Vita Nostra

by Marina Dyachenko

  “Am I right?”

  “Of course you are,” smiled Kozhennikov. “You are right. But please do not share your observations with anyone else. Who I am… what I am—we can discuss later. When you mature.”

  “In case you’re wondering,” Sasha said very softly, “I don’t want to talk about you at all. I don’t even want to know who you… what you are.”

  “Fine,” Kozhennikov nodded and closed his eyes for a moment. “Agreed. Now get your things, we should go.”

  “Where?!”

  “The Institute is renting you an apartment. Just for the time you are enrolled. Here, on Sacco and Vanzetti, across from the school building. It’s an attic loft. Nice place.”

  “I don’t want to,” Sasha said rather awkwardly.

  “Really. Aren’t you sick of this cozy orphanage?”

  He waved his hand around the room: three beds, two of them empty, bare under the striped yellow mattresses, and Sasha’s bed, barely covered with a faded coverlet. A chair with peeling paint, and one more, with only three legs. An open suitcase. Littered tables. Crumpled papers in dusty corners. Sasha was struck with shame.

  “Well…”

  “Let’s not waste any time. The landlady is expecting us at half past seven, right now it’s seven o’clock. Do you have time after your classes to go back and forth with your suitcases? No? I didn’t think so. Hurry up.”

  ***

  “You were wrong about Kostya.”

  The starry sky was suspended over the town of Torpa. Orion rose above the roofs. A thin film of ice stretched over the sidewalk and the pavement, and even the branches of naked linden trees gleamed under the streetlights. Sasha walked side by side with Farit Kozhennikov, carrying two plastic bags. Kozhennikov pulled her suitcase, and the little wheels kept sticking between the cobblestones, he picked up the suitcase and carried it.

  “Kostya was the only person who could help me. And you are making a mistake… thinking that he’s a weakling. He’s a very good, strong, honest person.”

  “Thank you for saying that,” Kozhennikov glanced at her sideways.

  “It’s my fault things turned out this way,” Sasha said. “It all happened because of a word. One single word.”

  “It happens. You and I better than anyone know the value of words, don’t we?”

  Sasha slipped on the ice. Kozhennikov supported her arm.

  “Be careful. It’s not far. We just need to cross the street.”

  It seemed to Sasha that the buildings on Sacco and Vanzetti had gotten closer, leaned over to her, almost touching the shingles on their roofs, leaving only a narrow path under her feet and a stripe of sky overhead.

  “May I do some of Denis’s work?”

  “What?”

  “If Denis does not make it… I’ll do some of his load. And you…you just leave him alone, please.”

  They passed the Institute. Almost all of the windows were now dark—it was late. A street lantern was lit in front of the dark alley; two empty beer bottles were stuck frozen in a deep puddle.

  “Sasha, do you think I’m a sadist?”

  “I don’t think of you at all.”

  “Yes, you do, I know that. Don’t feel too bad for Denis. He’s working hard—but only up to a certain limit. Sooner or later he needs to understand: if he doesn’t jump “above his head”—all is lost. The sooner he comes to that realization, the better.”

  “I…”

  “And you cannot help him. You helped Kostya because you loved him. And you still do.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “It is true. Unfortunately, you silly puppies let your happiness slip through your fingers forever. And you shouldn’t think it was your fault. His fault was primary—and the most crucial.”

  “I don’t love him. I’m... we’re friends.”

  “You are afraid for him. Love is not when you are aroused by someone, it’s when you are afraid for that person. And you will never be able to forgive that kid, Yegor.”

  Sasha stopped. Kozhennikov walked a few steps further and looked back:

  “We’re almost there. We need to go over there, to the lions. What?”

  Sasha was silent. Kozhennikov came back.

  “What happened?”

  “He’ll understand. When he gets to his second year, he’ll understand everything,” said Sasha with a catch in her voice.

  “Of course, he’ll understand. Shall we keep going?”

