by Sergey
Sasha ran over her own footsteps. She aimed carefully, placing a foot into each footstep, first subconsciously, then with interest. Circle after circle, step after step. She hadn’t seen Ivan’s grandfather with his mutt in a long time. Was he cured of his insomnia? Or sick, and not allowed outside? Since their romantic morning rendezvous ended in such a cringingly vulgar manner, Sasha and Kon almost never spoke. They were civil to each other, reserved, indifferent. As if nothing had ever happened. The princess remained undeciphered.
Sasha came to. Which lap was it, eighth, tenth? Her footsteps, repeated endlessly in the white powder, became large and deep, as if the Abominable Snowman had run by planting his enormous feet in the snow.
The dark sky released a multitude of snowflakes. An ambulance drove by, sirens wailing. Not for us, Sasha thought with gloomy satisfaction. No need. Nothing can happen to us.
Relieving oneself in the freezing cold is a dubious pleasure. Sasha crept out of the bushes, buttoning her clothes, patting off the snow that had fallen from the branches. It would be so nice if no one else ever saw the goddamn coins. But it couldn’t be helped. The day before yesterday Mom saw that day’s “income” and asked what it was. Sasha had lied, said it was brass, tokens for a game. No, of course it’s not a casino, what are you talking about! It’s a game like checkers, everyone plays it at school. A fad.
Mom had believed her. Sasha had never lied to her before. Well, almost never.
She arrived back home. The door to Mom’s room was shut. Heavy silence hung in the apartment, and only snow swished outside, hitting the tin awnings.
Sasha went to the bathroom; she turned on the hot water and took a long time watching the running stream.
Then she vomited money. And, paradoxically, she immediately felt better.
The heap of coins grew. Sasha stuffed them into an old sock and kept it in the bottom desk drawer, under a pile of old essays. Who knew what Mom would say if she ever found this treasure, but lately Mom had a lot of other things on her mind.
A shaving kit was now comfortably placed on the bathroom shelf, an extra toothbrush poked out of a glass, and Sasha no longer dared to roam around the house in her underwear. The smell of men’s cologne overpowered all the other familiar smells. And Mom, who, as long as Sasha could remember, had always belonged to her and her only, now shared her attention between her daughter and Valentin—and the latter, the new kid on the block, got the lion’s share.
It was obvious that Valentin intended to establish “close contact” with Sasha. He initiated long meaningful conversations at the dinner table, and Sasha’s upbringing prevented her from leaving right away. Waiting for her were numerous textbooks, many unread chapters, and unfinished papers; then, on the border of night and day, there was her run, a humiliating trip to the bushes, and the clanking of coins hitting the bathroom sink. Yet Valentin asked detailed questions regarding her life, her plans for the future, questioned her desire to become a philologist, inquired whether she’d ever considered literary translation from English, and spoke at length about some business colleges that offered stipends and all sorts of stimulus programs for students with a high grade-point average. Sasha swallowed these conversations like spoonfuls of fish oil, then hid in her room and sat there at her writing desk, mindlessly doodling in her notebooks.
Valentin worked in the field of medical technology, something that had to do with research, or testing, or maybe sales, or perhaps all the above. Sasha memorized nothing of his detailed stories about himself. He had two children, either two boys or a boy and a girl, and he spoke of them at length and with gusto, stressing how much he loved them. Stunned by the hypocrisy, Sasha took her cooling tea into her room and sat there, leafing through the college brochures. She struggled to keep her eyes open. In the heart of winter, when the days were short and dark, the lack of sleep felt like torture.
In the beginning of February a thaw set in, and then—in one single night—everything was frozen again. Sasha went for a run, completed the ritual, and on the way home, right near the entrance to her building, she slipped, fell, and broke her arm.
