summer.

  She could ask what they should expect at the placement exam in a year and a half. Or, what sort of professional abilities she has demonstrated, and what she would be doing for a living. She could have asked a hundred of questions that Portnov refused to answer and that puzzled all her classmates. But all she asked was:

  “Do you happen to know… back then, during winter break… if I killed anyone?”

  The hunchback did not seem surprised.

  “No. By the way, this episode is quite typical. That was the first time in your life when your informational constituent jeopardized the material aspect. Unfortunately, the manner in which it happened was impossible to control, spontaneous and very dangerous. Did you suffer?”

  Sasha looked away.

  “I see. If you think that you’re being trained to become a monstrous killer, you are mistaken.”

  “What am I being trained to become?” the words escaped, surprising her.

  The hunchback moved his shoulders, as if stretching his aching back.

  “Too early, my girl. It’s too soon for you to know. Right now you are still a slave of a framework, a plaster mold with a hint of imagination. With memory, with a personality… Yes. I am going to lend you this thing,” his hand with very long pale fingers touched the CD player. “If you wish, you can also use it to listen to music. You are allowed. And this disk,” a paper envelope was placed on the table, “this disk I’m giving you to work on. Please take care of it. You are a second year student, you know how important certain objects are. And one more thing: before we begin working together, I want to discuss a rather delicate matter. Sasha, it is highly desirable for you to part with your virginity: it is becoming a serious impediment in your development.”

  Sasha blushed so fiercely that her cheeks ached.

  “What… What difference does it make?”

  “Everything makes a difference. You will be changing not only from inside, but… you will undergo all sorts of changes. Your sensual experience makes a difference, your hormonal status… as well as physiological aspects. Informational balance of your organism. I appreciate your serious attitude towards life, your restraint. Your virtue. But work is work. I’m not saying today or tomorrow. You have time. But start thinking in this direction. Agreed?”

  ***

  The swallows hadn’t left yet. They circled over the yard, perhaps for the last time. Their young flew around in small clusters.

  Sasha estimated the distance to the dorm—across the yard. Every day it was different. Occasionally she managed it in only two steps (a sensation of falling and wind in her ears). And sometimes it took her a few hours, as if she had to cross a desert. Her bag pulled on her shoulder, and Sasha kept walking towards the entrance that kept moving away, becoming more and more distant.

  She fixed the handle on her shoulder, balanced on her spot, catching her equilibrium. She took the first step; the swallows swept past her face, nearly trimming her eyebrows with the sharp point of their wings.

  Here’s a tree. And here’s the bench. And the porch. Sasha placed her foot on the lower step, held it there to make sure that the porch did not slide out of reach. That’s it. She’d made it. Every time it got easier; perhaps, Portnov was right, and soon she would again be normal… or, rather, return “to the state that is deemed normal at this point.”

  The key from Room 21 that Sasha for so long had at her complete disposal was missing from the board. As usual, Sasha fumbled for the door frame leading to the staircase. She turned her head—and met the eyes of a new first year student.

  Short hair, very pale skin. Blond, dark eyes. He stared at her with a terrified expression on his face. Sasha smiled, trying to comfort him.

  “Hey. Welcome!”

  “Hey. What happened to you?”

  “Nothing. Why?”

  The boy licked his lips.

  “Nothing. So, I’m gonna go, all right?”

  “My name is Sasha,” Sasha said, unexpectedly for herself.

  “I’m Yegor.”

  “Good luck, Yegor,” Sasha wished.

  Carefully probing each step, she traveled up the stairs.

  Her roommates had already returned from their classes. Sasha entered without knocking; suitcases stood open on the floor. One roommate, Vika, her hair dark and curly, was hanging up her clothes. The other one, Lena, plump and white like a cinnamon bun, sat on her bed with an expression of utter despair on her round and blue-eyed, almost doll-like face. Next to her on the bed lay the textual module with the number “1” on its cover.

  Sasha sniffed the air:

  “Were you smoking? Fair warning, girls: if I catch you smoking in this room, I’ll throw you out of the window, along with the cigarette. We have bathrooms, smoke there.”

  Vika did not reply. Lena hunched over on her bed, hugging her shoulders with plump arms. Sasha stepped over to her desk and lifted the bag meaning to take out the CD player. The pattern of scratches on the desktop reminded her of something. Immediately, involuntarily one of last year’s mental exercises rotated in her head; when Sasha finally placed the player on the desk, it was much darker outside, and something in the room had changed.

  She turned her head. Her new roommates stood side by side and stared at her with terror.

  “It happens,” Sasha said. “I was just thinking of something. Don’t mind me.”

  “Sasha,” Lena murmured through her tears. “Tell us, please, what will happen to us? Are we going to be just like you?”

  Sasha smirked.

  “It’s not that scary. Just survive the first semester. Work as hard as you can. It’s for your own benefit.”

  ***

  She used the first years as a mirror. She saw her own reflection in their eyes: broken, twisted, and fully submerged into herself. Occasionally freezing mid-action. With an intense, terrifying stare. They watched her, unable to hide their fear—and sometimes their revulsion.

