Vita Nostra

by Marina Dyachenko

  Here they are, eating and drinking. They are still almost entirely human; they have human psyches and human bodies. With time, during the learning process, they will come out of their human skin and become Words, tools of Speech, the bones and tendons of a highly complex text that is called reality. Words know no fear, and no death. Words are free and conform only to Speech. And Speech—Sasha knew this!—is the core of harmony.

  ***

  “Dear third years, I’m so used to the individual sessions with each of you that it feels a bit strange—and all the more pleasant— to see the entire group in one room. I’m glad this small Auditorium number 14 fits every one of us. Am I right—is everyone here? Do we need a roll call?”

  “Everyone is here,” Kostya said with a quick glance around the room. The third years of Group A sat behind the desks, chilly air wafted through the open window, and the heat from the radiators made the air above them tremble.

  Sterkh was smiling. His sharp chin nearly touched his speckled tie, arranged in a soft romantic knot. His black suit puckered on his back. Sasha always wondered why Sterkh insisted on wearing his wings even while in his human appearance.

  Unlike Portnov, Sterkh used to be human, but it was a very long time ago. Now he represented a combination of two concepts; two poles, two energy flows intertwined under the direction of one will. Perhaps the wings were a nod toward his dual nature; perhaps it was too dangerous to require such a complex organism go through an additional metamorphosis. It could be Sterkh’s personal whim. Or maybe it was something else, something way beyond Sasha’s comprehension.

  That thing that Portnov called “emotional memory” flatly refused to weaken. For some reason, Sasha was pleased to know that Sterkh used to be human. Even though whatever he was now was just as far from human nature as an electronic microscope from a tortoiseshell comb.

  “Why did I want to gather you today? Today is December thirteenth, and that means that exactly one month remains until the placement examination. This month will require all your strength. Unfortunately, there is no makeup date for this exam: you have exactly one chance.”

  Sasha sat by the window, looking askance at the snow-covered street. With the arrival of the cold weather Sterkh forbade her to fly at night; in response to her pleading that she’s not at all afraid of the cold, he shrugged his shoulders in surprise: “What does it have to do with the cold, Sasha? You have so much work now, such a heavy load! Not to mention that footprints of bare feet on the snow are so esthetically displeasing!”

  Large snowflakes fell onto Sacco and Vanzetti.

  “Today I will tell you in detail what it is like to take the placement examination. It will help you to keep it together and be prepared for the challenge at the defining moment. On January thirteenth, at noon sharp, both groups, A and B, will enter the assembly hall and take their seats. You will be introduced to the examination committee. You will not be nervous, will not feel anxious, you will not have anything with you—under no circumstances you are to have any paper or pens. Nothing! The head of the committee will read out the names, and those called will go up to the stage, choose an examination sheet and sign for it in the ledger. You will have three assignments: the first two are standard; the third one is individual, selected for each one of you according to your future specialization. In the process of completing this assignment you will cease being a human being and commence as Word; for the first time you will reverberate, my dears, and this is quite fundamental.”

  Sterkh surveyed the audience as if searching for the expression of rapture on the faces turned toward him. No one was smiling: everyone looked at him intently and attentively, fans watching a penalty kick going toward the favorite team’s goal.

  “You should not pay any attention to the drastic changes in your condition, time, space, and internal state. This is going to be quite a shock, it is supposed to be a shock, and you should prepare yourself for a shock. The subjective time of the examination may stretch from one minute to several hours. Don’t worry if things happen fast. Don’t be afraid if the examination seems too long. Remember: the goal of the examination committee is to help you, not to fail you. Remember also that you only get one chance.”

  Wind beat into the glass. Snowflakes rustled. It was getting dark pretty fast; Sterkh clicked the switch. The overhead light exposed a small dusty auditorium and nineteen third years silently watching their professor.

  “So,” Sterkh moved his shoulders settling the wings in a more comfortable position on his back. “Any questions?”

