Vita Nostra

by Marina Dyachenko

  “I am going to Torpa,” Mom’s voice was full of metal. “I am going, and… if need be, I will raise hell. I’ll get police involved, public prosecution office. I will find out what’s going on, and they will have to answer to me!”

  A year and a half ago upon hearing such words Sasha would have wept and thrown herself into her mother’s arms. She would ask, beg her to come to Torpa, to help her, to save her. Back then she would have believed that her furious mother had power over Farit Kozhennikov.

  “Kind of late, don’t you think?”

  ‘What?!”

  “Mom, I don’t want to change anything. And I’m not going to allow you to interfere.”

  “What?!”

  Mom let go of the iron. It stayed on the ironing board, steam rose hissing underneath the platform, making the iron resemble a steam train.

  “So it is a religious cult?”

  “No. I don’t want to change anything.”

  “You promised to return!”

  “I never promised anything.”

  “What have they done to you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I’ll write a statement for the police.”

  “On what ground? I’m over eighteen.”

  “Have they poisoned you? Hypnotized you? Is it some sort of conspiracy?”

  “Mom, it’s been going on for two years. Haven’t you noticed anything?!”

  Mom stepped back.

  A few minutes ago she was ready to attack, fight, defend. Now she looked as if she were hit on a head with a stick.

  “Two years,” Sasha repeated ruthlessly. “Nothing can be done now.”

  Mom stared at her as if through wet glass. As if the outline of Sasha’s face wavered in front of her, melting and flattening.

  Black smoke rose from underneath the iron’s platform. Sasha forced the iron off the board; a burned hole gaped in the blue baby’s shirt.

  ‘You have a new life,” Sasha continued without remorse. “A new husband, a new baby, new happiness. And I have a new life too. I’m not leaving forever, but you should not try to force anything on me. Don’t try to find out what’s going in Torpa. Things are perfectly fine, believe me.”

  The baby cried in the bedroom. Perhaps Sasha spoke too loudly. Mom flinched, but continued staring at Sasha.

  “I feel badly about the way things worked out,” Sasha said looking at the hole in the baby’s shirt. ‘But there is no way back. I am sorry.”

  ***

  “Miss! Torpa in fifteen minutes!”

  “Yes, thank you. I’m awake.”

  She’d never before returned to Torpa this early in the summer. The night was stuffy, windless. The train departed. Sasha walked ten meters along the platform and found herself knee-deep in fog.

  The birds began waking up. The bus came on time.

  The linden trees were green on Sacco and Vanzetti.

  Sasha dragged her suitcase up to the third floor, unlocked the door of her loft. She placed the suitcase by the door, poured some water into a cup and watered the ivy in the flowerbox outside her window.

  She lay down on her bed, stretched out—and realized she was home. She knew that the dark shadow circling over the city had melted. And she, Sasha, was once again a singular entity.

  ***

  “Greetings, third years.”

  September first in Torpa is always filled with sunshine. For the third time Group A was greeting the new school year, and for the third time outside the windows of the first auditorium—an Indian summer, green linden trees, dark shadows on the pavement, heat and dust.

  Portnov remained true to himself: a wrinkled checkered shirt, old jeans, straight blonde hair pulled into a ponytail. His glasses, long and narrow like razors, designed to allow him to look over the lenses.

  “Goldman, Yulia.”

  “Here.”

  “Bochkova, Anna.”

  “Here.”

  Once he called a student’s name and heard his or her answer, Portnov would allow for a short pause in order to bestow a significant glance upon the student. Occasionally the glance would last three or even four seconds.

  “Biryukov, Dmitry.”

  “Here.”

  Somewhere in the assembly hall terrified first years listened to Gaudeamus. The dorm, filled with new residents, smelled of paint and fresh whitewash.

  “Kovtun, Igor.”

  “Here.”

  “Kozhennikov, Konstantin.”

  “Here.”

  Kostya sat next to his wife. Clean-shaven, ascetically skinny, slouching slightly. Sasha’s heart skipped a beat when he walked into the auditorium; they said hello as if they only parted last night, and did not say another word to each other.

