Vita Nostra

by Marina Dyachenko

  “I would love to,” Sasha said greedily.

  ***

  The pain was like that of a mosquito bite. Sasha twitched, wishing to slap down the mosquito and return to studying, but the universe composed of myriads of nuances was already sliding off her, like a hat carried away by the wind. This universe was set in constant motion, infused with associations, puzzling and inexplicit, and yet natural and harmonious. This universe that she had just begun to explore—and was already blown away by its wisdom and magnificence. This universe was ideally suited for exploring it deeper and deeper—from association to association, from leaf to root, and further, and wider, analyzing, synthesizing, gasping with joy…

  The world went dark. Sasha sat in Portnov’s cabinet. A candle stick smoked between her burned, scotch-taped fingers. Sasha raised her hand to her face: two blisters, one on her middle finger, one on her pointer finger.

  “I didn’t have enough time. I hadn’t finished reading the layer. Let’s do it again.”

  Portnov got up and slipped on his ring. Sasha tried to stand up, but he gestured her to stay seated. He came closer to the table, grabbed her chin, pushed her head back and slashed her eyes with a reflected ray of light.

  Sasha squinted.

  Without a word, Portnov picked up the glossary and put it away into the strongbox. Sasha stood up:

  “You were going to give it to me!”

  “It weighs ten kilos.”

  “So what! You were going to let me take it!”

  Portnov glanced at her askance. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and paused.

  “You still don’t smoke, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Pity.”

  “Go ahead, smoke,” Sasha allowed regally.

  Portnov took a long drag.

  Sasha watched him smoke. Never—very rarely—had Portnov even looked perplexed in her presence. And now he paced around his office, sending smoke rings up to the ceiling, occasionally tilting his head to the side, as if listening to a soundless remark.

  Every now and then he would look at Sasha. These glances made her increasingly nervous.

  “What have I done wrong now?”

  “What is meaning, Samokhina?”

  “Projection of will onto its field of application.”

  “And what are you? Ever pondered that question?”

  “A human being.”

  “Try again.”

  “A student. An object of your sadistic experiments.”

  Portnov burst out laughing. He acted amused even less frequently than puzzled, and now Sasha felt sure—something was not right.

  “You will be offered acceptance to graduate school. Think about it long and hard. If you are indeed what you appear to be, you should be very critical of any offer, even the most enticing ones.”

  “But I haven’t even finished my second year yet,” Sasha said confusedly.

  “Precisely. Precisely, Samokhina,” Portnov smiled triumphantly. “Fine, I’ll give you a hint: you—the object that is sitting in front of me, a biological living creature with inaptly made up eyes—is a projection. A projection of what?”

  “You have nothing to do with my eyes!”

  “I am asking you—a projection of what?”

  “An idea?” Sasha suggested. “What do you call it… eidos?”

  Portnov grinned triumphantly:

  “Go. Enjoy yourself until six o’clock. For tomorrow, work with the diagram on page eight.”

  ***

  It was dark. Simultaneously with the darkness came a warm spell. The wind carried the scents of water and earth. Sasha stood in the middle of Sacco and Vanzetti, her face lifted up to the sky, and listened to the rustling of streams of water under the flattened layers of snow.

  The last few days were remarkably dense. She learned how to fly. Borrowed clothes from a first year student. Fought and made up with Sterkh. Saw a snippet of her own future. Spoke to Kozhennikov about Kostya. Burned her hand… Incidentally, the burn she hadn’t even noticed at first now grew increasingly painful.

  Sasha collected a handful of snow from the back of the iron bench and pressed it against her skin. For tonight she planned a lot of work, but the thought of a salami sandwich had just appeared and now refused to depart.

  A group of girls from Group B, Oksana’s classmates, walked by. A door screeched loudly— the lights were on in the basement café across the street, somebody was laughing, and the radio was on.

  Sasha crossed the street and went down five steps. She opened the door and entered the café.