  Sasha did not feel offended. These kids were going through tough times: threats and blackmail drove them to Torpa; they were handed a back-breaking academic load. Finally, they were surrounded by freaks: sick, crippled, and even insane.

  Of course, they tried to handle the situation and pretended nothing strange was happening. Somebody brought a guitar, somebody had a stereo system. The dorm hummed, drank, had fun; strangely enough, some of the third years joined the parties. Leaving her room with a towel thrown over her shoulder, Sasha saw Zakhar, Kostya’s roommate, making out with one of the new girls. The light bulb went out, or perhaps somebody broke it on purpose; laughter, whispering, the sound of footsteps—the girl escaped to the kitchen, Zakhar followed her, and Sasha shuffled to the showers.

  The water was really hot, just like at home, and Sasha felt partly recuperated. She rubbed herself with a towel and wrapped it around her hair in a turban. The first day of classes had passed: she had tons of homework, and tomorrow she had an individual session with Nikolay
Valerievich Sterkh, and she had to show him what she’d learned for the first time.

  The very thought of the player with the CD inserted into it gave Sasha the chills even in the hot steamy shower room. She put on her bathrobe, secured the towel on her head and shuffled back into her room—it was getting late, and her work was not going to get done all by itself.

  Her roommates disappeared somewhere, probably to cry into someone else’s beer, thought Sasha. She dried her hair, lay down on top of the comforter, placed the CD player on her stomach and thought back.

  During today’s lesson Nikolay Valerievich put headphones on her head and switched on the player. And Sasha—for the first time—heard that.

  The CD contained silence. Deep, dense, devouring everything in its sight. Trying to devour Sasha as well; Sasha panicked and struggled, like a fly on a strip of flypaper, using all her strength to stay on the edge, terrified to fall into this soft all-encompassing nothing, resisting this grave alien silence.

  Nikolay Valerievich was talking—she saw his lips move. She could not hear the birds outside the window, the rustling of the trees, the distant steps in the corridor—everything was flooded over by a bitumen-like silence.

  The first track on the CD lasted ten and a half minutes. Sasha was bathed in sweat as if after a long run. Her blouse stuck to her skin.

  “Sasha, that is not the right way to do it,” the hunchback said gently, removing her headphones. “You should not resist. You must let it in and let it flow through you. Slowly, not all at once. Without that first step we cannot take another one, then the third. And we have thousands of steps ahead of us. Here we just lost an entire session, the exam became one day closer, and who knows, perhaps, that very day is what you will lack to be fully prepared?”

  “What should I do?” Sasha asked.

  “Work on the first track. One of the features of this player is repeating the composition. Your goal is to make peace with what you are listening to, and for this you will need to cross a certain line within yourself. A line of commonness. It may be difficult. But you must try. You cannot learn how to swim without getting into the water. Tomorrow I shall wait for your first results. I have a great deal of trust in you, Sasha. I’m waiting.”

  Thus spoke Nikolay Valerievich and he let Sasha go. She left with the CD player in her bag and a feeling of anxiety in her heart, and here it was, time to work on the first track, but Sasha could not force herself—could hardly switch on the player.

  The dormitory was full of noise. Guitars strummed, stereo systems roared, people laughed, shouted, broke dishes. Sasha held her breath—and pressed the round Play button.

  Silence came and stuffed Sasha’s ears. It came very close, deafening, all-encompassing, ready to pull Sasha inside itself, to envelop and digest. It was revolting and terrifying. Twisting out of its grasp, Sasha tore the headphones off; the drunken voices singing heart-wrenchingly and off-key behind the wall now sounded to her like a choir of angels.

  ***

  She made another effort—right before her individual session, when she had no way out. Sitting in the half-empty reading room, she turned on the player and became almost physically aware of the transition from silence—into Silence. Into the sucking Silentium.

  She probably could have entered an autopsy room. She could pick up any revolting critter. She may have been able to stroll along the school corridors naked if it had been required to pass an exam.

  Yet she could not and did not wish to “let in” whatever was recorded on the disk. She used all the forces to resist it, to build a defense wall between herself and the Silence. The track ended. Sasha dropped the player into her bag and shuffled up to the fourth floor, to the sunny Auditorium number 14.

  “Good afternoon, Sasha, glad to see you… What happened? Did you listen to the first track?”

  “Twice,” Sasha mumbled.

  “Twice? That’s not quite enough… let’s check. Put on the headphones.”

  Sterkh hitched up his sleeve, extricating a small mirror on a leather strap. A sunbeam danced on the mother-of-pearl surface, disintegrating into a rainbow, and then reassembling, its white flashes biting into Sasha’s eyes.

  “We’re listening to track number one, take a deep breath… No, Sasha, no, what are you doing? Let’s start again from the very beginning, but this time you will absorb the new material rather than reject it, agree?”

  Sasha stared down, at the dark-brown wooden floor, striped with the gaps between the long painted planks.

  “Sasha,” the hunchback hesitated, as if considering something. “Sit down, let’s chat.”

