by Sergey
“You have earned a terrific reputation in Oleg Borisovich’s class. You have demonstrated an exceptional talent. But you struggled at first, didn’t you?”
Sasha nodded, still looking down.
“The same principle can be applied to this class. You are struggling, I know. Because your efforts are connected to—or, rather, limited by—what is internally permissible. You have a very clear notion of what is acceptable and what is not. I’m not talking about everyday things, the so-called principles, I am talking about the inner configuration of your personality, and of your ability to overcome stereotypes. You are a stubborn girl: at this point, it is an obstacle, because we cannot proceed until you learn to work with the CD tracks to your full potential. Instinctively, you realize what is required of you, and just as instinctively you resist. I am not entertaining the possibility of your doing it on purpose. Right?”
Sasha swallowed, but nodded.
“There is no need to be this stressed out,” the hunchback said gently. “You must focus, concentrate . . . And take that first step. Just one step, just that first track. Let’s try it right now, and I will do my best to help you.”
Sasha left the auditorium feeling completely drained, with a pounding headache. In half an hour of nonstop trying, the wall that she’d erected between herself and the recording on Sterkh’s CD became stronger and thicker. Maintaining that wall required very little effort on Sasha’s part. The silence now existed on its own, separately from Sasha.
Sterkh had been very upset. For a long time he had not said anything, shaking his head, looking at grim-faced Sasha, then staring out the window. Then he had sighed.
“Try track two. You seem to have fully blocked that first one. Such energy, such inner strength you have demonstrated, Sasha, but it’s directed in a diametrically opposite direction! You work very hard at resisting it, instead of processing it!”
“I’m trying,” Sasha had said.
“You are trying to achieve the antithesis. You are fighting for your own conventional image, two arms, two legs. You dream of a warm shower, maybe, or a soft bed. But, Sasha: nothing corporeal has any significant value now. Anything that is truly valuable is beyond material substance if you think about it. You will understand, you are an intelligent girl, I have a lot of faith in you.”
Then he’d let her go, and she left. Yulia Goldman was waiting for her turn in the hallway; when door number 14 closed behind her, Sasha massaged her face with both hands, rubbed her temples, and squeezed her eyes.
She knew that track two would have the same effect. The very thought of having to listen to it again nearly drove her insane.
Sasha’s class was offered very few liberal arts seminars this year. She did not like Constitutional Law and Fundamental Principles of Government. The professor was older and cantankerous, and the subject itself had nothing in common with the concept of learning: it was more of an excursion that skimmed the surface of criminal and civil code. The stream of bureaucratese disgorged by the professor made Sasha sleepy. At the end of the class she did fall asleep for a second and dreamed of Sterkh, who stood in the middle of the auditorium holding an enormous pair of scissors. The bell rang; Sasha woke up. The professor threw a contemptuous look at the students and said good-bye until the next lecture.
The next block was English, and Sasha found this class just as nonsensical and boring as the previous one. Endless grammatical constructions, exercises that she had to write down, topics she had to pass every month; Sasha felt time stand still. She remembered getting this desperate feeling in high school, albeit rarely, mostly in the spring, especially during a meeting or a homeroom assembly. But now it followed her everywhere.
Entering the hallway, she stopped at the bulletin board with the posted schedules. First years gathered around, and Sasha had to push aside some gaping girl in order to move a little closer. Physical Education three times a week, and then Specialty took almost all the rest of her time: Portnov, Sterkh, individual studies and group lectures. Plus homework: paragraphs, exercises, Sterkh’s CD . . .
Sasha pushed her way out of the crowd and shuffled downstairs to the dining hall.
Denis Myaskovsky sat in front of an empty plate, studying some sort of illustrated magazine with several bright inserts depicting blurred colorful spots. In line for food, Sasha listened to his conversation with Korotkov:
“What do you have there?” Andrey asked.
“It’s from Sterkh.” Denis hesitated, as if holding back. “Didn’t you get one?”