  Silently they passed a three-story building made out of pink bricks, and went up to the porch seated between two stone lions—their faces faded from frequent caresses, but the right one seemed melancholy, and the left one—ironic, even cheerful. The lions rigidly stared at Orion.

  Kozhennikov rang the door bell. A woman of about sixty opened the door, sinewy and swift. She took one of the bags out of Sasha’s hands.

  “Maria Fedorovna. And this is Alexandra Samokhina, Sasha. Here are your keys, take them.”

  Two gigantic keys—heavy heads, complicated shaft and grooves—lay in Sasha’s hand. How am I going to carry them around, she wondered. Around my neck, like a necklace?

  “The light key is for the entrance door. The dark key is for your room door. Let’s go.”

  Inside the building smelled of wet plaster and faintly of perfume. A small yellow light bulb switched on automatically. The landlady disappeared; Sasha carried her bags up the spiral staircase, following Kozhennikov who carried her suitcase. The staircase was so narrow that the suitcase kept getting stuck.

  Sasha could not see much in the semidarkness. The thick railings curved like the top plate of an antique musical instrument. The sound of their steps echoed in the dark. They passed the round window of the second floor, and there Sasha stopped as if her feet had been glued to the stairs.

  Kozhennikov looked back onto the third floor landing.

  “Sasha?”

  “I have a problem.”

  “Did your bags break?”

  “No… I…”

  “Come on up, the door is right here.”

  Sasha staggered up to the third floor. The corridor was dark, and Sasha stumbled onto her own suitcase.

  “The switch is somewhere here,” Kozhennikov murmured. “Ah, yes, right here.”

  The light bulb was switched on. Sasha blinked. In front of her was a narrow door lined in blackened wood.

  “Unlock it.”

  The key found its way in easily, without fuss. A soft click. The door opened. Sasha stepped in first and found the switch.

  She stood on threshold of a tiny, almost toy-like apartment. The ceiling was very high near the door and tilted lower, reaching Sasha’s height, near the window. Outside the window was a miniscule balcony encircled by naked grapevines, and further out stretched Sacco and Vanzetti Street, mysteriously lit by the lanterns.

  To the right was a simple white door, behind which a clean pink-tiled bathroom could be seen.

  “Let’s see. Here are some dishes, electric teakettle… Don’t be shy, everything here is for you to use, feel at home.”

  An antique writing desk, or rather a bureau—a multitude of shelves and drawers. The tabletop made out of walnut had at some point been stained with ink, and then scrubbed almost flawlessly. A book case. An ironing board and a small iron. A dresser with plenty of hangers. A grandfather clock: the mechanism squeaked and softly, delicately, struck eight.

  Still wearing her street clothes, Sasha sat down on the new, reasonably hard bed with an orthopedic mattress. Kozhennikov pulled her suitcase inside the room.

  “So what is the problem?”

  “I just had a strange thought.”

  “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t feel like it.”

  “I had this strange thought,” Sasha repeated, “as if I read a piece from…” she faltered. “Portn… Oleg Borisovich said that one can read a fragment of a possible future in the textual module…”

  “Déjà vu,” Kozhennikov smiled. “And what have you read?”
>
  “About the lions. The ones at the front entrance. I’m absolutely certain.”

  “So what?”

  “It’s nothing,” Sasha licked her dry lips. “I guess…” She spoke despite herself, quickly, excitedly. “You can direct time. You make time into loops. For you there is nothing strange happening when a person is reading something… and in an hour it happens to her in reality.”

  “All the world’s a text,” Kozhennikov clicked the light switch in the bathroom. “And all the men and women merely words…”

  “It’s Shakespeare,” Sasha said. “All the world’s a stage.”

  “Everybody makes their own definitions. Shakespeare expressed it that way. You may say it differently.”

  “Can I really read my future?”

  “Easily. When you buy a train ticket, you are not only reading your future, you are forming it. Your ticket states the day of departure. The number of the carriage. Your seat. That means that in the most plausible future you will appear at the train station, approach the carriage that is mentioned on your ticket…”

  “Do you like making fun of me?”