She sat quietly, enduring the pain, until Mom woke up. Mom saw Sasha’s forearm, panicked, and called for an ambulance. Valentin emerged, volunteered to accompany Sasha, frowned, commiserated, babbled all sorts of nonsense like “All things are difficult before they are easy,” and his stream of consciousness made Sasha feel five hundred times worse. The ambulance took her to the trauma center, where an old surgeon, gray from a sleepless night and cigarette smoke, silently rolled Sasha’s arm into a cast.
“Like apples from a tree,” he said to the nurse. “They just keep falling. We should expect more harvest today. And you”—he nodded to Sasha—“you need to make an appointment with your physician. And don’t worry, stuff happens. You young ones heal fast.”
Valentin took Sasha home in a taxi. The pain was almost gone. Valentin ruminated on how lucky it was that Sasha had broken her left arm, which meant that she could continue attending school and her college prep classes, and she could still take notes, because her right arm was just fine! Sasha felt as if her head had ceased to be round, had turned into an aerodynamic tunnel, with Valentin’s words getting sucked into one ear and, whistling and roaring, flying out of the other.
Mom called from the office, worried, asking how things were going. Deadly calm, Sasha assured her everything was fine; then she went into her room and lay down on the couch, neglecting to remove her sweater.
What was she going to do now? It was fourteen degrees outside. How was she supposed to pull her sleeve over the cast? How was she going to manage getting dressed and undressed by herself?
Three alarm clocks stood in a row. Two ticktocked quietly, one winked electronic numbers. Every day, every day, and Sasha had two months in the cast . . .
“. . . People fall, break their bones, die under the wheels of a car . . .” But Sasha had done everything, met all the conditions! Why did this have to happen to her?
Don’t worry, said the old surgeon. Stuff happens. And really, had Sasha been about seventy years old or so, then, yes, it would be truly terrible. And this, this was simply an inconvenience, an unpleasant accident, nothing tragic . . .
Unpleasant, but not tragic. If Valentin had not had his heart spasm on the beach, how would his relationship with Mom have developed? Would it have developed at all?
Sasha crept into the kitchen. She poured herself some of Mom’s valerian root mixture, gulped it down—absolutely disgusting!—crawled under the blanket, and fell asleep.
At twenty-nine minutes past four Sasha flew up, as if on a trampoline. She sat up, her mind muddled by sleep, and tried to stretch her arm but jerked with sudden pain.
She remembered; shook her head—did this mean she’d slept for almost twenty-four hours?
Her mouth was dry. Sasha stood up, drank some water from the teapot, managed to pull on her sweatpants, and stuck her feet into her boots. She poked her right arm into a sleeve, grunting, and heaved her jacket over the left shoulder. Holding a ski hat, she went outside.
The sky had cleared up again. The stars burned brightly. Icy patches in the courtyard were cleared haphazardly; some spots were heavily covered with sand and salt. The cast grew cold on her arm, a strange, unpleasant sensation. Only a few minutes remained until five o’clock. Sasha walked faster. She went down into the underground crossing, holding the railing with her good arm. Her steps echoed in the dark tunnel. Only seconds remained.
A lone streetlight burned at the park entrance. A man stood leaning on its pole.
Sasha marched by with bulletlike determination. And only having stepped onto a snowbound path, she startled and glanced back.
The streetlight reflected in the smoky lenses. Two bright yellow dots.
“Go home,” said the man who stood under the streetlight. “Get some rest. Starting today, you don’t have to run anymore.”
Strangely enough, the absence of her morning runs proved to be excru
ciatingly difficult. It felt as if life had lost meaning. Valentin’s presence aggravated her more and more. Once he even left to stay at a hotel, and Mom did not speak with Sasha for several days. All alone, Sasha roamed aimlessly along the streets, hating school and college prep courses. The tutor ended up canceling their sessions.
Valentin reasoned with Mom to be patient. He convinced her that Sasha’s issue was that Sasha was no longer taking painkillers by handfuls. He had a good point.
In March, the cast was removed. Mom suggested that now, finally, Sasha’s nerves would get back to normal, and her “weirdness” would cease.