  “Korotkov, Andrey.”

  “Here.”

  “Myaskovsky, Denis.”

  “Here!”

  Denis was smiling. The euphoria he experienced after he passed Sterkh’s test put a stop to his prolonged depression. Sasha noticed that Denis looked suntanned and that he sat sprawling at the table, one leg thrown over the other, and judging by his looks, he was not afraid of anything.

  “Onishhenko, Larisa.”

  “Here.”

  “Pavlenko, Lisa.”

  “Here.”

  Dressed in a black tee-shirt and black jeans, completely devoid of makeup, Lisa resembled a monochrome photograph. Smooth blonde hair appeared to be glued to her head.

  “Monastery style,” Portnov said. “You’re missing a wimple.”

  Lisa did not reply.

  “Samokhina, Alexandra.”

  “Here.”

  They glared at each other for five seconds or so—Portnov over his glasses, Sasha—straight at him. Portnov was the first one to look away.

  “Toporko, Zhenya.”

  “Here!”

  Zhenya had gained some weight, and Sasha thought that her face had grown harsh. Zhenya pushed her pencil over an empty page in her notepad, as if scared of looking up at her professor.

  “Very good,” Portnov leaned back in his chair. “Congratulations on the beginning of your third year. This semester we will concentrate on studying Speech as a multilevel system of efforts that either alter the world, or prevent it from changing.”

  The third years of Group A resembled a garden of stones. No one moved. It seemed that no one even blinked.

  “The starting pistol has just gone off, and the date of your placement exam has been made public: January thirteenth. During the exam each one of you will have a chance to apply the knowledge you have absorbed in these two and a half years, as well as demonstrate the practical skills built upon that foundation. In case you successfully complete your mission—and I am convinced that will happen—you will face a radical change to your existence: you will have an opportunity to become a part of Speech… Yes, Pavlenko?”

  “Will we be using Speech in practice? Are we going to use Speech?”

  “No,” Portnov stared at Lisa over his lenses. “Speech will be using you. Any more questions?”

  ***

  Yegor stood in front of the bulletin board, tilting to the side, pressing his right hand to his chest, swaying as if losing his balance—and regaining it at the last moment.

  “How are you?” asked Sasha just as a simple greeting.

  Yegor’s hair was bleached by the sun, and his eyes appeared even darker and deeper. He stared at Sasha for a long time, and once she stopped expecting a reply, he finally moved his lips.

  “I had a practice session. Just now.”

  “Did you succeed?”

  “You were right,” Yegor said. “Listen… I’m scared.”

  “Nonsense,” Sasha said. “Just study, and don’t be afraid. You’ll learn things, pass the exam, get your diploma, then you’ll become a Word. Perhaps, you will even become a fundamental concept, they say it’s a big honor…”

  “I’m a verb,” Yegor said.

  “What?!”

  “I was told… Irina Anatolievna… that I’m a verb
in the subjunctive mood. I express a wish, or a condition, the “if it were true…” Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Sasha said. “Your professors have quite a technique. Ours dragged their feet up until the last possible moment, they never told us anything.”

  “But I didn’t get it,” Yegor said. “If I bought those skis—then everything would have turned out differently, right?”

  Sasha took a step back:

  “I don’t think so. You see…”

  She fell silent.

  A horde of first years showed up, stunned by their first lecture. They gathered around silently, hesitant to get closer to the bulletin board, made nervous by the spooky crippled second year and the Third Year Girl, normal-looking on the surface and thus even more terrifying.

  “I am a verb as well,” Sasha said. “But I’m a verb in the imperative mood. I suppose nothing would have worked out for us anyway…”

  She was silent again. She didn’t want to continue this conversation surrounded by a bunch of frightened children. There was really no point in continuing it—she had told no one about the “loop” that Farit Kozhennikov put her in for pedagogical reasons, no one but Kostya.