  “Hello. I’d like a salami sandwich and coffee. And tomato juice, please.”

  The wooden tables were occupied by students, mostly first years, smoking and chatting noisily. Sasha saw Irina, the girl whose sweater and slacks she had been wearing for the last two days. Tipping her head to her shoulder, the girl was animatedly saying something, and next to her, with his head close to hers, sat Yegor.

  Sasha approached, carrying a small tray in front of her. Irina noticed Sasha first and fell silent, as if she were gagged.

  Yegor turned around.

  “Hello,” Sasha said. ‘May I sit down?”

  “Sure,” Yegor said hoarsely. “But you see, we were just leaving.”

  “Don’t rush,” Sasha threw a meaningful glance at the barely touched pastries, at the full cups of hot tea. “Don’t rush, I need to tell you something.”

  Irina did not respond. With shock, Sasha realized that the girl was afraid—truly afraid, jokes aside.

  “Look at me,” Sasha said gently, addressing Yegor. “Why are you looking away?”

  He looked up reluctantly. It’s a bit too dark in here, Sasha thought. If I could send reflected rays of light into people’s eyes—just like Portnov and Sterkh—and in this light see the internal configuration of a person…

  Yegor recoiled.

  ‘Why are you staring at me like that? Just like…”

  “Like who?”

  Yegor was silent.

  “Listen to me, both of you,” Sasha said, smiling beautifically. “Right now you are on your second semester. In a few weeks you will undergo the deconstructive stage. I think that’s what they call it. You will disintegrate into parts… on the inside, and will only be able to think of what is in front of your eyes. You will feel no love, no fear, nothing that would distract you from learning. It is going to be not all that unpleasant, more like strange. And then, if you study hard, and you will, you have no choice… you will recompile. And then you’ll be just a little different. And then, during your second year, when you begin Introduction to Applied Science, then you will remember my words, Yegor. And then you will understand. You will understand something, but chances are, I will never know about it.”

  Yegor and Irina stared her with open mouths. Sasha bit into her sandwich with gusto:

  “You should eat. Your tea is getting cold. I wish you all the happiness in the world. Irina, don’t be mad at me, I’ll return your pants and your sweater… at some point.”

  They silently watched her eat. Sasha drunk her juice, finished her coffee, touched a napkin to her lips and got up:

  “See you later, kids. Remember me kindly.”

  “But you didn’t understand…” Yegor began.

  “Did you ever buy those skis?”

  Yegor did not reply.

  “That’s a shame,” Sasha said. “Winter’s almost over. All right, I’m off.”

  They may have continued watching her, even when the door closed behind her back.

  ***

  Spring came.

  Water flowed between Torpa’s cobblestones in streams, disintegrated paper boats rested in the deep puddles. Sasha’s life had drastically changed; the solitary existence in her own apartment, the ability to spend evenings at her writing bureau and read, re-read, and simply think in the quiet atmosphere of her room, watching the lights of the lanterns on Sacco and Vanzetti—this was an expensive luxury, and Sasha valued her new status very hig
hly.

  She no longer attended lectures; she now had an individual schedule. She would sleep in until ten o’clock, then drink the coffee made on the tiny electric hot plate. Then she would open her notepad in which Portnov wrote her assignments, and would begin working.

  First, the textual module. No matter how hard she tried, none of the “meanings” incidentally appearing to her during her studies would qualify as a “fragment of a possible future.” Then the conceptual activator. Portnov required her to work on it in writing, pulling all the available sequences and associations into one chain. By twelve o’clock the lines would merge in front of Sasha’s eyes; sheets of paper covered with dense writing refused to fold, and when she leaned over, she could smell the gentle scent of the ink that filled her ball-point pen. Sasha would inhale the scent and smile, thinking about the magnificent harmony of world order, about the beauty of logical constructs, and about the golden sparks of chances that appear without warning out of nowhere to highlight, set off, and emphasize the infinite precision and exactitude of the informational depiction of the universe.