And Mom was right as well. Having shed the cast and regaining the use of her arm, Sasha calmed down almost immediately. The chain of everyday existence again settled over the familiar cogs, and it turned and turned again, counting the days: morning. School. College prep. Homework. Evening. Night . . .
A collection of identical days. A settled rhythm. Sasha learned not to jump at seeing passersby in dark glasses; spring came, and more and more people wore shades. At school, money was being collected for the prom. Many arguments ensued, and many disagreements—some parents, like Sasha’s mother, suggested having a modest celebration, and some insisted on expensive gifts for the teachers and a river cruise.
Sasha wrote a test essay for her college prep courses and, to her dismay, got a B.
“Don’t choose a free topic,” her instructor insisted. “Pick a standard theme and elaborate on it just like you were taught. Free topics are for geniuses and idiots—don’t make the same mistake twice!”
Sasha listened, nodded, and knew that sooner or later the man in the dark glasses would appear again . . . and essays just didn’t seem all that important. He would come, and then he would ask for something again, and Sasha would not be able to refuse.
Or could she try? What if Valentin’s heart scare was just a coincidence?
Every time she even allowed this thought, Sasha glanced over her shoulder in fear. She knew she could never rebel. She would not even try. It was too frightening.
Sasha did not quite make it to the highest graduation rank, but she was not really disappointed. She had known for a while that that was not going to happen. The prom passed her by: Sasha kept falling asleep amid the happy crowds and was pleased that at least there was no river cruise.
Ivan Konev danced with Irina, who was in a parallel class. Sasha almost did not care. Kon graduated with highest honors and by the time the prom rolled around, had already been accepted into the School of Mechanics and Mathematics.
Sasha went to submit her application for the School of Philology; she went by herself. Mom wanted to accompany her, but Sasha insisted on going alone.
Linden trees were beginning to blossom. The rain came down in light sprinkles. Sasha walked and smiled. This year a trip to the seaside was not going to happen, but she was fine with that. If she did not get into the university on the first try . . . It was an unpleasant thought, but oh well. She could get a job as a secretary, perhaps even at the School of Philology. She could work, make some connections. She could break out of this vicious circle—notes, homework, notes . . .
“Sasha!”
She turned around, still smiling. The man in the dark glasses sat on the bench that she’d just passed, lost in her thoughts. Reflecting her smile, he stretched his lips and patted the bench next to him in a welcoming gesture. No longer smiling, she dutifully went over and sat down, putting her bag neatly in her lap.
“How’s the arm?” the man asked.
“It’s good.”
Sparrows fidgeted in the wet linden tree above their heads. Their chirping deafened Sasha.
“How many coins do you have?”
“Four hundred seventy-two,” she answered without thinking.
“You have the passing score.”
“I haven’t taken any exams yet . . .”
“Oh, but you have.” He grinned again. “Here you go.”
He offered her a yellow piece of paper, some sort of an official letter, with Sasha’s first and last names typed in neatly:
Congratulations! Samokhina Alexandra, you are hereby accepted as a first year to the Institute of Special Technologies in the town of Torpa. Classes begin on September 1.
And below, in small print:
Regarding placement in dormitories, please contact . . .
Sasha tore her eyes away from the paper. She stared at the man sitting next to her. For a couple of minutes she couldn’t say anything.
“What is this?”
“This is the school you’re going to. It’s a very good school.”
“I don’t understand,” Sasha managed. “The university . . . I . . .”
The man sitting next to her took off his glasses.
Sasha expected just about anything. That he had no eyes at all. That his eyes were drawn on the pale, stuck-together eyelids. That his eyes were sewn shut with a coarse thread, that his eye sockets were empty . . .
He had eyes. Brown. Serene. Perfectly ordinary at first glance.
“My name is Farit,” he said softly. “Farit Kozhennikov. If you would like to know.”
“I would like to know,” Sasha said after a pause. “I’d also like to know: Can you . . . let me go, Farit?”
He shook his head.
