by Sergey
A very recent thick layer of paint covered the gym floor. Bright green and bright yellow fields, thick white lines, thuds of the orange basketball, the smell of rubber and sweat; Sasha ran between the baskets, imitating action rather than really playing. What was happening then was a perfectly normal, joyful, juicy slice of life, and she had trouble believing that half an hour ago she was reading Section 1, bending under the will of a sadistic professor with elongated glasses on the tip of his nose.
As she played, she let her mind wander, and it became clear that here, at this college, they were being bullied. How else could one see it? Forced to read absolute gibberish and commit it to memory. The same senseless process as having to scrub a cobblestone plaza with a toothbrush. Or sort out grains that would later be all mixed together again, and again, and again . . . Senseless. Punishment. Humiliation.
But why? Who needs this Institute of Special Technologies with its entire staff, dining hall, dean’s office, dormitory? What is it, other than a nest of sadism?
Kostya passed her the ball over Yulia’s head. Sasha caught it, dribbled a few feet, and threw it toward the hoop, but at the last moment Lisa aimed a heavy blow at her arm. The ball bounced off the hoop, landed in the hands of someone on the other team, and—thump-thump-thump—ended up at the opposite end of the gym; Lisa followed, tugging on her miniskirt, which, frankly speaking, was not the best attire for a basketball game.
Sasha’s team lost.
“I can’t memorize it! I just can’t!”
The textbook flew into the corner, hit the dresser door, landed on the floor, and stayed there, its yellow pages splayed open. Oksana hit the desk with both fists, making the table lamp hop.
“I can’t! I am not going to study this! They are making fun of us!”
“That’s what I am thinking.” Lisa sat on the windowsill, smoking, a glass jar in front of her full of lipsticked cigarette butts.
“What will happen if we don’t learn it?” Sasha asked.
All three girls fell silent. The question that had tortured them all day was now out in the open.
It was evening. The sun was setting outside their window. Somewhere someone was strumming a guitar. Behind them was the first day of classes—Specialty, Physical Education, Philosophy, and World History. Neither the third, nor the fourth block brought any surprises. Sasha wrote down the definition of the principal point of philosophy and how materialism differs from idealism, took notes on the dwellings of primitive peoples and their customs, and received two perfectly ordinary textbooks. An excellent dinner was consumed in dead silence. First years returned to the dorm, began to study, and soon found out that the homework assigned by Portnov was an impossible task to accomplish.
One could read this nonsense, forcing oneself every step of the way. But memorizing the underlined passages—that was unfeasible. The brain refused to function, and spots swam before their exhausted eyes. Oksana was the first one to crack, and now her textbook was crumpled on the floor.
“I can’t memorize it!” Oksana sniffled. “Even if he kills me!”
Lisa looked like she wanted to say something, but at that moment someone knocked on the door.
“Come in,” Sasha said.
Kostya entered and closed the door behind him.
“Hey. I am . . . I need to . . . the schedule for tomorrow. I mean, the individual workshops, they’re during the third and fourth blocks.”
“Prefect,” said Lisa with a degree of disdain that had no equal.
“It’s not like it was his idea, you know,” Sasha snapped.
“Considering whose son he is . . .”
“What difference is it whose son I am?” Kostya burst out, drops of saliva flying in all directions. “What is the difference? Did I ask who your father is? Did I bother you at all?” And before anyone could answer him, he left the room, slamming the door and running down the corridor, Sasha flying behind him.
“Kostya. Wait. Don’t pay attention to her. Just wait!”
Not answering, Kostya dashed into the men’s bathroom. Sasha slowed down. She considered the situation and perched on the windowsill, prepared to wait.
A third year was walking down the corridor, taking each step carefully. He slowly turned his head, as if his neck were made of rusty metal. Now and then he would freeze, as if listening to something, and even his eyes stopped moving, fixed on some unknown point. Then he would start walking again, and this way, step after step, he approached Sasha, perched at the window.
Despite the unusually warm, sunny, and almost summery day, he wore woolen gloves. A wide knitted headband covered his forehead, and either it was a fashion statement Sasha didn’t understand or a cure for a headache.
“Hello.”
Sasha had not expected him to speak and so answered automatically:
“Hello.”
“First years? Nightmares? Hysterics?”
Sasha licked her lips. “I guess so . . .”
“I see,” said the third year. “Were you a straight-A student in high school?”
“Why?” Sasha frowned.
The guy took a step toward her. He stood swaying, then with an unexpected ease he hopped onto the windowsill next to her.
“You should get a haircut, bob your hair. And a brighter lipstick.”
“What’s it to you?” Sasha was deeply offended.
“I am older than you—I can give you all sorts of advice.” The guy smirked. “Valery.” He extended a gloved hand.
Sasha had to force herself to stretch her own hand in return and touch the pilling black wool.
“Alexandra . . .”
She took a deep breath and then began talking rapidly, quietly.
“Valery, tell me, explain to me, you must know by now . . . What are they teaching us here?”
“To explain is to simplify,” Valery informed her after a short pause.