  ***

  “Mommy? It’s me! Can you hear me?”

  A very distant voice. As if through a blizzard; something rustles and howls thinly in the receiver. As if from a distant galaxy, as if through a thick layer of water, as if through cotton wool.

  “Mom! I’m doing great! How are you?”

  “Depends on the day, Sasha, but we’re hanging in, bit by bit… The baby has a cold. I have to take more time off. It’s because I did not nurse him, and his immune system is not as strong as it should be…”

  “Stop it, it’s just superstition! It is not your fault! Don’t worry, he’ll be fine!”

  “Of course,” Mom sounded anxious and tired.

  “Mom, I’m not coming home for the winter break this year…”

  That’s it. It was out. It just slipped out.

  A pause.

  “That’s a shame. Such a shame. But what can you do…”

  The phone line filtered emotions like blotting paper absorbs tea leaves.

  “Mom, don’t be sad. Everything will be fine. The baby will feel better soon. And I will call you soon.”

  “That’s good. Call me, Sasha. Call me.”

  “I will. Goodbye!”

  She placed the receiver on the “horned” cradle. Sasha stood still for a while staring at the wall.

  Portnov called it “emotional memory.”

  One month remained until the placement exam.

  ***

  On the morning of December thirtieth drunken first years danced in the fresh snow singing “A fir tree born in the forest.” Nearly hysterical with glee, the third years joined them in groups and one at a time. The second years wandered around, thin and quiet like shadows.

  A poster decorated with gouache paints and tinsel invited everyone to the holiday roast. The assembly hall was filled to its capacity. Vika and Lena, Sasha’s former roommates, sang racy ditties, a bit stupid, a bit vulgar, but still funny.

  Sasha sat in the assembly hall, in the very midst of a laughing audience, and closer to the end of the show she suddenly thought of Zakhar. She recalled how two years ago he, a second year back then, stood at the edge of the stage wearing Portnov’s glasses spouting complete nonsense, but so courageously and confidently that Sasha, who always cringed in the presence of bad actors did not feel any discomfort, only fear—what if Portnov mistook the quick parody for ridicule…

  In two weeks Sasha’s classmates will enter this assembly hall and never return to their previous lives.

  She left before the concert ended. Among piles of coats and jackets in the coat room she found her own, with a hook torn off already. She got dressed and left, planning to get home and go to sleep, but the evening over Torpa was clear, quiet and not too chilly. Sasha decided to take a walk; she strolled down Sacco and Vanzetti away from the center of town, toward the outskirts.

  Fireplaces and woodstoves had been lit. Smoke rose over the roofs, white in the moonlight, and went straight up in promise of good weather. Sasha’s back itched: she imagined how lovely it would be to fly in this transparent world between snowy roofs and the sky propped up by the silvery pillars of smoke.

  The moist cobblestones made the pavement black. A car rode by—Sasha moved to the side. A holiday garland noiselessly blinked on the façade of a dark—closed—café, alternating red and yellow and blue and green flashes.

  And nearby stood a man, so still that Sasha had not noticed him right away. Only when he said
: “Yes, I understand that,” Sasha flinched and stopped.

  The voice was familiar to her.

  Kostya stood leaning over the pink brick wall, pressing a cell phone to his ear. He stared at the lights without blinking and did not see Sasha.

  “I understand that as well. Yes, you are right, it does not matter. But is there anyone who is not afraid of that? I mean, anyone human?”

  Pause. Sasha stepped back, about to leave.

  “I got it. Yes. It’s a deal. Good. Goodbye, Dad.”

  Sasha slipped and fell into a snow pile pushed over to the edge of the sidewalk by the street cleaners. Kostya turned sharply.

  “I’m sorry,” Sasha said. “I was just walking.”

  Silently Kostya gave her his hand and helped her up.

  “Did you know that I’m a pronoun?”

  “You? No… I didn’t.”