“He gave me a book,” Korotkov seemed timid. “Just a regular book, though . . .”
“Andrey, it’s our turn!” Oksana called to him from the buffet. “Give me your ticket and get your soup!”
A little later Sasha saw that Sterkh indeed had a very individualized approach to each student. Oksana, Lisa, and Andrey Korotkov studied Introduction to Applied Science using textbooks. Kostya had a printout rolled into a tube. Zhenya Toporko carried around a thick notepad. Three or four people had portable players, but unlike hers, those used cassette tapes. However, no one discussed their progress—individual sessions with the hunchback were a forbidden topic among second years from day one. It was taboo.
“Thus, meaning is a projection of will onto the surface of its application. Meaning is not absolute and depends on the choice of space and the method of projection. Last year the most gifted of you stumbled upon fragments of meaning while studying the Textual Module. However, the first year is over! Now you must apply conscious efforts to use the Textual Module as an intermediary between you and the archive of meanings available to you at this stage. Theoretically, you may encounter just about anything, including a fragment of your most feasible future. We have thirty seconds before the bell rings, does anybody have any questions?”
Sasha sighed. Now she saw Portnov’s classes in a completely different light. Even though reading the Textual Module still resembled swimming in muddy waters, flashes of enlightenment waited for her on the surface. Even the sets of exercises, which flowed from one to another and formed a highly complex pattern in her mind, now made her happy.
“Toporko, do you have any questions?”
“N-no . . .”
“Good. Class is dismissed, individual sessions are tomorrow. Prefect, please compile a list. Samokhina, nice work.”
Portnov praised her; she was pleased with her progress in his class. But the sessions with Sterkh were becoming more and more tortuous.
She managed neither track three nor track four. Sterkh ordered her to return to the first track; Sasha hated this process, and the more time passed, the harder it was for her to even climb up to the fourth floor and enter the sunlit and spacious auditorium 14.
Sterkh was getting gloomier with each session. Hints of aggravation were now discernible in his gentle voice.
“Sasha, I am very disappointed. Two weeks have passed since the beginning of this semester, and you . . . I am getting the impression that you are consciously sabotaging my class.”
“No. I . . .”
“I am not threatening you. I’m just sorry . . . I’m worried about you. I never write reports to advisors, at least not during the semester itself. But in the winter we have an exam, and the result of this exam is a document. It’s going to be recorded in your grade book, and your advisor will be forced to take action. I won’t be able to do anything at that point.”
Sasha bit her lip.
“Nikolay Valerievich,” she said hoarsely, “maybe I just don’t have any talent? Could it be that I’m unsuited for this work? Maybe I should”—she stumbled—“maybe I should be expelled, because there is just no point? You don’t need useless students, do you? Because I am trying, honestly, I just can’t . . .”
The hunchback stroked his chin with long, thin, white fingers.
“Sasha, just drop it. First, if you have been accepted, you are fully capable. Second, you must study hard instead of dreaming or twiddling your thumbs.”
“But
I am working hard,” Sasha said. “I always have. I’m doing my best.”
“No,” Sterkh said sharply, steepling his fingers. “You are not making an internal effort. Your classmates have gone far ahead of you, new leaders have emerged in your group; Pavlenko is doing very well, Goldman, Kozhennikov . . . And you are way too restricted; you have gotten yourself into a corner. All your preparatory work—a whole year of extremely intense work!—is being wasted right now. I wonder—have you thought about solving our delicate issue?”
“What, right here and now?” Sasha could not help it.
“Not right this minute.” Nikolay Valerievich smiled as if telling her: I forgive this cheek, you silly girl, I understand you are stressed out. “But the sooner, the better. Better for you, Sasha.”
There were no more swallows. For a while Sasha stood in the middle of the yard, watching the clear September sky. A sparrow flew by, and above it, over the rare clouds, flew an airplane. Sasha imagined herself in an airplane seat, looking out the window, watching the quiltlike ground beneath her—fields, forests, lakes, and a tiny populated area, a town called Torpa. She wondered if one could even see it from an airplane.