Frustrated at the nonanswer, Sasha jumped off the windowsill. “See you.”
“Wait.” Something in Valery’s voice made her stop. “I am not . . . making fun of you. Laughing at you. Jesting. Having fun at your expense. Needling you. Taunting you . . . I . . .”
He fell silent, surprised and even confused, his own words like cockroaches running from the bright light.
Finally he said, “You see. It really is difficult to explain. The first semester is the hardest. Just survive this semester, that’s all. Then it’s going to get easier each year.”
“Do I have a choice?” Sasha asked bitterly.
Still sitting on the windowsill, Valery shrugged.
“Listen,” Sasha said drily. “Can you please go into the bathroom and tell this guy—the first year—that I’m waiting for him. Tell him to stop hiding.”
At half past midnight Sasha gave up. She closed the book and dropped it under the bed, closed her eyes, and fell asleep almost immediately.
The smell of a burning cigarette woke her up. Lisa was smoking, sitting by the window, and Oksana was not in the room.
“Ugh.” Sasha waved the thick cloud of smoke away from her face. “Can you please smoke in the bathroom?”
“Anything else?” Lisa inquired calmly.
Sasha forced herself to get up. Half an hour remained before the first block; the corridor was filled with the sounds of running, stomping, laughing, and yelling.
She took a shower in the steamy shower room, taking squeamish steps on the waterlogged wooden planks. It was too late to dry her hair. Sasha poked her nose into the kitchen—it was packed with the sound of clanking dishes and loud people waiting for their turn with the electric teakettle—and left immediately. She went back to her room, pulled on a pair of jeans and a shirt, and jogged over to the back entrance of the institute.
Group A was nearly bursting with emotion. Some people were flaunting their indifference, some balanced on the verge of hysterics, some were still trying to memorize the nonsensical text, staring at the accursed Textual Module with the abstract pattern on the faded cover. It was read
ily apparent that no one had managed to do as Portnov requested: the text refused to be memorized.
“It’s going to be just fine,” Andrey Korotkov crooned in basso profundo; from the first day Andrey had played the role of everyone’s older brother. “What could he possibly do to us?”
Lisa, thin and haggard looking, watched him through squinted eyes, as if through a cloud of tobacco smoke. Sasha did her best to avoid Lisa.
The first block was Mathematics, which Sasha disliked and had hoped to avoid after high school, but it was not to be: standard textbook, review of previous material, trigonometry, triangular coordinates . . .
Despite her initial abhorrence, Sasha found herself deeply interested in half-forgotten high school subjects. The textbook was logical, it was consistent, and each task had meaning. The thin book printed on lousy paper suddenly provoked a bout of nostalgia; Sasha placed it in her bag with a warm, almost tender emotion.
The second block was English. The class was held in auditorium 1, and that auditorium, even the blackboard, which the English professor cheerfully covered with English grammatical constructions, elicited some unpleasant memories from many of the students. Listening to the familiar dialogs about the weather, London, and pets, Sasha watched Kostya reread the nonsensical section from the Textual Module. He shook his head hopelessly.
Sasha ended up liking the English class as well: the professor, a sarcastic woman with an intricate hairdo, and the textbook, and even what she had to do during the class. Language was logical. The efforts were clear. Even the process of memorization, the learning of new words, was reasonable.
They broke for lunch.
On the bulletin board where the generic schedule was posted, Kostya hung up a separate list: one-on-one Specialty workshops. Sasha found herself in the first time slot, right after the bell for the third block.
“How come you put me first?”
“What, you don’t like it?”
“Calm down,” Sasha said apologetically. “I’m just asking, no subtext.”
“I just thought you’d prefer to get it over with,” Kostya said after a pause. “Plus, you know that idiotic text better than everyone else.”
“What the heck makes you think that?”
“If you don’t want to go, I’ll take your slot!”
The bell rang.
Auditorium 38 was hidden behind the dean’s office, a little pigeonhole of a space. Why the auditorium had this high number—or was called an auditorium at all—Sasha had no idea. She knocked on the door and entered. The classroom was tiny, had no windows, and fit only a desk and a few chairs. A single bare bulb hung from the ceiling on a very long cord. The piercing light made Sasha squint.
“You are two minutes late, Samokhina.”
“I couldn’t find number 38. I thought it was on the third floor.”
“I am not interested in that.”
Sasha lingered by the door, not knowing where to go or what to do. Portnov beckoned her with a bent finger. She approached; Portnov, in the same striped sweater, sat behind the office desk, watching her intently. His gaze—over the glasses—made Sasha even more uncomfortable.
“Just look how bogged down we are,” said Portnov, perhaps to Sasha, perhaps to himself. “Up to our ears. Pure jelly. Why don’t you come here?”
He got up, his chair squeaked lightly, and a moment later he was right next to her. Very close. She smelled his cologne—and had a split second to wonder why. For some reason, she didn’t think someone like Portnov would use cosmetics.