  The garland blinked. Kostya put the phone inside the pocket of his jacket.

  “And you are a verb?”

  “Yes.”

  “I knew that. Guess whom I was just talking to.”

  “I heard you say goodbye to him.”

  “Of course. You were right: in his own way he’s a good father. Rational. Strict…”

  “You remembered my stupid words?”

  “Why, they were not stupid. I asked him once: how did he, not at all human, and not even close to a protein-based entity, manage to produce a son? I suspected something was off, but do you know what he said to me?”

  “What?”

  “Do you really think that controlling informational space of hypertext is easier than producing one effective sperm cell?”

  They faced away from the blinking garland and walked back along Sacco and Vanzetti toward the humming, singing, celebrating New Year’s Eve Institute.

  “What did he say to you?” Sasha took the risk of asking. “What were you talking about?”

  Kostya exhaled a long cloud of smoke:

  “I think he is trying to cheer me up before the exam. And the funniest thing is that he’s succeeding.”

  “Really?”

  “There is nothing impossible. When he says it I believe it. And then it turns out that only I am at fault for my grandmother’s death.”

  “Kostya,” Sasha said softly. “Unlike words, people actually die…”

  “I noticed,” he replied dryly. “What kind of verb are you?”

  “Imperative mood.”

  “No way!”

  Kostya stopped for a second.

  “That explains why they’ve spent so much effort on you lately, Portnov and Sterkh. A verb in the imperative mood… you don’t say! I’m a pronoun… a substitute. My place has not been chosen yet. Or perhaps, it’s the other way around, it’s been chosen in advance. Unlike words, people actually die, but Farit Kozhennikov is not a word! He’s a rule, a grammatical rule… When he—his external shell—becomes old and dies, I will become him…”

  “Is that what he told you?!”

  “No. It’s… forget it, I never said that.”

  They continued walking in silence, passed the Institute and in about fifteen minutes they came out to a square where a fir tree market was open—exactly the sort that Sasha remembered from her childhood. A green fence, old pictures on plywood poster boards: decorated trees, gigantic bunnies, red and white Father Frosts. Hundred-watt light bulbs painted different colors and soldered into a single garland. Stomped-upon snow, red-cheeked customers, children with sleds—a small animated crowd.

  “All of them are words,” Kostya said behind Sasha’s back. “All people have been manifested out loud some time ago. And they continue saying words, having no idea about their true meaning.”

  Sasha thought that Kostya repeated almost identically what Farit Kozhennikov talked about before. But she did not say anything: somewhere in the depths of hypertext her unspoken words turned into gold coins with a round symbol on their faces.

  “Should we buy a tree?” she thought out loud.

  Kostya glanced at her—and marched determinedly towards the market.

  ***

  An antlered fir tree with floppy wide branches touched the white ceiling; it rested in a pail in the corner, at the lowest point of the room. The tree had no decorations aside from a single gold garland. The tree appeared to be holding the gleaming train of a non-existing dress with its many hands.

  Fire burned in the tiny fireplace.

  Sasha and Kostya lay close, arms and legs intertwined. Kostya dozed off. Sasha watched the sparkly reflections of the fire dance on the gold tinsel.

  Two weeks remained until the placement exam. If she were sorry about anything, it would be about words that lingered unspoken. And especially sorry about the others, the ones that flew off her tongue.

  If somewhere, at some point in time, in a different text her words became human beings, they had a reason to reproach Sasha. But then they had a reason to thank her as well.

  At least, that was what she wanted to believe.

  ***

  In the morning she got up to make a fire in a cold room. Kostya was asleep. Sasha couldn’t go back to sleep; slipping a jacket over her nightgown, she sat at her bureau.

  She opened Textual Module 8. As she was accustomed to. Without thinking.