  She sat behind a table that resembled the desks she’d had in high school.

  “You have earned a terrific reputation in Oleg Borisovich’s class. You have demonstrated an exceptional talent. But you struggled at first, didn’t you?”

  Sasha nodded, still looking down.

  “The same principle can be applied to this class. You are struggling, I know. Because your efforts are connected to, or rather, limited by what is internally permissible. You have a very clear notion of what is acceptable and what is not. I’m not talking about everyday things, the so-called “principles,” I am talking about the inner configuration of your personality, and of your ability to overcome stereotypes. You are a stubborn girl: at this point, it is an obstacle, because we cannot proceed until you learn to work with the CD tracks to your full potential. Instinctively, you realize what is required of you, and just as instinctively you resist. I am not entertaining the possibility of you doing it on purpose. Right?”

  Sasha swallowed.

  “There is no need to be this stressed out,” the hunchback said gently. “You must focus, concentrate… And take that first step. Just one step, just that first track. Let’s try it right now, and I will do my best to help you.”

  ***

  Sasha left the auditorium feeling completely drained, with a pounding headache. In half an hour of non-stop trying, the wall that she erected between herself and the recording on Sterkh’s CD became stronger and thicker. Now maintaining that wall required very little effort on Sasha’s part. The silence now existed on its own, separately from Sasha.

  Sterkh was very upset. For a long time he did not say anything, shaking his head, looking at grim-faced Sasha, then staring out the window, then he sighed:

  “Try track two. You seem to have fully blocked that first one. Such energy, such inner strength you have demonstrated, Sasha, but it’s directed in a diametrically opposite direction! You work very hard at resisting it, instead of processing it!”

  “I’m trying,” Sasha said.

  “You are trying to achieve the opposite. You are fighting for your own conventional image, two arms, two legs…You dream of a warm shower… Sasha, nothing corporeal has any significant value. Anything that is truly valuable is beyond material substance, just think about it. You will understand, you are an intelligent girl, I have a lot of faith in you.”

  Then he let her go, and she left. Yulia Goldman was waiting for her turn in the hallway; when door number 14 closed behind her, Sasha massaged her face with both hands, rubbed her temples, and squeezed her eyes.

  She knew that track two would have the same effect. The very thought of having to listen to it again nearly drove her insane.

  ***

  Sasha’s class was offered very few liberal arts classes this year. She did not like the “Constitutional Law and Fundamental Principles of Government.” The professor was older and cantankerous, and the subject itself had nothing in common with the concept of learning: it was more of an excursion that skimmed the surface of criminal and civil code. The stream of bureaucratese disgorged by the professor made Sasha sleepy. At the end of the class she did fall asleep for a second, and dreamed of Sterkh who stood in the middle of the auditorium holding an enormous pair of scissors. Sasha woke up: the bell rang. The professor threw a contemptuous look at the students and said goodbye until the next lecture.

  The nex
t block was English, and Sasha found this class just as nonsensical and boring as the previous one. Endless grammatical constructions, exercises that she had to write down, topics she had to pass every month; Sasha felt time stand still. She remembered getting this desperate feeling in high school, albeit rarely, mostly in the spring, especially during a meeting or a home room assembly…

  Entering the hallway, she stopped at the bulletin board with the posted schedules. First years gathered around, and Sasha had to push aside some gaping girl in order to move a little closer. Let’s see, Physical Education three times a week, and then Specialty takes almost all of her time: Portnov, Sterkh, individual studies and group lectures. Plus homework: paragraphs, exercises, Sterkh’s CD…

  Sasha pushed her way out of the crowd and shuffled downstairs to the dining hall.

  Denis Myaskovsky sat in front of an empty plate, studying some sort of an illustrated magazine with several bright inserts depicting blurred colorful spots. In line for food, Sasha listened to his conversation with Korotkov:

  “What do you have there?” Andrey asked.

  “It’s from Sterkh,” Denis hesitated, as if holding back. “Didn’t you get one?”

  “He gave me a book,” Korotkov seemed timid. “Just a regular book, though…”

  “Andrey, it’s our turn!” Oksana called him from the buffet. “Give me your ticket and get your soup!”

  A little later Sasha saw that Sterkh indeed had a very individualized approach to each student. Oksana, Lisa and Andrey Korotkov studied Introduction to Applied Science using textbooks. Kostya had a print-out rolled into a tube. Zhenya Toporko carried around a thick notepad. Three or four people had portable players, but unlike hers, those used cassette tapes. However, no one discussed their progress—individual sessions with the hunchback became a forbidden topic among second years from day one. It was a taboo.

  ***

  “Thus, meaning is a projection of will onto the surface of its application. Meaning is not absolute and depends on the choice of space and the method of projection. Last year the most gifted of you stumbled upon fragments of meanings while studying the textual module. However, the first year is over! Now you must apply conscious efforts to use the textual module as an intermediary between you and the archive of meanings available to you at this stage. Theoretically, you may encounter just about anything, including a fragment of your most feasible future. We have thirty seconds before the bell rings, does anybody have any questions?”