  Then she would go for a walk around the town of Torpa. Passersby stared at her, some with shock, some with fear, and some with greedy curiosity; pretty soon Sasha got used to their stares and ceased to notice them.

  The river spilled out of its banks and broke the wooden dock. Leaves popped out of the buds. Sacco and Vanzetti was wrapped in green linden smoke.

  First years ran into doorframes trying to enter their rooms. To onlookers they looked preposterous and creepy.

  Sasha wrote down her assignments in a separate notebook to avoid making mistakes. To avoid accidentally going further than necessary. Portnov still didn’t let her work with the glossary on her own—the only time Sasha was allowed to fall greedily upon the glossary was during their sessions, under Portnov’s supervision.

  She had long ago returned the sweater and pants to Irina. The special stipend allowed her to shop at the local store—not exactly haute couture, but there no longer was any need to wear hand-me-downs. At the hair salon she had her hair cut into a long bob; talking with the young hairdresser, Sasha recalled Valery, the third year she met when she first appeared at the Institute. “You should get a haircut, a long bob. And a brighter lipstick.” Where was Valery now, and what and with whom was he studying?

  She painted her lips with a caramel-pink lipstick and remained fairly pleased with her looks. The gym teacher Dima Dimych who normally expressed reserved sympathy toward Sasha now acted as if he saw her for the first time: in turn demanding and even shrill, then confused and displeased with himself, the gym teacher now paid more attention to Sasha than to all the other girls in her group combined.

  Sasha responded to his enthusiasm with amiable indifference.

  The landlady had a telephone on the first floor, and for a small fee Sasha could now call home whenever she felt like it; no more going to the post office and no more sitting in line.

  “Mom, hello! It’s me!”

  When Valentin picked up the phone, Sasha would hang up right away. After the first few times, Mom figured out her simple trick.

  “Are you trying to avoid speaking to Valentin?”

  “No, why?”

  “Oh stop it. Don’t talk to him if you don’t want to. It’s your business.”

  “I… it’s just the connection is so lousy here.”

  “Right.”

  “How are things? How’s the baby?”

  “Fine.”

  “How is everyone doing?”

  “Just fine. And you?”

  “I’m fine. Well, I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Sounds good.”

  In the beginning Sasha felt depressed and cried after those conversations. The fact that the baby was healthy made the weight on her shoulders just a little bit lighter. But the tone that Mom used in speaking with her was utterly lethal. Detached, foreign.

  With the coming of April, Mom mellowed out. She even called the landlady’s number a few times and asked for Sasha. She called in the evenings, just when Sasha was bent over the activator. Emerging out of her work was so difficult and so unpleasant that Sasha asked the landlady not to call her to the phone.

  “Mom, I’ll call myself. It’s very inconvenient here, you understand.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll wait for you to call.”

  Every day the weather was becoming warmer. Sun was shining in the blue sky over Torpa from morning till night. Sasha took her walks, alone and happy, and one day, on her return home, she ran into Denis Myaskovsky.

  Denis was hanging out by the entrance with the lions. He was clearly waiting for her, petting the face of the cheerful-looking stone guard.

  “Hello. Are you waiting for me?”

  “No. I have a window between two one-on-ones. I wanted to take a walk.”

  “Enjoy your stroll then,” Sasha took out a light-colored key with a heavy shaft.

  “Hold on. Just a couple of words.”

  Sasha turned to face him.

  In the last few months Denis grew a beard, not particularly thick, but curly. The beard concealed his soft chin and made Denis appear more masculine and a bit older.

  “Kostya left Zhenya.”

  “What?”

  “He left her, and now he lives with me. Three days already. And you haven’t even noticed.”

  “Why would I notice?”

  “You haven’t been at the Institute,” Denis continued as if he didn’t hear her.

  “Really? I don’t hear anyone complaining. At least the teachers are not complaining.”

  Denis shook his head.