“Sasha. You passed the preliminary testing, you were accepted into a good school, and you have almost an entire free summer ahead of you. Enjoy your summer—swim, take walks. Gather your strength before school. By August thirty-first, though, get a ticket to Torpa. You can get there a couple of days in advance, get into the dorm, get acquainted—”
“But how am I supposed to explain it to my mother?” Sasha almost screamed it. A woman passing by glanced at her with surprise.
“You’ll find a way,” Farit said. “Come up with something. You never know, it might happen that you may not need to explain anything to anyone. Embrace the freedom—do whatever you want.”
He put his glasses back on. Sasha clutched the bench; the serene face of her companion swam in front of her eyes.
“But I’ve already applied to the university—to the School of Philology . . . I have to . . . ,” she began shrilly. “You can’t . . . You can’t do anything. Nothing. I don’t believe in you. You . . . I want it to be a dream!”
Nothing happened. The sun peeked through the clouds and was reflected in the puddles.
Sasha wanted to say something else, but instead she broke down sobbing—terrified, vulnerable, and ashamed.
“Quiet,” Farit said. “Calm down. Didn’t I say I would never ask you to do the impossible? I would never do that.”
Sasha wept. Tears dripped onto the typed lines on the yellow paper.
“What is wrong with you?” Farit said tiredly. “Do you really need your university? No. It’s not really important. Are you enjoying living in a one-bedroom hole with the newlyweds? You, a newly minted stepdaughter? No, Sasha. But you insist on keeping to the beaten path. Are you afraid of changing things?”
“I’m afraid for her!” Sasha screamed through her tears. “She must be . . . She will be fine, won’t she? Tell me!”
“Obviously. She’ll be healthy and even happy. Because you’re an intelligent girl, and you will do everything as I tell you. Don’t ask me what will happen if you do not.”
He rose gracefully.
“Bring the coins with you—all of them. The address of the institute is on this form. Try not to lose it. Sasha, are you listening to me?”
She sat, hiding her face in her hands.
“Everything will be fine,” said the man who called himself Farit Kozhennikov. “You can even take the university entrance exams if you’d like. If you don’t want to enjoy your summer—that’s up to you. There’s just one condition: by September first, you must be at Torpa. You will be assigned to a dorm. The meals are free. You will be getting a stipend, too—a small one, but enough to buy some chocolate or whatever.
“Just stop crying. I�
��m ashamed of you, honestly.”
Sasha remained on the bench until her tears dried up and her breath grew steady. The rain stopped, then started again. Raindrops struggled through the leaves of the linden tree. Sasha opened her umbrella.
She had not thought to ask what sort of special technologies were taught at the Torpa Institute. Frankly speaking, she was not at all interested. What mattered to her was that at seventeen years old, most of her life was now wasted, especially this last year. Notes, textbooks, tutors, studying . . . what was it all for, if this institute in Torpa was all that was in store for her?
Perhaps worse, she had no one to talk to, no one to complain to about a man in dark glasses who called himself Farit Kozhennikov. She had no friends. And Mom had switched her love to Valentin, the same way railroad points are switched from one track to another.
She got up. The rain had stopped a while ago, the sun was shining again, but Sasha still held an open umbrella, unaware of the surprised glances as she made her way to the administration building. She stepped up to the entrance, stood in line with the other applicants, handed in her application form, high school diploma, and medical records. Just as she had planned all along.
She returned home, gathered all her textbooks and notepads, admired the heap for a few minutes, and then stuck them deep inside her desk.
But she quickly pulled them out again. What could she have done, if this—all this!—had been her life for many months? The man who called himself Farit Kozhennikov was right: she could not get off the beaten path. She would sit and study, knowing that all her efforts were in vain, but hoping deep inside that someday it would come in handy, perhaps while learning the “special technologies . . .”
She found a list of places that offered higher education, a reference book for prospective students, and studied it from cover to cover. No town of Torpa, no Institute of Special Technologies.
She was not surprised.
All her life she had been a good student. Letting things slide during the entrance exams turned out to be harder than she thought.