Sasha dragged her feet to the post office. Rather, she simply started walking, but her feet dragged her to the post office; she ordered a long-distance call and a minute later stood in the stuffy booth with a plastic receiver in her hand.
“Hello,” said a man’s voice.
“Hello,” said Sasha after a minute pause. “How are things? Can I talk to Mom?”
“Mom sends you her love,” Valentin said readily and cheerfully, almost too cheerfully in Sasha’s opinion. “She’s at the hospital, on bed rest. She could have stayed home, but you know, it’s just safer. She has a terrific doctor, a comfortable room, good conditions. And an excellent prognosis—it looks like you are going to have a baby brother!”
He spoke easily, without pauses, free of any noticeable tension. Sasha relaxed her shoulders.
“When is she coming home?”
“I’m not sure yet. It’s much better to err on the conservative side, you know? I’m going to buy her a cell phone, and you will be able to call her directly!”
“Cool,” Sasha said.
“What’s new with you? How is everything going? How are your classes?”
“Everything is fine.” Sasha rubbed the polished telephone shelf. “I have to go now. Tell Mom I said hello.”
Kostya stood at the entrance of the post office. In the last few weeks they had not exactly avoided each other; rather, they’d behaved like distant acquaintances and limited their communication to simple greetings.
“Hello,” Sasha said.
“Hello.” Over the summer Kostya had changed; the skinny teenager had been replaced by the confident physique of an adult male. He had a tan, and his face looked windblown. Sasha remembered that on September 1 he still stuttered and limped on his right leg, but now all the consequences of Portnov’s “stage” were gone entirely. Kostya had restored himself from the ruins and once again become himself.
Or nearly himself, Sasha thought sadly. Just like the rest of us.
“Did you call home?” Kostya inquired, suddenly violating the standing order of their current relationship.
“I did,” Sasha said. “Why?”
“How are things at home?”
“Mom’s having a baby,” Sasha admitted, surprising herself. “With the new husband.”
“That’s what’s going on,” Kostya murmured.
“Yes, that’s what it is.” Sasha forced herself to straighten up. “See you.”
“Wait,” Kostya said to her back. “Do you have five minutes?”
“Five, but no more.”
“But no less, either?” Kostya smiled tensely.
They moved toward a gray park bench covered with picturesque yellow leaves. Sasha blinked; for a moment she imagined that the bench was purple, and the leaves blue. In the last few days she’d learned to change the colors of the outside world—or rather her perception of those colors—on her own accord, and now during boring lectures on constitutional law she could entertain herself by mentally changing the color of her professor’s face, the tint of her hair, the shades of her blouse and handkerchief.
“Sasha,” Kostya said. “I need to talk to you.”
“I noticed.”
“I love you,” Kostya said.
“What?”
“I love you.” He shrugged, as if apologizing. “Forgive me, I was an idiot. I love you. Marry me.”
The leaves turned green, the bench—bright orange. Sasha blinked.
“But I don’t love you,” Sasha said. “And I am not going to forgive you. If you crave regular sex, and you can’t afford a prostitute, then marry Zhenya. She’d love to marry you.”
Kostya paled. Sasha saw his Adam’s apple twitch. His tan, bronze just a minute ago, was now yellow, like a lemon.
“Good luck,” Sasha said, and her voice broke. She did not know why she’d said what she said, and why she had used those particular words. However, a word spoken was past recalling. Sasha turned and, with increasing speed, followed Sacco and Vanzetti toward the institute.
Where did he come from? Why did he come to her right now, when winter exams hung over her like a guillotine? While Mom was on bed rest, and Valentin was discussing their bright and happy future in a forced, cheerful voice? During the summer she’d never thought of Kostya . . . Actually, she thought of him only when she saw him, just as detached and indifferent as she was herself. Back then she had not cared about Kostya; she’d turned into a puddle of warm wax, she’d seen through the sky, but she couldn’t walk through an ordinary door. And on September 1 he’d sat next to Zhenya, and Sasha had taken it as a sign of fate, and she never wanted to think in this direction again.