  “You know what I’m talking about. Zhenya is really mad, she’s managed to turn all our girls against Kostya. Lisa… for her the name ‘Kozhennikov’ is a verdict in itself. And you left, hid somewhere… as if you are not even one of us.”

  “What does it have to do with me?”

  “Everyone knows it has a lot to do with you.”

  “Listen,” Sasha said, immediately on the defensive, “Since I was a little girl I was raised not to meddle with other people’s personal affairs. Tell your friend Kostya lovers’ quarrels are easily mended.”

  She stepped up to the porch and recalled —it was right here, he stood right on this porch!—Farit Kozhennikov. “You and I better than anyone know the value of words, don’t we.”

  “Denis, wait… I said something I shouldn’t have said.”

  Denis, who by then had walked away, stopped again.

  “Do you really think it was him who sent me?”

  “No.”

  “It’s just that he’s… he’s miserable. Zhenya is feeding on her own anger like a spider. And Kostya found himself in such a mess. So you see how it is.”

  “I see,” Sasha weighted the key on her palm. “But I cannot help him right now. You need to understand that.”

  Denis shifted his weight from one foot to another.

  “I see,” he said bitterly. “Are you coming to English tomorrow?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Right. Well, I’m going.”

  “See you.”

  ***

  Sasha went upstairs to her room, and before making her usual tea, even before taking off her raincoat, she put on her headphones. She sat by the window and started Sterkh’s latest disk. The player was plugged into a wall socket—when Sasha got tired of dealing with the batteries, she’d invested in a recharger.

  In her assignment notebook numbers seventeen and eighteen were written against today’s date. Sasha steepled her fingers, leaned onto the back of her chair and closed her eyes. And for the first time in many days, she realized that the silence—and whatever entered her consciousness along with the silence—was now beating at the glass wall.

  Damn that Denis with his news. Even with her eyes tightly closed, Sasha still saw the flower box with the green sprouts, and Sacco and Vanzetti Street, and the streetlights newly emerging in the dusk.

  If they hadn’t be
en classmates, they would have forgotten about each other a long time ago. At least, Sasha would try to forget about Kostya’s existence as firmly as one can forget a man whose life one saved. It’s not like she could dance all her life around the same vulgar story: a boy loved a girl, and the girl would not put out…

  They’ll kiss and make up, Sasha thought almost sympathetically. And then they will continue carrying the yoke of their incidental marriage. There are so many couples who live like that.

  The seventeenth track ended and started again. And again. The streetlights burned brighter, the steps and muffled conversations outside abated, and the windows in the building across the street went dark. Sasha sat like a log wearing headphones, and grew consistently convinced that tomorrow she was going to show up in Sterkh’s class unprepared for the first time in quite a while.

  A boy loved a girl…

  Sasha felt a long-forgotten nausea. She went to the bathroom, bent over the sink, but the nausea retracted as suddenly as it appeared. Did it mean that not all unspoken words have yet been turned into gold? Did it mean that Sasha still had a chance?

  Stop.

  She turned off the player, took off the headphones and sat at the table. She placed a sheet of paper in front of her. From memory, without peeking at the activator, she drew the symbol for “affection.” Above, without taking her hand off the paper, she sketched “creation.” Portnov taught her how to recognize and combine symbols; Sterkh hinted that in the future, possibly during her fourth year, Sasha would learn how to manifest symbols, and that would bring her face to face with her professional pinnacle….

  The sign on the paper in front of her existed in three dimensions—while being drawn on a flat surface!—and this sign was evolving in time. For the second time in Sasha’s life she managed to create this picture. But today’s symbol was not enclosed in a circle, like “word” that she produced a while ago by Portnov’s request. This symbol lived and developed in a linear fashion, as far as Sasha could see.

  She looked closer. The symbol was growing more complex. It doubled. Then doubled again. And there was something else: Sasha almost blacked out when she realized what it reminded her of. Division of embryonated cells? The birth of the world?!