Above, almost over her head, the bare lightbulb burned brightly. Round black shadows lay on the linoleum floor. Projections. Shadows . . .
“I am listening. Tell me what you have learned.”
Sasha began, losing her way, stumbling, absolutely sure that she would never get close even to the end of the first paragraph. And further—after the first ten lines—it was hard to imagine, there existed a black hole, and the gibberish melted into a solid gray hum . . .
“Look in here.”
He lifted a hand to her face; she saw a ring on his finger, a ring that was not there before. A large pink stone diffracted the light of the bulb, became bright blue, then green; Sasha held her breath. She felt dizzy, took a step, trying to maintain equilibrium . . .
“Hold it.”
She blinked. The ring was no longer there. Portnov stood beside her, holding her shoulders.
“Good job,” he said with unexpected kindness. “I can see you worked hard. But it is only a minuscule step. You must work like this every single day. For your next practice, read Section 2. Everything that is underlined in red must be memorized.”
“But what about . . . ?”
“Good-bye, Samokhina. You are already cutting into somebody else’s time. Go.”
Sasha stepped into the hallway, where Andrey Korotkov waited, leaning against the wall.
“So?” he asked impatiently. “Did he yell a lot? What happened, anyway?”
“I—”
“Korotkov, I am waiting,” said Portnov.
The door closed behind Andrey. Sasha shook her head, completely bewildered. She lifted her watch to her nose.
Fifteen minutes had passed since she entered auditorium 38.
“I told you, I did not see him for many years. He showed up in August. I failed the law school entrance exams . . . And in September I was turning eighteen, so I would be drafted soon. My mother was in shock. And then he shows up! Sort of a savior. Made everything work out . . . Do you think I wanted to come here? I wanted to enlist! Well, not so much wanted to, but . . .”
Sasha and Kostya were walking down Sacco and Vanzetti Street, and then down Peace Street, and one other street, farther and farther from the town center, not really knowing the destination. At first, Sasha told him about the morning swimming sessions, about the gold coins, about running in the park and the trip to Torpa. Then Kostya spoke. His story was much simpler.
“He literally made me. Had I known what it was like here, I’d definitely have enlisted.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Sasha said.
Kostya threw her a surprised glance.
“My father left when I was a little girl,” Sasha said. “He had another family. And he never showed up again. My entire life it was just Mom and me. Always, just the two of us. And my biggest fear—do you know what it is? That something will happen to her. I remember now what Farit did and said to me. No, he never threatened me openly. He just allowed my fear, all by itself, to break loose and spread all over me. All of me. And my fear brought me here—and is holding me down. And will continue holding me.”
The street suddenly ended. Sasha and Kostya went by the last two deserted-looking houses and unexpectedly found themselves on the bank of a narrow but relatively clean river. Grass crept close to the stream. A fisherman in a roomy jacket with a hood stood on the wooden dock.
“Would you look at that,” Kostya mused. “I didn’t even know there was a river. Think we can even swim here?”
Sasha followed him down to the water. Grass clung to their feet. Cattails swayed gently, and frogs croaked on the opposite bank. Kostya sat down on a fallen tree trunk, old, barkless, mossy in places. Sasha lowered herself next to him.
“I wonder if there are any fish here.” Kostya lowered his voice. “I used to love this stuff. I even went fishing in the winter once . . .”
The fisherman gave his line a strong pull. A silver fish the size of a man’s palm flew up over the water, escaped the hook, and fell at Sasha’s feet, then hopped on the grass. The fisherman turned to face them.
This time he was not wearing glasses. The brown eyes of Farit Kozhennikov were perfectly friendly.
“Good evening, Alexandra. Good evening, Kostya. Sasha, please hand me the fish.”
Sasha bent down. The fish trembled in her hand; taking a wide swing, Sasha threw it into the water. Circles stayed on the surface for a few seconds. A few scales stuck to Sasha’s palm.
“Have fun
catching it,” Sasha’s voice rang out. “Just keep your feet dry.”
Kozhennikov smirked. He placed his fishing rod on the grass, unbuttoned his jacket, and sat down on the tree trunk next to his son. Sasha remained standing. Kostya tensed up, but chose to sit still.
“How’s everything? Classmates, professors? Are you settling down?”
“I hate you,” Sasha said. “And I will find a way to make you pay for it. Not now. Later.”
Kozhennikov nodded abstractedly. “I understand. We shall come back to that conversation . . . in a little while. Kostya, do you also hate me?”
“What I want to know,” Kostya said, anxiously rubbing his knee, “is do you really—can you really turn reality into a dream? Or is it hypnosis? Or some other trick?”
Still smiling, Kozhennikov spread his hands wide, as if saying—well, that’s just how it works.
“And do you have power over accidents?” Kostya continued. “People get sick, die, get run over by cars . . .”
“If one directs the sail, does he direct the wind?”
“Cheap sophistry,” Sasha interjected.
“The question is”—Kozhennikov glanced at her—“what should be considered a tragic accident, and what should be considered a happy occurrence? And this, my friends, you cannot possibly know.”