But why had she brought up prostitutes?
On the other hand, why had he slept with Zhenya on New Year’s Eve, when he and Sasha had not even had a fight? If they had quarreled, screamed at each other, slammed doors . . . then she would understand. Of course, Sasha would not have forgiven him then either. Or maybe she would have, because a fight is one thing, it’s another thing entirely to just get drunk and jump into somebody else’s bed . . .
A group of third years stood by the school entrance. Zakhar turned and waved to Sasha. “Greetings to the young nubile generation! How’s it hangin’?”
“A little to the left,” Sasha responded and wondered where she could have picked up that vulgar turn of phrase.
The third years laughed heartily, as if it were the funniest joke they’d ever heard.
October came.
Sasha sat in auditorium 14, and across from her sat Sterkh, and they had been quiet for the last fifteen minutes. Sasha’s lips were dry; all the words she could say—“I’m trying,” “I’m working hard,” “It’s not working for me,” “I cannot”—all these words had already been said multiple times. Sterkh, sad and haggard, moved his shoulders more than usual.
Rain fell outside. The water rustled in the pipes. Tiny drops flew into the open window.
“How are you doing in Specialty? Oleg Borisovich seems pleased with your progress . . .”
Strangely enough, in the last few weeks Portnov’s exercises had become Sasha’s safe haven. Mind-bending, occasionally almost crippling, they “worked”—they gave in to her efforts. And Sterkh’s assignments did not; for almost a week now Sasha had not even tried to play the CD. She felt disgust; no, even worse—she felt repulsion.
“Did you work on it yesterday?”
“No.”
“And the day before yesterday?”
“Nikolay Valerievich, I can’t!”
The hunchback shook his head heavily.
“This is not good, Alexandra. I hate threatening someone, reprimanding people—punishing them . . . But right now you are your own worst enemy. Only you, no one else. Go and think about your fate. About the winter test. About the exam, which is a little more than a yea
r away. And think about what your advisor is going to say regarding your ‘I can’t.’ As soon as you feel ready to work, let me know. I am prepared to give you additional time. I will help you as much as I can. But you, yourself, have to step over the threshold.
“You must make that decision.”
Denis Myaskovsky was waiting for his individual session with Portnov, eating chips out of a plastic bag. Sasha hopped on the windowsill next to him.
“Denis, I have a serious question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“Liliya Popova—who is she?”
Denis choked. Potato chips first got stuck in his throat, then flew out of his mouth in a fan of crumbs.
“Ugh.” Myaskovsky coughed.
Sasha knocked him on the back. Myaskovsky fought to control his breathing.
“Did you put a lot of thought into this?” he sounded offended.
“I need to know,” Sasha said. “I am failing Introduction to Applied Science.”
Denis gaped at her. “You?”
“Yes. I am going to fail for sure. I need to know, I want . . . Maybe it’s possible to change advisors? What do you think?”
“You have Kozhennikov,” Denis said slowly.
“Yes.” Sasha rubbed her palms together nervously.
“I don’t envy you. Lisa, for instance—if anybody mentions Kozhennikov’s name in front of her, she goes white and starts shaking before she starts punching them. And then, their face beaten into a bloody pulp, they take a long time explaining to her that they actually meant Kostya, who is a perfectly normal guy and is himself suffering in the clutches of his father . . .”
“And Popova?” Sasha asked. She didn’t care about Kozhennikov or Lisa. “Have you tried negotiating with her?”
Denis looked grim.
“Actually, you know . . . she wears velvet gloves. But there is definitely an iron fist. And really, I was just talking to some guys here, and all the advisors are the same. It’s just that some drop F-bombs, and some don’t.”
Denis smirked, pleased with his own joke, and was about to say something else, but at that moment the door of auditorium 38 opened, and out came Zhenya Toporko, looking very pale and solemn.