  Sasha herself was shocked at the helplessness in her voice. Kozhennikov stopped smiling:

  “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to offend you. This question is too serious to discuss it without irony.”

  He placed his palm on the massive bronze door handle.

  “Good night, Sasha. I’m leaving.”

  The door opened into the dim corridor.

  “Farit…”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you,” Sasha mumbled forcing herself. “You helped me… when I… did that thing to my brother.”

  “Don’t mention it,” he said tightly. “Anything else?”

  Sasha shrunk in discomfort.

  “This apartment… I really like it.”

  “No need to thank me for that—you earned this place. Good bye.”

  And he left.

  ***

  In the morning, before the start of classes, Sasha approached Denis Myaskovsky. Silently holding his sleeve, she pulled him over to the side, by the window.

  “What do you want?” Denis asked grimly.

  “I had this happen to me,” Sasha said. “I got stuck… but then I made it through. Myself.”

  “But you don’t know what I have!” Denis was upset. “Why are you saying this? You don’t know!”

  “I do know,” Sasha looked into his eyes. “I know, Denis. Kostya went through the same thing. Everybody has. Listen to my advice: don’t get up from the table until you learn it.”

  “It’s easy for you to dispense advice!”

  “It isn’t easy for me, Denis,” Sasha smiled. “I know what I am saying.”

  The bell rang to signify the start of Portnov’s lecture.

  ***

  “‘What’s in a name? that which we call a rose/ By any other name would smell as sweet.’ In other words, the essence of an object does not change depending on its name. This is a common misconception, not unlike the “world is flat” belief. By verbally identifying an object, by giving it a name, we alter it. And at the same time we prevent it from changing. A name is like a forked stick that we use to hold a snake on the road.” Portnov imitated using a forked branch to press down an imaginary viper. “By the way, consider this: the contradictory nature of a statement almost certainly proves its legitimacy… Come in.”

  Pressing his palms to his abdomen, Andrey Korotkov walked in; pale, bent over, he looked miserably ill.

  “I am sorry,” he mumbled, avoiding looking at Portnov. “I have food poisoning… Here’s a note from the doctor,” he tore his right hand away from his stomach and handed Portnov a piece of gray paper folded in half.

  Portnov unfolded the paper and briefly looked at it—diagonally.

  “Go, you are dismissed,” he said brusquely.

  A whisper flew around the auditorium. Korotkov jerked his head up:

  “But…”

  “Go. We’ll talk when you feel better,” Portnov’s voice sounded ominous.

  “May I stay for a while?” Korotkov asked, nervously licking his dry lips.

  Portnov handed the note back to him:

  “Then take this back, be so kind.”

  Andrey took the paper out of Portnov’s hand and, still bent over, shuffled to his seat. Portnov waited until the auditorium was deal silent once again.

  “May I continue? Thank you. However, there is also another misconception—by which a name automatically defines the properties of an object. Here is a pen,” he tossed up and caught a dark-blue pen with a white top. “If I give it the name of … an earthworm, will it slither?”

  Second years, Group A, maintained a tense silence. No one wanted to risk an answer.

  “It will not,” Portnov let the pen fall on his desk. “Because this given piece of plastic has nothing in common with the processes and events that we are talking about, that we spend time studying… between dance parties and dealing with gastrointestinal problems. Besides, when I say “give a name,” I do not imply any of the languages that are commonly used by any of the living persons. I am talking about Speech that you will begin to study during your third year. Some of you may start earlier. Samokhina, what time are you meeting with Nikolay Valerievich?”

  “Six o’clock.”

  “Excellent. At four thirty I shall be expecting you in my office in the administration wing. Class, open your books to page four and five. Pavlenko, I would be eternally thankful to you if you stop talking with Myaskovsky during my lecture. For tomorrow’s class, please prepare the additional Exercises eight-a and eight-b from the appendix in your textbook.”

  ***

  At four thirty two she was sitting at the table looking at a sheet of paper in front of her, on which Portnov just drew a straight horizontal line.

  “What is it?”