  “… when they suddenly saw earth and sea and sky, when they learned the grandeur of clouds and the power of winds, when they saw the sun and learned its grandeur and beauty and the power shown in his filling the sky with light and making day; when, again, night darkened the lands and they saw the whole sky picked out and adorned with stars… and the risings and settings of all these bodies, and their course settled and immutable to all eternity; when they saw those things, most certainly they would have judged both that…”

  Noise. Rasping sounds. Similar to the breathing of air full of whistling and music, conversations, radio news, frequencies and waves, overflowing and dissolving.

  The fire was flaring up and warmth filled the room.

  ***

  A week before the examination Sasha stopped sleeping. Every day she thought that her fear and anxiety had reached it pinnacle, but one more sleepless night would pass, and Sasha would discover that her pre-exam fever jumped another two or even three degrees.

  “Sasha, calm down,” Sterkh reassured her. “You are too emotional. In combination with certain peculiarities of your gift all this passion evolves into a rather explosive mixture. Calm down, relax, you will pass with an excellent grade.”

  On January eleventh, second years were taking their Introduction to Applied Science exam. In the morning, around half past seven Sasha looked out of the window and saw Yegor sitting right on her porch, between the stone lions.

  He was just as still and white as the sculptures. Two white piles of snow lay on his shoulders.

  “What’s wrong?” Sasha opened the door; the drifting snow licked her fur-lined slippers. ‘What are you doing here, did they kick you out of the dorm?”

  “I was reading the module,” Yegor rose awkwardly from the steps. “Has it ever happened to you… Have you ever read your future in the textual module?”

  “Yes,” Sasha said stepping back inside the entrance hall. “Come in, I’m freezing.”

  Yegor stepped in. A yellow light bulb burned on the landing of the first floor.

  “I am going to fail the test,” Yegor said.

  “Wait. Did you read it in the module? But it refers to the most probable future, not the one that’s been established absolutely and irrevocably!”

  Yegor shook his head. Two small snowballs fell on the floor:

  “I’m going to fail. The test is at ten. I won’t pass!”

  He stood in front of her, hunched over, small and pitiful. Sasha analyzed her sensations: she was sorry for Yegor and a little uncomfortable on his behalf. As if a child, scared, crying, came to tell her about a boogeyman who lives in the closet.

  Yes, he used to be her man. She wore his sweaters and shirts, she walked around with him
never letting go of his hand. Only a year ago…

  A year ago Yegor came out of the examination room and she held him, congratulating on his success. He smelled like someone close to her, but his arms hung lifelessly along his sides, and his response to Sasha’s muddled words was simply: “I’m sorry. I have to get ready for the English exam.”

  Sasha survived that day, and many days that came later. And now she looked at Yegor and felt only compassion. And a little awkwardness. He was still a human being, and Sasha was not. She knew what they were taught. And he stumbled around in the dark, like a frightened puppy.

  She held his hands gently:

  “Listen. It’s only fear. It’s your materialized fear: get rid of it. You can do it. Farit… I mean, Liliya Popova… It does not matter what he’s called, but he never asks for the impossible. Concentrate. You will pass the test. In the worst case scenario you can have up to three makeup dates.”

  Yegor blinked:

  “I have a mother, my dad… a younger brother. Three makeup dates, you say? Three makeup dates?!”

  He wept.

  ***

  On the way up the stairs she had a brilliant idea. Letting Yegor in and shutting the door, she looked around in search of a shiny object.

  She shook the puff out of the powder compact and wiped the mirror:

  “Turn your face to the light.”

  And when Yegor silently complied with her request, she sent a flash of light into his eyes.

  His pupils did not contract as a normal human being’s, but widened. For a split second a dismal, dwindling, airless world opened up to her. Then Yegor squinted.

  “Don’t close your eyes!”

  She tried again, and this time she saw him from the inside: man-word halfway to his actualization, highly complex transformation processes, and everything is drowned by sticky gray goo; fear? Despair? But no matter how hard she tried to see, it was clear that she, a third-year student, who still hadn’t passed her placement exam, wasn’t going to be able to figure it all out right there and then.