  “Hey, what do you want? Do you need to copy your schedule? Then go ahead, copy it down, the bell is about to ring, do you know what happens if you are ever late for class?!”

  Pencils began to rustle. Girls started whispering to each other. Sasha took hold of Yegor’s sleeve and pulled him aside; they hid in the shadow of the bronze equestrian, but Sasha was not in a rush to let go of his sleeve.

  “You see, Yegor, one’s own experience is an individual method. When you understand something, when you know it for sure, but cannot explain it to someone else who has not had the same experience… It’s a very unpleasant feeling. I can only imagine how Cassandra felt.”

  “I don’t understand,” Yegor said. “I’m a little slow these days… after this summer.”

  “It’ll pass. Everything will pass, in the grand scheme of things. Where is that girl Irina, the one who lent me her sweater?”

  “She failed the summer finals.”

  “How?!”

  “She failed Specialty. She took it three times. And failed. Where do you think she is now?”

  “Same place as Zakhar,” Sasha’s voice sounded hollow.

  “Who’s that?”

  “You won’t remember him… Yegor, but how are you? How do you feel… after all this? And who’s teaching Introduction to Applied Science, how is it?”

  “You sound like my mother,” Yegor said.

  Sasha smiled wistfully:

  “Is that bad?”

  “It’s weird… But if we are Words, we couldn’t have had a relationship anyway.”

  “Except for a grammatical kind,” Sasha forced a smile.

  Yegor looked down:

  “Forgive me. When I was still a human being… I was wrong.”

  ***

  All of them are to blame, and everyone has admitted his guilt, and now I’m drowning in their apologies, Sasha thought grimly, sprawled on her bed and thumbing through the textual module. She learned to scan the paragraphs, skimming the surface, without diving into the grinding chaos of words. This method did not replace her usual meticulous study technique, but its value was undeniable. Unlike Portnov’s exercises and Sterkh’s trials, no restrictions were imposed on the paragraphs: Sasha was allowed to read the entire textbook, if she wanted to, which is exactly what she was doing at the moment with a sense of serene pleasure. In moments like these a magnificently curved fragment of a sphere that enveloped the planet appeared in front of her eyes, so very close; the sphere was pearly-grey, the color of smoke, it teemed with ideas and meanings, images, bits and whole impressions. All was accidental and all was interdependent, and it seemed that all she needed to do was to reach for a fresh meaning, grab it, process it, comprehend it—and everything would change, and the world would change as well….

  This is where geniuses scoop up their ideas, Sasha thought, almost without envy. They don’t understand how it works, they rely on intuition: reach out with your hand—and here it is, your idea…

  She had ten minutes left until her lesson with Sterkh, the first one this year. Sasha closed the book and put it in her bag, then checked to make sure she had her pens and pencils.

  She sighed, put the pink case with her telephone around her neck, locked the door, went outside, took two steps in the direction of the Institute…

  And froze, as if her feet had been glued to the cobblestones.

  ***

  Mom was walking down Sacco and Vanzetti. She swiveled her head, peering at the numbers of the buildings. For an entire minute Sasha wanted to believe that it was a mistake, that the woman moving along the paving stones only resembled Mom, but was really somebody completely unfamiliar…

  Two alien worlds collided. Torpa, the Institute, Sasha’s metamorphosis, words and meanings. Mom, home, previous human life. The worlds that never before came into contact now overlapped, and Sasha felt a dull pain in her temples at the thought of how this meeting would turn out.

  Her initial impulse was to run over to Mom, shout, curse, scream in her face: “Leave! Go away from here!” Sasha restrained herself; her second impulse was to hide. Bury her head in the sand like an ostrich. Once she managed to overcome that temptation, she realized that there was nothing she could do. She had no idea what action to take, and the time before her lesson kept shrinking, Sterkh was expecting her in seven minutes… no, in only six.

  Mom stopped in front of the Institute. A cluster of first year girls whispered among themselves, heads close together, throwing quick glances at the second-story windows. Mom had to ask them a question, and she also wanted to know what the students were saying. Sasha could understand that: sometimes you can understand more about a school by listening to a chance conversation….