  “Horizon. Sky and earth. Top and bottom.”

  “What else?”

  “Space and surface. A field of application. A screen.”

  “A screen,” Portnov repeated with a hint of pleasure in his voice. “Let’s suppose… Here is a butterfly,” quickly, using only a few lines, Portnov drew a large butterfly in the top part of the sheet. “Here’s its projection.” Over the horizontal line he drew an approximation of a shadow with two wings. “How can we express an inverse correlation?”

  “We cannot. There is no inverse correlation. I am reflected in the mirror. But the mirror cannot be reflected in me.”

  “Really?”

  Sasha linked her fingers. She felt as if she were on the brink of understanding something very big, something simple and huge, but as sometimes one forgets a familiar name, that’s how Sasha could not think of it… concentrate… recall.

  “Do you remember the diagram on page three?” Portnov asked softly.

  Sasha nodded.

  “Reproduce it from memory. ‘Creation.’”

  Sasha flipped over the sheet of paper. She drew her pencil over the paper without picking it up. The result was a fully closed shape: it remained three-dimensional, while drawn on a one-dimensional surface.

  Sasha swallowed. Her drawing existed in time—by itself. It had a beginning and an end. In a circle.

  “I don’t understand….”

  “You will. Right now it’s enough for you to reproduce it correctly. Write “association” in this symbol.”

  Sasha closed her eyes. She drew her pencil over the paper; it became very hot in the room. A drop of sweat rolled down her back under her sweater.

  “What do you get?”

  Sasha gazed at the paper: it depicted the round symbol from the gold coins.

  “It’s ‘Word,’” Sasha’s answer surprised her.

  “Yes,” Portnov said. “Word. This is your first step into the world of Speech, and it shall also be your last… because Word is tied and looped onto itself. Word is at the beginning and at the end. You have learned to recognize it during your second year, that’s pret
ty good, but when—if—you learn to manifest it, I will tell you that you have earned your diploma with honors.”

  Portnov stood up with the look of a man whose work was done well. His office was smaller than Sterkh’s, and it fit only a table, a bookcase and a strongbox in the corner. Portnov crouched in front of the strongbox, unlocked the steel door and with a visible effort pulled out a very large book that resembled a gray brick. He placed it on the table in front of Sasha.

  Sasha touched the cover.

  “Hands off!”

  She recoiled.

  “How many times do I have to remind you—do not open books until I tell you? You don’t know what is in there, you are not prepared for what you’re about to see! How many times you’ve been burned because of your curiosity, a frog would have no trouble remembering that!”

  Sasha demonstratively put her hands behind her back.

  “This is a glossary,” Portnov said, slightly less annoyed. “It is organized in layers. It has five dimensions, five. That means that you, with your measly experience, will be periodically thrown into the irrational “pockets,” with the possibility of time loops. Should you be afraid of that? No. Is it dangerous? Yes! To avoid burning like a matchstick, you must take the greatest possible care in following the rules I am about to tell you. Firstly… Are you listening to me, or still pouting?”

  “I am listening,” Sasha said.

  Portnov straddled a chair in front of Sasha. He wiped his glasses with the hem of his sweater:

  “Firstly, you may only read one informational layer per session. One layer. Secondly…”

  He took a thin bright-blue stick out of his pocket, and Sasha was surprised to recognize a long birthday candle.

  “Before you start working, you must cut off about three centimeters of the candle. It burns about a centimeter a minute, sometimes faster, but three centimeters should be enough. You place it between your fingers like this,” Portnov stuck the candle between the pointer and third fingers of his right hand. “Secure it with scotch tape. And then you light it.”

  Sasha swallowed:

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to just burn myself with a cigarette?”

  Portnov glanced at her over his lenses, and Sasha bit her tongue.

  “When you are working with the glossary, Samokhina… if you manage to work with it, of course, you will not be distracted or taken out of your trance by an alarm clock, or a scream, or anything else. Only the sharp sensation of pain. A quick one! You will shake off the flame, and be just fine. Would you like to try right now?”