  Mom stepped from foot to foot. She clearly felt lost and stupid: she took a long time to make the decision to come to Torpa, she had no idea what she was going to see, and here she was: a charming provincial town, strange but very beautiful. A four-story institute building on Sacco and Vanzetti Street. The girls, perfectly lovely on the outside, clearly anxious, but what young students wouldn’t be in the beginning of September?

  “Girls, excuse me, are you students here?”

  The group separated.

  “Yes, we are,” a beautiful tall girl in a very revealing outfit, more appropriate for a beach, replied cautiously.

  “Do you know Sasha Samokhina?”

  “Is she a first year?”

  “Third.”

  The girls exchanged glances.

  “We don’t know any third years yet… almost no one. We’ve just started.”

  “I see. I’m sorry.”

  Mom marched over to the entrance of the Institute and took hold of the door handle. She disappeared inside.

  Sasha bolted toward the alley. Flew into the yard and over to the dorm: please let him be home. Let him be home…

  She banged on the door number three with her fist. This double room was given to the newlyweds Kostya and Zhenya last semester.

  “Come in,” said Zhenya’s annoyed voice.

  Three minutes remained until her session with Sterkh. The pink phone hung on her neck.

  “Sasha?”

  She turned. Kostya was walking down the corridor, two steaming mugs in his hands.

  “I need your help,” she said without preamble. “I have a session with Sterkh at twelve oh five. And my mother just arrived.”

  “Your mother?!”

  “I forbade her… Without warning… What am I going to do?! Go see Sterkh, please, and I’ll take your slot…”

  Kostya placed the cups on the floor and looked at his watch.

  “My slot is right after yours. Twelve fifty five.”

  Without looking back, he rushed to the exit.

  The door opened. Zhenya peeked out, dressed in a bathrobe, sleepy-looking. She gl
ared at Sasha:

  “Samokhina?!”

  “Kostya made you some tea,” Sasha said pointing to the floor.

  Then she beat a hasty retreat.

  ***

  Mom stood in the middle of the vestibule, skeptically observing the bronze equestrian under the dome. The dome lit up when the sun came out and faded when a chance midday cloud floated by.

  “Hello, Mom.”

  Sasha’s voice made Mom jump.

  “Sasha?”

  Mom was uncomfortable. She clearly felt guilty, and at the same time she was very happy to see Sasha.

  “Who are you looking for?”

  “For you,” Mom’s cheeks flushed.

  “Did something happen?”

  “No… it’s just…”

  “You decided to check up on what they are teaching me here?”

  “No,” Mom looked away. “It’s just… I wanted to see you.”

  “Then should we go to my place?”

  Students watched them with curiosity. Sasha led Mom out of the Institute and further down the street; they passed the lions. She used the lighter key to unlock the front door, the darker one to unlock the door to her loft.

  “Come in.”

  Mom looked around. A tiny, almost doll-like apartment, an antique bureau, ivy outside the window.

  “Nice place you’ve got yourself here.”

  “Make yourself comfortable,” Sasha maintained the casual, confident tone with ease. “You can rest after your trip. How was your journey?”

  “Sweetheart…”

  Mom faltered. Sasha gazed at her, simply and guilelessly, without offering any assistance.

  “We said so many things to each other… so much… I know you did not want me to come. But I simply cannot live with all this—with everything we’ve said to each other.”

  Sasha stretched her lips in a polite smile:

  “Mom, it’s just words. They don’t cost anything. La-la-la, blah-blah-blah. We said some words, we threw them away, we forgot them... I’m sorry, I have to go to class. There is a teakettle, biscuits, kefir… Wait for me, will you?”

  Mom’s eyes followed her to the door. Only now Sasha noticed how bloodshot, anxious and haunted her eyes were.

  ***

  She ran up to the Institute’s porch, jogged up to the fourth floor and higher, to the attic. She stopped in front of the dusty round window and considered the situation.